It was still snowing, though wetly, when Brian Richardson, his scarf wound tightly, overshoes snug, and topcoat collar upturned, left the office on Sparks Street for the short walk to Parliament Hill. The Prime Minister had finally called him and said, 'You'd better come up. There's a lot I want to talk about.' Now, taking long plunging strides through the crowds of Christmas Eve shoppers, Richardson shivered at the cold which seemed intensified by dusk settling greyly over the city.

Richardson disliked winter and Christmas with equal impartiality – the first through a built-in physical craving for warmth, the second because of an agnosticism which he was convinced most others shared but would not admit. He had once told James Howden, 'Christmas is ten times phonier than any politics you ever saw, but nobody dare say so. All they'll tell you is "Christmas is too commercialized". Hell! – the commercial bit is the only part that makes sense.'

Some of the commercial bit impinged on Richardson's consciousness now as he passed store fronts, most lighted garishly, with their inevitable Christmas themes. He grinned at a combination of signs he had noticed earlier. In the window of ah appliance showroom a bright green panel blazoned in neoned misquotation, PEACE ON EARTH GOODWILL TOWARDS MEN. Below, a second sign, equally bright, read: ENJOY IT NOW – PAY LATER.

Aside from a few gifts – including one for Milly Freedeman, which he must buy before this evening – Brian Richardson was glad there was no part he would have to act out in the Christmas scheme of things. Like James Howden, for instance, who would be obliged to turn out for church tomorrow morning, as he did most Sundays, even though his religious beliefs were about as non-existent as Richardson's own.

Once, years before, when Richardson had worked as an advertising account executive, a major industrial client had underwritten a 'go to church' campaign which Richardson had handled. At one point the client had suggested pointedly that Richardson, too, should follow the advice in his own clever advertising copy and become a church attender. He had gone; the industrial end of the account was too important to take chances with. But he had been secretly relieved when the agency later lost the account and that particular client no longer had to be appeased.

That was one of the reasons he enjoyed his work so greatly nowadays. There were no clients for him to appease, and any appeasement needed was handled by others at Richardson's direction. Nor, because he was out of the public eye, was there any front that had to be maintained; that kind of thing was politicians' business. Far from worrying about appearance, the party director had a duty to remain obscure, and behind the obscurity he could live pretty much as he pleased.

That was one reason he had been less concerned than Milly Freedeman about a possible eavesdropper when they had made their date for tonight, though perhaps, he thought, out of consideration he should be more discreet another time. If there were another time.

Come to think of it, that was something to consider and perhaps after tonight it would be wise to ring down the curtain on the incident with Milly. Love 'em and leave 'em, he thought. After all, there were always plenty of women whose company – in and out of bed – a well organized male could enjoy.

He liked Milly, of course; she had a personal warmth and depth of character which appealed to him, and she hadn't been bad – though a bit inhibited – the one time they had made love. All the same, if the two of them went on meeting there was always the danger of emotional involvement – not himself, because he intended to avoid that sort of thing for a long time to come. But Milly might be hurt – women were apt to become serious about what men thought of as casual love-making – and it was something he preferred not to happen.

A plain-featured girl in Salvation Army uniform jingled a handbell in his face. Beside her on a stand was a glass jar of coins, mostly pennies and small silver. 'Spare something, sir. It's Christmas cheer for the needy.' The girl's voice was shrill, as if worn thin; her face glowed redly from the cold. Richardson reached into a pocket and his fingers found a bill among loose change. It was ten dollars and on impulse he dropped it into the glass jar.

'God be with you, and bless your family,' the. girl said.

Richardson grinned. Explaining, he thought, would spoil the picture; explaining that there never had been a family, with children, the way he had once pictured in what he thought of now as stickily sentimental moments. Better not to explain that he and his wife Eloise had a working arrangement whereby each went his own way, pursuing his separate interests but preserving the shell of their marriage to the extent that they shared accommodation, had meals together sometimes, and occasionally, if conditions happened to be right, slaked their sexual appetites by the polite use of each other's bodies.

Beyond that there was nothing else, nothing left, not even the once bitter arguments they used to have. He and Eloise never argued nowadays, having accepted the gulf between them as too wide even for their differences to bridge. And lately, as other interests had become dominant – his work for the party principally – the rest had seemed to matter less and less.

Some people might wonder why they bothered retaining their marriage at all, since divorce in Canada (except in two provinces) was relatively easy, entailing merely some mild per-''' jury which the courts went along with. The truth was that both he and Eloise were freer married than they would have been unattached. As things stood now, each of them could have affairs, and did. But if an affair became complicated, the fact of an existing marriage was a convenient 'out'. Moreover, their own experience had convinced them both that a second marriage for either was no more likely to be successful than the first.

He quickened his steps, anxious to be out of the snow and cold. Entering the silent, deserted East Block, he went up by the stairs and into the Prime Minister's office suite.

Milly Freedeman, wearing a coral woollen topcoat and fur-trimmed snow boots with high heels, was peering into a mirror to adjust a white mink cloche hat. 'I've been told to go home.' She glanced around, smiling. 'You can go in; though if it's anything like the Defence Committee you're in for a long session.'

'It can't be too long,' Richardson said. 'I've a later appointment.'

'Perhaps you should cancel it.' Milly had turned. The hat was in place; it was the finest, most practical, and attractive winter head-gear, he thought. Her face was glowing and her large grey-green eyes sparkled.

'Like hell I will,' Richardson said. His eyes, moving over her, were frankly admiring. Then he warned himself of the decision he had made about tonight.