by Tom Watson
‘We just have to get the message right and stick to it.’
The man next to her nods. ‘Yes, “Trust Gordon.”’
Owen looks him up and down. The chinos and open-necked shirt, the glass of wine in his hand. He twists back towards Archie without bothering to reply.
Archie shakes his head like he’s trying to get water out of his ears. ‘They can’t do that.’ Owen finishes the last of his beer. The CD is changed. Pulp. The opening chords of ‘Mis-Shapes’ make him feel nostalgic and for a beat or two less alone. But he needs to shift before the twat in chinos starts singing along and ruins it.
‘Of course they can. And they will.’ He speaks more quietly, as much to himself as to Archie. ‘It’s what I would do. I’m going for another beer. Want one?’
Archie pulls a fresh Marlboro Light from the pack in his top pocket, flicks a flame from his Bic.
‘No, thanks. After half an hour talking to you, I think I’ll just go slit my wrists under your hydrangea instead.’
Owen laughs at that. Archie is all right. Owen has to stop getting so pissed off with them all. It doesn’t help, letting the frustration build and then blasting out.
He pushes himself up from the wall and heads for the kitchen. It’s fair enough. He isn’t Mr Sunshine at the moment. No point now telling everyone they should have gone for the snap election as soon as Brown took over. No point telling them they can’t lean on the heartlands, not after ignoring them and sucking up to Mail and Times readers. No point telling them Cameron’s bullshit heir-to-Blair stuff is working. Have a drink. Unwind. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.
The kitchen is a crush. Owen shoulders his way towards the beers, but a hand grabs his arm. Georgina. She’s flushed, pissed but not too pissed, talking to Jay.
‘Owen! Get me one, will you?’
He nods.
‘Yeah, for me too,’ Jay says.
He makes the final stretch to the beer bucket on the kitchen table, ice water and floating labels, and fishes out three bottles of whatever, listening to the others talk.
‘Look, Georgina, it’s basic economics.’
He’s looking over her head, raises his hand to greet some new arrival.
She pokes him in the chest. ‘Don’t give me that crap, Jay. You want people to believe this isn’t just about saving the bankers and letting ordinary people go to the wall, your team is going to have to come up with something better than “trust us”.’
Owen passes them the beers but stays where he is to hear how the fight goes. Georgina and Jay were at Oxford together. Comes up a lot in conversation. PPE – philosophy, politics and economics – and the Labour Club. When they fight, they fight dirty. Neither of them afraid to go for the eyes, or the knee to the balls. It is, Owen thinks, to real discussion what a bar brawl is to ballroom dancing.
Where Owen grew up you didn’t take someone down with a memorable insult. You used your fists. The golden rule was the same, though. It was all about who moved fastest and with maximum commitment.
‘If you can’t explain what’s happening to an economics graduate like me,’ Georgina is saying, ‘how are you going to explain to the average worker? Are you just going to hand the bankers a blank cheque and say, “Steps have been taken” while my members are being chucked out on the street?’
‘Oh, your members, are they?’ Jay says. ‘Georgina Maxwell, woman of the people.’
The crowd has pushed them close together; Georgina’s eyes flash.
‘You couldn’t hack it working for a union, Jay. You treat anyone who hasn’t got a degree like a clever pet – and that’s on one of your good days. It’s why half my office calls you “his Lordship”.’
That makes Jay snort-laugh into his beer, but it’s fake. Georgina has drawn blood. Still, it’s not a great show from either of them. Tired boxers in the tenth round.
Someone reaches between them, semi-shouldering Georgina aside to tap Jay on the shoulder. Owen doesn’t recognise him. Older guy.
‘Jay! Let me grab you for a minute. I’ve heard a word out of Coventry East I want to talk to you about.’
He smiles. ‘That would be brilliant. Give me two secs, though!’ Georgina puts out her hand and the older man shakes it. ‘Owen, there’s someone I want you to meet. Grab another beer. Come with me.’
He does, because when Jay has that look of delight on his face there isn’t much else you can do. ‘Jay, stop trying to set me up with people.’
Jay puts his arm around his shoulders as he propels him deeper into the kitchen.
‘Owen, you carry the weight of the world. Let me make you happy.’
He widens his eyes and Owen can’t help smiling back at him.
Jay lifts his hand. ‘Christine! This is the guy I want you to meet.’
There are two women whom he doesn’t recognise standing by the sink. One turns as Jay hails her and right then, in that moment of seeing, Owen’s life changes. He’s flattened by a full-on Hollywood lightning strike. The woman is tall, mixed race, with her hair tied back and loose strands of it framing her face with corkscrew curls. She is still laughing at something her friend has just said, and it’s the way she shakes her head, the slight twist in her lips. You can see the next question, the next thought or idea ready in her eyes, just behind her lips. She puts a hand on her friend’s arm.
Cameron and the banking clusterfuck disappear from Owen’s mind like the smoke of a snuffed candle. He breathes deeply to the soles of his feet and tries to remember what it is like to be a nice person, the sort of person he hopes this woman might like. The lights in the kitchen bounce off the darkness outside, giving her a halo.
‘Hi, Jay!’ Her voice is low, warm.
‘Christine, this is Owen,’ Jay says. ‘Lynch pin of the Labour Party and despite his youth and good looks he’s been around long enough to know where all the bodies are buried.’
The perfect name. Owen had never realised that before, but it obviously was. The best and perfect name. Jay turns to the friend. ‘I’m Jay. Have we met? Do you know many people here?’ She blushes and shakes her head and he gives her his full-beam smile. ‘Let me introduce you to some of the nice ones and tell you which ones to steer clear of.’ She looks delighted at the idea and lets Jay shepherd her away, leaving Owen alone with Christine.
‘Hi, Christine.’
He offers her the other unopened bottle and she takes it.
‘Thanks, Owen.’ She twists round to locate an opener among the wreckage behind her and Owen finds he is staring at the line of her neck like Count Dracula.
She finds it with a little yelp of victory, opens her bottle, hands the opener to Owen, and both clink the necks of the bottles together.
‘Cheers.’
She’s got one of those non-regional accents. Not public-school posh, but neutral.
‘So Jay said you work at party HQ,’ she says.
‘Yes. You in politics?’ He can’t decide if he wants her to be a politico or not.
‘MP’s researcher.’
Owen is sure – like down to his bones absolutely fucking sure – he would have noticed this woman around Westminster if she’d been in the village more than a week. He takes the chance.
‘When did you start?’
‘Today.’
‘Welcome,’ Owen says and manages not to add ‘to the madhouse’, which helps. ‘Who are you working for?’
‘Jasper Bartlett.’
Owen flicks through his mental rolodex of MPs. A good backbencher, solid on legislation committees and votes with the party. Was against the war, supported Gordon. ‘Member for Alnwick South?’
She nods. ‘That’s him. My local MP.’
‘You’re from Northumberland?’ Owen says. ‘I went there once. School took us to the castle. I thought I lived in the north till I went on that coach trip.’
She laughs. ‘Yup, you’re a southerner.’
Owen tries to think of something witty or charming to say about Alnwick. He fails.
‘Born t
here?’
‘Born and raised. Dad was a dentist, Mum a nurse, from Ghana. My sister and I were the only black girls for twenty miles either direction. People were very disappointed every time they asked me something about Africa, and I had to tell them I’d never been south of Manchester.’
Owen reaches for a panic question. ‘How do you know Jay?’
Christine smiles at him. A warm smile, but it’s at the memory of meeting Jay, not for him. ‘He spotted me in the Sports Bar when I was visiting last week, to get my bearings. Gave me his number and told me to get ready to be stuck in the front of team photo ops. He managed to do it in a way that seemed cool, though.’
Owen winced. ‘As long as you don’t get stuck in the back row for everything else.’
She gives him a serious look. ‘I won’t be. So are you going to ask me out?’
Fireworks of delight explode in Owen’s chest. He owes Jay a pint or seven.
‘I was going to go with the “drink to chat about your new career”.’
She gives a sharp shake of her head. ‘No, if it’s a date, it’s a date.’
‘Then it’s a date.’
‘Owen! Babe! Can you come save us?’
Georgina is waving at him over the crowd. She comes towards them, registers Christine’s presence with a micro-nod. ‘Archie and Phil are trying to do the barbecue and they are going to kill us all – fire or food poisoning.’ She puts her hands together in prayer. ‘They’ll ruin that chicken you made. Please feed us!’
Georgina has a way about her, no doubt of that. ‘OK, OK.’
He turns to Christine. ‘Keep me company?’
‘Sure!’ Christine pushes herself away from the sink. She has tiny diamond earrings. Owen can’t think straight. He doesn’t care.
Chapter 6
Tuesday 16 September 2008
A twitchy and intense day at the office. The tension hums in the air, a dropped cup in the coffee area and everyone jumps like a gun has gone off. Owen wades through his call sheets preparing for the conference, but his voice feels unnaturally loud; his chatty and friendly tone a bit forced. Everyone has an eye on the BBC News channel. He hangs on to the memory of Christine. She’d said he was brave when he told her about ditching his A-levels and coming down south, his months living in a squat and how he got the office job at Labour Party headquarters. She went to Exeter. Read French and English.
Owen gets home late and hungry, hoping to salvage supper from the remnants of last night’s barbecue, to find Phil at the kitchen table with his head in his hands, bent over the newspaper, a half-filled bin bag of empties and paper plates at his feet.
Jay is rummaging in the fridge.
‘I need vegetables,’ he says over his shoulder as Owen comes in. ‘Can I eat this broccoli?’
‘Help yourself,’ Phil says and turns over a page. ‘Owen, you hungry? Jay is making a stir fry.’
That’ll be an adventure. Owen isn’t much of a cook, he knows that, but between living off cheap noodles in London as a teenager and feeding himself at university he can cope in the kitchen. Jay, after public school and Oxford, still thinks opening a can of beans is a strange and esoteric art.
‘Yeah, sure.’ He picks up the bin bag and starts gathering more plastic cups, emptying dregs into the sink and sweeping crumbs off the working surfaces. ‘Georgina in yet?’
‘Out wining and dining with Kieron and his crew,’ Phil says. ‘Deciding on conference strategy.’
Owen should ask Georgina about that, see if there’s anything he should be worrying about. Kieron has enough power and presence to make life difficult for the government if he wants to. One of the few Union leaders who still does. Sure, he is technically only second in command, but everyone knows he calls the shots at the Public Sector and General Workers Union.
‘Jay, I owe you a pint or seven,’ he says, peeling a plate off the work surface. It’s glued on with dried mustard. ‘Christine and I are going out for a drink tomorrow, thanks to you.’
‘Thought you’d like her. Smart and takes no bloody nonsense. Deep calling to deep. Aww, shit!’ Owen looks up. Jay drops the knife and holds up his finger, a neat slice across the top. He stares at it, seemingly fascinated by the sight of his own blood. It drips onto the cutting board.
‘Mate, what you doing?’ Owen says, abandoning the bin bag. ‘Stop staring at it and run it under the tap.’
Jay switches on the cold with his elbow while Owen fetches kitchen towel and scrabbles for plasters in the ‘chuck it in there’ drawer.
‘It really stings!’
‘Let’s have a look.’ It’s not deep. Owen takes Jay’s hand, dries it and squeezes it with the towel, unwrapping the plaster with his teeth. ‘Think you’ll live.’
The blood blossoms through the damp paper. He takes it off, replaces it with the plaster. Jay hisses as he tightens it.
‘That’s all I need. What if I can’t type?’
‘Don’t act like you lost a hand, Jay,’ Owen says, glancing up. Jay frowns, then suddenly smiles at him, looking him in the eye over his damaged fingertip.
‘Thanks, Mum.’
‘Yeah, yeah. No more sharp objects for you. Clear up. I’ll make food.’
‘Thanks.’
Jay’s phone goes. He fishes it gingerly out of his pocket.
Owen wipes the board clean and attacks the broccoli, then goes through the cupboard looking for odds and ends. He can’t be bothered to wait for rice, it’s after nine already and he only got three hours’ sleep last night. Sod the stir-fry. Pasta will do.
Jay’s end of the phone conversation begins to intrude.
‘I’ve already told you. No … no, she didn’t leave me a message last night. I’m telling you, I have a system! You think I could cope with everything going on if I didn’t have a system?’ Jay has his back to them, one hand holding his phone to his ear the other stabbing into the air. ‘Yes, we did have a few people round, but what has that got to do with anything? She didn’t mention it today!’
Phil lifts his head from the paper, catches Owen’s eye. They exchange a shrug. Jay is still going.
‘We’re all busy. No. No … I’ll do it, but there was no message. I’m telling you. Don’t give me shit for something that’s not my fault! It’ll be done by morning. What difference does that make now? Fine.’
He hangs up.
‘I don’t bloody believe it!’
Phil and Owen both turn to stare at him. ‘What?’ Phil asks.
Jay is staring at the wall; he spins round. ‘Melissa claims she left me two messages to get the stats together for the graphics team last night. Now Simon is yelling for them. She didn’t! And Simon’s saying I must have missed it because of the party.’
Owen fills the kettle and flicks it on, finds a pan which looks clean.
‘So you missed a message, happens to everyone. Particularly after a few beers.’
‘I didn’t miss it. I was fine. I went for a run this morning! But those stories about me being a party animal … ’
‘So it’s a fuck-up. How does yelling at your boss help?’
‘I didn’t yell. I just don’t like being spoken to that way. Like I’m the help or something.’
‘We’re all the help, Jay,’ Phil says, still bent over the paper.
‘Speak for yourself. And I don’t like being accused of lying.’
Owen finds the pasta and a jar of pesto without any fuzz growing in it. ‘So don’t accuse Melissa of lying, then,’ he says.
‘I don’t know why you are on their side! I don’t fuck up. Never.’
‘Nice for you,’ Owen says. Jay ignores him.
‘God, I have to get them together now, it’ll take me all night.’
‘Food will be ten minutes,’ Owen says.
Jay sighs, runs his hands through his hair and flinches as his injured finger complains. ‘I don’t have time to eat now. Couldn’t stomach it.’
He leaves the room and they hear him thump into the dining room. Owen sta
res at the half-made dinner and half-cleared kitchen. Thanks a lot, Jay.
Phil gets up from the table and picks up the bag; takes over the clearing up.
‘What’s got into him? Bit dramatic over a missed call,’ Owen says and carries on with the food. ‘More mysterious whispers?’
‘Probably rattled after last night,’ Phil says, shaking his head.
‘Why?’ Owen gets on with the cooking. ‘What happened?’
‘When I went to bed, Thomas Berkeley was hinting to Jay about a seat. Next election. Coventry East, I think. Nothing certain, but you know that “nod nod, wink wink, play your cards right”. It would put me on edge having that dangled in front of me.’
Owen pushes the pasta into the pan way too hard and splashes his wrist with boiling water.
‘Fuck!’
Owen came to work for the party ten years ago, has been at the rock face since he was a kid, and no one comes to have a quiet chat about possible seats with him. You’d think that loyalty would earn him something, all that hard graft of organising the conference floor votes. But no, handsome Jay in the fancy suit with his first from Oxford gets the nod. Of course he does. Owen runs his wrist under the cold tap. Returns to the cooker without saying anything.
‘Owen—’ Phil ties up the bin bag and pulls another off the roll. ‘They need you at headquarters this cycle. You know that. No one knows the constituency parties like you do.’
Phil is a mind reader sometimes. And Owen knows he is right. Maybe, but it’s easy to say, isn’t it? And hard not to feel passed over. He checks the pasta, finishes cutting up the broccoli and chucks it in to blanch it.
‘How are we supposed to claim to be the party of the workers, though, when we keep parachuting in Oxford graduates to every seat that comes up?’
‘We are the party of the brightest and best.’ They turn round. Georgina has come in unnoticed. ‘You can leave the mess, you know, Phil. It’s why we pay a cleaner. Is there food? I’ll take some to Jay. He’s growling over his laptop in the dining room.’
She looks flushed.
‘The cleaner has plenty to do. We can make the effort. Had a good evening, Georgie?’ Phil asks.
‘Oh, spiffing! Using my Oxford-educated brain to work out how to help people keep their jobs or even, you know, actually get a new one while the world tumbles around our ears.’
