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Matthew Ford Esquire. Madame Levine. So I'm in the driving seat this series. The reign of terror returns. You'd better believe it. I want your full attention. There will be a test after. Okay, noted. As we know, I have a taser and I'm not afraid to use it. It's the 8th of July, 1961, Buckinghamshire. Christine Keeler is swimming laps of the large pool at Cliveden, a grand manor house that sits on 376 acres of land.
At 19 years old, Christine has become used to spending her weekends here. She's one of many regular visitors who over the years have included Winston Churchill, Lord Mountbatten and Mahatma Gandhi. It's not one of those questions about who you'd have round for a dinner party. They actually did it. It's a good line-up. Christine is strikingly beautiful, with chestnut brown shoulder-length hair and an hourglass figure. Lately, she's begun to feel at home amongst such an esteemed guest list. That's thanks to her friend, Stephen Ward. MUSIC
He sits by the pool reading a book in the fading evening light. He may be over 30 years her senior, but Stephen's always up for fun. That's why they get along so well. Christine swims to the edge of the pool, flicks water at him. Stephen moves his eyes from the book to Christine, smiles at her. As the strap of her swimsuit falls down, he raises an eyebrow. Take it off, little baby, I dare you. Can I just say, I don't trust this bloke.
Little baby, it's a no-no from me. Christine whips off the swimsuit and throws it at Stephen, aiming for his face. He moves his head sharply and it hits the ground beside him instead. Christine flicks more water at Stephen, but he turns back to his book. She sighs. Spoiled sport. Two men enter the pool area. One Christine already knows.
Bill Astor is Clifton's wealthy owner, best friend to Stephen and host to tonight's grand dinner party at the main house. His companion is middle-aged, slightly balding, but slim and attractive. His eyes don't leave Christine. She looks back at Stephen, glaring at him to throw over her swimsuit. He picks it up, then tosses it into a nearby shrub. Christine could kill him. She spots a towel at the other end of the pool. She splashes towards it.
Stephen bolts over, trying to get there first, but Christine beats him. She pulls the towel into the water, wraps it around herself, then climbs out. But just as she thinks she's preserved some modesty, Bill and the other man run after her, trying to grab the towel. She races around the pool as the two middle-aged men pant after her. Suddenly, the rest of Astor's upper-crust dinner guests appear.
As they do, Stephen switches on the pool's large floodlights. Christine is centre stage, exposed to them all. Just a wet towel covering her naked body. He's not a great friend, is he, this bloke? As practical jokes go, I probably wouldn't get over that very quickly. Several men in dinner jackets and women in bejewelled gowns take in the sight before them. There's an awkward pause until Asta breaks the silence. I'd like to introduce you all to Miss Christine Keeler.
Bill's companion smiles at Christine and holds out his hand in greeting. She notes the wedding ring on his finger. One of the well-dressed women watching must be his wife, but he doesn't seem to care as he shakes her hand and holds her gaze. He's clearly enchanted. John Profumo, my friends call me Jack. Christine doesn't know it yet, but this meeting will change all their lives forever.
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From Wondery, I'm Alice Levine. And I'm Matt Ford. And this is British Scandal. The show where we bring you the murkiest stories that ever happened on these odd little islands. British scandals come in many shapes and sizes. Some are about money. Some are about sex. They're all about power. But when we look at scandals a bit closer, they turn out to be stranger, wilder, just plain weirder than we remember.
So we're journeying back to ask who's to blame for what's happened. And when the dust settled, did anything really change? All right, Matt, what do you remember about the 60s? Well, I wasn't there. Sure. No. I wasn't. From books and that then. OK. Well, if
It feels like an era, a decade, when the country really moves on from the drudgery of the post-war era. It feels like a happier time and then there's this explosion of British music, fashion and art. And it was also an era of free love, man. Yes, it was a very liberated time. Indeed, but members of the British establishment were never thought to be interested in such things, or at least they did a really good job of hiding it, until an osteopath and two showgirls changed all of that.
Sounds like a great pub, the Osteopath and Two Showgirls. The only pub you leave with better posture. This is the first proper British tabloid scandal. So right up our street, this story has everything. Sex, Russian spies, political intrigue and bags of that English speciality. Chef's kiss, hypocrisy. Delish. The consequences were devastating for all involved.
And this is not hyperbolic to say, changed the way the public saw the British establishment forever. This is episode one, Sex, Lies and Spies. It's winter 1945, Dorset Road, London. Stephen Ward's palms are sweating. The telephone receiver is slippery in his hand. He glances over his shoulder, making sure none of his colleagues are nearby. I didn't know they had chat lines in the 1940s. A service as old as time. Stephen is about to tell a lie...
He's pretty sure it doesn't break any oath he made when he became an osteopath, and it's not as if it's going to hurt anyone. Stephen's been practicing at the publicly funded Osteopathic Association Clinic for a long time, and his eyes are on bigger and better things. He's come a long way from his humble beginnings in Torquay. The son of a vicar, when he was in his 20s, Stephen escaped to travel around the USA. It was there where he took his osteopathy degree.
He put those skills to good use treating fellow soldiers injured during World War II. Before long, he had a consulting room and a car, and was even allowed to keep a dog. Life in the fast lane. The big three. So Stephen knows his position as a medic can open doors. And now he's back in London, the 33-year-old has no doubt that treating the rich and famous will improve his social standing. On the phone, a woman with a cut-glass accent is asking for a private recommendation.
He clears his throat. You should go to our best man. His name is Dr Stephen Ward. A few days later, Stephen is outside a grand house in Hyde Park Gate. It's the house of Winston Churchill, the former British Prime Minister. Shown up the stairs, Stephen steals himself as he knocks on Churchill's bedroom door.
He's rarely this nervous. It's going to the bedroom of probably the most intimidating person in British history. Do you do a comical knock or quite a straightforward knock? Maybe a sort of patriotic one? How would the red arrows knock on the door? You'd sort of do... Once he'd finished his 16-minute knock, face-to-face with the ex-PM, Ward is suitably intimidated. But he sets up his portable table and does his best to speak with authority.
Mr Churchill, would you mind sitting on this? After some reluctance, the former PM does as he's told, but insists on keeping his cigar on the go. Stephen makes a joke and Churchill laughs, and soon they're chatting away like old friends. Stephen finally has a high-profile patient. It's his route to growing an exclusive private practice, and more importantly, that vicar's son from Torquay finally has a way into the in-crowd.
It's six years later, summer 1951, central London. Stephen sits in a members-only gentleman's club. These days, he's no stranger to this kind of place. He's with Bill Astor. That's the guy that owns Clifton? It is indeed. Viscount Astor to plebs like you and me.
Many of Stephen's patients, like Bill, have become friends. His social set includes five members of the Churchill family: Daily Telegraph editor Colin Coote and movie star Ava Gardner. His bridge partner is a naval attaché from the Russian embassy, Eugene Ivanov. But Stephen leads something of a double life, and tonight he's hoping to introduce Bill to his other, less respectable world. He thinks it could open up doors for both of them.
More establishment contacts for Stephen and some much-needed R&R for Bill. He's been telling Stephen his aches and pains are a symptom of his unhappy marriage. Stephen suspects sexual frustration may also be to blame. I mean, there's a quick solution to that. There is, and any good osteopath will tell you.
43-year-old Bill is a member of an enormously wealthy Anglo-American family. He's also a lord. Many men in his position would take a lover if they're miserable at home. But Bill's no oil painting. And from what Stephen's seen tonight, he's shy and nervous around the opposite sex. In short, he's an ugly virgin. Matt! But yes. Stephen decides the time is right to take his chance. There's a party going on not far from here. Friendly crowd, especially the girls. Want to join me?
An hour later, they're at a posh house in Mayfair. Some scantily clad ladies lead Bill into a bedroom. The hostess asks Stephen if he'd like to join them. Perhaps later. So when he said party, what he actually meant was sex orgy. Obviously, Matt. Although our first British scandal sex orgy. Woohoo! Congratulations. During his time as a young man in the States, Stephen discovered brothels. Sounds like Columbus. Discovered mountains, lakes and brothels.
It gave him a taste for this kind of thing. In fact, in England, he finds it even more exciting. He loves the hidden world of vice and pleasure that exists behind London's most respectable addresses. If Stephen's not attending one of these parties, he's hosting himself. He invites an eclectic mix, everyone from barrowboys to barristers, but always a bevy of beautiful women. These days, Stephen prefers to observe rather than participate.
to stay in control and exploit the needs of his wealthy friends. Not for money, he's no pimp. It's purely for kicks, and of course, it helps secure his place in high society. Stephen spends the next couple of hours chatting to guests. When Bill Astor emerges from the bedroom, he has the look of a very happy man. Now that's a euphemism. He thanks Stephen profusely. They must do this again. Stephen suggests Bill hosts a party of his own. After all, he does have that big country estate, Clifton.
Bill smiles, throwing an arm across Stephen's shoulder. Only if you bring the girls. Stephen smiles back. That won't be a problem. Next time you go to a National Trust house, just remember what actually went on there. When you're having a scone in the cafe. It's eight years later, autumn 1959, Beak Street, London. In Murray's Cabaret Club, a scantily clad Christine Keeler struts across the stage and looks out into the audience.
At 17, her job is to do that. At 17, I was a paperboy. That's a tough job. Yeah, I mean, it was quite similar. My feet would kill me at the end of a shift. And you wore next to nothing, which was inappropriate, honestly.
Not that Christine doesn't enjoy being a showgirl. On a good day, it's as fulfilling a career as any. She's not naive enough to think that it's art, but Murray's is no knocking shop. It's a respectable venue frequented by rich and powerful men, run under strict rules. Christine has been here for a few months since coming to London for a new start. She left her home in Buckinghamshire after an unplanned pregnancy. The baby died at just six days old. Christine was devastated.
But her mum thought of it as a blessing, since Christine was unwed and the baby's dad was long gone. Just like Christine's real father, who left the family when she was just three. In fact, every man in Christine's life has let her down. She hopes here in London it will be different. That the men will be different. Murray's clientele are sophisticated and worldly-wise. Some movie stars, like Rex Harrison, have even married girls from the club. Christine doesn't see why that shouldn't happen to her.
But so far, her knight in shining armour hasn't materialised. All she's had are one-night stands. And tonight, Christine's too exhausted to look for a potential suitor. When she leaves the stage, she barely glances at the man who intercepts her. I'm Stephen, I saw you in the show. You were delightful. Will you dance with me? Christine looks more closely. He's middle-aged, attractive, but nothing special. She's too polite to decline. Despite her aching feet, she lets Stephen lead her to the floor.
He pulls her close and as they dance, she starts to notice his sparkling eyes, his broad athletic shoulders, the astonishing flash of teeth as he laughs. Okay, being a paper boy was a bit different. But you do have some beautiful peepers. They return to Stephen's table and chat. Christine's impressed by his job as an osteopath, his fashionable clientele. Christine, I think you and I are going to be friends for a very long time. Tell me everything about you.
God, he's intense, isn't he? It's a bit much on a first meeting. Before she knows it, Christine's telling Stephen all about her life in London, her hopes and dreams. They talk for hours. There's something magnetic about this man, something different. With Stephen Ward, Christine thinks she might have finally found what she's been looking for.
I'm not sure she has. Go on. He just feels a bit weird. It's going very fast. You don't go into a strip club, then start dancing with someone and then say, tell me all about yourself. I don't know. No, nor do I. But maybe we're doing it all wrong. It just feels... Alarm bells should ring immediately. Well, I tell you what, why don't you keep an eye on him? I just might. I just might.
It's two weeks later. As Stephen drives through the huge gates of Clifton Estate, Christine's eyes widen. She's never seen anything like this place in her life. Christine's been talking to Stephen for the last couple of weeks, but she's been careful to keep him at a distance. She hasn't wanted to come on too strong. And treating Stephen a little mean certainly seems to be making him keen.
That is the saying, isn't it? Yes, and it's true because it rhymes. Like all great rhymes, there's a deep truth to it. He insisted they stop by Christine's parents' place in Buckinghamshire on the way. He was charm personified, chatting away to her stepdad, and he even won over her prickly mother.
Now he's brought her to his friend's grand country house. If this isn't foreplay, Christine doesn't know what is. Right, sorry, just to check. That's not what foreplay is, is it? What have you been doing? Don't answer that. Yeah, we're not taking people to grand country houses. That's first base. As they stroll through the beautiful grounds, Stephen tells Christine how parties here are attended by politicians, royalty, diplomats, how it's a wonderful place to visit at weekends.
Then he takes her to a picture-perfect cottage that sits at the other end of its 400 acres. He tells her that Lord Astor has given him the use of it. Christine is impressed. She decides there's no more perfect place to take their relationship to the next level. In the cottage's tiny drawing room, she takes off her coat, then goes to undress further. Stephen stops her. I don't want to sleep with you, little baby. I want to draw you.
Right, two things. One, that's not what I was expecting. And two, little baby. Little baby again. We need to drop the little babies. Too many little babies. So creepy, little baby. Stephen's a skilled sketch artist. He's done portraits of most of the royals, along with his pal Winston Churchill and a few movie stars. He's even had a series of them published in the Daily Telegraph.
A few hours later, Stephen drops Christine back home. She starts to get out of the car, but then Stephen drops a bombshell. Come and live with me. So you do want sex? Sex isn't everything, little baby. I don't expect that from you. I'd like you around for the company, that's all. Christine's intrigued. There's more to this man than meets the eye. All right, why not? Christine isn't sure what Stephen Ward's game is. Nor am I. But she thinks she's going to have fun finding out.
I'm less sure of that. We'll try and make it fun for you.
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It's June 1961. A street called Wimpole Mews in central London. Stephen Ward tries to look unconcerned. Standing outside his flat is a man he's never met before. He's wearing a bowler hat and a serious expression. Stephen Ward, I wonder if I might come in for a chat. Stephen's worried. There's something about this man's demeanour. Something official. Stephen suspects he might be police, looking into his shady party lifestyle.
But what can he do? Ask Friday. Say, sorry, who are you, mate? Not just, er, yeah, come in, I guess. You seem scary. Want a cup of tea? Well, he doesn't do any of that. Once inside, the man identifies himself only as Mr Woods. Right. Stephen offers him a seat and a cup of tea. I mean, he's gone against all of your rules, Matt. Woods stays silent while it brews. Stephen's even more nervous. It's only when the man has his tea in front of him that he looks Stephen in the eye. Almost conspiratorial.
Are we alone? Yes, my flatmate is out. Stephen knows he's had call girls round to the flat. Is that why Woods is here? What can I do for you exactly? I'm an officer for MI5.
So he's with British intelligence and, well, he's looking for call girls? Well, he might be. But he's mainly there because amongst Stephen's many high-flying friends is bridge partner Eugene Ivanov. He's the Russian naval attaché. And this is where it all gets a bit Bond because in 1961, if you were posted to the Russian embassy, chances are you were in fact a spy. Yeah. Probably true any year. Probably true any year. And Ivanov is the reason Woods has come knocking at Stephen's door.
He tells Stephen that his association with Ivanov has been noted. It's also been noted that Ward's Russian friend is quite the party-goer. Woods explains, We want to target him with a honey trap, encourage his sociable lifestyle. Then at the right moment, we can forcibly remind him just how much he'd be giving up by returning to the Soviet Union.
Stephen plays it straight. I wouldn't want to get in your way. I'll cut all ties with Ivanov. No, don't do that. To make this work, we need better access to him. We want you to stay close to him and report back to us what he gets up to. Stephen struggles to take it all in. They're asking him to turn spy. Ivanov's been a good friend to Stephen. He doesn't want to betray him. He's silent for a moment. Then he answers. Okay, you can count on me. So he has betrayed him.
But he paused at least. Woods is pleased. Great. I'll be your handler from now on. I'm your point of contact for anything to do with Ivanov. Stephen realises this is actually happening. He's always been a game player, but spying is the most high-stakes game he's played yet. It's a week later in Piccadilly, London. Christine sips champagne in a swanky drawing room of a large townhouse, surveying the sights in front of her. She turns to her friend Mandy Rice-Davis and widens her eyes.
The pair have been inseparable since they met working as showgirls last winter. With her bouncy blonde hair and unwavering self-belief, Mandy makes quite an impact on the men she meets. She's even had a one-night stand with Stephen. Right, because he was playing hard to get with Christine. Yeah. And it sounded like he liked to watch, he was a bit of a voyeur. Yeah, at the parties. So I'm struggling to figure him out. He's a complicated fellow, Matt. He simply won't be categorised.
Anyway, he's clearly not the possessive type, because tonight he's brought both girls to the biggest orgy in town. What a gent. Only the best orgies for his girls. Men and women of all shapes and sizes fill the room, some clad in leather, holding whips. Others are completely naked, freely romping on nearby sofas with two or three others. There are phallic totem poles all round.
We'd love a giant phallus on British Scandal. No series is complete without one. If people haven't heard the other series, they're going to be so confused. Also, is it just me being a bit prudish, but they're naked on the sofas. I know, you couldn't have your mother around the following weekend, could you? With all their bits everywhere. At least put plastic sheeting down. But that doesn't sound, I mean, maybe that does say orgy. Wipe clean probably does say orgy.
I mean, I've never been to one, so I can picture it through the things that you're telling me, but it doesn't sound that exciting, does it? I hate being your orgy tour guide. I don't want that responsibility. Christine nudges Mandy, directing her eye to the mirror at the end of the room. They've been to enough of these events now to know it's two-way. The mirror's two-way? Oh, yeah. Where's this going? This is meant to be a family podcast. Is it?
I don't know, maybe not. Are we X-rated now? I'll have you know, Matt, this is vital to the story. If you say so. As always, Stephen sits in the midst, fully clothed. Smoking a pipe, doing one of his sketches in his long mech. Well, it's funny you say that. He has a whip in hand, just in case he fancies partaking. These are people, not horses. People like that sort of thing, Matt. Got to open your mind. OK. Christine knows why he brings her and Mandy to these places. He likes to show them off.
She knows the score and she's happy to oblige. It's also amusing to see the great and the good at their most vulnerable. No better or more dignified than anyone else. A handsome man walks towards the pair. Christine turns to Mandy. Isn't that the movie star? What's his name? Douglas Fairbanks Jr. That's it.
Who, by the way, is Douglas Fairbanks Jr.? So he had a big career in Hollywood and then he came over here to make films. Right. He's got a great name, particularly in an argument with him. Douglas Fairbanks Jr. Keep your hands to yourself. If I have a dog, I'm going to call it Douglas Fairbanks Jr. He's in his 50s and clearly as randy as everyone else at the do. He's barely started chatting the girls up before suggesting they move into the bedroom. Mandy eyes Christine. Come on, Chris.
Christine's not really feeling it, but she agrees. Out of habit, if nothing else. One threesome later and Douglas is gone. Mandy laughs as they get dressed. That'll be one to tell the grandkids. Oh no, Granny's talking about her threesomes again. But Christine's feeling more reflective now. Lately she's been tiring of the meaningless one-nighters. She came to London looking for love, but it hasn't happened. Looking around the room, Christine realises she's never going to find it here.
All this has been a nice distraction, but she wants more. I really feel for her and I hope she finds a nice man. You're an old romantic. But it's just quite a sad life, isn't it? Because on the surface you go, oh wow, Soho in the 60s and showgirls and rich guys and champagne and stately homes, but actually, it's so empty. So you wouldn't be frequenting all the orgies? No way. I mean, this is the 60s. England are about to win the World Cup. I'd be filling in my wall chart.
Sunday the 9th of July 1961. It's a month later. Stephen Ward sits by the pool at Clifton. He watches Christine splash about with Jack Profumo. After their memorable meeting last night, it's clear Jack is smitten with Christine. The 44-year-old hasn't taken his eyes off her since, even though he's here with his wife Valerie, a beautiful actress herself. I mean, this is just terrible, isn't it? Because the one guy that is being quite nice to her
is being a rotter himself. An absolute rotter. Profumo takes a break from the pool and dries himself off. Stephen sees Eugene Ivanov arrive. A big bear of a man, the Russian greets Ward with a hug. Jack, let me introduce you to a friend of mine, Eugene Ivanov. Eugene, this is Jack Profumo, the minister for war. I know who you are. Stephen looks as the pair shake hands. He's just introduced a Russian spy to a government minister at the height of the Cold War. Uh-oh.
Before long, Stephen Ward has Profumo and Evenoff, both in their Speedos. They're splashing around in the pool with Christine Keeler.
Okay, right. So what is Stephen up to? I guess set up a water polo team. No, sorry. He is on a mission to compromise Ivanov enough to make him defect to MI5. So he's getting in pally with the Minister for War, hoping that that maybe might achieve that. But how does that really help? Isn't it a bit risky to introduce someone you think might be a Russian agent
to the Minister for War? Honestly, it's all a bit murky at this point, what on earth Stephen Ward was up to. Some people think he was trying to do a good job for MI5, just being a good little boy, doing what he's told. Some people have even said, was he a Russian double agent? But the important bit for this story right now is that Ivanov has been introduced and has met the Minister for War. That's our key salient point.
Stephen asks Ivanov to give Christine a lift back to his flat in Wimpole Mews, London. He adds with a wink that he'll be staying over at Clifton for another night. You'll make sure Christine gets in safely, won't you? Eugene is more than happy to. Christine isn't happy. She was having a good time with Jack. Stephen assures her he'll give Profumo her phone number. Trust me, little baby. Blech.
What Stephen doesn't realise is that he's just set into motion a series of events that will change his, Christine's and Jack Profumo's lives forever and shake the British establishment to its very core.
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It's dawn the following day. At Wimpole Muse, Christine wakes up to find an empty vodka bottle beside her head.
Never a good start. She turns to see us snoring even off on the other. Uh-oh. Christine puts a hand to her pounding temple. How much did they drink last night? The last thing Christine can remember clearly is doing vodka shots with Eugene. Lots of them. She'd sulked all the way home. She couldn't understand why Stephen was so keen to get her away from Jack Profumo. When they arrived home, Eugene pulled a bottle of Russian vodka from the backseat of his car.
Romance. They have a date.
Great. I worry about your naivety. I just want her to find love. I know, I know. And sure, Jack's married. But who are we to say what's right and what's wrong? But Stephen's also interested in asking her whether anything happened with Ivanov. Yeah, mind your own beeswax, you pervert. Well, yeah, I mean, yes, a bit of that. And also, he's doing a spy. He's doing a unit of spying. Christine finds herself being more coy than usual.
She tells him they had a few drinks and the rest is a blur. Nothing exciting to report. Christine is keen to forget last night ever happened. She's looking to the future now and she wants Jack Profumo in it. It's July 1961, five days after Christine first met Jack Profumo. At Wimpole Muse, she finishes checking her reflection in the mirror, then goes down to Jack's waiting car. It's their second date. Christine feels more comfortable this time.
On their first meeting, Jack picked her up in a government car, complete with driver and flag on the front. Then they toured London for an hour or so. Christine had never travelled in a vehicle like that, with soft leather seats you could sink into and the smell of fresh polish on the walnut furnishings. It was impressive, like being in a moving Bond Street store. All right, Clarkson. But Christine felt self-conscious, aware that the driver was watching their every move. This time, Jack turns up alone in his Mini. ♪
The mood is instantly more intimate. When he drives Christine straight to his house in Regent's Park, she's in no doubt what's on the agenda. At least buy her dinner first, mate. Christine's had obviously lots of men hot for her before, but she's quoted as saying Jack was panting, absolutely rampant. You could smell the need on him. Need by Calvin Klein. It does it for Christine, though. She likes his pedigree, his style. He has confidence, an aura of being in control.
They have sex in Jack's bed. And there it is. Afterwards, as Jack showers, Christine looks around the room at his wife Valerie's possessions. The posh perfume, the designer dresses in the closet. Christine fancies Jack, and she fancies a bit of this. She knows with Profumo she can have the whole package, the fine life and the love. Everything she's ever wanted.
But he is married. You're so glass half empty. No, but it's like she's fallen in love with a guy that's already spoken for. You were all excited about it a minute ago. I know, but this is the rollercoaster, isn't it? It's because I want her to be happy. I don't think he's the right guy for her. But the perfume. She needs a good friend is what Christine Keeler needs. All right, Dad. She's just got... Oh, Christine, snap out of it. These men, they don't respect you.
It's August 1961, the Houses of Parliament. Jack Profumo strides into his office. The Cabinet Secretary, Norman Brooke, is waiting. "Jack, I've been asked to talk to you by MI5." "Oh, right, of course." Brooke tells him there's a honey trap operation against Ivanov. The head of MI5 has asked for Profumo to be made aware of it. "We want to make sure you're not compromised." "And why would I be?"
Don't mention the orgies. Because of your association with Stephen Ward, he's the person who's been giving the security service the intelligence on the Russian. Jack tries not to panic. He's seen even off with Ward when he's been visiting Christine Keeler. He hadn't thought anything of it, but now he knows MI5 are watching Keeler's home, he's decidedly uncomfortable. They like to watch as well. Everyone's a voyeur.
Brooke has something else to ask. MI5 would like your help in the operation against the Russian. Would you be prepared to lend a hand? Profumo is horrified. Scrutiny from MI5 while he's having an affair with Ward's flatmate is the last thing he needs. Profumo turns him down flat. Fair enough, but can I suggest you stay away from Ivanov and Ward while the operation's ongoing?
Profumo nods. He adds that perhaps they should warn other members of the cabinet to stay away from Ward too. Yeah, I bet. Secret orgies are off, lads. Jack can't risk it. Having an affair come out would be bad enough, but the fact that Christine is also associated with a Russian spy under MI5's watch, it could finish his entire political career. Yeah, and it would have awful implications for the Conservative government. You are not wrong. And Profumo's seen as a shoo-in to be the next prime minister, so he has to nip this in the bud.
As soon as Brooke leaves his office, Jack starts writing a letter to Christine. Darling, alas, something's blown up tomorrow night and I can't therefore make it. It's only breaking their next date, but Jack suspects he'll need to stay away from Christine Keeler for some time. If he stops the affair now, he might come out unscathed.
October 1961. Christine holds the lighter Jack gave her, turning it over between her fingers. It's been two months since she last heard from him. She takes her letters from him out of her dresser, re-reads one for the hundredth time. It says to call if she needs anything. Up until now, Christine has resisted. She's never chased a man. It's always been the other way around. But now she wonders what harm it could do. If she could just see him, find out why he disappeared so suddenly...
Then there's a knock on her bedroom door. Christine puts the letters back before inviting Stephen to come in. He has that mischievous look in his eye. Little baby, I have a friend in town and he was asking if he could try some marijuana. I've always quite liked the idea. Want to join us? You've got drugs? Not yet, but the three of us could go to Notting Hill and get some. Christine hesitates. Neither of them have ever been interested in drugs. I need a clear head for all those orgies and sketching. Steady hand.
She knows what this is really about. Stephen wanting to show her off in front of a friend. Come on, little baby. You can't sit here mooning over Jack Profumo forever. It's time we got back to having a little fun. Haven't I always known what's best for you? No, you haven't. Rhetorical. Christine glances at the lighter on her bed. She puts it in her pocket and smiles. Stephen might be using her, but what else has she got? Come on then. Delighted, Stephen winks and Christine follows him out.
She's about to enter a whole new shady world. She figures, what's the worst that could happen? Oh, never a good question. If you're going into a situation, you go, what's the worst that could happen? That's a bad situation. I would say the worst is probably episode two or three of this series is probably when the worst happens. Oh, brace yourself.
This is the first episode in our series, The Profumo Affair. If you like our show, please give us a five-star rating and a review and be sure to tell your friends. You can listen to new episodes one week early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app. Subscribe on Apple Podcasts, Amazon Music, the Wondery app or wherever you're listening right now. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app to listen for free.
In the episode notes, you'll find some links and offers from our sponsors. Please support them by supporting them. You help us offer you this show for free. Another way to support us is to answer a short survey at wondery.com slash survey. A quick note about our dialogue. In most cases, we can't know exactly what was said, but all our dramatizations are based on historical research.
If you'd like to know more about this story, we especially recommend the books Secrets and Lies, the autobiography by Christine Keeler with Douglas Thompson, and How the English Establishment Framed Stephen Ward by Caroline Kennedy and Philip Knightley. I'm Alice Levine. And I'm Matt Ford. Wendy Grandeter wrote this episode. Additional writing by Alice Levine and Matt Ford.
Our sound design is by Rich Ward. Script editing by Joseph Lidster. Our senior producer is Russell Finch. Our executive producers are Stephanie Jens and Marshall Louis for Wondery. This is the emergency broadcast system. A ballistic missile threat has been detected inbound to your area. Your phone buzzes and you look down to find this alert. What do you do next? Maybe you're at the grocery store or maybe you're with your secret lover or maybe you're robbing a bank.
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