The journalist meests her gaze, then raises his glass. Heat creeps up her neck and she turns and pushes through the banks of tight-suited activists, determined to put some distance between her and him. She grabs another glass of wine. Anything to distract her. There, that’s better: once you’re on to your third, the sweetness becomes less cloying. She drinks steadily and quickly; accepts a top-up, her stomach fizzing with acid and fear.
She must find James for this is meant to be part of his rehabilitation, this mingling with the party faithful: showing that he is willing to put in the hard graft – the hand-pressing and attentive listening – and that he has learned from his fall from grace. We all love a repentant bad boy and they have lapped him up: listening to his mea culpa at a fringe meeting on the importance of family unity; watching in apparent awe as his voice cracked and he bit on his knuckles to stem his tears. They couldn’t get enough of him: these couples in their sixties and seventies, who she might have assumed would be judgemental, and the forthright women in their fifties in their bright peacock-blue or magenta jackets. ‘You have to admire someone who can hold their hands up and say they were wrong but they have learned from it,’ one opines; and she wants to grab that stupid woman and scream in her face.
But of course she can’t. The new, more cynical Sophie – and how she hates that he has made her like this – must stand dutifully while he courts them all, playing the penitent with precision; feigning an interest she knows he cannot feel. She could almost admire his performance were it not that she cannot trust a word he says. ‘We all adjust the truth from time to time,’ he had told her, in such a blasé tone that it almost sounded reasonable. And yet it wasn’t. And it isn’t. Most people don’t do that. It is only now that she is beginning to realise how frequently he plays with the truth, through elisions, omissions, half-truths, and manages to shift it in this way.
Well, there is no point staying here. She scours the room one last time and spies someone she wishes she could ignore: Chris Clarke. He catches her eye and she looks away too late, for he is moving towards her, the crush of the crowd parting as he pushes his way seamlessly through.
He places his hand below her elbow and steers her to a quieter spot of the room, beside some doors that can be slid open and a table crammed with empty glasses and bowls greased with the shards of peanuts and crisps. Jim Stephens is on the far side of the room with his back to them and the lobby journalists are still filing copy. The delegates are too far away to hear.
‘So, these are better circumstances in which to meet.’ His tone is consciously upbeat but his smile doesn’t meet his eyes.
‘You mean rather than in court?’
He blinks, mole-like.
‘I’m sorry,’ she adds. Anything to make him go away.
‘Cheer up. He’s doing well.’ His eyes scan the room. The home secretary is making his way through the throng, a gaggle of prospective MPs doughnutting around him. ‘He could be back in the Home Office before you know it.’
‘Come off it.’ Her tone is dry.
‘Under secretary of state; in charge of drugs policy. Possibly a poisoned chalice but he’s coped with far worse, hasn’t he? And of course he still has the confidence of the prime minister. An audacious move but the PM thinks he could manage it.’
‘For fuck’s sake.’
He glances at her, startled. She never swears and the words have slipped from her, involuntarily. A bubble of rage swells inside her. Not that post! How could Tom be so fucking stupid; so unthinking? She imagines the PM smiling his charming, blameless smile, barely considering the arrogance of that decision; the riskiness of his behaviour, and of James’s too. They have got away with everything before now, his logic would run, so what’s to stop him making this decision? After all, he’s the prime minister. But oh, the arrogance, the hypocrisy of it all.
She looks at Chris and she is aware that her eyes are burning, the tears inevitable, and that she needs to get away from him quickly before she says something she will regret.
‘Is there something I should know?’ He looks at her properly now, pale eyes alert, as she scoops up her jacket and handbag, every fibre of her vibrating as she resists the need to flee.
‘Is the PM being too kind?’
She almost wonders if he is being disingenuous.
‘Do you really have no idea?’
He doesn’t nod; won’t make any concession to his ignorance. She stares down at the carpet: noting the thickness of the tread.
‘You might want to ask them about a party post-finals. Several of the Libertines. Tom and James. June 1993.’
And with that she leaves the low-ceilinged room, with its oppressive heat and braying noise and awful people, who scheme and plot and gossip, and heads for the relative cool of Brighton seafront on a chill early October night.
JAMES
5 June 1993
Thirty-three
Alec’s third-floor set felt cramped. All the third-year Libertines were there after one last blowout, the relief at having survived finals cloaking faces uncharacteristically dulled to a workhouse grey.
James stretched out in a leather armchair, feeling the effects of the champagne on top of an almost febrile exhaustion. He was dead-tired: the result of too little sleep for too many nights. He had been cramming. There had been much late-night cramming. He would get a first – his confidence was sufficiently robust for him to still think this – but it was only through taking an essay-crisis approach to exams: surviving on Pro Plus, Marlboro Lights and coffee to push him through those miserable midnight hours – then whisky to nudge him into sleep. Coke seemed superfluous. He took his papers in a state of hyper-vigilance; the most difficult economics questions braved on four hours’ kip.
It wasn’t what he had intended. He was disciplined about sport and fitness; disciplined about leavening his academic work with enjoyment. He’d almost taken that to extremes. Still, he thought he’d pulled it off: the Oxford first and the sporting blue, stamps on a passport that would take him to places few knew existed: clubs within clubs; inner circles within those he already circumnavigated with ease.
He shifted, fractious: too much caffeine and booze running through his veins. He would go for a long run tomorrow morning: to the University Parks then across to Jericho and up through Port Meadow, following the Thames to Godstow, where the first boat trained. He would skirt over Oxford’s green lungs in the clear early light, before the city got going for the day and while life felt fresh and unsullied, and he would feel like his old self once again: fit, virile, able to stretch and run without feeling the insistent pressure of needing to revise; of knowing that twenty-four hours’ worth of exams would determine his academic worth; his energy – pent up as he lounged in libraries, long legs knocking under the desk, shoulders striking the bookcases as he rocked back in his chair – finally given an outlet; muscles straining; heart pumping; blood whooshing as his trainers grew moist with dew and he pounded the sun-dappled streets.
He stretched his arms above him, feeling the nerves running up from his shoulders and casually noting his long, well-proportioned fingers. Well, you know what they say about fingers? Now that his head was rapidly emptying of the knowledge crammed in the past four weeks, he found himself thinking incessantly of one thing. The final fortnight of term lay ahead of him: drinking; rowing; punting; and sex. Lots of sex. He would take Soph upstream from the Cherwell Boat House, picnic in one of the University Parks’ fields; pluck her – that was a good Shakespearean euphemism – in the long grasses; the sun beating down on them, clouds scudding across a sky of searing blue. Perhaps they’d cycle further afield, to Woodstock and Blenheim, for he had the time now to pay her some attention. She had first-year exams but they weren’t important and it was good that she was busy. The trouble with women, apart from them lacking the courage of their convictions, was that they could be demanding. Soph seemed to realise he couldn’t be doing with neediness, but still, he sensed it: a carefully suppressed undertow that
would catch him and drag him down if he gave any indication he really cared.
He shrugged the idea away; thought instead of one long hedonistic summer. He wasn’t quite sure how she would fit into this. He assumed their relationship would peter out by September when he started his new life in London but before that there was plenty of time to meet. He hadn’t suggested a holiday – he didn’t want her to get too keen – and besides, he was off to Italy for three weeks, where Nick’s parents had a villa, then sailing in St Mawes with the old dears.
But there were weeks while the parentes were away and she should come up. An empty house; a sultry summer: he could see her strewn across his bed, a sheet between her legs. A couple of carefree months; the end of a prolonged, indulged adolescence. A final period of no responsibility or expectation – except to enjoying himself. Because in September, he would be working for the leading firm of management consultants. The prospect didn’t fill him with massive enthusiasm, to be honest, but if he wanted a career in politics he needed a life before it – and the chance to earn some serious money.
He downed the tumbler of whisky Nick had filled then opened a beer. The casement windows were flung open to the night and Alec and Tom had clambered out to perch on the stone balcony overlooking the Meadows: the sound of their untrammelled laughter drifted back into the room; floated down towards the Thames.
From the roof, you could stand on the lead flashings and lean back against the slates so that you looked up at the stars; or climb along the ridge, like Alec. He could hear scampering on the tiles; sensed he was clambering. James had never liked that. Scaling walls was one thing; roofs another. He was keen to move up, not look down. Curious that he might be reckless about some things – women; study; the odd recreational class A drug now that the boat race was long finished – but that, with others, his strong sense of self-preservation kicked in.
He stumbled towards them, keen for fresh air. The night was still and despite the wide-open windows, the room was thick with smoke and the stale breath of men hammered on beer and champagne. George, crouched over a coffee table rammed with glasses and empty beer bottles, was snorting a line of coke. In the bog, Cassius, stomach bulging over his flies, retched. He felt a twinge of disgust. Now that their Oxford lives were all but over, he and Tom should distance themselves from this lot, not just out of self-preservation but self-respect.
A clatter at the other side of the room. The Hon. Alec had scrabbled back down from the roof and onto the balcony to brandish a tiny polythene bag of powder. Beside him, Tom – late after a secret-squirrel trip up to London – was trying to laugh but the tightness to his jaw betrayed his anxiety: indicated that he would really rather Alec gave the substance back, immediately. Alec, indulged and irrepressible, was unpredictable when high: capable of scattering the chemical snow down into the quad, his manic laughter a reproof to anyone concerned that it was best not to alert the college authorities to the illegal substances in his set.
He was gibbering now but he didn’t seem to want to throw it away.
‘Oh man – you genius.’ He threw an arm around Tom. ‘C’mon, let’s try it.’ His pupils were large and dulled as sloes. Whatever he’d taken, he’d had too much.
James felt a prick of apprehension; a growing awareness of some new and potentially bad experience. He scrutinised the bag, swinging like a dejected condom; took in that peculiar mix of excitement and wariness glancing across Tom’s face.
Alec was jittery, excitement crackling from him. ‘Oh man. This will be awesome!’
Tom, concentrating, nodded; drew a tube of silver foil from his duffel bag, and a drinking straw. ‘Got your lighter?’
Alec brandished his grandfather’s slightly tarnished silver heirloom and flicked it. A plume of orange burst from its top.
James’s spine tightened with a cold prickle of fear.
‘Is that what I think it is?’
Tom shrugged.
‘It’s smack?’
His best friend nodded.
‘Don’t worry. It’s top stuff. The stuff I had last week with Thynne.’
‘You’d trust that fuckwit?’
‘Oh, come on, James. He’s a mate.’
‘He’s a cokehead.’ He moved away, biting hard on his rising contempt. Tom had been partying hard since his last exam with Charlie Thynne, a trustafarian who’d graduated the year before and whose name was apposite. Tom had been full of the fact he’d tried smack with him, in town last weekend. All James could see was Charlie’s nerviness: his restlessness in his own body. He wanted to shake the man: get him running down a towpath, or push him until he was dizzy from the exertion of an ergo. His slight limbs and delicate, pallid face gave him the creeps.
He turned back to the balcony where Tom was placing the smack on a piece of foil as reverently as a vicar officiating at communion.
‘For fuck’s sake, Tom.’ He tried to focus. He couldn’t let Tom become like that: his old cross-country partner turning paranoid and pathetic; nor could either of them risk it if they wanted some sort of a political career.
‘Ease up, James. One last blowout, innit?’ Alec, all mockney insouciance, winked as Tom flicked the lighter beneath the foil and the powder began to melt into a brown liquid.
‘Like this?’ Alec, ever greedy for new sensations, took the straw and inhaled. ‘Aaaah . . . maann.’ He looked almost post-coital. A look of intense relaxation flooded his face.
The sound galvanised Tom, who grabbed the straw and copied his friend. ‘Aw . . . shiiiiiit!’ His voice deepened, his vowels melting to become ever smoother; his limbs softening against the balcony, the edges blurring between flesh and stone.
James was suddenly sober. He wrenched the straw from Tom’s hand and raced to the toilet with the screw of polythene. Cassius was coiled round the cistern. His fat body fell against him and James gave him an involuntary kick.
‘What the fuck!’
He just resisted giving him a second.
‘What the fuck, James!’
‘Shut up.’ His voice was savage as he tipped the powder in the pan and pulled the flush. The powder vortexed out of sight but the screw of polythene bobbed, irrepressible. He shoved a wad of paper on top and jerked the flush, again and again.
‘What the fuck, James. What the fuck?’
‘Shut up!’ His knuckles gripped the flush and he felt as if he was holding his breath, unable to move, to risk Cassius seeing what he was doing. ‘Thank fuck.’ His breath eased from him. The polythene was swallowed and gobbled away.
Tom. He needed to check on Tom. He ran back to the balcony, past George and Nick, who were lolling on the battered leather sofa, crowned with smoky halos.
‘James?’ Nick half-stirred.
‘Have a drink.’ George held his glass up. ‘Or some coke. Go on, man.’ He jumped up, flung a wiry arm around James and clasped him tight.
‘Not now, George.’ It was no effort to shrug off George but he did so elegantly, keeping his anger in check.
‘James!’ George was affronted, but James pushed on. He didn’t need these losers. All that mattered was Tom, his best friend for nearly ten years, now smiling beatifically at him.
‘Tom – come here, mate. Come here.’ He had to stop himself from grabbing his shoulders and shaking him as he slumped. He put his arms around him. ‘Tom – time to go, mate. You don’t need this. You don’t need fucking heroin.’ His voice dropped to a hiss. He grabbed Tom’s cheeks and tried to cut through the blurriness of his gaze; fought to keep his voice calm, though his whole being was convulsed with rage and an eviscerating sorrow that bubbled out and exploded in a coldly vicious whisper. ‘It’s in a different league to coke, you tit.’
‘Whaaat.’ Tom’s face was soft and flushed. ‘I love you.’
‘Yeah. Let’s just get out of here. Now, yeah?’ He used his anger to half-pull, half-lift Tom and hold his twelve-stone frame against him. ‘You don’t want to be like him.’ He glanced at the Hon. Alec, crumpled against the balcony
. ‘Has he had too much of it?’
‘Whaaaa?’
‘Perhaps we should take that. Don’t want him to do any more, just in any case.’ James scrumpled the scorched foil and thrust it deep in his pocket, his fingers smarting at the residual heat. Even touching it made him feel dirty. ‘Come on, then. Come on.’ He flung Tom’s arm over his shoulders, began to half-drag, half-move him.
‘No . . . stay here.’ Tom’s legs seemed unable to work.
‘No!’ He was taut with anger. ‘I am not leaving you here. You are not a fucking junkie!’
And he saw a flicker of something like recognition in Tom’s eyes, then.
‘ ’K.’
‘Let’s just get the fuck out of here.’ He couldn’t say why he felt this chilling urge to flee. Just that it was strong and immediate; as intense a shot of adrenalin as any he’d experienced at the start of a race. His closest friend couldn’t slip from him like this: drift into something that would haunt or destroy him. The drug was an uncontrollable, unknown darkness: something he sensed could overwhelm Tom quickly; or would be a dirty secret that could fester and taint.
He half-carried him across the room, whispering reassurance, taking heart that Tom, despite the comfort of the drug, was letting himself be guided, his body heavy and slumped against his.
‘We’ll just go now. Alec won’t say a thing and I doubt the others will have noticed.’
‘Dizzy.’
‘Yeah. Right. Well, that’s what happens.’ He frogmarched him past the others; conscious of the ball of foil nestled against his leg.
‘Heading off,’ James called back into the panelled rooms where Nick and George were snorting fresh lines of coke. ‘Off to wake Soph. Tom’s coming.’
They were greeted by raucous brays. ‘Lucky girl.’ ‘Can she cope with you both?’ ‘Does she want a third?’ – the last from George.
‘Very good.’ James refused to be riled; almost pushed Tom back through the door and down the staircase, the oak door creaking like a sigh of relief.
Anatomy of a Scandal Page 28
