Party Games

by E J Greenway

  Thirty minutes and a glass of champagne later, as the guests headed wearily and drunkenly towards the exits, Jeremy had a word in the Leader’s ear.

  “I’ll talk to him tomorrow.” He muttered. “Let him know what a complete prick he’s been tonight, warn him off. Although I already fear it’s winging its way to every major newspaper courtesy of Colin and his inability not to leak everything.”

  Rodney shook his head, his fury not abating. “No, I’ll speak to him. And now.”

  Before Jeremy could hold him back, Rodney stalked over to where Colin was waiting to pick up his coat, his BlackBerry firmly in his grasp. Most people had gone, including Anthea, Rodney noticing a flash of blue exiting the cloakroom. He took Colin’s arm and swung him round, his phone almost falling.

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re playing at, but don’t you ever contradict me, or question policy like that again, especially in front of a donor – one of our most generous donors – do I make myself clear?” Rodney’s attractive face contorted in fury but he kept his voice quiet and steady.

  Colin blinked in surprise, shaking Rodney’s grip. “But you’re the one who mentioned a referendum, and I was merely saying...”

  “This is not up for debate right now! I said, do I make myself clear, Colin? Do we have an understanding?”

  Colin simply nodded, his face flushed scarlet.

  “And if I hear this whole thing has leaked, I’ll know exactly who to blame, so watch who you speak to!”

  Nothing more was said between the two men as Rodney Richmond eyed his rival with an intense distrust before heading off. Fred would be waiting.

  Colin stood for a moment, thinking. He was furious with Rodney’s outburst, talking to him like a child. But he had heeded the warning shot perfectly. He had spoken to Dickenson on the phone following the McDermott interview and had asked him to hold the Richmond/Lambert story for now. The editor had reluctantly agreed - the time wasn’t quite right, but it soon would be. The interview would be dynamite, and he relished the thought of the fall-out, he had the mind-bogglingly gullible Tristan Rivers just where he wanted him and, with the information he had so far, that private detective would be worth nearly every last penny.

  A small smile inched across his face. He turned his attention back to his BlackBerry and sent a text: Be ready. He then sent the same message again, this time to a very different recipient.

  Matthew Gaines would understand perfectly.

  *****

  Tristan left a safe distance between him and Anthea as he headed along the Strand, loosening his bow tie as he went. It would be quite a walk back to Anthea’s apartment, and although he relished the evening stroll and the crisp late autumn air in his lungs, he felt twitchy. He had no idea if Anthea would peck him on the cheek and leave him out on the step or invite him up, and the longer she spent on the phone, most likely talking to that Chief of Staff of hers, the further away a passionate embrace seemed to be.

  “Everything alright?” He asked as Anthea finally ended the call and hurried over.

  “Yes, fine.” She replied, glancing back to check they were in the clear. “Peter’s worried about an article, that’s all. I don’t think he ever switches off. Now, Mr Rivers, are you going to be a gentleman and walk me home?”

  Tristan chuckled, holding out his arm. “Why, Miss Culverhouse, I was about to offer. Sadly I don’t know where you live, I mean, why would I?”

  “Well, well.” Anthea linked her arm with his and hugged it close to her chest. He could feel the contours of her breasts through her thick coat. Clearly at a level of relaxed intoxication, she leant in, her voice becoming a low, seductive whisper. “In that case, Mr Rivers, I had better lead and you had better follow.”

  Neither mentioned the earlier argument at the restaurant and Tristan was not about to sour the moment. They talked about everything during the long walk back to Anthea’s apartment; about her family, how she had coped with her father’s sudden death, about Ben, and the more she talked the more connected to her he felt. They became so engrossed in each other’s company they took little notice of the Mercedes parked a short distance from Anthea’s building and the camera lens peering over the top of the steering wheel.

  “Tonight was all the better for seeing you there.” Tristan said softly as their walking naturally slowed. She looked coy as he stopped by her door, breathing in the cool, still air, watching her as he moved closer, her green eyes captivating him through the moonlight. He pulled her in gently by her waist. “So is it goodnight then? Or, perhaps, a...a nightcap?”

  Anthea smiled and took his hand, dragging him up the steps. He wound his arms through her coat, hugging her close against the door, before kissing her longingly, their breath warm against the night air.

  “Let’s get inside.” Anthea murmured urgently, but as they stumbled across the threshold Tristan’s mobile began to ring shrilly inside his coat pocket. Grunting he broke the embrace and grasped his phone, infuriated anyone should be calling him this late. The number was a mobile, but not one Tristan recognised. He cast Anthea a confused glance and answered coolly.

  “Tristan, it’s Fergus McDermott here, sorry to call so late, how are you?” A thick Glaswegian brogue replied jovially.

  Tristan’s stomach lurched unhappily as he followed Anthea into the hallway of her apartment building. “Err, very well thanks.” With a quick paranoid scan of the street he quietly shut the door. A journalist ringing this late – it couldn’t be for an off the record chat, a story must need beefing up.

  “Good, good. Have you time for a few questions?” Keeping his tone, and therefore the mood, light was McDermott’s speciality, as Tristan knew all too well.

  “Well, I suppose so, although I’m not so sure I know what I can help you with, Fergus.” Tristan hoped he didn’t sound concerned, these journalists seemed to train themselves to notice a mere hint of alarm – a slight elevation in the voice, talking too quickly, an all-to-speedy denial of the truth. No wonder Richmond and Jeremy Cheeser were pros at unravelling their colleagues, dissecting human nature with a ruthless efficiency. He walked slowly up the stairs towards Anthea’s apartment. She turned to him on hearing ‘Fergus’, annoyance flushing her face.

  “I’m sure you know that Martin Arnold is about to come a cropper in a well-known rag within the next few days. I just wanted a quick word to get the ex-Chief Whip’s point of view.” McDermott said, pausing. “Did he come to you when you were still Chief Whip, before his resignation? I’ve heard he may have turned up in your office a whole week before the reshuffle.”

  Tristan’s blue eyes narrowed as he lowered himself onto Anthea’s sofa and rubbed his chin. Maybe it was best to give him a little something, stop him from probing him deeper. “Yes, he did come to see me. It’s quite normal procedure for colleagues who might….have got themselves into trouble.”

  “But do you not think that Arnold should have gone straight to Richmond and told him he had been fingered by a paper rather than simply waiting for him to shuffle his team before he told him?”

  “That’s something for the individual, all I could do is accept what they say and advise them to talk to the leader.” Tristan kept his nerve, determined not to let his voice falter, but his shoulders tensed.

  “So you didn’t go to Richmond yourself straight away, or advise him to confess to him?” The journalist pushed.

  “I said he should follow his conscience.”

  “And what exactly did he tell you? The whole truth?”

  Tristan sighed and looked at the carpet. He owed Martin his silence and he at least could pride himself on his discretion with his colleagues’ personal problems while Chief, if nothing else. To him Fergus McDermott was a snake-in-the-grass, but he did realise he needed to sell papers. “He told me what I needed to know. I leave the inconsequential details to your profession. I’ve no idea what he told Rodney Richmond.”

  “Did he mention Laura Murphy to you by name?” McDermott asked calmly. “Or did
he just say he was having an affair with someone he most certainly shouldn’t?”

  Tristan was beginning to feel infuriated. If McDermott wasn’t careful he ran the risk of ruining Tristan’s evening – his third disappointing night in a row.

  “As I say, Fergus, he told me what I needed to know.”

  Yes, then. Excellent. “Ok, I’m nearly done. Did you suggest to Arnold that, from your point of view as Chief Whip, he should resign?”

  “That was a question for himself and for Rodney, not for me. He came to me to warn me that there were to be very public consequences to his private actions, not to receive a moralistic rant.” Tristan felt he was going round in circles with this idiot. Why wouldn’t he get the message?

  “Well did you...”

  “I’m sorry, Fergus, but I’m really the wrong person to talk to.” The MP suddenly sounded indignant. The conversation was turning from frosty to decidedly heated.

  “I’ll wind up, then. You say you were in no position to take the moral high ground with Arnold. What did you think when he said he was having an illicit relationship with an MP of a different party?”

  Tristan certainly didn’t like where the line of questioning was going. He felt as if he had swallowed a rock. Anthea was nowhere to be seen. Maybe she had gone into the bedroom, perhaps she was lying semi-naked on the bed, waiting in anticipation for him to come to her. His chest tightened in panic as the implications of the phone call sank in. Whatever he said would be misconstrued and twisted, there was no way out.

  “What I thought surely isn’t important to your story, Fergus. I told you, it wasn’t a judgment for me to make. It was….”

  McDermott interrupted with a well-timed cough. “Yes, but surely the integrity of the two MPs involved can be called into question?”

  “That is why Martin chose to resign.” Tristan knew he was trying to perplex him, trick him into a hypocritical comment he could throw back at him. He knows about Anthea. After only three days.

  “Thank you Mr Rivers - Tristan - I’m sure you’re desperate to get to bed so I’ll let you go. That’ll be all for now.”

  The line went dead.

  For a moment Tristan sat, his head in his hands, wondering how he was managing to get into such a God-awful mess with everything. The last thing he wanted was his conduct as Chief Whip to become linked with the Arnold fiasco, and now with Scott snapping at his heels over the leadership, his plans for the Public Accounts Committee seemed to be fading. On top of this, he had a headache. He figured Anthea had become so fed up she had gone to bed again, and he would have to either call a cab or spend a second night on her sofa. So self-absorbed was Tristan in his own burdens, for a moment he failed to catch sight of Anthea, one arm stretched up along the doorframe of her bedroom.

  “Why does my Right Honourable Friend look so sad?” She cooed. “Perhaps he should come over here and raise a point of order.”

  Tristan looked up, the breath catching in his throat at the sight of Anthea Culverhouse, the woman his leader so secretly craved, standing provocatively in the doorway, a silk dressing gown tied loosely about her body. All thoughts of McDermott and what he may or may not suspect left his mind. She smiled sexily and beckoned him over. As if being pulled by an invisible cord he followed her orders instantly, shrugging off his dinner suit jacket as he went. He stood before her and raised his hand to her face, running his thumb over her chin. Anthea allowed her gown to slip from her shoulders and fall to the floor to reveal the curves of her body, hugged in a black lace corset and stockings.

  “Wow.” Tristan murmured, his eyes raking over her. “You look stunning.”

  Anthea smiled coyly, slowly untying his bow tie with one hand and unfastening his dress shirt buttons with the other. “Oh, this thing? Got it to impress Ben but, guess what, he pissed off to Japan, so it’s sat in the drawer ever since.”

  “Well, Ben doesn’t know a good thing when he’s got it, and you – you’re the most beautiful, intelligent woman I’ve ever met.” Tristan made his move, taking her full lips between his as they collapsed against the bedroom door. Anthea pulled him in as the kiss progressed from tender to hungry; he could feel the warmth of her body through his clothing, his rapidly growing interest hard against her hip as she raked down his trousers. Tristan tried desperately not to think how Richmond would feel if he knew until he realised, perversely, such thoughts were only serving to turn him on even more. The illicit pleasure of it all. He wondered if Anthea felt the same. As she wrapped a leg around his she urged him closer, enjoying the most intense kiss he had experienced for years, since the early days of marriage, before his mouth explored her throat, her breasts. Tristan’s hands were busy, his fingers daring to investigate the lace of her underwear, her curves, her soft inner thighs. Neither wished to rush the explosion of passion to which they had been building, but as Tristan’s caressing became more intimate Anthea broke away and lead him over to the bed.

  “I thought you wanted to be wooed, chased after before this.” Tristan said breathlessly. Anthea ripped his shirt off his arms and began peppering his chest with soft, erotic kisses, pulling him down on top of her as she lay back onto the sheets.

  “Oh, I did.” She replied throatily, reaching between his legs. “But now – now, the chasing is over.”

  *****

  The journalist hopped out of his London run-around, an ageing Ford Fiesta, and eyed with suspicion the driver of a silver Mercedes who had been stealthily snapping away at the lovers as they canoodled on the doorstep. He wondered if it was one of his contacts, but he was too far away to tell. If it was another paper sniffing round he wondered if he could strike up some sort of deal, so drawing breath McDermott shoved his hands firmly inside his jacket pockets and walked cautiously and silently towards the car. The night air was still and incredibly crisp for the time of year but a fog had begun to descend and dampen the atmosphere. His breath smoked before his eyes as he watched the window slowly opening. This was his chance. The driver flicked out a cigarette stub but before he could raise the window the journalist moved swiftly and gripped the top with gloved hands. McDermott’s eyes widened in surprise as a startled private detective stared back at him, the stale smell of a McDonalds meal escaping from within the vehicle.

  “Jesus, where’d you come from?” The detective gasped in surprise, leaning backwards in the car. McDermott snorted as he leant against the window, a sardonic smile curling his lip. He saw the detective wince as the gear stick dug uncomfortably into his spine.

  “Call yourself a detective? I’ve been watching you for about an hour now. I think you’d better let me in.” McDermott said smoothly.

  The detective regained his composure and pursed his lips sourly.

  “Why should I? We’ve got no business at the moment, Fergus, and I’m on a job. I’m not your informant on this one, I’m not doing that anymore. I’m too professional.”

  McDermott skirted around the front of the Merc, glancing from side to side. Although it was central London it was eerily quiet along the street except for some distant noise pollution from the surrounding main roads. Nobody was watching him, but he was well aware Rivers might hurriedly appear from the building opposite at any moment. From the tone of Rivers’ voice on the phone, the journalist had managed to put the fear of God into him.

  Before the detective could react, McDermott had flung the passenger door open and thrown himself into the seat, slamming it shut behind him. The detective groaned as litter from his meal scattered over the floor.

  “I was right, you are a crap detective, you could at least learn to lock your doors if you’re going to act tough and play hard to get.” McDermott glanced up at Anthea’s window but the thick curtains were drawn and no movement was visible. No sign of Rivers yet. He held out his hand. “Now, you can kill your radio contact with that black van in the next street for a start.”

  Sighing heavily, the detective pulled out an earpiece and dropped it begrudgingly into McDermott’s gloved palm. “
Look, I’m not interested, I can’t afford to trade with your damn paper anymore! I’m being paid enough for this one so I really don’t need you.” The detective said indignantly.

  “Come on, mate, we’ve worked together before.” McDermott felt the need to at least try the nice option first, heavy-handedness wasn’t a style he liked to use. “I know what’s going on here, you’re watching Anthea Culverhouse’s apartment because she’s having it away with a still-very-married Tristan Rivers on a regular basis and you’re working for the rag which is going to splash on it. Am I right?”

  The detective sniffed and tapped his steering wheel nervously. “Actually, yes. Well done. Although if you think you know it all then what d’you want from me?”

  McDermott buried his hand in a bag of boiled sweets on the dashboard, much to the detective’s obvious irritation. Calmly he unwrapped one and popped it into his mouth, sucking on it thoughtfully.

  “Ok, if you don’t tell me who your client is then it’s doubtful I will get my story out before they do, and if I don’t have anything to run with then I’ll have to indulge my disappointment by writing something else.” He glanced out the car window and crunched on his sweet. Still nothing. “My editor would love to know your name, I’m sure, as would Anthea Culverhouse and Tristan Rivers. They could wipe the floor with you, what you’re doing is illegal. Won’t be long before you’re phone hacking, I bet. I can, however, protect you if you tell me where your evidence is. I won’t breathe a word about you, but if you don’t, well – there’s not a lot I can do for you.”

  “Do you enjoy being the scum of the earth?” The detective’s tone was half mocking, half sincere. McDermott didn’t care, the man’s opinion hardly mattered.