by E J Greenway
“These good men and women are prepared to sign a new motion calling for a referendum on the issue, one which we all know the Government won’t win.” Fisher said tentatively as Jeremy scanned the list. Some of the names made him blink in surprise, and the list was long. Wonderfully long. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. After quickly memorising as many names as he could he looked back at Fisher. “So you want Anthea Culverhouse to sponsor the motion, then you and a few of your other colleagues will co-sponsor it? Show solidarity?”
Fisher shrugged deprecatingly. “Well that would be fine, ‘xept I was thinking more along the lines of your leader sponsoring it, give it more welly. I know you haven’t come out firmly for a referendum, although Richmond at PMQs yesterday gave the biggest hint yet, upset the PM and Harvey no end. But if you want to win this I think you should. More Liberals would be willin’ to budge in our direction if you make a referendum party policy and we come out backing it.”
“I’m not about to make policy ad hoc, Jack, but I’m sure something can be agreed on very similar lines to that.” Jeremy noted the look of satisfaction on Fisher’s puckered face. Jeremy, on the other hand, didn’t feel nearly so satisfied. Maybe he had overstepped his mark; this felt far more of a formal agreement than he had wanted to make without Anthea’s presence.
“It’s just that we’ve got a meetin’ of the Parliamentary Party next week and I’d like somethin’ substantial to say, if yer understand. I need to speak to Anthea Culverhouse – why is it you and not her, anyway?”
Jeremy produced what Linda called his ‘politician smile’, usually reserved for party donors or during particularly tough television interviews. “Well, you and I have always got on, Jack, despite our differences. Anthea is fully aware of the situation and I will report back. I am sure she will be in touch very soon.”
“The meeting’s next week, as I say, possibly next Thursday, but you’ve got my mobile number.” Fisher rose from his seat, guzzling the last of his coffee. “You headin’ back to the mad house?”
“Just got to – make a phone call or two.” Jeremy remained seated. The meeting of the Labour rebels in such a short timeframe was indeed a problem.
The Party Chairman’s smile hardly wavered as Fisher boomed his farewell, leaving with a whistle and a swagger.
*****
Tristan watched her checking her lipstick in her compact mirror and running her fingers through her hair by the door of the restaurant. She looked chilly as she swept in, the autumn air blowing through the door along with her, leaves ripping around her red heels. He gave her a small wave and she returned the gesture.
“You made it then.” Tristan said, guiding her to her seat. Her perfume caught in his nose, the memory of the kiss flooding back.
“Of course I made it.” Anthea said. She smiled playfully. “You weren’t worried I wouldn’t, were you?”
“Oh, well, if you hadn’t turned up, I’m sure it would’ve been for a good reason, that’s the nature of the political beast.” Tristan returned the smile, glancing down the menu as if he hadn’t already chosen before she arrived.
Anthea sniffed out a laugh, tugging at her hair nervously. “I’m sorry, I can’t stay long. Bloody MEP reception this afternoon. I’m not turning up on time for it, though.”
It was clear to Tristan that all was not well, maybe Colin hadn’t exaggerated her argument with Richmond after all.
“Well, at least I’ve had a lucky escape from that. My diary is suddenly a bit less...busy.” He sighed. He signalled to a waitress, aware that Anthea was staring at him, her head tilted sympathetically. “Red or white?”
“Oh, not for me, thanks. Got to be fully compos mentis for the reception when I finally get there, although the free booze at these things can be so ghastly, as you know. I’ll just get a fizzy water.” As Anthea spoke she rummaged in her Radley bag for her BlackBerry, failing to notice Tristan’s obvious disappointment. Damned MEPs were ruining a perfectly good opportunity to woo the attractive, intelligent woman before him - although, more pertinently to him, so was Rodney Richmond.
“We miss this thing at our peril, what with the European elections coming up next year. I’ve failed to get a gold star from our leader already this week, so best turn up – eventually.” Anthea smiled for the first time with delicately powered cheeks. Tristan was captivated, hearing the waitress only on the third time of asking if they were ready to order.
“But will you be there tonight, at the donor dinner?” Tristan asked, hopefully. “I may not go...”
Anthea rolled her perfectly made-up eyes. “Yes, damn thing, having to smile and ‘play nice’ for a whole evening, just so the party can make enough cash. I’d be a shame if you don’t go, though, I’ll need you there.”
Tristan laughed, nodding. “I’ll see. But I doubt the Leader will be bothered if I go or not.”
“Do you regret turning up the other night?” Anthea asked coyly.
Tristan’s gaze met hers. “If I regretted it, I wouldn’t be here. And, I am guessing, neither would you. But I’m sorry I left like I did. It was rude of me.”
A small smile tugged at the corner of Anthea’s mouth, but she shook her head vehemently. “No, really, I understand. And the note was...sweet. I was really glad for the company – for your company. It was lovely.”
“So,” Tristan began, a sudden change of subject deflecting his awkwardness. “How was the first Shadow Cabinet meeting without me?”
Anthea shrugged, a delicate cynical laugh passing her lips. She lowered her voice to the merest of whispers. “Truthfully? A bit frustrating. The Martin Arnold story is going to break on Sunday in the Engager. Oh, and Rodney wants me to speak to Jack Fisher sooner rather than later, but I just don’t agree.”
“Yes, I did hear about Martin, on the grapevine, but you only had to look at him in the Chamber today to see something was imminent. Anyway, what does the new Chief think? About negotiating with Fisher?” Tristan pushed. Now Derek Bradbury had been moved from the Whips Office he felt he had lost all connection with his old job and the secrets it unveiled. He needed to get his gossip from wherever he could, and if that meant using Anthea, or indeed Colin, then that was politics.
“She agrees with him, but she would, wouldn’t she? She’s new. He says jump, she’ll say how high.” Anthea said tersely. “I just think we need to go easy, that’s all. Do you agree?”
“I can see merits in both.” Tristan replied diplomatically. “But it’s your Bill, and ultimately, you should call the shots.”
“Well, that’s just what I said.”
There was a short pause in conversation as two Caesar salads were placed in front of them.
“Listen.” He sighed, his eyes lowering to examine the tablecloth. He was no longer leaning forward but had slouched a little in his chair as he toyed with his fork. “I know how loyal you are to Rodney, and I commend it.”
“As should you be. Even after everything.” Anthea interjected.
“Yes, as am I.” Tristan nodded uncomfortably. “I just wonder, though...you’re close to him, has he mentioned anything to you in private? About me?”
Anthea looked at him curiously. Suddenly, Tristan wished he’d kept his mouth shut. Overstepping the mark had always been a weakness.
“I’ve not spoken to him, to be honest. He says less and less to me these days.” Anthea said slowly, chewing her salad. She gave a small smile, but Tristan was sure he saw sadness in her green eyes. He wanted to reach out, cup her face, re-live the kiss. “So I’ve no idea what he’s thinking. You know Rodney, he can be a bit of a closed book at times. But as I said last night, I don’t blame you for feeling bitter. There’s still plenty of time for you to make your mark, though. I still think Public Accounts would suit you down to the ground.”
Tristan simply smiled. He had no desire to upset his budding relationship with Anthea at this tender stage, her closeness to Richmond was just an inconvenience he would have to get round.
“I think you’re
probably right.” Tristan said as he ate. He quickly became aware of Anthea staring at him, her fork placed carefully on the plate, as if she were still trying to work him out. He kept his own gaze on his food. “It’s not that I wouldn’t want to come back to the Shadow Cabinet, one day perhaps, I don’t know. I’m still pretty raw, it was only yesterday.”
He could barely bring himself to think about Colin and his ‘offer’, his veiled threat which made no sense that things could become ‘awkward’ between them. He thought about reaching out to stroke Anthea’s fingers which delicately twirled her water glass.
“Anthea,” Tristan began slowly. “I was wondering if...well, if...you might like to come to mine for a cosy dinner one night...”
Before he could finish, Anthea let out a sharp gasp of surprise.
“What’s the matter?” He asked, exasperated. Anthea raised her hand to her face in a gesture which indicated a serious problem.
“Don’t look!” She peered through her fingers. “I thought you said this place was a safe bet!”
“It is, as far as I know, why who is it?” He asked in alarm, desperate to turn and stare.
“Only Barty Phillips with….my God he’s with that damn awful Westminster Whisperer blogger, Patrick Hornby!” Anthea breathed. Tristan couldn’t resist a brief glance as Barty and his companion were seated.
“The little sleaze.” Tristan whispered, attacking his meal with gusto. Anthea picked up her fork and poked at her croutons with a look of grave concern. “I wouldn’t worry if I were you, those two are old friends. Were at university together I think, although you would’ve thought Barty might have distanced himself from such a gossip queen if he wanted to stay out of trouble.”
Anthea eyed the two men. “I think Barty has a special interest in Hornby. He still thinks people haven’t worked it out after all this time, bless him, while Hornby’s just got a chip on his shoulder over not making the candidates list, some anti-gay movement in the party, he reckons.”
“Of course that’s ridiculous.” Tristan laughed, glancing out of the window as rain began to batter the glass. “He wasn’t selected because he’s a little shit with no sense of loyalty who can’t be trusted to keep his mouth shut.”
“Which is why I’m concerned he’s in the same restaurant as us and looking over!”
Hornby was typing into his smart phone, his eyes drifting over at the two of them then back down. Barty had his back to them, already blissfully knocking back a glass of champagne. Tristan simply thought it best to ignore them. He found Anthea’s obvious uneasiness, her coquettish smile, quite the turn-on, and made his feelings plain by allowing his foot to snake its way up her calf. She elicited a small gasp as he did so, but alarm quickly replaced exhilaration.
“What the hell are you doing?” She hissed, her eyes flashing in anger. “They’ll see us, is that what you want? You know how it could be interpreted, a woman in my position has to be bloody careful about this sort of thing! And Hornby’s now typing! Jesus!”
“I don’t care if they see us, it’s none of their bloody business. I wanted to touch you before you left, as you’ve got the reception to dash to! You going to eat that salad or what?” Tristan asked flippantly, but she continued to stare at him in abject horror. With a sharp sigh she leant down and snatched up her bag, placing it indignantly on her knee and shielding her face from prying eyes.
“Look, Anthea, I’m sorry – you ok?”
“No, actually, I’m not ok, thank you!” She replied curtly, scraping back her chair and continuing to look in distain at Tristan’s amused expression.
“Oh come on Anthea, don't let some blogger ruin it!” Tristan dropped his fork with a loud clatter as she rose from the table.
“You haven’t helped matters!” Anthea retorted. Hornby turned towards them and raised a twitchy eyebrow. Tristan leapt up in front of her to prevent her from taking another step further forward.
“You're making it worse for yourself by making a show, he didn't have much to write before but now he does! Please stay, don't leave, I thought we were getting along fine.” Tristan begged as Anthea tried in vain to squeeze past him, her obvious irritation growing. “At least let me call you a cab.”
“I'm fine, I can walk. See you tonight – maybe.” She replied bluntly, turning on her heels and strutting around the long way, straight past the Hornby/Phillips table. Tristan sighed; he had endured enough humiliation for one week without Anthea Culverhouse walking out on him in the middle of dinner. He slid back into his chair, watching as she exchanged pleasantries with Barty, who suddenly stared at his watch in obvious panic at the mention of the MEP reception. Minutes later, Anthea and Barty left together, a flicker of a glance thrown in his direction as she passed the window.
Tristan continued to ponder his misfortune at the table - maybe he had been meant to run after her, stand in the rain as he called her name and declared undying love. But the moment had gone, Tristan cursing himself for hesitating. With a furtive glance over his shoulder, the MP fished into his wallet and fortunately had enough cash on him to make a quick exit. He hardly noticed Hornby’s watchful stare as he pulled on his suit jacket and marched from the restaurant, his stomach growling at the abrupt end to its meal.
Five minutes earlier
Outside in the parked Merc a short distance from the restaurant, the detective felt tired and bored. It had begun to drizzle, large raindrops spattering on the driver’s window and distorting his clear view as his breath steamed up the glass. Growling in exasperation, he rubbed away the condensation with his sleeve and settled himself back down. Sure, he was on excellent money for this job. For all his faults – and there were many – his client was a gem and he knew after this he wouldn’t have to take on any more sneaky little sods like him for months. He could take a break, go abroad and lap up the sun in the Med and possibly, if he felt inclined, look for a property out there. He knew that the business he was in often meant delving into the seedier side of life, and he would sometimes see things he would rather not, but he always prided himself on being a rather discreet man whom his often famous clients could trust. The long term benefits of his business outweighed any short term fame he could get, and anyway he wasn’t interested in the same things as them. Revenge and the desire for ‘inappropriate knowledge’ of others were weaknesses and would eventually be their downfall, but he didn’t care as long as he got paid at the end of the day.
The thought of the money was the only thing keeping him sane; how he was desperate to leap out of the car and dash into County Hall for a McDonalds, he was starving and all he had to eat was a packet of mints and a flask of cold coffee. It would just be his luck if he vanished from the scene even for a few minutes, by the time he came back they would be gone. He slouched down further in the driver’s seat. If only they’d bloody hurry up and eat, surely after their recent activity they would be gagging to get back for more?
The detective suddenly noticed through his binoculars the change in body language of his targets as they sat in the restaurant. One minute they were love’s not-so-young dream, the next they appeared uncomfortable with each other and their surroundings. With a grunt, the detective stuffed in a handful of mints and rubbed his eyes to wake himself up, forcing his tired eyes against the binoculars. It didn’t take long. The detective fished blindly for more mints off the dash board in his determination to suppress his hunger pains, as he had a rather strong suspicion that he would soon be on the move again. Damn it. ‘Juliet’ was leaving, but not with ‘Romeo’. This was going to be a long case.
*****
The journalist read through the transcript of the interview a second time. He would smile at the sheer audacity of his subject, but he declined the indulgence and settled for another mouthful of black coffee. The liquid was as bitter as his mood.
“The Conservative Party needs stability, purpose, drive. It’s at its best when most progressive, advocating small government and embracing freedom.”
“Does tha
t include freedom for a group of people with a common interest, say, from a particular region, to determine its own future, if that’s what they want?”
Colin Scott smirked, lounging in his office easy-chair, sporting crisp white shirt sleeves and electric blue tie. The photographer snapped away as Fergus McDermott, Political Editor of the Daily Bulletin, got the exclusive, double-page interview with the Deputy Leader which would turn all the whisperings of dissent into firm words of war. McDermott smelled blood.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Fergus, but I agree with party policy on Cornwall.”
“Yes, but is it not the case that you are in fundamental disagreement over the way your party – the way the leadership – is making such loud noises about it? You have briefed against this issue in private.” McDermott said in his strong Glaswegian brogue. He looked at the MP intently, assessing his body language. It had gone from relaxed to stiff, Scott leaning forward in his chair. He shook his head vehemently, but the journalist knew. His boss Dickenson wanted to force Scott’s hand, cause controversy, sell papers.
“I have not taken part in, nor authorised such briefings.” Scott said firmly. His eyes narrowed.
“I have heard otherwise. Anecdotal evidence, of course, but some of your colleagues are saying that your supporters are going around, having meetings behind closed doors, briefing against the party line on this Bill...”
Scott waved away his comment, the anger for which he was known beginning to show itself. McDermott smiled. The two of them had much in common.
“Look, put this in your paper, put it as the fucking headline if you like, but I did not authorise private briefings against the Tory position on the Cornwall Devolution Bill!” Scott growled through gritted teeth, smacking his fist into his palm with each word. McDermott pursed his lips, but decided to change tack.
