by E J Greenway
“Anthea, wait. Please.” An hour later and the meeting was over. It was late and Anthea was heavily distracted but Rodney’s voice was begging. “A final birthday drink?”
Anthea paused by the door, her back to her leader, and briefly closed her eyes. It had been a long and stressful day but she knew she couldn’t simply go home, go to bed then sleep like a baby until morning. She had much work ahead that night and any personal thoughts would play on her mind after the light went out and not before. She was determined. She agreed to stay, just the two of them, but she saw in his dark eyes a hidden melancholy.
Glancing away Rodney topped up her wine. “What a birthday.” He laughed softly, handing her the glass. Overreaching, her fingers lightly brushed against his, and for a moment they lingered.
Anthea was first to pull away, nodding at his comment. “Not the best, I’m sure. I doubt you have anything to worry about, though. Not now.”
Rodney studied her for a moment, his hand closed around the wine bottle.
“You didn’t say that in the meeting. In fact, you didn’t say much at all. Was my interview that good? You think it might have scared Colin off?”
“Well, it was a direct enough challenge, Rodney.” Anthea shrugged. She had agonised over whether to tell him but she was concerned it could pressurise further their already fragile friendship. She wasn’t sure he would see, or would want to see, that she had no option over McDermott, and may even say she was choosing to protect Tristan over him. It was best left as ‘need to know’ that she had managed to save herself, and Rodney’s leadership, from further humiliation, for now at least.
The wine suddenly felt heavy on her throat, a thick layer around her tonsils. She watched her leader pace the office until he finally sat down and loosened his tie. His handsome face was lined with worry.
“It’s hard, though, to know what Colin will do next. Things are never simple.” Anthea allowed her gaze to drift around the impersonal décor of the leader’s office. She wasn’t used to the place being so quiet, it had been a long time since her and Rodney were alone together at night. Even Deborah, known for her long hours and obsession with her job, had finally had enough and gone home, although if the rumours were true, it may not necessarily have been alone.
“He’s going to be his own destruction if somebody doesn’t tell him to stop before you have to sack him. He’s doing you no good.” She continued.
Rodney frowned. “Well I know that, but it’s not as easy as just ordering him to go, is it? It’s the classic keeping your friends close and all that. At least while he’s deputy I would like to think he’s not as out of control as he might be.”
You can’t get much more out of control than blackmail. Anthea lowered her eyes, unable to resist a knowing twitch of the mouth.
“He’s been briefing against me again today, after our meeting. God, Anthea, it was terrible. You should have seen his face, it was as if the small bit of humanity left in him had been sucked out and I knew I couldn’t reason with him. He challenged me to sack him, or promote him in another reshuffle, would you believe! No, if I sack him he becomes a martyr to all those loonies out there who want to replace me.” The Leader cast a glance at his work pile for that evening. Rodney had vowed at the beginning of his leadership to be very ‘hands on’, but in practice it was extremely time-consuming.
“D’you know what else he said?” He began to idly spin a pen on the table. Anthea began to recall privately how this had once felt, to be in each other’s company with a glass of something red and that familiar ripple of tension. “He told a bunch of press gallery journos that he and I could never agree on public policy and that our current spending predictions didn’t tally with his own figures, and he should know because he’s got better qualifications than Heidi!”
Anthea sniffed out a laugh. “He just spouts crap. It’s not as if he put forward some radical agenda during the leadership campaign, so who knows where this stuff has come from. Matthew Gaines will be encouraging all this spin, he only listens to him, apparently.”
“I think it’s a case of I say black so he says white.” Rodney’s jaw tensed in annoyance.
“If the Government loses tomorrow’s vote then you’re in a strong position to get rid of him quickly.” Anthea said. “We can claim this wonderful victory and so in reasserting your authority you can act against those trying to weaken you.”
“And if we don’t win, I can ask for his resignation because he has derailed us over an issue which we should have won.”
“Exactly.” Anthea arched an eyebrow slyly. The sanctimonious bastard would deserve everything Rodney could throw at him. “Just tell me something, though, Rodney. Have you been considering a vote of confidence?”
Rodney chuckled. “Well that would be great, if the Prime Minister wants to put himself on the line over the issue…”
“No, you know what I’m referring to. Jeremy hinted you might go that far – a ‘back me or sack me’ issue, something to force Colin’s hand in a way no interview could. It’s not just him who’s been saying it, the rumour’s rife on the backbenches, as I’m sure Robert has told you.”
“You’re doing that thing again.” Rodney said softly, watching her. Anthea jolted, puzzled, then realised she was absent-mindedly curling her finger in her hair. She felt her cheeks flush, annoyed he could throw her so easily.
“I miss our little conversations.” Rodney smiled wistfully. “After everything that has happened lately, what with Jenny’s interview, Cornish devolution and Jack Fisher, Martin Arnold’s disappearing act, all this with Colin…I’m just glad you’re here.”
Was that all he was prepared to say? Anthea drew in breath. He was deliberately avoiding her question and it worried her. An awkward pause could only last so long for such busy people.
Rodney sighed. “It’s just that Colin, well, indicated something at our meeting. It was as if he knew something, his ace card in all of this. He mentioned you, asked whether I could definitely count on you to support me if it came to the crunch. At first I thought he was just stirring trouble, but then I thought about just how badly I’d treated you over Cornwall, and just how right you had been to be angry with me…”
“Rodney, I would never…”
“Let me finish. Please. Anthea, I know. I know about Tristan, in fact I think the whole of bloody Westminster knows, but Jeremy assures me that you are most certainly on side and not about to switch to backing Colin…”
“What? Jeremy told you that, he told you about Tristan?”
“Of course he did, it’s his job as Party Chairman - as a colleague and friend - to tell me what’s going on. Robert Williams is a bloody good PPS and can sniff out dirt a mile away.”
Anthea knew he was carefully wording his sentences, to encourage her to slip up, needing an admission from her own lips which she couldn’t retract. Placing the glass down on the coffee table with a clatter, Anthea rose to her feet.
“I am certainly not about to back any stalking horse against your leadership, nor would I then support Colin Scott in his crazed despotism! I’ll always be loyal to you Rodney, but right now you’re stretching our friendship to its limits, and I’m sorry, but Tristan and I are not dirt for Robert to sniff out! I’ve got a bill to fight tomorrow and a vote to win so I’m afraid I’ve got to…”
“Please, Anthea. Don’t ever betray me, I couldn’t...couldn’t bear it.” Rodney uttered, averting his eyes. “I’d have everyone else – Jeremy, Heidi, Steven, the lot – turn against me, rather than have you doubt me for one minute. I care too much about...our friendship, to have politics destroy it.”
Anthea’s heart raced but she knew she had to hold her nerve. This was far more difficult than her conversation with the horrendous McDermott, learning from him that Tristan was a liar and a cheat.
“I’m sorry – I know you’re under strain, immense strain. But please, please know that I would never, ever cave into pressure from Colin, or anyone else, to be disloyal to you. I bel
ieve in you, you’re my best friend, and always will be. You do believe me?” Anthea searched his face for clues. Eventually he looked up, but she couldn’t tell for sure whether it was a trick of the light or whether those were indeed tears in his eyes.
“Yes, of course. Thank you.” Rodney managed. A moment passed – a moment both knew was far too poignant not to cherish – before he cleared his throat and rubbed his face. “Well anyway, a leader’s work is never done, so I’d best get on.” He busied himself with Barty’s first attempt at an education policy, running his hand through his perfectly sculpted crop. “Oh for God’s sake, no bloody summary. I haven’t got time to read this whole tome, does nobody in Barty’s office know how to do a simple outline?”
Anthea knew he was playing the politician, closing ranks on her, his smiles and small-talk no more than a transparent mask. She continued to stand by the door, her mind drifting, while Rodney sat and ‘read’.
“Anyway, tomorrow...what will be, will be, and if I don’t get through all this tonight I’ll have to face Deborah’s wrath, so if you don’t mind.” Rodney said dismissively, his head down.
There was nothing left to say to prevent confusion and hurt. He appeared to be resolutely refusing to again bring up the issue of Tristan, and although she couldn’t blame him, she couldn’t compete against that obstinate streak which she both loved and hated equally. With a quiet “goodnight” she opened the door, but stopped on hearing Rodney’s voice again.
“Anthea.” He said gently. “Good luck for tomorrow.”
“Thank you. You too.” A longing began to surface but she put it down to a tired susceptibility. She was nearly gone when he spoke again, quite unexpectedly. She had never felt such tingles up her spine. Jeremy hadn’t told him everything.
“Tristan’s a very lucky man. I’d say he doesn’t deserve you…and I’d be right. If he breaks your heart...”
You’re too late, Anthea thought. Then, when it was obvious her leader couldn’t bring himself to continue and she heard a pen scribbling on paper, she closed the door behind her.
Eighteen
Wednesday
Tristan had been up since 3am. He had done a full workout, been out for a jog by 5am to avoid the journalists which had been badgering him for days over his leadership intentions, and was now soaking in a hot bath. How he wished he could go back in time. The whole thing was his fault and the guilt gnawed away at him. Guilt about his past, guilt over his treatment of Anthea and his lies, guilt about Colin and the whole sorry mess he had caused Richmond. Still, he couldn’t help but feel the leader had to shoulder some of the blame. If he hadn’t sacked him, had given him another chance, then he wouldn’t have ended up at Anthea’s in the pouring rain that night.
Twenty minutes later, and feeling refreshed, Tristan ate an early breakfast as he waited for the day’s papers to land on his doorstep. He was sure there would be the usual continuing speculation over his intentions, and what Colin’s next move might be. A mysterious, late-night call from Jeremy Cheeser had left him confused, but at least he could finally feel some sense of relief.
“You were right to go along with Colin.” The Party Chairman had said in his lightly accented voice. Tristan had only made an ambiguous noise in response. “It’s all been dealt with.”
“Dealt with?” Tristan parroted, dumping a pile of constituency correspondence on his kitchen table. He had been working late, it was easier to give himself something to do than simply sit and wait for a return call from Anthea he guessed would never come. “How d’you mean?”
“Forget all this stalking horse nonsense, Tristan.” Jeremy said firmly. “You’re off the hook.”
“But how..?”
Jeremy sighed. “I can’t exactly say. It’s not my place, the whole thing is a bit…sensitive.”
“Have you spoken to Anthea?” It was easier for Tristan to simply spout questions as they formed in his mind; being told that suddenly everything was fine wasn’t nearly enough explanation. “Colin had spoken to McDermott, I’m convinced of it, and I tried to warn Anthea, but she didn’t return my call…”
“Tristan, please.” Jeremy’s usually reassuring Lancashire inflection had turned rather terse, the politeness for which he was known deeply buried under recent pressures. “Yes I have spoken to Anthea, but as I say I can’t tell you the nature of our conversation, you’ll have to speak to her yourself. As for Rodney, you’re lucky I’ve not told him all the details about what went on with Colin.”
Tristan knew Jeremy had sacrificed an awful lot, compromising himself, to protect their leader from the truth. It was simpler if he could deal with a little ‘local difficulty’ without any interference from the Leaders Office and Jeremy obviously hadn’t wished to burden Rodney with even more problems. The good of the party had come before friendship and Tristan had to admire his professionalism, but he couldn’t help think Rodney was being subjected to a mollycoddling he had not asked for.
The call had ended on a rather sour note, with Jeremy requesting that Tristan confirm with Colin that he would not be standing and to draw a line firmly under the issue. Failure to do so could see himself facing a public flogging, such was the desire for blood from a disillusioned party membership sick with disloyal behaviour. His secrets would be safe with the Party Chairman, but for Rodney and Anthea’s sake, not Tristan’s. Somehow Tristan found Jeremy’s veiled threat far more concerning than any venomous intimidation from Colin. Jeremy carried weight in Richmond’s modern Conservative Party, whereas Colin Scott did not.
Now, in the cold light of a chilly November morning, things seemed a little clearer. Scooping up the collection of papers from his doormat, a surreptitious glance up the street as he retreated back behind the front door, Tristan noticed the Bulletin’s headline first: ‘CORNISH VOTE: LABOUR MELTDOWN’.
Sighing, and pondering what might have been had he still been Chief, Tristan turned on the television in time to catch Anthea’s pre-vote interview on BBC Breakfast News. She looked cool, confident, unflustered – and beautiful. She also gave no indication that she was about to switch to backing Colin.
A flick through the papers, and a ‘Britain’s 50 sexiest men’ poll put Richmond at number eight. He frowned, reading on through the myriad of articles and gossip, editorial support for Colin as thin as he expected. It was a double-paged spread on page 4 and 5 of the Bulletin which caused Tristan to raise his eyebrows in astonishment, then to laugh out loud. He considered it poetic justice. Colin would be apoplectic. After a cursory browse through the blogosphere, Tristan dreaded to think what David Fryer, and therefore Colin, had done to upset Patrick Hornby so suddenly. Sometimes – just sometimes – the Westminster Whisperer would make him smile, and he couldn’t help but read the article again and wonder.
Perhaps today wasn’t going to be so bad, after all.
*****
“Colin Scott, Tory Deputy Leader and potential leadership challenger to Rodney Richmond, enjoyed kinky bondage sessions with Mr Richmond’s former lover and tabloid editor Rosie Lambert. Their liaisons took place three years before Mrs Lambert, then Spencer, married publishing tycoon Stanley Lambert. The pair dated nearly 18 years ago after meeting at a party, fifteen years before Mrs Lambert’s now publicised flings with the Tory Leader. Mr Scott was a young, ambitious Tory candidate and Mrs Lambert a glamorous journalist on her rise to the top when they began to date, and soon indulged in what has been described by Jenny Lambert as her mother’s desire for ‘slap and tickle’. ‘I found a box of items under my mother’s bed when they were dating. He would stay over most nights, and sometimes I would hear them. My mother liked S&M-style sessions with her boyfriends, and I know Colin [Scott] was no exception.’”
6am
Colin had rung up his assistant Lawrence to order him to come into work.
“To find us coffee, of course! There’ll be four of us, and make sure it’s bloody strong!” Colin had yelled as he heard his Parliamentary Assistant Lawrence crash into something hard th
en grumble in pain. He didn’t care if Lawrence broke every bone in his body to get to a coffee shop open that early, he needed hot caffeine in his system.
An hour later, at Portcullis House, an emergency meeting was in progress.
“The fucker! The absolute turn-coat fucker!”
“It’s not that bad.” Matthew Gaines commented, his eyes lowered at the Bulletin. Colin was pacing, gulping coffee and staring at his colleague, awaiting a better response, a solution, but he knew Matthew would avoid eye contact. He had flushed pink and looked uneasy.
“Not that bad? It’s...Jesus, Dickenson’s screwed up everything! My article on taxation is nowhere to be bloody seen, instead it’s...well, it’s that!” Colin gestured at the paper in Matthew’s grasp in disgust, the sense of betrayal coursing through him. “I should’ve known Jenny wouldn’t stop at Richmond, the scheming bitch! And where the hell did they get that photo of me from ages ago, I look awful!”
“Oh, come on Col, it makes you seem a bit more...human. It won’t do you any harm, it wasn’t anything illegal.” Fryer laughed as Colin glared. “I mean, y’know, it was only handcuffs, and a...” He scanned the article over Matthew’s shoulder. “...feather whip, a bit of leather, and – what is a ‘doggie strap’...?”
Colin snatched the Bulletin from Matthew and folded it roughly, but he saw Fryer stifle a further laugh.
“Never mind the details, what am I going to do?” Colin fumed. He hardly cared that Matthew was now crimson with embarrassment, as if it were him having his most intimate moments splashed and trashed like some cheap whore celebrity.
“Well, the devil is often in the detail. You could deny it, or leave it. Can you deny it? Any of it?” Matthew asked him, scanning The Times while still evading Colin’s stare.
