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represent argues in its latest publication.’ She held up a document that looked at least an inch thick.
    There was a moment’s stunned silence. What the hell was she suggesting, a cultural boycott of Afghanistan? Stephen wondered when the British Council had last sent anyone to Kabul, and which lucky author had drawn that particular short straw; the Taliban could probably survive quite a long time without British poets or a touring production of
Othello.
    â€˜Any further questions? Then I’d like to thank Ms Thompson, on behalf of the committee, for coming here this morning to give evidence.’ The chair paused as the woman acknowledged his remark and then went back to collecting her papers. ‘We meet again in October, when we’ll be taking evidence on the current situation in the Middle East.’
    Another cheerful session, Stephen thought. He followed Sara Thompson to the door, nimbly overtaking a party of Korean students who had listened in respectful, if slightly puzzled, silence to the morning’s proceedings.
    â€˜Excuse me — you were very impressive.’
    She studied his face, assessing whether he meant it. ‘It’s my job. One of them, anyway.’
    Stephen grinned. ‘It’s Ray Dowling’s job, he was sitting on committees when you were doing your GCSEs, and he still doesn’t read his briefs. Why don’t we have lunch some time? I’d like to hear more about — what was it, the Revolutionary Women of Afghanistan?’
    She lifted her eyebrows.
    â€˜No, really. I don’t like the Taliban any more than you do, but I also don’t know what we can do about it. If you have ideas, I’d be more than happy to listen.’
    He could see a calculation in her eyes as she came to a decision. ‘All right. Is any day better for you?’
    â€˜We’re about to go into recess, so I won’t be in London so often.’ He fumbled in his pocket and held out a card. ‘Why don’t you call my office and we’ll arrange something.’
    She took his hand with slightly more warmth. ‘I’ll do that. Good to meet you.’ Stephen watched as she clipped down the corridor in her black high heels. As she turned towards the stairs he thought again of Aisha and reached into his pocket for his mobile, which had been switched off since the beginning of the meeting. He had four new messages, starting with his constituency chairman, the owner of a German car dealership, who talked at length about some tedious fund-raising event he expected Stephen to attend — more standing about, drinking cheap sherry and making polite conversation surrounded by someone’s hideous soft furnishings; Stephen had noticed a long time ago that the most active members of his constituency association favoured the same sludge-green carpets and curtains, probably because someone knew someone in retailing who could provide a discount. Then Carolina had called, sounding slightly out of breath, to remind him that they were expected for dinner in Ascot with her brother that evening. Stephen rolled his eyes, thinking about the ghastly food his brother-in-law always served, not that he had much appetite at the moment. His researcher, Sunil, was next, reporting that he had primed the lobby correspondents as instructed, adding that he had also given a background briefing to someone on the
New Statesman
whom hehad happened to run into in Starbucks that morning. The
New Statesman?
Stephen grimaced, thinking that the boy had a bit too much initiative and not much political sense: the paper was not afraid of publishing stuff that damaged the new government, but an approving mention in a Leftish weekly would hardly go down well in the constituency.
    The final message must be from Aisha, Stephen assured himself, and felt a piercing stab of disappointment as his secretary came on the line, passing on a request to call a journalist at the
Daily Telegraph
who wanted