by E J Greenway
“Oh dear, a bit tetchy this afternoon Anthea?” Fryer sneered, drawing himself up to his full height. Only the width of his tray stood between them. “Worried about a Government win?”
Anthea kept her composure, and her voice low. “No actually, I’m looking forward to fighting a battle we really can win for once, although it’s no thanks to you. If anyone should be tetchy, surely it should be you after what I read this morning on a certain blog. Your Association Chairman indeed, dear me! Does that poor wife of yours know what an utter bastard she married?”
“That’s slander, I should have you for that!” Fryer’s salacious smile fell as Anthea raised her eyebrows incredulously.
“Sorry David I’ve got better things to be doing right now than chat to you, lovely as it is.” She sighed, glancing at his plate then his portly stomach. “Anyway you’d better eat that before it goes cold, we wouldn’t want you wasting away now would we? You’ll need all that strength of yours to twist all those arms into supporting Colin.”
Fryer opened his mouth to utter a retort, but Robert Williams was staring at him accusingly from a distance. All she needed now was Colin Scott to strut in like some mob boss demanding respect. Without wanting to get stuck in the middle of a tea room turf war between the two men Anthea hurried away before she could be engaged in any further conversation.
Nineteen
3.15pm
Ian Harvey was finally winding up his opening speech after thirty five minutes, buoyed by a large number of loyal Labour MPs gathered together by their whips for solidarity – and the cameras. The packed Conservative benches jeered and shouted “what about the cost?” while Anthea had never felt more nervous in her life.
“He’s had it. He’s not convinced them, just look at their faces.” Her team colleague muttered to her on the front bench, eyeing the Government rows. Anthea nodded, carefully observing the rebels. Jack Fisher looked cool as he thumbed through his own notes, quite obviously determined to have his say. Anthea was so distracted she failed to notice one particular backbench MP slip into the Chamber and take up a seat behind her, two rows from the back. Tory heads turned when the Opposition Leader made an unexpected appearance from behind the Speaker’s chair, Robert Williams sweeping in behind him like a close protection officer ready to jump in front of any stray verbal bullets which might head Rodney’s way. A murmur of interest swept over the Government benches and a frown appeared fleetingly across Harvey’s brow, his words slowing.
“How come you’re here?” Anthea whispered, leaning in as Rodney slid next to her. She was pleased, of course, to have the leader there, to highlight just how seriously he was taking the issue, but it increased the pressure she felt under, both politically and personally. Last night was still very much fresh in her mind.
“I decided this was more important than a strategy meeting, although Deborah’s already bursting a blood vessel.” He murmured. “Thanks for our little chat last night, it meant a lot…”
“…it is also the first step towards Cornish self-determination and will be the flagship of regionalisation in England – this is why I call on the support of Honourable and Right Honourable Members in the lobbies today and I commend this Bill to the House!”
An over-enthusiastic roar reverberated around the Chamber from the steadfast loyalists on the Government benches as Harvey fell back onto the bench. Anthea’s heart leapt in her chest. Arms folded defensively, the band of hard-line rebels appeared to be trying to strike Harvey down with glares of disapproval and up in the Press Gallery sketch writers were busy putting their pens to paper in absolute glee at the impending carnage below. Harvey’s briefest of glances towards his ministerial team said it all.
“Anthea Culverhouse!”
“Good luck.” Rodney smiled, catching Anthea’s eye for the first time, but in the next second she was on her feet.
“Thank you, Mr Speaker, and thank you to the Right Honourable gentleman the Secretary of State for an advanced copy of his speech…”
Minutes later, Anthea noticed, out of the corner of her eye, one of her own colleagues rise to their feet to intervene on her speech. Turning she opened her mouth to grant the intervention, but the words temporarily left her. They hadn’t spoken since that horrible night by the Thames and for a second Anthea let her emotions get the better of her. She may very well have headed off McDermott and his threats to publish their relationship, but his words and the new revelations about Tristan ran deep. He was still married. Their intense affair, however brief, had been built on lies from the start.
“Err, I…I give way to my Right Honourable Friend.” She muttered, indicating to Tristan. She dared not chance a look at him, nor Rodney, as ‘stalking horse!’ was shouted in Tristan’s direction, a neighing noise erupting, before a sharp reprimand from the Speaker cut the noise to a rumble.
Tristan shrugged off the insults with a smile. “I thank my Honourable Friend for giving way, I will be brief. I know she has already spoken of the soaring costs for a Cornish assembly, so does she agree with me, and my Honourable Friend the Member for Devon North, that public money could be better spent on more housing for the South West rather than on one, grossly expensive building?”
Back on her feet, Anthea leant on the despatch box and turned only slightly in Tristan’s direction.
“Yes, I certainly do agree, and I am grateful to my Right Honourable Friend for making such an important point. The abhorrent estimated cost of the proposed building is a feeling shared by the overwhelming majority of people in the South West – indeed, the majority of the country. I will return to housing in a moment or two, but firstly I would like to press on with the issue of a referendum, which should have been an important part of this Bill but has been mysteriously ignored by the Secretary of State…” Her throat had gone dry and tight. She knew that nobody in the Chamber had any idea but it didn’t prevent the curious feeling that she was being judged.
Fifteen minutes later, Jack Fisher was on his feet, ready to deal the Bill a fatal blow. Rodney whispered “well done” in Anthea’s ear, then he was gone. Leaning her head back on the bench, Anthea sighed in relief. Now she had a good few hours of bottom-numbing speeches to sit through until the all-important division. However, for the time being at least, she could let her mind wander to thoughts which, over the last twenty four hours, had been forced into her subconscious.
*****
Quite uncharacteristically, Robert Williams failed at first to notice his boss’ swift exit. He darted behind the Speaker’s chair and out into the corridor, but the Party Leader was nowhere to be seen. It was then Williams put two and two together, convinced he had come up with four. Minutes before going into the Chamber, his expression like thunder, Rodney had muttered something about finally catching up with Rivers. Williams noticed Tristan and the heavy look of annoyance Rodney had given him during Anthea’s speech, and he had been so focussed on watching Tristan leave that Rodney had escaped him. Literally.
“Damnit.” Williams muttered in frustration, striding along the corridor. Rodney going off on his own was totally absurd. He had wanted to restrain him, tell him to keep well away from Rivers and that he would speak to him, but here he was again, freelancing. Rodney should have appreciated the need to remain on a tight leash while leaving others to clean up the mess behind the scenes. His phone bleeped. Deborah. He smiled. She would now even sign off the curtest of work text messages with ‘xx’. Not one to dither, Williams had decided weeks ago that he would marry her. But, right now, he had to deal with a more immediate issue.
*****
Williams needn’t have looked far. In fact, the nearest toilet would have done. Tristan was washing his hands when Richmond walked in, inscrutable and flawless.
“Hi, Rodney.” Tristan mumbled cautiously, staring hard at his hands while suppressing the sudden panic. He turned off the tap, unnerved by the lack of response, but as he reached for the hand towel Rodney bypassed the urinal and was staring at Tristan quizzically.
<
br /> “I’m glad I’ve finally caught up with you, I’ve wanted to speak with you since last week but you know how it is.” Rodney was softly spoken and Tristan couldn’t quite tell his mood. He did indeed remember how it was to be so incredibly busy, but he thought a facetious comment was hardly likely to help.
The Party Leader opened his mouth to speak, casting a glance towards the door. “I’m sorry for the way it ended – the way the reshuffle went, I mean. What happened and all that.”
Rodney was stumbling slightly, something Tristan had rarely seen in a man so controlled. Tristan merely shrugged, making the sourness of his smile as sweet as possible. He wasn’t quite sure why Rodney was apologising, convinced Jeremy would have told him that any potential challenge from him was off. Although he looked a little sheepish, Rodney folded his arms defensively.
“I feel I handled it badly; well, handled you badly. It wasn’t intentional.”
“Water under the bridge, Rodney.” Tristan surprised himself that he meant it. “I now know you were right – I needed to go, it was only fair, on everyone.”
“I hear you’re back on the PAC.” Rodney said, smiling for the first time.
“It’s what I want now. Life’s too short to – well, rock the boat. Let me apologise for any misunderstandings over the past week or so. To tell you the truth, I never wanted any of it. I’m over it, and it helped me reassess where I was going, what I wanted from my career.”
“Thank you for your honesty. I don’t get to hear much of it these days.” Rodney said, keeping his voice steady. “I do hope though we might work together again at some point in the future, in a Shadow Cabinet, or even Cabinet, capacity.”
There was a thick pause, thoughts of Anthea lingering between them. Although he might have expected Anthea to have run to her best friend for support after their break-up, Tristan was no longer all that sure. He hadn’t heard a whiff of rumour come out of the Richmond camp. The gossip was that he and she were very much still together, but Anthea had done nothing, it seemed, to correct the assumption.
Rodney was eyeing him carefully, Tristan detecting what may have been a hint of jealousy, not hatred, behind his stare.
“I’m sure you’re not interested in my advice really,” Tristan began, rubbing his jaw nervously. “But I feel I should urge you to sack Colin, and do it sooner rather than later. You’re set for a victory over Cornwall, I hear.”
“Thanks, I appreciate your frankness.” Rodney nodded sagely, but he moved awkwardly, glancing hurriedly at the toilet door. Tristan sensed with dread that something difficult was about to be aired. “Look, Tristan, we both know there’s something else, someone else, there’s no easy way to say this, but...”
“There you are!” Williams exclaimed breathlessly as he half appeared in the doorway. He looked put out as his eyes flicked between the two men. His boss forced a smile but Williams didn’t return the gesture.
“Rodney, you’ve got to see Debs.” He tapped his watch. “The situation is...moving quickly.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” Rodney caught Tristan’s eye. Things were to be left unsaid, and Tristan could only feel relieved. “Glad we caught up, Tristan, put things to bed. Well, you know what I mean.” Rodney stretched out his hand. “Bygones?”
Tristan smiled cautiously, avoiding Williams’ stare as he reciprocated. “Err, yes. Bygones.” The shake was firm, uncomfortable, slightly painful, in fact. Tristan winced, Rodney patting his free hand on top of Tristan’s. It would have been glaringly obvious to any body language expert who was the alpha male, but the squeeze around Tristan’s knuckles eased and Rodney beamed.
“Good man. See you in the lobby later, then.”
Tristan flexed his sore fingers behind his back, feeling weakened.
“Indeed.”
*****
Barty Phillips had given much thought to what he should do, now events appeared to be taking over. The mildly perplexed look which had clouded his face for the past few days hadn’t gone unnoticed to even the most unsuspecting colleagues, now constant paranoia was threatening to justify itself. He was utterly loyal to Rodney Richmond but he wasn’t doing so well at education and he was sure one more ‘issue’ might be his undoing; desperation had driven him to whisper more than alleged sweet nothings in Patrick Hornby’s ear.
David Fryer, red-faced and twitchy, finally caught up with him at the bottom of the Portcullis House escalator. He swung his bulk in front of him and subtly grabbed his lower arm so to force him to one side. A dangerously public move, Barty considered, but as he briefly met Fryer’s blood-shot glare the bustle of the busy atmosphere which swarmed around them became mere background noise.
“What the hell do you think you’re playing at, Phillips?” Fryer sneered, his broad nose wrinkling and his voice a threatening hiss. Barty tensed his arm but Fryer kept a firm grip.
“I don’t know what you’re…”
“You’re going to wish you never set eyes on Patrick bloody Hornby, never mind – well – I don’t think it needs to be said, what habits you two have!”
“I honestly don’t think you need to say anything whatsoever.” Barty kept calm and quiet. The tunnel in which they were stood would echo if their voices raised and a stiff breeze from the colonnade sent a chill through Barty’s body.
Fryer’s face was riddled with rage and Barty feared for his safety. “Your days are numbered, Phillips, once Colin’s leader you’ll be a no-one, I’ll make sure you’re fucking crucified out there, d’you hear?”
“Nobody but bigots like you are concerned with how I lead my life, I don’t have to justify anything and you’ve got no evidence anyway.” Barty snorted contemptuously. He knew he was better than this, better than David Fryer and the intolerance he bred. He found it madness they were even in the same party.
“Oh, I’m sure I won’t have to look hard, you’re seen together all the time and you’re not the only fag round here, someone will have seen you at one of those places your type like to go!” Fryer grit his teeth and forced a grin as fellow Scott loyalist Patricia Joseph hurried past them, acknowledging him with a guarded smile. “And as for ‘bigots like me’, I’m sure your association may have something to say about your behaviour!”
“Well, you would know all about sexual preferences of association members, would you not, David?” Barty said in a cool whisper, shaking Fryer’s grasp.
“Your precious pansy-boy lover brings me down, you’re coming down with me, only you’ll fall so hard you won’t even catch a glimpse of the gutter on your way to the sewer!”
“It's not my fault if you don't cover your tracks.” Barty knew he had to get away, their body language screaming hostility even if their words were inaudible. “I didn't tell Patrick to do anything, it's nothing to do with me.”
“Liar! You bloody, stinking, shitty liar!”
“Barty! I’ve been looking for you!”
Phillip’s saving grace, in the form of an extraordinarily jolly Party Chairman, seemed to appear out of nowhere. Fryer gave a guttural growl at this annoyance, and like a wild beast outnumbered by its prey retreated hurriedly. A flicker of a glance at Barty, warning him trouble had only just begun, and he was gone through the glass doors. Barty thought it a wonder that the ground wasn’t shaking.
“Looked like you needed a hand there.” Jeremy said slowly. His colleague lowered his eyes. “Patrick’s got a full-blown story on him, hasn’t he?”
Barty nodded.
“Well, Bartholomew, you’ve got a ruthless streak I never knew you had.” The Chairman muttered, an admiring half-smile adorning his lips. “I’ll remember not to get on the wrong side of you.”
Barty flushed and looked awkward, he hadn’t really thought of himself like that.
“No, seriously – if you need a friend.” Jeremy patted him on the shoulder. “I just hope…well, I just hope he’s all worth it, and I don’t mean Fryer.”
*****
A final pre-launch meeting was required and tonight
was perfect. The Village was awash with gossip about the likelihood of Ian Harvey’s sacking from the Cabinet after finally stuffing up Cornish devolution with his ‘slip of the tongue’, while Colin Scott’s challenge to the Tory Party leadership had been all but confirmed by the man himself to a gaggle of news-hungry lobby correspondents. He needed to make sure his team was prepared, so gathered his supporters in his office while they waited for the vote. In a final show of defiance the Deputy Leader of the Conservative Party would abstain on his party’s own amendment, and his absence would be very much noticed as his colleagues filed obediently through the ‘aye’ lobby.
“So Rivers is out the game, is he?” One of Colin’s supporters piped up. “No stalking horse?”
“No, the rumour that he might stand has been enough to rattle Richmond’s cage, show how he overreacts under pressure.” Colin said coolly. His conversation with Rivers had been brief yet sour as the former Chief Whip spoke as if he were reading from a Cheeser-approved script. Colin cursed his own foolishness to think it ever could have worked with him but his biggest regret was wasting all that money on that bloody sneak detective. He was determined to get to the bottom of the real reason why Dickenson had gone back on his word.
“And Sharkey?” Someone else asked. “Are the joint ticket rumours true?”
Colin smiled wryly. “We’re ‘in talks’, shall we say.” It wasn’t completely untrue, he had trusted Matthew Gaines to approach Steven Sharkey’s chief cheerleader, but he had yet to propose a formal alliance. Another 24 hours, and all that would change.
“We need some reassurances from you, Colin. Richmond’s going to put up a bloody good fight and we need to know that you’ll be prepared for the mud-slinging. We’ve all got constituencies and our people on the ground are a little concerned, they see it nothing more than a political soap opera.”
