by E J Greenway
“We’ve done it; we’ve only bloody done it!” The devolution whip declared to Bronwyn after he had hurried down the steps to the front bench. He gave Anthea a triumphant grin and shoved a crumpled piece of paper under Bronwyn’s nose. Glancing round surreptitiously he lowered his voice. “It’s bloody jammy on our part but thank God for a sudden surge of anti-Harvey feeling on the Labour backbenches. Some story about him bullying a young female MP into supporting the Bill is coming out in a rag tomorrow.”
Bronwyn raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows as she scanned the figures then handed the paper to Anthea, but without warning, someone she had pushed firmly to the back of her mind placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Anthea.” He said softly in her ear, leaning in from the bench behind. She turned her head to see Tristan’s startling blue eyes pleading with her. He smiled sheepishly at her frosty expression.
“Anthea, can we talk after this?” He whispered so quietly he was barely audible. “I mean, I really think we should, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking the past few days and I don’t want it to continue like this…”
“Well you should have thought of that when you…” Anthea bit her tongue and sighed. “Look, I’ll probably have media to do, can’t we do it some other time? This isn’t really the right evening.” A lack of conviction in her own voice annoyed her.
“Please – Anthea. Please. I …I love you.”
“Lock the doors!” The Speaker commanded to signal the result was imminent.
Anthea was sure she saw a look of genuine remorse on Tristan’s face but she wanted to repeat, with force, that it wasn’t the right time and that the damage was done anyway, there was nothing left to discuss.
“Alright. I may have Newsnight, so I’ll call you after that.” She felt confused by his confession, but now was her time, her big moment. The media would talk of it as a victory for Rodney Richmond but she and her team would revel in the success of their hard work.
She moved away from Tristan towards the dispatch box, squashing in between Barty Phillips and Rodney. The Shadow Cabinet was spread down the bench, shoulder to shoulder, like commuters on a packed train. Controversial, high-publicity bills often attracted a large presence in the Chamber and today was no exception. Solidarity was needed, especially in the face of Colin Scott’s disloyalty.
Anthea raised a smile at Barty but he appeared to be miles away, staring at nothing in particular, his usual worried expression more intense than ever. Rodney touched her elbow, his hand hidden by his crossed arms. It was a small, gentle caress but he kept his gaze firmly ahead. She took the gesture to mean a platonic sign of support but she couldn’t help inexplicable exhilaration.
Colin’s absence from the front bench was noticeable but not a word was uttered as the tellers walked towards the Mace. The teller for the majority stood to the Speaker’s left as tradition dictated; for once an Opposition whip who could barely hide his glee as the tellers bowed to the Speaker. Anthea watched Ian Harvey swallow hard and hang his head, fixing his gaze on his clasped hands while knowing it was all over. The whip triumphantly boomed out the results:
“The Ayes to the Right 310, the Noes to the Left 309!”
The amendment won, and an almighty roar of approval rose from the Opposition benches, a number jumping from their seats and gesturing at a subdued Government front bench. Anthea produced a relieved smile, feeling her cheeks flushing and her stomach relaxing. Bronwyn gave her an uncharacteristic grin and the thumbs up. Lobby correspondents in the Press Gallery were scribbling furiously. The Prime Minister’s fixed grimace showed his uneasiness while Harvey looked as if he might be physically sick as he furiously gathered up his papers, rose from the front bench for what would be his last time as Secretary of State and made a swift exit, flicking a rude gesture at the Speaker for good measure.
Before Anthea had time to speak to him, Rodney was heading out. He hadn’t said a word to her on hearing the result, not a ‘congratulations’, not even raising a smile. As Anthea watched him leave she suddenly began to feel that she needed fresh air. The stuffiness in the Chamber was unbearable, too many sweaty bodies – mainly men – crammed together, and she would very shortly have to suffer television studios as she was ferried from one interview to the next in an endless media blitz. Central Lobby was buzzing, Zoe Simpson interviewing Jack Fisher while other Labour MPs hurried away glumly. Colleagues congratulated her as she walked through in a daze to where Peter was waiting, his phone glued to his ear.
“Ok, what’ve we got?” Anthea asked, hiding a new wave of panic.
“News 24 then Sky, ITN and Newsnight at eleven.” Peter said, worry rather than jubilation across his face. “Harvey’s refusing interviews and it’s assumed he’ll have resigned within the hour. Just get yourself over to Millbank ASAP, basically. A press officer will meet you there.”
“I’ve just got to go and sort out my make-up and grab some food. You’ve had a long day, just go home and let me know in the morning how I did on Newsnight.”
Peter raised his eyebrows. “You sure?” He asked, as if the look on Anthea’s tired face could be anything less than sure.
“Yes, I’m guessing tomorrow will be another busy one so for once I’m actually asking you to leave work.” She smiled, nudging his arm affectionately. She needed him out the way, not trudging round with her. She also needed food and fresh air.
Minutes later, Anthea was on the Terrace, her coat pulled around her carefully chosen pale blue suit to keep out the chill. She had a few minutes to stuff down a marginally stale sandwich and to take a deep breath, so she appreciated the stillness of the night sky, the Thames lapping below, to help her gather her thoughts. She was proud of her achievement and delighted to hear Harvey was resigning so hurriedly, but as she sat in the late autumn air, the sandwich in her gloved hand quickly reducing, her mind wandered between the interviews ahead and thoughts of a more private nature.
Anthea knew that she shouldn’t relish seeing Tristan again, alone, but her heart thumped at the thought. She should hear him out, she was sure, they had shared too many intimate thoughts and touches for her not to owe him that at least. Visions of him swam before her eyes; in her apartment, soaked from the rain, soap suds gliding down his toned body as he showered, lying under her sheets, his lips descending invitingly onto hers. His laugh, which she adored so much, the daring side of him that only she would see and the thrill of their secrecy had made him exciting and unpredictable and a man for whom she still felt great affection despite her rational mind telling her otherwise.
She wanted to dismiss him as a fling on the rebound from Ben, but in the short time they had been together it was clear that they shared a deeper connection. He was going to tell her that he had changed, that he was focussed on becoming chairman of the PAC and that his anger towards Rodney had gone. He would then ask for her forgiveness. Battling the conflict in her head, she had no idea what she might say. She had always known her own mind on politics, but faced with her own private life, she had no answers. She was unable to escape the two men vying for her affections and wondered – in a brief, forbidden moment – if a person could possibly be in love with two, very different people. Perhaps she had a choice to make after all.
The smell of gunpowder hung heavy in the air as Bonfire Night fireworks popped and crackled high above her. The clear night sky which was filled with a radiance of colour and she smiled to herself as she fantasised that they were in celebration of her personal victory; a milestone in her political career. She was so lost in her thoughts she failed to notice the figure behind her until he spoke softly.
“Thought you’d be touring those Millbank studios by now.”
Anthea had no need to turn. Rodney stepped forward and leant on the wall to gaze across the black water to the stark lights of St Thomas’ hospital.
“Yes, I’m in demand tonight. Just needed a…breather.” Anthea watched him carefully, hiding her delight at seeing him. Rodney smiled, almost coquettishly, but as th
e sprays of greens, reds and yellows reflected in his eyes she saw that tiredness had given way to a renewed vigour which she hoped would be directed at destroying Colin. He rested his elbow against the wall as Anthea stood, mindful of the time and the new high heels now crippling her feet. Morning felt like days ago.
“You were amazing tonight, complete magic, well done.” He kissed her cool cheek gently. Anthea felt a rush of excitement at their closeness. “Not only have you defeated the Bill but you’ll also be credited with putting Harvey’s neck on the block, this’ll rattle the PM for weeks.”
Anthea shrugged. Rodney was still near, his hand caressing her arm.
“A good team effort, we all worked hard.” She said simply, but she was shaking. His features were cast in a blend of soft light and shadow, attractive and masculine, and her heart screamed at her to give in. “You really don’t need to worry about Colin’s game - which is what it is to him, all one big game where only he likes to win. I have so much faith in you. Anyway, talk tomorrow, if you’ve time – I’m back in the land of the living now the bloody Bill’s done with. Right, I’ve…I’ve got to go.” Anthea drew her eyes away. One magnificent firework exploded overhead, lighting up the Palace of Westminster in a shock of reds and purples. After watching briefly, she took a few steps back, but she suddenly turned to face him even though she did not know what she might say.
“Rodney, look…”
“Is it the job?” Rodney spoke over her, a bad and awkward coincidence. He continued despite her surprise. “Is that why we can never...I just need to know why, why you could never give me a chance. It is the job, isn’t it? Too awkward, too…unmanageable? I wanted to say it in the Chamber, but right now I can’t remember a time when you’ve looked more beautiful.”
All the tension between them in the past was nothing compared to now. But ‘the job’ he referred to wasn’t just any job, but ‘the job’ in the party, in Opposition. She dreaded to think what he might be considering.
“I can’t be what you want me to be, Rodney.” Anthea said quietly, urgently. “I just can’t. It doesn’t matter how I feel about you, not in that way, as we have to be realistic.”
“If I could choose – do you want me to choose?” Rodney asked in a desperate whisper. “Leader of the Opposition, or you? Because I can, if that’s what you want.”
She shook her head vigorously in frustration. “No, NO. Don’t you dare even say it! You are not Martin Arnold, and not everyone’s against you! God, you must take on Colin and win. You’re a good man and you’ve got a job to do, a party to lead. Don’t tell me you’ve lost your passion for all the things you want to change, all the things you want to do, because I wouldn’t believe you.”
“I’m just so bloody lonely, Anthea!” Rodney exploded. “You know what it’s like, but then you go and start seeing Tristan – bloody Tristan Rivers - when all the while I’m trying not to think of you with another man because all I want…” His voice quietened. “All I want, Anthea, is you. You make me feel alive, complete. Tell me you don’t love me – that you’re not in love with me - after all these years of friendship.”
She bit her lip, her hands trembling. Rodney exuded a vulnerability very few ever got to witness, but she had to be firm with him. She might have loved him, but, inexplicably, Tristan remained the man she couldn’t get out of her head, the one who still made her giddy with excitement just at the thought of him. Yet Tristan wasn’t the issue. He never had been, not really.
“Well?” Rodney pushed, ignoring the celebratory activity around them.
“I can’t be with you, Rodney. I can’t. Before you say it, it’s nothing to do with Tristan and how I may or may not feel about him, and it’s not about you giving anything up. This is about you and me, and we just…can’t. You know I’d never be taken seriously, that people – men and women - would think I’d got my job just because I was with you. It’s all the bloody Bulletin etcetera would publish, you know that. I’m no victim but it’s difficult enough for me, as a woman, to be taken seriously round here and today I’ve proven myself, I don’t want to ruin that.” Anthea’s eyes searched his but he hid the hurt. She could tell he was retreating back behind the emotional wall which Jenny had so crudely talked of and she was losing him now he had failed. “For both our careers, Rodney - do it for my sake, if not your own.”
Lowering his eyes, Rodney seemed to struggle to find the right words. Anthea took his hand and he gently lifted her fingers to his lips.
“Anthea, please.” Rodney breathed. “I can’t bear it any longer. Just one kiss and I promise, I...I won’t ask you again. Ever.”
Ignoring the dangers of being seen and the sheer incomprehensibility of it, Anthea leant up and kissed him full on the mouth. He reciprocated passionately, stroking her face as she felt her legs weaken at the thrill and the tears spring to her closed eyes. So lost in the moment, both failed to notice Robert Williams approach steps of the Terrace, spot his charge, and with a wide stare duck silently back beyond the door.
The kiss broke, Anthea finally pulling back.
“Thank you.” Rodney whispered, running a thumb across her lips. He laughed softly. “I think you need to look in the mirror before going on TV.”
Anthea found herself running out of time. “I’ll always be here for you, you know that. But we can’t do this again. Nothing’s changed.”
Rodney nodded, wiping his eyes as she smiled wistfully.
“You can stop Colin, and I will do whatever I can to help, I promise.” The tears finally fell as she turned and left.
Her smile remained imprinted on Rodney’s mind as he watched her svelte figure walk away, leaving him alone to ponder his own thoughts in a rare moment of quiet, the cool air a welcome relief against the warm flush of his cheeks. He had opened his heart to her, laid bare his true feelings after months, years, of yearning, and still it wasn’t enough. Rightly or wrongly, he had forced her into a decision and she had made it. He could have told her he would never stop loving her, but he would never need to. Personally and politically, Anthea Culverhouse never ceased to amaze him, and he hoped she never would.
Twenty-One
“I have been patient long enough, Nicole.” Tristan had told her, in the same tone of voice he often used, unsuccessfully, as Chief Whip. To his utter amazement, his wife had finally agreed. Yes, she understood that his local association would be on his back and that his dragon of a Chairman finding their separation an ‘abominable inconvenience’ was beginning to wear him down.
“People talk, Tristan!” Marjorie Baker had warned him the night before. “It’s not only Westminster which is a closely-knit network, I’ll have you know!”
Oh, Tristan knew it alright. He had tried to sound nonplussed but his tone wasn’t convincing her. He might not have cared what she, along with the rest of them in the constituency thought of him, if they hadn’t held the key to his future. The possibility of chairman of the Public Accounts Committee pacified her slightly but the call had ended as badly as it had begun. That was when he had decided to phone Nicole, and in the spirit of openness finally admit his relationship with a female colleague, with whom he was very much in love.
“Ok, ok, I’m too tired to do this anymore with you Tristan, you win, the divorce papers will be on their way.” Nicole had told him bluntly. “And don’t worry, you can have limited access to Daniel, we can come to some sort of arrangement, if you don’t piss me about. I just don’t want the bloody paparazzi crawling about here, we – as in Daniel and I – don’t deserve it. I’ve no wish to pour a good bottle of champagne over your head, Tris, life’s too short. And anyway, I’m sure dear old Marjorie will be overjoyed and you can carry on being the Right Honourable Member for that wretched place for as long as the voters will have you.”
“I’m sorry, for everything.” Tristan meant it, despite her continuing bitterness. He owed Nicole everything for keeping quiet about his past, and now for finally granting him a divorce, although he suspected she wanted t
o marry again. He wished her luck.
It was 11.10pm. All Tristan could do was wait in anticipation for the phone call he had been promised. He had done his duty that night by passing through the lobby like the good, loyal Member he had resigned himself to being, his alliance with Colin well and truly broken. He was looking forward to becoming a more productive Parliamentary player and atone for at least some of his sins. He also hoped Anthea would see he had changed and that he was no longer either the brow-beaten fool he had been as Chief Whip, nor afterwards the spiteful rebel so vividly depicted in recent press articles.
Tristan sat slumped in front of the end of Newsnight, recent Public Accounts reports piled up around him. He watched, almost trance-like, as the following day’s newspaper front pages were revealed. Anthea had been interviewed at 10.35 and assuming it had been her last interview of the night she would have headed home, but his mobile still hadn’t rung. The broadsheet headlines focussed on Harvey’s swift exit and the embarrassment caused to the PM, but to block some of the bad coverage the Engager was to carry the headline ‘TORIES AT WAR’, with an unflattering picture of Richmond’s face, slightly sweaty, open-mouthed and bearing a worried expression, nose-to-nose with a fierce, close-up shot of Colin Scott, animated and jabbing his finger. Tristan wondered whether Rosie Lambert enjoyed vilifying both her former toy-boys so crudely, but he decided self-preservation must be a strong instinct for a newspaper editor. Readership was more important than a passionate fumble at a party, or indeed the kinky nights she had enjoyed once upon a time with the Deputy. Newsnight’s credits were rolling. He flopped his head back and shut his eyes, a weighty report into government IT systems lying unopened on his lap. His phone remained silent.
*****
He stepped out of the shower and wrapped himself in a towel. For a moment he stood on the cool tiles, the drips of excess water tickling his body and the steam of the bathroom filling his nostrils and blurring his vision. This was alone time; not a member of staff, nor a colleague in sight, and he felt as if he should be relieved. Wiping the mirror with his fist Rodney peered at his own reflection through the reforming condensation. The handsome face so familiar to many appeared vulnerable and pale, the brown eyes which stared back on themselves without the spark of only a few hours ago.
