The House

by Tom Watson

  She checks the time. ‘And call the house when Mum and Dad have got there, will you? Warn them when I arrive I want Mum on the top step. No jewellery.’

  Emily makes another note. ‘What about hair and make-up this evening, Georgina?’

  She pauses. ‘I’ll do it myself. As soon as you’ve made the statement, follow me over to the house.’ She looks up at Emily from under her lashes. ‘I’ll need you, Emily. My whole family will.’

  Emily relaxes her shoulders. ‘Of course, I’ll be there, Georgina.’

  Her attention returns to the screen. ‘Excellent. Well, do what you do, Emily.’

  Chapter 45

  The PSGWU reports and NDAs do leak. It’s clear from the initial summaries on the news sites that the journalists are reading the same pages as Emily. Then they publish the complete documents, with some of the names redacted. Emily wonders if Georgina leaked them herself to control the narrative. She puts the thought aside and keeps reading.

  It’s shocking and sickeningly familiar at the same time. Kieron Hyde had a series of sexual relationships with workers and members at the Union. Some were consensual, but seem to shade into the coercive. On at least three occasions women complained they had been assaulted – promised confidential help with their complaints about their employers or advice on how to progress within the Union and Kieron had … a hand on the knee, a bottle of champagne, then an insistence his hearing wasn’t great, so he had to sit close to them, somewhere they could be alone. The comforting touch became aggressive. The hand on the thigh turned to fingers creeping under the hem of a skirt. And on being challenged, laughter, compliments. The woman was too hot, too beautiful. He couldn’t help himself. They were friends, weren’t they? On the same side? When Debra protested, and tried to leave (her statement read), she was pushed up against the wall and Kieron tore the zip on her skirt as he thrust his hand into her knickers. Then he laughed again and accused her of being hysterical.

  Emily reads as calmly as she can. She’s heard stories like this before, read the Ronan Farrow book, watched the Roger Ailes film, and she’s been angry and wondered what she would do in the circumstances. But this is so much closer. It is right here. She’s been in Kieron’s house a hundred times. He’s made her coffee while they were waiting for Georgina in that lovely kitchen, chatted about politics, and he’s told her war stories from the campaigns. She’s watched him with his kids – bright, happy-looking kids – and seen him gaze at them with such fatherly pride. Emily has, often, admired the way Kieron takes on so many of the parenting duties men of his age usually shirk. But this … could this … ? She keeps reading. Of course this is what happens. This is always what happens. While everybody is pointing to the madman in the bushes, the serial killer down the dark alley, this is what is happening.

  She starts again, reads again, trying to harden herself to it, and this time looks for the specific mentions of Georgina. They are there. Debra says she confided in her. That’s a bomb all right. The language is dry, but it seems after he assaulted her Debra refused to be in the same room with Kieron. Georgina came to find out why; or was she sent? Either way, Debra claims she laid out her accusations and Georgina had been so sympathetic, cried with her, insisted on the need for justice, then in the same conversation backtracked, pointing out how horrendous these investigations were for the victims, how it was impossible to prove anything. Georgina had advised her to handle it all through the Union.

  ‘I believed her,’ the quotation read, ‘because I thought Kieron had done the same to her. It was common knowledge what went on in their “meetings”.’

  Christ.

  Emily has read statements on camera before. She uses a clipboard and clamps her arms to her side in case she starts shaking. The statement is brief.

  ‘After hearing the allegations and believing them to be credible, I have asked my husband of twelve years to leave the family home while investigations continue. I have also been examining my past and my conscience in light of these allegations and, like my friend and former housemate Owen McKenna, I am seeing this period in a very different light. We have learned so much from the courageous campaigning of women who have suffered at the hands of predatory men in positions of power, and the reporting of brave journalists and investigators who have allowed them to tell their stories. I am very proud of the work my party has done to re-examine past mistakes and I am ready to take part in that process, a vital first step on the road to recovery and healing. I am certain that the PSGWU, which has done so much over the years to support the rights of all workers and which I served with pride, will take that as a model. I ask that the press bear in mind I am the mother of two young, confused children. And I wish to thank my parents for interrupting their own busy lives to come and help care for them at this difficult time. I aim to be as open as I can, and am grateful for the opportunity to speak. I shall, however, continue to hold the government to account at every opportunity, knowing that my first duty, after that as a mother, is to my constituents and the people of this great country. It is a pleasure and honour to serve on the front benches, and I shall continue to do so at the discretion of my leader as long as my service is of value.’

  Emily finishes reading. As soon as she lifts her eyes from the page, questions are shouted at her. Constance hands out printed copies of the statement, and in the office Gabriel hits send and the electronic version appears in inboxes, Georgina’s Twitter feed and Facebook pages.

  She said no questions. She waits thirty seconds, not responding to the barrage, but letting them get the footage of her not scuttling immediately back into her office. Then she retreats, she hopes with dignity, and orders a car to take her to Georgina’s.

  Chapter 46

  She asks the driver to take her into the parallel road, but she can see the press pack outside the house from the end of the street. A policeman has been installed at the gate. He’s masked and gloved, keeping them at the end of the path and occasionally reminding them not to cause an obstruction. One or two windows in the street are open, with curious neighbours leaning on the sills and looking at the fuss. No doubt a few will offer comments to the journalists who knock on the door. Some are popping up on Twitter already, though they all seem to be along the lines of ‘He seems such a nice man’. One or two are claiming they felt a creepy vibe. Emily doesn’t believe them. She never got a vibe from Kieron like that, and she knows creeps. There are still enough men in parliament who love to put a lingering hand on your lower back as they pass.

  Emily lets herself into the garden of a three-storey Victorian townhouse with her own key, glances up at the window and waves at the elderly woman who owns the place. She waves back.

  Georgina made this arrangement when she first reached the front benches. This side gate allows access to the old woman’s garden, and at the back of her lawn is a gate which opens into Georgina’s back garden. In exchange for a few spare keys, Georgina and Kieron pay to have the old lady’s garden maintained. It’s beautiful – rose bushes and lavender she can see from her window, a scrubbed patio area where she can sit out in good weather. And Georgina can sneak past the press pack whenever she feels like it.

  When she came home this afternoon, though, Georgina went to the front door. Her mother opened it, took a step out into the sunlight, and now every photographer has a choice of shots of the lovely Georgina being embraced by her grey-haired mum. Her daughter is hovering in the shadows just behind them. Three generations of women in crisis. The headlines write themselves.

  Emily walks down the path towards the plate-glass windows at the back of Kieron and Georgina’s house. She sees movement inside and recognises Georgina’s father as he pushes the sliding doors open for her to come in.

  ‘Hello, Emily. Tea?’

  ‘God yes, I’d love some. Where is everyone?’

  ‘The camera people are setting up in the study and Georgina is getting changed. My wife is with the kids in the dining room.’

  Emily hesitates. ‘I should go
and see Georgina.’

  He is pouring from the pot. ‘You have five minutes, dear. You did very well on the TV, I thought.’

  Emily puts down her bag and slides into one of the chairs around the edge of the table while he puts a Cath Kidston mug of tea in front of her.

  ‘Thank you. It’s a strong statement.’

  ‘Yes.’ Dr Maxwell runs water into the sink. Emily notices the remains of a nursery tea piled on the sideboard. ‘Very well crafted.’ He switches off the tap and leans on the edge of the sink, head down. ‘I never liked him, never understood the marriage, but I got used to him over the years. Found him quite companionable while he was sneaking his cigarillos under the pretence of looking round the garden. Now I want to kill him.’

  ‘I liked him too,’ Emily says and he returns to the dishes. ‘How are the kids?’

  ‘Nice to hear someone asking,’ he replies. ‘I have no idea. They ate. But they are being very quiet. Waiting to see how the land lies, I suppose, as we all are.’

  It’s a pandemic-style framing. The bookshelves behind Georgina’s head show off a mix of modern literature, classics, non-fiction. They established a base during lockdown, and freshen it up every month, books and family photos. The ones featuring Kieron have been removed. Emily did that, and part of her is looking forward to seeing if anyone notices it. An ‘a-ha’ moment in a blog post or think piece.

  Georgina blinks at the camera. She is wearing an earpiece, and occasionally nods at the screen. Agrees something. ‘Yes. That’s fine … I might not be able to go into details … No, I’m not answering that.’

  Emily sits behind the camera with the producer and he hands her a set of headphones; the feed from the studio control booth in one ear, the broadcast as it goes out in the other. The titles are running, a voice in the studio counts down and the presenter hits her cue. Behind her chair is Georgina, sitting in this room, her hair loose, her make-up light, wearing a white hoodie. She always appears on TV in a suit jacket and blouse – the house has rooms full of them but, Emily realises, Georgina wants to look more ‘ordinary’ today. She is the mother who got in a couple of hours ago, has seen her traumatised kids through teatime and bath time and is now ready to get back to work in her home office like thousands of other high-flying mothers.

  The screen on the producer’s laptop cuts to a pre-recorded package. Archive video clips of Kieron speaking at Labour Party and TUC conferences, a lawyer explaining how, after the Weinstein case, enforcing NDAs that cover complaints of harassment and assault has become impossible. There is a short statement from the law firm now representing the two women, and refusing to confirm their identities, even if they’ve been doxed all across the internet. There’s the familiar footage of Kieron packing his car, then, Emily sees with a jolt, they play the tape of her reading Georgina’s statement. She hates seeing herself on screen, but it does work from a professional point of view, at least. Emily looks pale – that’s just the lights, of course – and in shock. Which she was. The camera can see what you are thinking … who said that? Someone who knew. Emily looks like someone struggling to take in bad news, someone who is reeling and angry and terribly worried about the person whose words she is speaking. It’s impossible to fake and it gives the words far more impact than they had on the page.

  The package ends, and the presenter turns towards the video wall full of Georgina looking vulnerable yet resolved in front of her bookshelves. Emily holds her breath. Which way have they decided to jump? She wishes she’d heard the pre-interview. Either Georgina will be seen as a victim, or not. A twist, a kink in the narrative, and they could be fighting a rearguard action against making Georgina into a conspirator, the cold-hearted enabler. What would the women have said? If they had been caught on camera, describing Georgina as an opportunist, the manipulator who kept them from going to the police, allowing the abuse to continue … Emily suddenly realises it is a very good thing the press frightened them off. The stage belongs to Georgina.

  But still. It depends on this moment; are they going on the attack?

  ‘Mrs Hyde,’ the presenter says, ‘thank you for speaking to us this evening. How are you holding up?’

  Emily closes her eyes and enjoys the moment of relief, breathes in and focuses. At least seven more minutes to go. Give it ten minutes after that for the hot takes to come in. Then they’ll know what they are dealing with.

  Chapter 47

  Georgina looks good when she is tired. Owen scans the bookshelves behind her head: a lot more fiction than he reads.

  ‘ … I think, I think what I want to say more than anything else is how grateful I am to the campaigners who made me reassess this period in my life. I told myself that it was my fault, that Kieron might have been a little rough with me, but that was only because he was carried away by passion, didn’t know his own strength. It was what he told me, after all.’ She looks off camera for a long beat. ‘I was in love with him, and I wanted to believe what he said. Sometimes we can only see the shapes of our lives, looking back from a distance. I’m inspired by men like Owen McKenna who are willing to examine past mistakes, challenge their own histories. And by women like those who made complaints against my husband, and are speaking out now.’

  ‘They tried to speak out then,’ says the interviewer. ‘They confided in you, they wanted assurances things would change at the Union. But those changes took a long time, didn’t they? And you were part of a very small group of people who knew about these complaints and hushed them up, allowing your husband to run for the role of general secretary. He was very useful to you in your political career, wasn’t he, Mrs Hyde?’

  Not a flicker. Of fear or anger. You could study this footage frame by HD frame and you wouldn’t find it. She nods slowly as if considering the question, then puts a finger just below her eye as if to control a tear.

  ‘I think … Yes, he helped me enormously and I was so grateful. I loved his family too, his home. I suppose what I am trying to say is that I have had every advantage in life, I had a stable background, a privileged education and a challenging, exciting career. But I allowed myself to be bullied, coerced. I no longer trusted the evidence of my own eyes and ears. I believed what Kieron told me. And then, after we were married, there were to my knowledge no further complaints. I told myself this was proof the stories about my husband were wrong. Misunderstandings or even, God forgive me, the complaints of jilted women.’

  ‘So you were gaslit into a remarkably successful political career.’ Was that a flicker then, thought Owen? ‘What has changed, Mrs Hyde?’

  ‘The investigation into the case of Jay Dewan forced me to recall in detail that terrible period personally, then I found myself thinking of those complaints in a different light. I actually pulled them from the Union records two days ago to reassess them in light of what we know now about abusers like … Kieron.’ The name is said softly, dripping with pain. ‘I was on the point of reaching out to the women, through my lawyers, to see if they wished to revisit the complaints, when one of them got in contact with the investigator appointed by the leader of my party.’

  ‘And do you think similar cases are ongoing in your party or the Union movement?’

  Georgina tosses her head and there is anger in her eyes now, but not directed at the interviewer.

  ‘I am sure there have been dozens of similar cases where women have found themselves in the power of abusive partners, bosses, colleagues. The trade union movement is not immune to abuses of power. I hope any man who has treated women in this way will be living in terror tonight, and that any person who thinks they can exploit and degrade another in pursuit of their selfish or sadistic pleasure, hears this:

  ‘We can see you now, and we’re coming for you.’

  ‘Fuck me. I’m going to need another drink after that. Will they bring a single malt up if I ask nicely?’ Sara presses the button on the remote and the TV emits a short declining pattern of electronic notes, a digital sigh, and goes dark.

  Sara is
lying on the bed, chin in her hands, stockinged feet crossed at the ankle.

  ‘You look like Holly Golightly,’ Phil says, free to look at her now he’s released from the spell of Georgina’s interview. He’s still holding the briefing paper he picked up before the section on the Hyde family scandal began. He realises the thick linen page has crinkled slightly with the sweat of his fingers.

  Sara rolls onto her back while he puts it down and orders the drinks on the room service app.

  ‘That’s nice of you, dear, but do remember Holly was a teenage prostitute and I run a hedge fund.’

  ‘Noted.’

  ‘But that was quite a performance, wasn’t it? From conspirator to victim to warrior in five minutes.’

  She picks up her iPad and starts scrolling. ‘It’s playing well on Twitter. Huh.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Someone’s clipped that last bit and made her eyes flash. Quick work.’

  A knock at the door. She gets up and opens it, takes the tray from the masked porter and thanks him. Proper glasses.

  She gives Phil his and stands behind him. ‘Have you read Jay’s records yet?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘May I read them? Unless you’re worried that I might find out some other deep, dark secret of yours?’

  He turns to face her properly. ‘You know my worst secrets now. No, but I know those records shook Owen and I don’t want you to think any worse of me.’

  She smiles. ‘After ten years of marriage, I don’t think there are many surprises left.’ He hands her the file and she carries it to one of the armchairs, picks up her drink. ‘Even that thing with the list. I didn’t know you’d done it, but I wasn’t surprised that you had, or that you were ashamed of it. Even if I don’t know the specifics, I do know what sort of man you are.’