Marie Simpson was quietly enjoying picking her way through her tuna and bean salad when she became aware of an unsettling presence nearing behind. Although Damian liked to creep up behind his staff and catch them unawares, he was rarely successful in his efforts because of his involuntary throat-clearing habit. Marie heard the familiar rasping sound from around ten paces away so made sure she shut down her Yahoo mail page before Damian rounded the corner to her desk. The Sunday Echo office was mainly open plan but Marie sat in a corner of the newsroom with several other reporters, all separated by annoying and ineffective partitions which didn’t offer any privacy and meant you had to stand up to speak to your workmates.
She swiveled around in her chair just in time to catch Damian’s furtive glare as he approached. Marie noticed he was even scruffier than usual today, with his creased shirt, ruffled greying hair and loose tie. All the female reporters in the office agreed that Damian had a strange kind of bad-boy appeal, but the lines on his face – the product of years of chain-smoking – made him look older than his actual age of forty-one.
“Marie,” he said, in a falsely cheerful voice. “How’s the Lloyd story coming along? You tracked down any of her ex—clients yet?”
“I’ve tried to contact everyone Sylvia named, but they’re either ex-directory or they won’t talk. Most of them are highly-paid professionals who don’t need the money.”
“Right, time for plan B then.”
“What’s that?” Marie asked, already afraid of the answer.
“We run an interview with Lloyd. The heartbreaking story of how she was betrayed in her hour of need by the man she loves.”
“Have you spoken to her then? Has she agreed to do it?”
“This needs a woman’s touch, Marie,” Damian winked in what Marie found to be a patronising way. “You give her a call and – in the nicest possible fashion – let her know that unless she does an interview we’ll let her old clients do the talking.”
“But we don’t have any of her clients.”
“Use your loaf, Marie,” Damian snapped before giving an agitated grunt. “She doesn’t know that does she? Now I want this sorted by the end of today so I need you to get on to it as soon as you’ve finished your bird seed.” With that Damian took off and left Marie to watch him saunter back to his office with all the affectation of a man trying to appear comfortable in his own skin.
Marie swallowed back a wave of nausea as she considered the prospect of trying to talk Anna Lloyd – who must surely hate her more than anyone else in the whole world right now – into divulging her innermost secrets to the Sunday Echo. She knew the outcome would rest on how well she managed to veil her threats, keeping her tone friendly whilst leaving Lloyd in no doubt she had little choice.
This was the type of task Marie hated – particularly when her heart was just not in this story. The “scurrilous end” of tabloid journalism as her father called it. She would much rather have been chasing stories on major social issues, rather than harassing politician’s wives, but Marie also knew the only way out of this kind of work was to resign and she simply couldn’t afford to do that right now. While this job was hardly feeding her soul it paid the mortgage and that was what mattered most.
And, at twenty-nine, this could mark a much-needed turning point in her career. Until last week she’d never worked on a really massive exclusive – those jobs were always handed to the chief reporter or other favoured hack. So this was her chance to get up the ladder and start regularly working on the kind of stories that would move her from the middle to front pages. And she supposed that was where she should be. If she could get to the top of her game, perhaps then her father would drop the snobbery against what he called her “type of work” and finally be proud of her. As the only man in her life, her father’s approval meant everything – perhaps it would even help her conquer the desperate insecurity and lack of self worth that had shadowed her since childhood.
She sighed then opened up the contacts file on her desktop and leafed through it until she got to L. She found the number buried at the bottom of the screen. Taking a deep breath, she picked up the phone and dialled.
Bob Guthrie was the first person to raise a smile out of Richard in forty-eight hours with his unintentionally humorous attempts to flag down a passing waiter or waitress. Bob was Shadow Chancellor, with a deceptively bumbling exterior that masked the agility of his knowledge-packed mind. With Ray Molsley sitting to his left, sharing the moment, Richard let all the tension of the past few days go and laughed raucously at Bob’s feeble finger ripple which wouldn’t have attracted a passing bee if his hand had been covered in honey. Feeling a mixture of pity and impatience, Ray finally stepped in and waved his hand vigorously as their waiter walked away from a nearby table. “Another bottle of red,” he said loudly.
Bob tried to hide his obvious shame, but couldn’t prevent the lighter shade of crimson from creeping up his neck into his cheeks.
“Don’t worry Bob,” said Richard, patting his friend and colleague on the back. “Fortunately you have other assets to compensate for your inability to order at a restaurant.”
“And fortunately you have me to do it for you,” chuckled Ray. The three men had been close friends since Richard’s first months in Westminster. Bob had won his seat eight years ago at the same time as Richard. They were also similar in age, though Bob’s ruddy cheeks and portly frame added at least another three or four years to his looks. Ray had acted as an unofficial mentor (and drinking companion) to the young MPs. Richard knew Ray’s initial hand of friendship was not purely down to kindness, but rather his ability to spot future leaders. Although publicly seen as a jovial man of the people, he was in fact a shrewd and considered character, his one handicap in politics being his big heart. He had confided in them at a similar dinner two years ago that he knew they would both go on to great things and that’s why he’d stuck with them, though Richard knew the bond went much, much deeper than that. In each other they had found kindred political spirits. They had a thirst for change that would not be quenched until they achieved it.
Bundled together in the packed Italian restaurant in Highgate, the three men found a safe haven to relax and offload. It was a place they would regularly meet to bitch about colleagues and, if they weren’t too drunk, talk strategy. The restaurant was dimly lit, giving it an added feel of secrecy and conspiracy.
Richard finished the last of his soup and tried to get his mind back onto the election campaign, which they had met to talk about. But it was too late. Anna’s face was now firmly etched in his mind. He so desperately wanted to talk to her but she wouldn’t return his calls. He realised why, of course. The moment Henry had finally chosen to confess that he’d forgotten to warn her about his speech – on the train back to London – he knew he’d lost all chance of keeping her on side. He hadn’t wanted a long-term separation – he hadn’t actually wanted any separation – but he had foolishly accepted Henry’s advice to part for a couple of months to get them through the election and into Downing Street. He had thought he was doing the right thing. He had thought that sacrificing their happiness was a selfless act, done for the good of the country. But within hours of making the announcement he had seen his decision for what it was: an act of utter panic, which could only show him to be weak and disloyal.
The control was slipping away from him and he sensed their marriage could be in real trouble. Particularly if she wouldn’t even talk to him.
“I can see we’ve lost you again Richard,” Bob said, offering his colleague a comforting pat on the shoulder. “Have you managed to speak to Anna yet?”
“No.” Richard hung his head. “She won’t answer my calls or texts.”
“She’ll come all right,” said Ray, with a confidence Richard knew was based on nothing more than optimism. Realising his dining companions expected him to back up his statement, he added: “She’s been stung by the announcement and she needs time to heal. But she’ll soon see you were only trying
to do the right thing for everyone.”
“Do you think it was the right thing?” Bob asked, his candour jolting Richard from the safety of his depressed mood.
“I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Well, I guess you could have stood your ground and said that Anna’s past had nothing to do with the party’s future.”
“Oh that’s wonderful, Bob,” Richard held his hands up in frustration. “You tell me this now when there’s no way back. I asked you to be at that meeting on Monday morning to decide what we should do and you didn’t bloody turn up so it’s a bit late now to hit me with the ‘stand your ground’ talk.”
“I didn’t turn up because Henry had ordered me to talk to every TV and radio show in the country to cover your arse. The man deliberately sets things up so I can’t make key meetings. I thought you would have twigged that by now.”
Bob looked at Richard for a response but he stayed silent. “Richard,” he continued, “Henry knew if I’d been there today I’d have told you to stick with the woman you love and not go dancing to the media’s fiddle.”
“Look it’s done now,” Ray jumped in. “There’s no point sitting arguing over what’s already happened. Anna’s going be just fine and we’re going to concentrate on winning the bloody election so let’s just stay focused shall we?”
Though he had stopped talking, Richard continued to glare at Bob – partly out of anger, but mainly because he knew he was right and it was killing him.
Anna watched in bemused admiration as her sister raced around the kitchen piecing ham sandwiches together, grabbing drinks and yoghurts from the fridge and, moments later, producing three packed-lunch boxes.
“You’ve managed to turn that into an art form,” Anna chuckled.
“Yeah, well it’s the only form of art I’d ever be able to produce,” Libby replied only half-jokingly whilst trying to tame her wildly curly hair back into a bun.
Libby’s husband Dan appeared at the kitchen door and collected the three lunches. Anna could tell just by watching the two of them that they had perfected a morning routine that rarely wavered by even a minute.
“Jasmine, Ollie, Rupert, let’s go,” Dan shouted with the authority of an army major.
Anna smiled as she heard the thunder of feet on the stairs and through the hallway until the children’s faces appeared alongside Dan’s and they stood together like a ramshackle Von Trapp family. Jasmine, who at eleven was the eldest, shared her mother’s corkscrew curls and fox-like pointed features. Ollie, two years younger, with his tousled blond hair inherited from his father and bright blue eyes, appeared to Anna to be an exquisite urchin – an impossibly beautiful scruff. And little Rupert was a law unto himself with wide-eyed, asymmetrical features like no one else in either family. Unlike his brother and sister, Rupert was immensely well turned-out, taking great pride in his appearance despite being only six years old.
“We’re off then ladies,” said Dan.
“Bye Mummy, bye Auntie Anna,” Ollie called. Libby rushed forwards to kiss her children, slightly panicked at the thought they could turn around and leave without saying goodbye properly.
“Bye kids,” Anna shouted after them. “Have a good day at school.”
As stressful as the last few days had been, Anna couldn’t help but feel glad that they had created the opportunity for her to spend some time with her family like this. In the six years she had been married to Richard, she had never stayed with Libby and had only seen the kids on the odd afternoon. She’d never stopped to imagine her sister’s existence as a wrung-out housewife, always dashing here and there trying to organise her family. From where Anna was sitting she could see that Libby’s life – though pretty much devoid of luxury – was worth a hundred of her own. While her sister was surrounded by people who would be bereft without her, there was no one who couldn’t live without Anna. In fact, she realised, she was little more than an ageing commodity that could be as easily disposed of as an empty can of Coke.
Her breakfast duties over, Libby sat down at the kitchen table opposite Anna and let out a long sigh. “It’s only quarter-past eight in the morning and I’m already bloody exhausted,” she laughed.
Anna smiled. She felt relaxed for the first time in as long as she could remember. Sitting there in Libby’s large but well-worn kitchen – which summed up the rest of the house – she felt hugely proud of her big sister. “You do such a great job, Libby. I was sitting here watching you and wondering how such a good mother could come from such a bad one.”
“Mum was mentally ill. There was never any chance of her being a good mother.”
“You always did defend her. You’re much more forgiving than I am.”
“That’s because I’ve less to forgive,” Libby gave her sister a long and knowing look and as Anna returned her gaze, safe in the kindness and love of someone who knew her like no one else, she knew she had come to the right place. Libby had protected her through some of the darkest days of their childhood. Anna often wondered if she’d have ever made it this far without her sister. Surely the burden of her youth would have been too much to carry alone.
“I’ve been wondering these last few days why we never got counselling?” Anna asked.
“Well,” Libby shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “When we left Wellinghurst we agreed we’d put it behind us – separate ourselves from our past and start again. I think that’s the only way, don’t you?”
“I don’t know,” Anna shook her head. “I thought I had put it behind me, but it’s back again.”
“Put it out of your mind,” Libby said abruptly. “I’m going to make myself another coffee. Do you want one?”
“Okay,” Anna replied, struggling to hide her disappointment that her sister had shut the conversation down.
Libby had only just got to her feet when the doorbell rang. The sisters looked at each other with wide eyes as their minds quickly sifted through the possibilities of who it could be.
“I’ll take a look through the peek hole,” Libby said before tiptoeing out into the hallway, only to return a few seconds later. “There’s a chubby red-headed woman with black-rimmed glasses on the doorstep who looks very familiar.”
“Oh.” Anna leapt up and headed for the hallway. “That’s Joy, my PR agent.”
Anna quickly opened the front door, checking behind Joy to see if any press had found where she was staying.
“Don’t worry,” said Joy, kissing Anna on the cheek. “No one knows you’re here, although I’m sure they’ll work it out soon enough.”
Anna ushered Joy in and showed her through to the kitchen where Libby was busy making the coffee. “I’d better make it three cups then,” she said smiling, then reached out to shake Joy’s hand. “I’m sure we’ve met before though I can’t remember where.”
“Yes,” Joy replied, eyes squinting while she tried to figure it out. “I think it might have been a couple of Christmases ago at one of Anna and Richard’s drinks bashes.”
“That’ll be it,” Libby agreed. “That was probably the last one they invited me to after I slipped in their kitchen and ended up with my skirt over my head.” Libby laughed unselfconsciously at her own joke as she handed out the cups of coffee and guided the women over to the kitchen table.
Joy laid her huge Mulberry holdall on the floor and proceeded to pull out that morning’s papers. “Here is the news,” she said, in classic newsreader tone, slapping the papers down on the table.
Anna immediately seized a copy of a tabloid, which she held close to her face, studying its front page. “The man has no shame,” she said, throwing the paper over towards her sister.
Libby looked at the main image and headline and realised immediately why Anna was so upset. There, in full colour and taking up a quarter of the front page, was a picture of Richard, head thrown back and laughing raucously with his colleagues in a restaurant.
“Look at him living it up with Bob and Ray while I’m hidden away like some kind of scarlet w
oman.” Anna jabbed her finger at the picture while Libby nodded vigorously to show her support.
“For what it’s worth, Henry says Richard’s mortified by that photo. He said it was the one time he cracked a smile all evening,” Joy piped in.
“Yeah right,” sneered Anna. “He looks just devastated doesn’t he. Well, he doesn’t hold all the cards you know.”
“What do you mean?” Joy asked.
“I mean I’ve got about fifty messages on my mobile phone from newspaper editors and reporters asking me to call them. And I’ve just decided it’s time to make that call.”
“To who?” Joy asked again.
“To the Sunday Echo.” Anna reached onto the kitchen surface behind her and grabbed her mobile phone.
“Look Anna, don’t do anything rash,” Joy said, her face flushed with something that looked to Libby like panic. “Let’s just talk this one over and decide if it’s the right thing to do.”
“I’ve thought it over,” Anna said sharply. “I’m not having them run ten more pages of shit this weekend if there’s a chance I can actually get the truth out there instead. You don’t actually think I’m going to sit back and let the media paint me as some cheap whore who slept her way to the top when I’ve had to fight for every little scrap of success that’s ever come my way.”
Joy opened her mouth to speak but Anna fixed her with a look that said “don’t even try to dissuade me”, so she shrugged in defeat. “You’ve obviously made your mind up, Anna. Maybe Henry was right to say a showbiz PR like me doesn’t get the bigger picture – certainly none of you seem willing to listen to me any more. But I’ve been in this game a long time and I can tell you the one thing I know: the media is like a pack of hungry dogs, and if you feed them a juicy bone they will never leave you alone.”
“I think her message is clear,” Libby said, suddenly cutting in. “She’s been spat out by Richard like a piece of gristle when, in actual fact, she’s the one person in this entire situation that has some integrity. Soon the public’s going to see that and Richard, and your husband, are going to have a bit of explaining to do.” Libby arched her eyebrow defiantly before flashing Joy a forced smile.
Polls Apart Page 5
