Kiss and Tell

by Leo McNeir

  And you want people to believe that?

  Yes. It’s the truth. Despite what your listeners may feel, I honestly haven’t come here this evening with the intention of exposing ... shall we say, your little – or perhaps not so little – indiscretion, perhaps more than a peccadillo, in (pause) Skelmersdale, for example. That is not my purpose.

  Silence. Boyce made a croaking sound. Anthony pushed a glass of water towards him. All over the country smiles were spreading across faces that a few moments earlier were beginning to register boredom. Motorists turned up the volume of car radios; mothers stopped pushing spoons of baby food into the mouths of their infants. Anthony grinned at Boyce across the studio deck. The young man struggled to regain his composure.

  Well, at the rate you’re going, it’ll soon only be safe to report stories about the Pope and Mother Theresa.

  Anthony smiled.

  I think you should be careful whose names you link together these days ... could be controversial.

  *

  Downstairs in the hall, Anne was dripping a small rain puddle on the woodblock floor. It was frustrating not being able to hear the interview. She did not even know if Anthony would be leaving the building via the main entrance. Outside, it was still raining steadily. She shivered and wondered if she could find the ladies’ loo and stand under an electric hand-drier for a few minutes. Not a good idea, she thought; she might miss Anthony. There was nothing for it but to wait patiently and make a damp patch on the chair. She sneezed.

  *

  The interview was drawing to a close. Boyce knew there were some risks not worth taking at this stage in a career. He let Anthony have a clear run, and Anthony soldiered on.

  I challenge any public figure to state categorically that they do not have a guilty secret or two. Nothing could make up for the fact that my dear wife committed suicide. But if I can expose the hypocrisy that is rife in Britain, at least I will have achieved something.

  Mr Leyton-Brown, is it fair to say that you are out for vengeance?

  I want to redress the balance. Hypocrisy is the British malaise. Politicians stand for election promising to cut taxes and at the same time increase spending. We all know it’s absolute nonsense. Any fool can see that. But it’s the game we play. We vote people into office as if they were saints and then cry foul if they stray from some imaginary path of virtue.

  And you want revenge on the system?

  Why not, after all I’ve suffered? Revenge is a very pure motive. It’s always sincere. Don’t forget that.

  Anthony had given the newspapers their headline for the next day.

  *

  When the lift doors opened, Anthony burst into the entrance hall like a rocket. He caught sight of movement and saw Anne leaping to her feet. She rushed to join him at the door and was surprised to find him smiling.

  “It went well, obviously.”

  “You could say that. Where’s the car?”

  “Round the corner.”

  “Positive thinking, eh?” He looked at her. “Goodness, you’re drenched. You look like a drowned rat!”

  She sneezed on cue. “And it’s still raining. Look, there’s no point in us both getting soaked. You wait here, I’ll fetch the car.”

  She was gone before he could protest. A minute later, the Mondeo appeared outside, and he raced to get in while Anne slid across to the passenger seat.

  “Sorry if I’ve made it damp for you.”

  “That’s all right. What’s our direction?”

  “It’s the TV studio, but I’m not due there for nearly two hours. I’d really like to have a hot bath and get out of these wet things.”

  Anthony pulled into the traffic. “Where to, then?”

  “Mrs Jolly’s, please, if you don’t mind. We’ve got plenty of time.” Anthony was changing gear when Anne raised a hand to her mouth. “Oh no. That’s no good.”

  “Why not?”

  “Can’t get in. Mrs Jolly’s out. Marnie’s got the spare key.”

  “There’s a shower on Rumpole,” Anthony ventured. “Better than nothing, perhaps.”

  “I’m still stuck with these wet clothes.” Anne’s next sneeze was seconds away. “I’m soaked through to my underwear.”

  They moved slowly forward in silence. Anthony quickly switched lanes and made a right turn, gaining ground by threading his way deftly through side streets, joining the main road network further on. Anne checked the atlas.

  “Where are we going? This is the opposite way from Little Venice.”

  “Trust me,” said Anthony. “I’ve got an idea.”

  *

  A few miles to the west, Marnie finally put her mobile down, having ticked the last name off her list. She had been so absorbed in the task in hand that she had not given a moment’s thought to Anthony’s interview. What she had planned was probably not illegal, but Ralph had warned her that if she was ever found out, she could face the risk of being sued by at least two of the biggest companies in the land. She shuddered.

  *

  Anthony needed no navigator for this journey, pressing on over roads he knew well. When they encountered traffic, he took short cuts, staying ahead of the game. Anne realised they were going down towards the river, but a long way west of Docklands. They surged past the buses on Putney Bridge and charged up the High Street, squeezing through gaps and jumping the lights when Anthony judged he could do so without being caught. Their route and destination were a mystery to Anne.

  Three or four more turnings and they found themselves in a residential area, large houses set back with gravel drives and spacious grounds. Something about the place seemed familiar, though Anne had never been there in her life. Anthony slowed at each junction and eventually slipped round a corner and stopped, staring forward into the distance through the rain that was falling more lightly now. He eased the car away, cruising slowly down the road. Anne noticed that he pushed his neck back into the headrest so that his face was half-concealed by the door pillar. He reached the end of the road and turned back. This time, he travelled at normal speed and pulled sharply into the drive of a house on the corner, bringing the car to a standstill under the branches of a weeping birch tree. He scanned the house and grounds while the engine was running. No-one stirred. He switched off. Anne knew he had come home.

  “Let me go first to open the door,” he said. “I’ll need a moment or two to switch off the alarm.” He turned in the seat. “This is the best I could think of, Anne. I hope it’s all right.”

  “Yes,” she said simply.

  At once he leapt out, walked briskly to the door and went in. Anne followed and waited to be told she could enter the hall. It was a Victorian house of generous proportions, with a tiled floor and heavy doors of dark wood. There was an unlived-in smell, but at least it was dry and solid. Anthony emerged from a walk-in cupboard.

  “Right. We haven’t got long. Let me show you the bathroom.” He led the way upstairs, Anne trying not to think she was alone in a strange house with a man notorious for dubious morals and unsavoury relations with young girls. He continued talking as they climbed the stairs that were covered in thick, deep red carpet. “The bathroom has a heating system that works separately, like the Paloma on the boat. You can have as much hot water as you like.”

  “But what about clothes?”

  “That’s why I’ve brought us here. I can find you something from Melissa’s wardrobe. She was about your size, more or less.” He saw Anne’s expression. “No, it’s okay. There are plenty of clothes she never wore. I’ll find new things. She was always shopping.”

  He turned on the taps, and the bath, a huge white enamelled structure that was probably original, began to fill with steaming gushes of water. It looked so good to Anne.

  “There are loads of oils and things,” said Anthony. “Just help yourself. Let me get my razor and I’ll leave you to it. It’s time this beard came off, time I came out of hiding. I’ll fetch you some towels.”

  “Do you want to shave
in here?”

  “No, I’ll use the downstairs cloakroom.”

  He returned in a minute to find Anne perched on the side of the bath, running her fingers in the rising water.

  “There’s some Chanel bath oil on the side there. Do use it. You’ll need a couple of capfuls for a deep bath. And here are some things to put on. I’ve, er, taken the liberty of including some underclothes. I hope that’s all right.” He seemed embarrassed, saddened.

  “Thank you.”

  “Not at all. I think your shoe size is a little larger than Melissa’s. Put some toilet tissue in them, and they’ll dry out a bit. Okay, it’s all yours. You can soak for about twenty minutes. I’ll be downstairs.” He paused in the doorway. “Oh and, er, there’s a bolt on the door. Do use it.”

  “I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”

  “Please, Anne. I’d like you to bolt the door.”

  “All right.”

  She shut the door and pushed the bolt home. The bath oil smelled luxurious. Slowly she peeled off her wet things and laid them in a pile on a shelf at the foot of the bath. Standing naked while the water level climbed, she examined the clothes that Anthony had brought for her. They were new, as he had promised, good labels with price tags still attached. He had made an apt choice: two skirts in summer prints, a few cotton blouses in pastel shades and white cotton underwear. There were even some pairs of tights and a box of earrings. She tried not to think of the woman who had bought them that spring, and who now lay quietly in her grave.

  Anne stepped into the bath, swirling the water round. She lowered herself carefully into the hot scented foam. It caressed her skin and took away the discomfort of the drenching rain. She rested her head against the bath edge and closed her eyes. It was blissful.

  The twenty minutes passed too quickly, and Anne had to leave time for a shampoo. When she went downstairs, she found Anthony sorting through mail at a glass-topped occasional table in the drawing room. He seemed in better spirits than she had ever known. The beard had gone, and he had changed into a jacket and slacks, with an open-neck shirt.

  “You look great,” he said. “Feeling better?”

  “Much. That was a brilliant idea. Thank you.”

  “Good. Okay, let’s get going.”

  “Are you coming too?” There was an edge of doubt in her voice.

  “You bet I’m coming. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

  *

  Marnie was pacing conspicuously up and down in the entrance to the theatre and saw Anne and Anthony as they spotted her. She stared at Anne’s clothes.

  “What are you wearing?”

  “These ... belonged to Melissa, but she’d never worn them. I got soaked in the rain, had to have a bath and change. I’ll tell you about it later. Everything was okay.”

  “Nothing to worry about, Marnie,” said Anthony. “I took Anne back to my house. There was no-one there to see us.”

  “Okay. We’d better go in before they shut the doors. We’ll be right at the back.”

  They presented their tickets and were shown to seats in the back row near the exit. The floor manager was already explaining that this was a live show and the audience was allowed to show its appreciation. For the sake of continuity, as he put it, they would at times indicate when they wanted applause. He held his hands above his head and clapped. If he did that, everyone should applaud. They could cheer and even whistle, but not stamp their feet.

  Anne was gazing at the elaborate stage set, with its sweeping staircase, chairs laid out for guests and a rostrum for the presenter. There was a film screen over the stairs and, to one side, a five-piece band was sorting out its instruments, occasional notes being practised as a humorous accompaniment to the floor manager’s instructions. Dotted about were television cameras, each one served by an operator and a minion holding cables. On each camera a tiny monitor glowed, and a red light appeared on top of them at intervals.

  Above the whole set, glowing in fluorescent blue splendour, hung the programme’s title: Lifelines.

  With one last wish that everyone should enjoy themselves and make the audience at home know they were having a great time on the show, the floor manager introduced the presenter, Lance Gallagher.

  He was a household name, a television personality, and he glided down the staircase as if it had been built for him to descend from Mount Olympus. He explained that they expected a national audience for the show of around six million viewers. The ‘victim’ that evening was someone who had enormous influence over how the country was run. He was not a politician or an actor, or even a football player. That elicited a burst of laughter.

  Gallagher droned on, revealing that their guest’s story was an enthralling tale of risk-taking, boardroom intrigue and the pursuit of ambition. He had claimed credit for ensuring the elections of Mrs Thatcher and Mr Major to number ten Downing Street. He was the maker and breaker of reputations. But despite his awesome authority, he remained a human being of discerning taste, who had made donations to art galleries and endowments to universities. And yet he was rarely seen in public, preferring to stay in the shadows. This would be a rare glimpse behind the scenes in the real corridors of power.

  As the lights went down, and the scripted applause went up, Marnie leaned over to Anne.

  “You smell nice,” she whispered. “Expensive.”

  “Chanel, my dear. Nothing but the best.”

  Marnie moved her hand up to Anne’s face and touched an earring. Anne stuck out her chin and smiled impishly. The sound from the band became louder as a disembodied voice announced Lance Gallagher to even more rapturous applause. Marnie moved her hand away and crossed her fingers. Anne’s smile changed abruptly to a grimace. Anthony sat impervious beside them.

  The applause rang out again when Gallagher introduced Jeremy Hawksby, to whom the whole event seemed a complete surprise. Perhaps it was, Marnie thought, but she had lately begun to wonder if anything in the media was quite what it appeared to be.

  So there he was before them, The Monster. Marnie glanced at Anthony, but his face revealed nothing. Hawksby was tall and smartly dressed in a dark suit, with a grey silk shirt and matching tie, both shimmering under the studio lights that also picked out the grey handkerchief in his top pocket. He exuded confidence and seemed to be enjoying this rare sortie into the public gaze.

  For the first fifteen minutes the audience was treated to a parade of film and television stars, sports celebrities and government ministers, all apparently queuing up to heap praise on the guest of honour. Marnie was impressed with the sheer efficiency of the operation. They must have had a line of the Great and the Good waiting behind the scenes to make their way down the gilded staircase. Each new arrival was heralded by their image on the film screen as they spoke lines that may or may not have been rehearsed, but always sounded sincere.

  She had never quite understood how television people got their jobs and kept them over the years, but she could see why Gallagher was likely to be in secure employment forever. He combined smoothness with an unerring talent for finding just the right turn of phrase to suit every occasion. He was unflappable and totally professional, making his whole presentation seem utterly effortless. If anyone was going to survive the evening, he would.

  A member of the England football team was just taking his seat among the guests, having warmly embraced the editor who had demanded his recall to the national squad after a period in the doldrums, when Gallagher announced that life had not always been caviar and champagne for Jeremy Hawksby. He had grown up in London and gone to school there. He was still remembered for his lively membership of the Debating Society at his old school and for a recent generous donation to build a new library and media centre. Gallagher turned to look up at the screen. But it was not the former headmaster, or even the current one whose face appeared. It was a child.

  Hawksby was looking towards the audience, waiting for a familiar voice to ring out, and the first intimation he had that things were not
quite right was when the theatre went completely silent. He looked quickly up at the screen, but it was now blank. There, at the top of the glowing staircase, stood a woman in jeans and sweater, holding up a large photograph of an infant.

  “Something else to be remembered for, Jeremy,” she said in a voice that was wavering with nervousness.

  Gallagher swiftly turned towards the floor manager, who shook his head in puzzlement.

  “My name used to be Jenny Poulter. This is our baby, Jeremy. Of course, she’s grown up now, but you’ve never helped her, so I thought you might like to see what she was like when you dumped me.”

  Hawksby was riveted to the chair, struggling but failing to switch his smile back on. His mouth gaped open. The audience was buzzing. Some wondered if it was a stunt and if they should applaud. A few laughed momentarily. The cameras tracked the woman as she walked down towards where Hawksby was sitting. Marnie tried to imagine the pandemonium in the producer’s gallery.

  There was a gasp from the audience as another new person appeared on the stairs, and one camera swung up like a curious animal to film the girl in the yellow cagoule. It was Marlene, and she looked terrified, but she walked down without flinching.

  “My name’s Marlene. I was the girl in the newspaper photographs with Anthony Leyton-Brown, the MP who’s been causing all the fuss this week. I want to tell you it was all a set-up. I was hired by this man, Mr Hawksby, to trick the MP so the pictures could go in the papers. I never had a real relationship with Mr Leyton-Brown. It was all a sham, and I’m sorry for my part in it, very sorry. Please believe me. You mustn’t let that man get away with it.”

  She pointed at Jeremy Hawksby, sitting in the chair of honour, his face the colour of an aubergine.

  Lance Gallagher had all but given up trying to keep control and was frantically talking into a tiny microphone on his lapel. Marnie longed to know what form the conversation took between the presenter and his producer.