Party Games

by E J Greenway

  The rest of the day was spent in his home gym, attempting to keep his 48 year old body fit. Anthea had hinted how much she liked a man who took care of himself and although he hoped he wouldn’t disappoint, he needed to keep up his standards. Stepping onto the running machine, he fixed the controls to a steady jog. He had put off seriously thinking about his political future so as he began to find a good jogging rhythm, the balls of his feet padding lightly on the moving belt, his breathing steadied as he focussed his mind.

  Sunday

  The Martin Arnold story was well and truly out in the open. Tristan barely felt like dragging himself away from cold toast while slouching in his boxers in front of Sky News. He hadn’t even been swimming. It wasn’t like him at all.

  The Sunday Times had been delivered as usual, with one article in particular catching his eye:

  Power struggle at the heart of the Tories: 16 months on, the Conservatives are still reeling after their election routing. Can Richmond ever heal the wounds, or do they run too deep?

  Tristan would save that article for later, happy to note that he wasn’t mentioned. Right now he needed to force himself to get some fresh air – and a copy of the Sunday Engager. He had wallowed in his own self-pity for long enough.

  “Morning, Mr Rivers.” The newsagent smiled, raising a hand in greeting as Tristan, bleary-eyed and in his shirt from the day before, tried to enter his local shop unnoticed.

  He nodded. “Yes, good morning Bob, and how has your week been?” He put on his usual pleasantries but he hardly cared for the reply, it was always the same anyway. His eyes had already wandered from Bob to the spread of Sunday newspapers.

  “Oh, so-so. That group of school kids was in again, trying to nick half of the chocolate bars in the place. I threatened to call the police again and they soon scarpered. I only let two in at a time, as you know, but I shouldn’t have to. Sorry to hear what happened with your job, d’you think you’ll get another one?” Bob paused as he watched his MP scratch his forehead, obviously not listening. Bob frowned. “Didn’t you get your usual delivery this morning, sir?”

  Tristan had spotted the garish reds of the Engager, the headline bold and to the point:

  TORY’S COMMONS ROMPS WITH LABOUR MP

  “Err, yes I did, I just wanted some additional papers.” Tristan replied, furtively snatching up a copy of the Sunday Engager and holding it close to his chest as if it were a top-shelf magazine. As he hurriedly paid, one elderly lady caught his eye and smiled at him broadly. Damnit, the woman had headed straight for him and began chattering away.

  “…..oh and they play their music so loud, all night sometimes, Stan and I can hardly hear ourselves think let alone get a good night’s sleep! They leave rubbish in our garden like it was the local tip and the children are so rude, Mr Rivers, they should the most awful things and that dog scares my Milly half to death!” The diminutive lady held onto his arm and looked up at him pleadingly from behind thick lenses. “What are you going to do about it? Do I need an Anti-Social Behaviour whatsit?”

  Other people had stopped to stare, as if they were all waiting for their MP to come up with some amazing solution to the old woman’s problem.

  “The best thing, Mrs..?”

  “Corkhill, Betty Corkhill.”

  Tristan tried to produce his best smile but he was certain it had come out as a grimace. “The best thing, Mrs Corkhill, is to speak to your local councillor or write to me with the details...”

  “Oh can’t do that, my fingers are arthritic and my husband’s nearly blind.” Mrs Corkhill shook her frail head as if he had asked her to play the have-a-go hero with her noisy neighbours. Tristan kept his cool; how he hated it when constituents accosted him when he was going about his own, private business. Didn’t they realise he needed some time off from their woes, especially on a Sunday?

  “Ok, you can either make a surgery appointment or if you give me your phone number I can ask my caseworker to give you a call next week.”

  The woman mumbled something inaudible but generally seemed placated. Tristan waited patiently as she shakily wrote her name and number down on the side of his Engager; if she noticed the headline she didn’t comment. Maybe, Tristan thought cynically, people were now immune to such scandal clogging up their papers it barely registered.

  After a joking “Not you, this Tory, is it sir?” remark from Bob, Tristan saw his chance to break free and hurried out to his car, climbing in and slamming the door firmly. Anthea still hadn’t called, but he hadn’t really expected her to. No doubt she had her nose buried in her own newspapers. He folded out the Engager on the passenger seat and took stock of the headline before delving into the text of the article:

  ‘Westminster was rocked last night after it was revealed top Tory MP and former Shadow Environment Secretary Martin Arnold has been having a secret year-long affair with Labour backbench MP Laura Murphy. The two first became friendly while on the All-Party Badminton Group, only weeks after the general election.

  Mr Arnold, married for ten years to top businesswoman Sarah Mortimer, has two children while his lover Laura Murphy is engaged to her long term partner and has a teenage son from a previous relationship. Neither Mr Arnold nor Ms Murphy were available for comment last night, although friends of Mr Arnold says he is “working it out” with his wife and the two have “no plans to separate”.

  Mr Arnold surprised his party when he resigned last week but rumour soon replaced confusion after it was revealed he had had a secret meeting with the then Opposition Chief Whip Tristan Rivers…’

  Quickly Tristan flipped the page, his heart in his mouth.

  ‘….a whole week before his departure during which Mr Arnold told him about his illicit relationship. Tory Party leader Rodney Richmond issued a statement to us last night saying Mr Arnold “did the right thing” in resigning, while his local association has given their MP their “full backing”. Ms Murphy’s local association declined to comment which may spell bad news for one of the Government’s potential high-flyers.

  It is alleged that Ms Murphy swiftly broke off their relationship once she had heard it was to become public knowledge, although one close friend said she had been “devastated”. “At first it was a bit of harmless flirting but then it developed into something more serious.” The source said last night. “In the end she thought she was in love with Martin, they had grown very close despite their political differences. It will take her a long time to get over it and now she is worried her career is done for.”’

  The story went on for pages, interspersed with detailed descriptions of locations where the physical aspect of their relationship had allegedly taken place and photographs of the cheated partners in happier times. Although Tristan was firmly heterosexual he could tell that Laura’s fiancé was better looking than Martin and he wondered what is was with women, maybe they were simply less shallow than men. It made him think of Anthea; by any woman’s standards she should be with Rodney and not him.

  He scanned the other pages –there were many. The paper would be pretty pissed off Arnold had gone from the front bench before they could force him out, kicking and screaming, after a painful day or two of “wrestling with his conscience”. Nevertheless, the paper would do an excellent circulation this Sunday and cause Richmond some added short-term discomfort. Somehow Tristan knew full well more was to come, no paper worth its salt would spill everything in one edition.

  Grunting, Tristan turned on the engine. He couldn’t help wondering what the papers would make of him and Anthea. He pulled away from the kerb and was half way down the street before he realised. He had forgotten to buy the bloody milk.

  Nine

  Sunday night

  Sundays weren’t often all that busy at the Conservative Central Headquarters Press Unit. This Sunday, however, Clare had felt as if Martin Arnold existed only to cause her agro. At 28 she was already at the top of her field in the party, having recently been promoted from senior press officer in the leader’s m
edia support to Rodney’s Press Secretary, much to Deborah’s consternation. She was too inexperienced, Deborah had argued with Rodney. Yet here she now was, heading up the media onslaught during the small hours of Sunday morning. She had assistants who dutifully shared the load but it remained relentless throughout the day as they fielded calls.

  “Mr Richmond issued a statement on behalf of himself and the party and he has no more to add.” Clare found herself repeating over and over, until she became sick to death of the sound of her own voice yelling over the top of News 24. There was only so much Clare could take of the image of Martin Arnold pushing his way through scrambling paparazzi on his way home from church with his family – a good, moral Christian politician who had the misfortune to be seduced by a socialist temptress. The Party Chairman had even dashed back to London for a whirlwind media round to try to contain the fall-out.

  By 5pm, after being at her desk for a record twelve hours, Clare had been ready to drop, but already it was getting far too late to ensure pre-reporting of Rodney’s big education speech into the Monday papers. She had endured a rather strained conversation with Fergus McDermott after attempting but strangely failing to contact the Bulletin’s education correspondent.

  “But will you commit to a front page leader?” Clare asked him, rather cheekily. Well, she was tired and didn’t care what he thought. McDermott replied smoothly he would try his very best to get Rodney Richmond on the front page the following morning – as long as she would commit her boss to the long-overdue interview for the Bulletin.

  “We try to be as impartial as possible, get Rodney’s side of the story.” McDermott said slickly.

  Clare agreed before heading home. Although in constant touch with Rodney, Martin Arnold would have to literally commit suicide to get her back into the office again before her Monday began.

  Monday, 4.45am

  Clare shivered as she stepped out of Westminster station, sleepy and desperate for her warm bed and the boyfriend she had left snoring into her pillow. How she hated the early start, especially when she had worked most of Sunday.

  It was 5.02am precisely when she walked through the glass doors of the media unit, a travel mug warming her fingers, her mobile in the other, trying to upload the Bulletin website. She knew something was up instantly. Sashaying into her office, just off the open-plan floor where her press officers worked, she dumped her bag and flicked on her computer, scanning her desk for the row of early editions. The essential papers all seemed to be there: The Times, The Guardian, The Telegraph, Morning Engager…. Clare huffed, scraping her hair back into a bobble as her stomach began to grumble. Expensive yet only semi-filling breakfast bars had an awful lot to answer for.

  “Anyone seen the Bulletin this morning?” She called across the office, appearing at the doorway.

  “It’s over here, but you need to brace yourself.” A colleague said, holding up the paper’s front page.

  Clare peeled a banana. “Oh God, Martin Arnold’s not into taking pictures of himself in fishnets then carelessly letting them fall into the wrong hands or something is he...oh holy...fucking...crap.”

  Her banana fell out of her hand, splattering on the floor. She felt as if she had been winded with a heavy blow to the stomach. The headline might have been in the simplest of language but it took her mind a few seconds to process it. Any tiredness she suffered fell away, replaced with an adrenalin-induced sickness and overwhelming feeling of sheer panic.

  RICHMOND’S EX-LOVER SPEAKS OUT

  Jenny Lambert, Rodney Richmond’s former girlfriend, breaks her silence over Tory Party Leader’s ‘hypocrisy’ and secret love for another woman which broke her heart.

  “Give that to me!” Clare demanded, storming over and snatching the paper. It was as if her hands couldn’t move as quickly as her brain while she fumbled with the pages, her fingers trembling through a mixture of fury, confusion and alarm. It went on for pages, like the Arnold saga but as far as Clare was concerned a million times worse. “Fergus McDermott, that complete and utter....! How long have people known about this? Eh? Someone answer me!”

  “For about an hour.” A colleague explained. “We honestly didn’t know about it earlier, the Bulletin didn’t seem to want us to know what it had planned, they wanted to catch us completely unawares…”

  Clare didn’t care for excuses, nothing would satisfy. “As soon as you knew about it I should have been called!”

  “But you were so tired, and we didn’t think…”

  “Didn’t think? God, I’m working with a load of idiots with shit for brains! Why didn’t I know about this in advance? I got nothing from McDermott about this, no warning! Bloody bastard!” Rodney’s speech was shot to pieces as far as coverage went; the spread was a kiss-and-tell ‘I’ve-been-badly-done-to’ stunt from that woman Clare had heard so much about; she should have seen it coming a mile off. She didn’t know who she hated more – the Lambert woman for talking or that fucking journalist for his deviousness and incredible timing.

  Jenny Lambert was attractive and looked wonderfully leggy and slim on page two, her expression suitably defiant next to a double-paged headline: “’He slagged off everyone to me in bed, then put them in the Shadow Cabinet’”. Each spread was dedicated to a different angle on the story with a string of alleged quotes from Rodney, straight out of Lambert’s mouth. The worst ‘insults’ were reserved for Colin Scott and Steven Sharkey.

  Gritting her teeth, she slowly sank into the nearest chair, gripping the paper as she read. Rodney would need to respond; first, however, she resolved she would have to read all of it. There was little point waking up her boss in a blind panic with only half the information, someone would have to keep a cool, calm head and Clare doubted it would be him. It was a ‘code red’ - she would need to telephone Deborah first then get in contact with the Director of Communications.

  Jenny Lambert, daughter of newspaper editor Rosie Lambert and business tycoon Stanley Lambert, speaks out for the first time about her life with the man who hopes to be Prime Minister in three years time. Miss Lambert was Rodney Richmond’s lover for ten eventful months - while he was Parliamentary Private Secretary to former Prime Minister Felix Jeffers, through the general election and the subsequent leadership election. Their relationship ended in bitter circumstances only days after his elevation to the Tory Party leadership.

  Here, in part one of her first in-depth interview, the glamorous Miss Lambert speaks frankly about how Mr Richmond would shout and rant about his colleagues to her in private then invite them round for dinner to court their vote for the impending leadership ballot. “He would come in complaining about everyone, then go out and give them jobs in his campaign team. It was so hypocritical, it made me sick.” Miss Lambert says. Today, however, “[Richmond] can’t bear half his Shadow Cabinet...the likes of Gregory Webster and Alex Crossley are tolerated, but as for Barty Phillips I doubt his opinion of the man has changed much in the year since we broke up.”

  She recalls the time when Barty Phillips, now Shadow Education Secretary, told Mr Richmond he was unsure whether to back him or his rival, Colin Scott, in the leadership election. “Rodney simply dismissed him as a ‘total idiot’ and said Barty was only a contender for the Shadow Cabinet because he might be gay and would help him with the ‘rainbow’ vote come a general election. It does make you wonder what deals get done if people Rodney thought, or should I say thinks, are useless end up in prominent Shadow Cabinet positions.”

  Mr Richmond was, Miss Lambert points out, rather an insecure man at the time of his election as leader and even thought of giving up in the early stages of his campaign. “At first he wasn’t quite sure he was the best man for the job, but he had so much support he didn’t want to let everyone down. Eventually he focused himself on being the candidate who could best keep out Colin Scott, a ‘disaster waiting to happen’. Once he told me he thought Scott to be quite unstable in outlook and temperament and was incredibly pompous and self-assured. The party, in Rodney
’s view, was now relying on him alone to bring it to its senses.”

  Other colleagues of Mr Richmond’s were also often the subject of his annoyance. The week following the Tory routing, Miss Lambert admits he was so concerned an “intellectual bully” like Steven Sharkey would stand for the leadership he was set to do a deal with him in case the vote was split. “Rodney was desperate to make post-leadership arrangements with Steven. He said a Sharkey-led Tory Party would face oblivion again in four years’ time because he had no idea about conciliatory politics and most people hated him. Rodney said Steven liked nothing better than to verbally beat a person to a pulp in an argument and he couldn’t serve under a man with that sort of attitude.”

  There was, however, one colleague Miss Lambert says Mr Richmond never talked about it derogatory terms. In part two of the interview, to be serialised tomorrow, Miss Lambert talks publicly about her love for the Tory leader - a private man whose personal life has been the subject of much speculation. She speaks frankly about how she fell for a politician who went from doting boyfriend to cold and unloving in just ten months, why she thinks their romance ended and the secret love Richmond has been harbouring for years.

  *****

  5am

  Rodney lay still, wide awake, blinking into the darkness of his London bedroom, the thick curtains pulled tightly across the window and a jumble of thoughts racing through his brain. He had been awake for hours. Something told him today would be a momentous day and he put his mild anxiety down to the education speech. Always the perfectionist, he was far more nervous than he would show. He sometimes felt physically sick – his dash to the toilet just before his last Party Conference speech had been far from a bladder-emptying exercise, but after a mint and a quick re-touching of his ‘television’ make-up nobody was the wiser.