Richard shook his head as he watched his guests make their way towards the living area. No matter how many times he told Henry not to call him Dicky, he still insisted on doing it – unless in public. At least Richard had that to be thankful for.
Anna reached the bottom of the stairs in time to kiss Joy on the cheek before escorting her to the sofas.
“Coffee all round then,” Anna called as she made her way towards the kitchen area.
“Actually, I’ll have a tea,” said Joy, “it’s just dawned on me that my years of insomnia might actually be down to the fact I’ve been drinking up to ten cups of coffee a day.”
“Yes. Might just be something in that,” Richard laughed.
“You can’t sleep because of your relentless desire for me,” quipped Henry.
“That must be it dear. Why hadn’t I thought of that earlier?” she replied, adding a sarcastic smirk.
Anna raised her eyebrows at Joy in a silent show of comradeship whilst carefully piling cups and saucers on the tray with one hand and pouring hot water into the coffee pot with the other. Joy was a vision in a cerise-pink wool dress, matching pink lipstick and black stiletto boots. Anna often wondered what brought her and Henry together as, style-wise, they were such polar opposites, but she figured that was part of the attraction. Like Henry, Joy took a no-nonsense approach to life and called things as she saw them, which often made for lively conversation between the four of them.
“What are the papers saying today then, Henry?” asked Richard.
“Better than yesterday, but not much.” Henry sniffed as he spread the array of mastheads out on the coffee table between them. Joy was perched attentively in an armchair next to her husband while Richard leant forwards on the sofa opposite.
“Anna comes in for further criticism over her career choices, and even her fashion sense is questioned in this feature,” he triumphantly waved the highlighted article in front of Richard. “An expert describes your style as ‘rebellious’ Anna. They say it’s a ‘public statement of your refusal to conform to the more traditional style demanded of a leader’s spouse”.”
“Is that right?” Anna said scathingly as she abruptly set the coffee tray down on the table. “To think that someone actually gets paid to come up with that crap.”
“You dress the way you’ve always dressed,” Joy chipped in, “and you’ve not always been a politician’s wife.”
“As hard as that is to believe now,” sighed Anna.
“Maybe they’ve got a point, Anna.” Henry fixed his target with a meaningful glare. “I know an excellent stylist who could work with your tastes but mould them into something that sits better with the press and public.”
“You mean the press and politicians, Henry. Let’s face it.” Anna returned his glare, thrusting his cup of coffee towards him and sending the liquid sloshing into the saucer.
“Now, now children,” smiled Richard. “Let’s not fall out over a choice of blouse. It wouldn’t do any harm for you to meet with a stylist, Anna. We’re only talking about a few weeks until the election.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the way Anna looks,” Joy said firmly. “The public love her for who she is and the press are just looking for something to write, so let’s drop this.”
“All right,” said Henry, a steely glint suddenly coming into his eyes. “In that case why don’t we talk about the phone-call I took last night from Damian Blunt of the Sunday Echo asking me exactly how and when you two met?”
“What about how we met?” asked Richard, furiously stirring his coffee.
“That’s what I can’t work out. Why would the editor of a Sunday paper suddenly start asking me about that?” Henry’s eyes darted between Richard and Anna as he searched for clues.
“Well did you ask him?” Anna asked impatiently.
“Yes, Anna. And he said he was considering doing a warm, cuddly feature on how this public partnership first came into being.”
“What’s wrong with that?” asked Joy.
“What’s wrong is that the Sunday Echo don’t do warm and cuddly. There’s something up but I haven’t figured it out yet.”
“Don’t be so bloody dramatic, Henry,” said Joy. “They met at an awards ceremony seven years ago, it’s hardly earth-shattering is it?”
“No,” Henry pulled at his closely shaven chin. “But when Damian Blunt starts asking unusual questions it’s time to worry.”
“Well, you certainly know how to cheer up a rainy Saturday morning, don’t you” Anna frowned at Henry as she reached for a biscuit to dip in her coffee.
“Just trying to stay ahead and prevent us getting eaten alive by the wolves.”
“You’re paranoid, Henry,” Joy laughed, instantly riling her husband.
“Oh, I know that in the la-la land of showbusiness all publicity is good publicity, Joy,” he hissed, “but in the world of politics – where the stakes are genuinely high – we tend to take muck-raking a little more seriously.”
Anna cringed as she watched her PR’s mouth fall open in shock at the vitriol behind her husband’s harsh remark. Joy looked over helplessly, her eyes signalling for back-up. But to confront Henry now would only make things worse between her and Richard so Anna opted for the coward’s way out; she averted her gaze and stood up to get a refill of coffee.
Richard coughed and shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. “Pass the sports section will you, Henry?” he asked, nodding towards the object of his desire on the coffee table. “I want to find out what’s going on in the real world.”
“All yours, Dicky,” Henry said, thrusting the supplement in his hand.
As Anna stopped to pour herself another cup she chanced a glance in Joy’s direction, then wished she hadn’t. For in the few seconds that she studied her friend’s face she had caught a mixture of hurt, humiliation and isolation. Anna knew all three emotions like old companions. She guessed she’d let her friend down by not stepping in to defend her. But Joy would get over it, she thought. She wasn’t the type to hold a grudge.
2
Downing Street Won’t Change Me, Insists Lloyd
Friday, 20th March, 2009, UK Newswire – Anna Lloyd, the actress wife of Social Democrat leader Richard Williams, today declared her husband’s dream of becoming Prime Minister a fait accompli as she spoke of her future life in Downing Street.
Talking at a press conference ahead of tomorrow night’s ITV screening of the controversial thriller Dancing with Danger in which she stars, Lloyd told reporters that a spell at Number 10 wouldn’t change her.
“I am who I am,” she said. “Some people don’t see me as the traditional Prime Minister’s wife, but that doesn’t bother me. I won’t change just because of a new address.”
Asked whether her husband shared her open-mindedness when it came to public image, Lloyd replied: “Richard and I are two separate people, united in one goal; to see each other live our dreams and fulfil our potential as human beings.”
And the thirty-seven-year-old actress refused to be drawn on suggestions that she had been rowing with her husband over her decision to play a serial-killing lap dancer in her latest TV project, saying only: “My husband is as supportive of my career as I am his.”
But Lloyd did little to appease her critics today who accused her of arrogance in her apparent assumption that she would be living at Number 10 after the next election.
Alliance Party backbencher Lizzie Ancroft said the actress was “living with her head in the clouds”.
“Both Anna Lloyd and her husband have a long way to go to convince the public they belong in Downing Street,” the MP added. “She is clearly already planning where to put the furniture, but the British voters are now seeing what some of us at Westminster have known for a long time – that, as on screen, this actress can only ever pretend to be something she’s not.”
Henry drummed his fingers, furiously studying the press clippings laid out over the meeting desk in Richard’s office, positioned on the top fl
oor of the SDP’s Victoria HQ. Richard was meanwhile left to exchange expectant glances with Sandra Mackenzie, senior policy advisor, and his campaign organiser and deputy party leader Ray Molsley. After a few moments’ deliberation, Henry looked up towards the ceiling as he first inhaled and then exhaled a long, troubled breath. They had called the meeting to run through some changes to their manifesto but, instead of talking politics, he had again been forced to put Richard’s wife at the top of their agenda.
Turning to his colleagues, his long frown let it be known that he was not happy.
“We have a handful of days to go before we’re into this campaign and, once again, I’m spending my every waking moment defending this party against the flippant remarks and behaviour of one person.”
“And there’s no prizes for guessing who he’s talking about,” Sandra chuckled, her Scots accent never stronger than when she was at her sarcastic best.
“Well, quite.” Henry turned in his chair to look directly at the man seated next to him – his boss. “I’m at a loss, Richard. We keep ending up in the same place and nothing or no one seems to be able to rein her in.”
“Well, we could start with your wife, Henry, if we’re going to get personal.” Richard clasped his hands together and leant forwards to show poise – something that was essential in trying to gain the political upper hand. His old friend and head of communications was beginning to rise above his station and Richard knew the rest of the shadow cabinet were baying for him to be brought under control. “Joy is supposed to be Anna’s PR advisor, yet she continues to preside over one public-relations disaster after another. So perhaps you should be directing the criticism closer to home, Henry.”
“Might I make a point?” Ray Molsley’s thick Cockney accent always commanded silence from an audience, an attribute that, along with his portly frame and no-nonsense manner, ensured even the least tameable MPs found it hard to refuse his orders when they were cornered. “Anna has her own successful career and isn’t the least bit bothered about being the wife of a Prime Minister.”
“And?” asked Richard.
“And I just wonder if we gave her an incentive to become more involved with the campaign, whether that might just make the difference?” Ray rested smugly back into his seat and watched as the pennies dropped around him. At fifty-eight, he’d been in the game of politics long enough to tell a winning idea from a lame one – and he had a reputation for backing political winners.
“What kind of incentive did you have in mind Ray?” Henry enquired nonchalantly, briefly glancing at the clock to indicate time was at a premium.
“She happened to mention to me one evening that she had always wanted to work with the director Don Monteith but, although her agent had put her forwards many times for roles in his films, he had never once even as much as asked her to audition. It ‘eats away at her’ she said.” Ray dramatically raised his right eyebrow to emphasise his point.
“What are you getting at Ray?” Sandra piped up with typical forthrightness. She had been a loyal friend and follower of Richard’s for several years and always jumped to his defence. As an attractive woman in her early-forties, Sandra had managed to intimidate most of the predominantly male shadow cabinet, but Ray’s thick skin and enormous ego meant he was scared of no one and so he continued unabated.
“Don Monteith has just today become a major supporter of the Social Democratic Party , which he has vowed he will help win the next general election in any way he can.”
“Why the hell didn’t you mention this earlier?” snapped Henry.
“I’ve only just got the chance. But it’s turning out to be a real coup. He’s prepared to do a press conference, and he’s up for appearing alongside Richard at a couple of campaign events.”
“That’s fantastic news,” Richard beamed. “At last something to celebrate.”
“Indeed,” said Ray, pausing further to bask in the glory of his idea. “I like to think I was pretty instrumental in getting him on board…” Sandra interrupted his blatant gloating with a loud groan, prompting Ray to cut to the chase. “And I think Anna will be quite excited about the idea of getting behind this campaign now don’t you think? She can have special responsibility for hosting Don on the campaign trail.”
“You’re smarter than you look Ray,” chuckled Richard.
“Bloody smug with it though,” joked Henry, winning collective laughter from around the table.
“Come in here a minute will you, Marie?” Damian barked into the telephone receiver before slamming it back into the cradle. He looked once again over the small piece of notepaper gripped in his hands, bearing only a name and telephone number. He carefully placed it down on the desk in front of him and continued to pore over it as he weighed up the pros and cons of running a story such as this. It would, of course, strike a major blow to the Social Democrats – which would please the paper’s staunch Alliance-supporting owner, Victor Nemov, no end – but would also mean if, as likely, Williams won the election, they would be all but blacklisted when it came to briefings. Damian, however, knew he had to do what would please his owner and shift copies off the newstands – and this story would certainly do both. In these tough times for the newspaper industry, that alone would be worth ticking off Henry and his mob. They weren’t going to blacklist a national Sunday newspaper for long no matter how pissed off they were. In fact, the more Damian thought about it he couldn’t see a down side. As long as the story was true. And that was where Marie would come in. She would have to get her facts straight and, even then, they’d need to get it direct from the horse’s mouth. That would involve a carefully crafted phone call to Anna Lloyd that could not go wrong. Marie was fairly new to his team, having moved from another Sunday tabloid just three months ago, but Damian had no doubt she was the right woman for the job. He had hired her based on the reputation she’d earned for getting a story between her teeth and refusing to let it go if there was an ounce of mileage in it. That was what he needed here. Someone with enough pluck and tenacity to pull this thing off.
“You wanted to see me, Damian?” Marie stood smiling in the doorway wearing a bright-red halter-neck top, black cardigan and what looked to Damian to be some kind of rah-rah skirt – the kind he hadn’t seen since the Eighties. As he took in the petite vision standing before him, notepad clutched in her left hand, ready for business, Damian momentarily lost track of what he was about to say.
“Yes…” he beamed broadly, showing his nicotine-stained teeth in their full glory. “Come in, Marie. I’ve got a job-and-a-half for you, so why don’t you take a seat and make a few notes because this one could be a career changer.”
Anna carefully applied a second layer of lipstick and smoothed her hair over for the final time. Her hairdresser, Torquin, had left only minutes earlier, having spent more than an hour and a half styling her shoulder-length locks. Tonight was the Sunday Echo’s much-heralded “Great Britons” awards ceremony and Anna was fully aware how much scrutiny both she and Richard would be under. They were jointly presenting an award tonight – something Henry had hailed as a terrific idea – until the last couple of weeks when tensions over her “behaviour” had reached new heights. Richard paced the floor behind her, fervently reciting the few introductory lines he had planned for his time in the spotlight.
“Tonight is so much more than just an awards ceremony,” he murmured. “It’s a celebration of all that is good in British society…”
Anna deliberately zoned out, choosing instead to focus on squeezing her feet into the three-inch stilettos that Henry’s newly appointed stylist had chosen for her. Much to Henry’s dismay – as Anna felt sure he hoped the two women would be at each other’s throats – the stylist, Camilla, had actually proved a popular addition to Richard and Anna’s rapidly growing advisory team, having picked out some particularly stunning outfits, including tonight’s silk Amanda Wakeley dress.
Things were looking up, thought Anna.
“Are you ready yet?” Richar
d asked nervously.
“Yes. I’ve been ready for the past five minutes.”
“You’ve only just put your shoes on.”
“Well, I wasn’t rushing because it looked like you were about to practise your introduction for the fiftieth time.” Anna flashed a sarcastic grin.
Richard sighed. “Let’s go then. The car’s waiting outside.”
Anna sensed Richard’s tension growing steadily throughout the twenty-minute journey to the studios in Southbank where the ceremony was being held.
He had spent the first ten minutes staring at his notes until Anna could bear the silence no longer.
“What’s the matter, Richard? You seem incredibly nervous.”
“I just need tonight to go well, that’s all. We’re pretty damn sure Davis is going to the Palace tomorrow to call the election so all eyes are on us. This thing gets a big TV audience and it’s a tough one to judge. I don’t want to come across like a stuffed shirt, but then I’m not Russell Brand either.”
“Well, that’s true.” Anna laughed, before adopting a more sympathetic approach. “Look, you’re incredibly good with people, Richard. That’s why you’re leading the Democrats, so just be yourself and act like you do when we’re hosting guests in our own home. Be open, friendly but respectful.”
Richard finally looked up from the crumpled notepaper in his hands to give Anna his full attention.
“Thank you, darling.” He touched her cheek softly. “I’m glad you’re by my side tonight. I’m hoping you’ll be able to do a lot more of this over the coming weeks, just until we’re through the campaign.”
“I’ll try,” Anna said, gently patting Richard’s hand.
He looked back down at his notes for a moment before folding them up and putting them in his pocket. “We had some good news today.”
“That’s good, darling,” Anna replied vaguely as she turned her focus to polishing a tiny mark on the front of her stiletto with her finger.
Polls Apart Page 2
