by E J Greenway
“United we stand.” He had declared to the fevered journalists. Go to hell, more like. Only one particularly astute sketch writer had reported him reasonably accurately:
‘Every bone hidden beneath Scott’s perfectly pressed suit shook with the obvious indignity of it all; a bear with a particularly sore head would have greeted Richmond’s election with more good humour. A bad loser? Possibly, but after having the Tory crown so cruelly dangled before him only to be snatched away by this younger, less experienced upstart, who could seriously blame him?’
Colin observed the Party Leader’s tired sigh as he returned the smile and drank. He knew, however, that he wasn’t welcome company. He hated these late-night drinks with Richmond, like a course in marriage guidance but without the counsellor, keeping up this damn charade for as long as their relationship could stand. Colin suspected Rodney knew he would always be there, in the background, watching, waiting for his chance to come. But he was sick of waiting. He would act, and soon. He had promised her, all those years ago. It was still all for her. There was nothing that could make him back down, nothing which could be discovered. He was always careful. Always.
“I was worried for a while there, it’s not been an easy day. First Martin, then Tristan.”
“Indeed.” Colin nodded, sprawling his lean frame across the dark green couch in the Leader of the Opposition’s suite, situated in the newly refurbished Norman Shaw South building. This should all be his. It was simply a matter of time. Tristan was falling for Colin’s bait, and for Anthea Culverhouse. He checked his watch and wondered, but then he glanced back at Rodney’s troubled expression.
“Martin’s been a complete fool.” Colin said flatly. “I know she’s only a Labour backbencher, and these days affairs aren’t necessarily a sackable offence, but you were right to let him go for this.”
Rodney nodded, looking exhausted. “It’s Sarah I feel sorry for most, she’s the professional out of the two of them, she’ll probably take him to the cleaners over this. God knows when the story’s going to break.”
Colin shrugged. “Well, if he makes his bed, so to speak.”
Rodney loosened his collar and knocked back the remains of his drink. “All I care about is that the damage is limited and once it’s out we can ride the embarrassment – along with the Government. He gave me his assurance he didn’t tell her anything politically sensitive, but somehow I don’t believe him.”
“Unless they didn’t have the ‘talking’ kind of relationship.” Colin mused.
Rodney raised his eyebrows, a genuine smile of amusement creeping across his lips. “Although, I bet the PM would have been riveted to discover that the manifesto may contain a consultation on fridge disposal.”
Colin cast a glance at the painting of Rodney’s immediate predecessor hanging above the disused ornate fireplace. Silly old bastard.
“Perhaps she told him things.” He said. “She may not exactly be part of the PM’s inner sanctum, but she may be useful. David Fryer could exert pressure, get him to confess all. You know what an attack-dog he can be.”
Rodney seemed suddenly threatened, the repartee between the two men as short-lived as it was shallow. Fryer may be the new Deputy Chief Whip, but his political alliance with Colin was well known. Attack-dog. Colin suppressed the tug of a satisfied smile, but he felt far from happy. He hadn’t seen the girl in over a week and his frustration was starting to get to him. His heart raced at the merest thought of her, an erotic vision of raw sex and youthful vulnerability as she swayed her body before him, her slim fingers raking through his greying locks and her provocative lips, moist and parted, closing in on his. Colin felt a stirring. Crossing his legs, he hurriedly shut her out of his mind.
Rodney was now talking about Tristan.
“I’d watch Tristan, though, if I were you.” Colin said seriously. “He could try to cause trouble. I mean don’t get me wrong Rodney, you were right to get shot of him, he was appalling, but the man’s obviously got a complex, and a temper.”
“I think he’ll be quiet for a while, at least. He needs time to lick his wounds. I’m sure he’ll see sense.” Rodney said, crossing his arms. He looked uneasy. The one man in a position to try to depose him was warning him about troublemakers. Colin drained his glass. No leader is indispensable.
“There is something...but it’s quite sensitive.” Colin said, his grey eyes narrowing.
Rodney perked up. “Oh?”
“I shouldn’t really say, it’s probably wrong anyway, it’s just, well, something about Tristan.”
“Go on.”
“I’ve heard – just on the grapevine, you understand – that he has shown some interest in a certain Anthea Culverhouse.”
There. It was said. The Leader’s expression darkened fleetingly, Colin watching him curiously. The bait was taken.
“That’s...that’s ludicrous. Who’s been saying that?”
“It doesn’t really need to be said, although the rumour’s there. Everyone knows he and his wife are estranged, may or may not be divorced and Anthea must be lonely without that boyfriend of hers. I’ve seen them talking together and....oh, forget I said anything, it’s none of my business.”
“You’re right, it’s not.”
“Sorry?”
Suddenly, Rodney no longer appeared to feel like talking and Colin sensed he needed to be alone with his demons. The Leader’s Office could be a dark place when one of Richmond’s infamous moods took hold. It was all too easy. He bid him goodnight, but Rodney did not reciprocate, keeping his back turned and his head bowed. With a twist of his thin lips, Colin Scott took his leave.
****
Tristan Rivers sat in his parked car in a quiet street in Westminster, staring out of his window through the rain as it pounded his car in its desperation to soak everything it came across. With a nervous sigh, he turned off the engine and tapped the steering wheel. He had just endured a particularly prickly exchange of words with his Conservative Association Chairman, during which he tried to explain his ‘decision’. She hardly wanted to listen. She has no idea what it’s like here, he thought after she had slammed the phone down. Still, she was nothing compared to the wrath of the whole Association, which he would have to face on Friday in order to explain himself. They had been proud that their MP was the Chief Whip – how could he tell them he was sacked for being useless?
Wiping the condensation from the glass, he squinted up at the top window of the apartment block and saw that the light was on, warm and inviting. He was sure she would be alone, he had heard on the tea room grapevine about that boyfriend she never saw because he now lived abroad. She had offered, and he wondered if she had meant it... He needed comfort, to curse at the unfairness of his dismissal, and he knew he wouldn’t get it sat at home staring at an old photograph of him and his wife in their early days of wedded bliss. He had moved on from that whole sorry mess, thank God.
As Tristan unfastened his seatbelt, he remembered his return to his office after his ‘resignation’. Derek Bradbury, his only ally in a sea of discontent, nodded gravely but failed to speak. A few junior whips murmured hollow tributes, but really there was nothing left to say. Tristan pushed his shoulders back and forced a smile, determined to make as dignified an exit as he could muster. He turned to leave, but stepped right into the personal space of David Fryer, the new Deputy Chief Whip. Fryer stood proud in the doorway, his heavy frame rocking slightly on his heels, his jaw jutting defiantly. There was an overpowering smell about him, one of uncontained glee and sweat. Tristan suppressed his gag reflex. Avoiding confrontation, he skirted past him, but it was Fryer’s low chuckle, laced with malice, which made Tristan’s blood run cold.
Soon after as word spread, the hypocritical words of cold comfort – or ‘commiserations’, as they called it - flowed in from his colleagues, most expressing what a “terrible, terrible shame it was”, leaving Tristan to wonder whether they were referring to his resignation or the fact he’d spent his time at the Whips Office turning it into
a shambles. Nobody, however, said they thought Rodney had made the wrong decision. All except for Colin Scott. Strangely, he made the effort of catching up with Tristan as he hurried to scout out his new office, Colin’s body language suddenly animated.
“Like I said on the phone, it’s just not right.” Colin was talking quickly as he marched next to Tristan, taking no care to lower his voice. “I think it was a stitch-up.”
Tristan eyed him suspiciously. “Tell that to David Fryer.”
“Don’t you worry about Fryer, I’ll take care of him.” Colin dismissed Tristan’s comment with a wave of the hand.
“Well, if you’re such good friends with David I wish you had taken care of him long before now.” Tristan said sharply. Colin stopped him in his tracks with a gentle grasp of his arm.
“Seriously, are you ok?” Colin asked. It was the first time Tristan had ever seen him with a look of concern on his face for another human being. So curious was Colin’s expression Tristan barely knew what to say.
“Err, yes. I...I will be. It’s been a tough day, but I’ll live.” He raised a smile.
Colin nodded and drew air into his lungs. “Yes, I’m sure.” His tone, however, suggested to Tristan that he wasn’t sure at all.
Tristan glanced along the path. Colin was a clever man, but he wasn’t known for his subtlety. “Look, if this is about some sort of...alliance between us, I don’t think...”
“No, no, of course not.” The Deputy held up a hand. “I would never suggest...I mean, I know you would never wish to be disloyal to Richmond, even after the way he has treated you. You’re a good man, Tristan. Loyalty has always been one of your finest attributes and I commend you for that. I would not wish to interfere with your conscience.”
Colin smiled warmly, but Tristan could only swallow hard. Tristan was all too aware that the very conscience to which Colin referred was beginning to prickle.
“Disloyalty isn’t to everyone’s taste. Keep your head down and you may find yourself on a decent committee.”
Tristan shrugged. He had to admit, his old Public Accounts Select Committee had continued to interest him. “Perhaps. It wouldn’t be such a bad thing...”
“Or you might not.” Colin sounded alarmed. “But anyway, I’m thinking we could meet, perhaps discuss your future?”
“You care about my future?” Tristan felt exasperated. Colin was up to something, as always. “I don’t know.”
“Well, give me a call if you change your mind.” Colin slapped him on the arm and made to walk away, but he stopped and turned, a finger raised in the air. “Oh yes, I nearly forgot. I heard Anthea talking before in the tea room. She said how sorry she felt for you, how she hopes you will be ok and how unfairly Richmond’s treated you. You never know, perhaps she and Rodney have had a bit of a tiff over you.” He winked.
Tristan continued to sit in the cocoon of his car, Radio 4 turned down low. Suddenly the heavens opened and the rain fell with such intense ferocity it jolted Tristan back to the present. What on earth was he doing here at 11 o’clock at night in atrocious weather? Would she think it...weird? Anthea had shown little hints of interest in him; a fleeting glance or a gentle laugh, but nothing had ever come of it. With a shake of the head, the ex-Chief Whip climbed out of the car, grabbing a wrapped bottle as he did so. He ran up the steps to the intercom, and for a moment he paused, his finger hovering by her buzzer as the torrent drenched him.
“Oh just do it, you fool!” He jabbed the button, ignoring instant regret.
“Yes?”
“Err…” Tristan began, his mind suddenly blank.
“Hello? Who is this?” Anthea’s voice demanded.
“It’s….it’s Tristan. Rivers.” He stammered. “I’m sorry, it’s late, I shouldn’t have...”
“No, no, it’s fine.” Anthea’s tone lightened, as if relieved. “You can’t keep standing out in the rain, I’ll let you up.”
Before Tristan could get out another word of lame apology, the front door unlocked and he made his way to her flat down a short beige corridor, a large spider plant propped up next to her door. He decided to play it cool, not rant about how despicably he had been treated. No, this needed to be handled carefully, he knew how loyal she was to her friend and he had no wish to ruin what could potentially be a very satisfactory night ahead.
*****
Fifteen months earlier
“Ok, everyone, shoulders back, look straight at the camera. Now...smile.” The Nikon clicked for the fifth time lucky before the photographer indicated they were finally done. Taken in the warmth of the late spring sunshine on the green at the centre of New Palace Yard, the recently re-named Elizabeth Tower looming proudly in the background, it was a photo Rodney Richmond knew he would view with increasing interest as the years went on, pondering the naivety of his promotions or wondering why on earth he chose to wear that tie.
“That took a while,” his new Party Chairman said quietly. The freshly appointed Shadow Cabinet began to chatter and disband, leaving a lonely figure perched on his chair further down the front row, concentrating hard on his BlackBerry.
“Yes.” Rodney agreed, walking across the grass, flanked by Jeremy Cheeser. “Although, if some people can’t find it within themselves to smile, even just to fake it for a photograph, then it’s not surprising.”
Rodney paused by the colonnade, briefly alone with his closest colleague before his new Chief of Staff demanded to know his whereabouts. He would trust Jeremy with his life, were it ever necessary. Along with Anthea, the best campaign manager he could ever want, this fellow ex-journalist, who he personally endorsed for the plum seat of Wensleydale and North Dales, was the key to making his leadership a success.
“We’ve not managed to talk much since you won. Personally, I mean.” Jeremy said in a low voice. The man had a baby son and a new, demanding and high-profile job – Rodney wasn’t surprised to notice his exhaustion. “How are things? At home?”
“We’ve finished going through the last of Mum’s things and probate’s finally finished on the will.”
“And Jenny?”
Rodney hesitated. “She’s gone. For good this time.” He felt there was no point sounding sentimental about it. “At the weekend. We tried to work it out, but it just wasn’t...mutually beneficial.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t be. It was never going to work long term. She’ll probably go back to the bosom of the Labour fold, if they’ll have her.” Perhaps Rodney was making the loss of his girlfriend sound like a policy u-turn. Perhaps the beautiful Jennifer Lambert, the estranged daughter of Rosie Lambert, the brash editor of the Labour-supporting tabloid The Morning Engager, had been right when, two days after the leadership ballot, she accused him of simply thinking of her as being an “inconvenience” in his rise to the top. He quite obviously felt something – although she had no idea what – for “that sly bitch Culverhouse”, but he was apparently “too damn emotionally retarded” to admit it. They had quarrelled all night until, through utter exhaustion, he nodded off as she continued to rant and pack bags. The last thing he remembered was hoping she wouldn’t try to claim his extensive DVD collection as ‘theirs’. Next thing he knew, she was out of his house and out of his life.
Jeremy looked uncomfortable. “Well, I suppose she was a bit....you know....”
“Arrogant? Very aware of her own beauty and not afraid to flaunt it?”
Jeremy smiled awkwardly, but Rodney couldn’t help but laugh.
“She’s her mother’s daughter alright, even if they never speak. She was never going to be the dutiful partner, let’s face it. We were stifling each other, and our politics were worlds apart. Just imagine her standing next to me at Party Conference, doing that pout of hers and cursing such ‘Tory scum’.”
It was Jeremy’s turn to laugh. Colin Scott walked past the two men, his BlackBerry obviously a welcome distraction from uncomfortable conversation.
“I just don’t know what to do about C
olin.” Rodney said quietly once his new deputy was out of earshot. “Maybe I’ve made a mistake.”
Jeremy shook his curly head. “Look, I’ve known him a long time now. Just give him a bit of time to cool off, he’s shrewd enough to know he needs to snap out of it sooner or later.”
Rodney often found Jeremy’s soft Lancashire lilt reassuring. “But it’s the ‘snapping’ bit I’m worried about. I’ve seen it in his eyes, he bloody hates me. Nothing I can do or say can fix that. You saw it yourself at Oxford, how the man bears grudges like badges of honour, and I’m still shocked just how dirty he played his campaign. He wants revenge, I just don’t know whether it will be served tepid or stone cold sober.”
Jeremy wrinkled his lips. His mobile was ringing but he chose to ignore it. “As I say, he may come round. Give him a year, and if he’s not converted by then, well...he can be reassessed, as it were. It’s only been a week, and even in the face of conclusive statistics he had convinced himself and his handful of supporters that he would win, so he’s bound to be raw.”
“And if he starts to be disloyal? Gather support again? Drip his usual poison amongst the usual suspects?”
Jeremy looked pensive. Rodney could sense him wrestling with his Christian conscience. “You’ve been given a clear mandate by the membership – membership which I personally have to answer to every day in this job. You’ll have to give him an ultimatum. If he doesn’t accept the terms, then you’ll be left with no choice. At the risk of sounding dramatic, you will have to finish him. Once and for all.”
*****
“Hello?” Tristan called out, peering around the door into her rather plain but incredibly neat apartment. He had expected no less from her, it was common knowledge she hated disorder of any kind in her job, why should she be any different when it came to arranging her TV and three piece suite at home?
“In here.” She replied brightly, the smell of hot food wafting under Tristan’s nose. He headed tentatively towards the voice. “I’m cooking lasagne, only a microwave one mind – you’re welcome to one, I’ve another in the freezer.”
