Party Games (15 page)

As soon as he could break free from this tiresome charade, Colin had another place to be, especially today of all days, the anniversary he so desperately wished to forget but never could.  If he closed his eyes he could relive it again, the awful sound of metal smashing metal, the horrific screaming, his body numbed to a dead weight as he stood helplessly watching on the side of the pavement, unable to move, blink, or cry out.  His memories of that day were awash with blood, drowning him, shredding his emotions until he could barely breathe...

If he had simply gone home after the dinner he might have drunk himself to sleep, like he had done for so many years previously, but not tonight.  If he could never hold her again, make love to her, if all he had to cling to was the memory of her beautiful face and an old photograph, then he would have to relive her again, resurfacing his deepest, most personal memories of the woman he lost on that day twenty-six years ago.  He would text 'be ready' to the pay-as-you-go mobile he had given Kathryn.  She would be prepared, dressed up for him as he liked, in classic basque and suspenders.  There would be no roses, no post-coital cuddles.  Not today.  He would expect to have his way and be in and out of the building - and her - all within half an hour.  It was the one night, as he had done for the past two years, when he would allow himself to pretend she was
her
, although Kathryn would never know how much it helped him cope. 

Colin drummed his fingers on the edge of the table as he glanced from side to side, chuckling at some banal joke by one of the party’s richest donors, a 35 year old multi-millionaire philanthropist who had charities in some of the poorest countries and a specific interest in international aid.  Simon Clarke OBE was guest of honour, and, to Colin’s relief, he had been rather engaging on a number of issues.  Colin had ignored Richmond as best he could - until Clarke brought up the issue of Cornish devolution.

“I am sure you would want me to be honest with you, Rodney.”  Clarke tapped the Leader’s arm, looking concerned.  Rodney mirrored his expression as the cheese and biscuits course arrived.  Clarke reached for a large wodge of stilton.  “It’s just that this Cornish devolution issue, I just worry that it’s getting rather a lot of...attention from you.  I mean, yes, I can see it’s important to people in the South West, but really, if they want to go independent, why not let them?”

Rodney nodded, acknowledging the donor’s opinion, but Colin had perked up on the other side of Clarke, his attention now fully focussed on their conversation.  He popped in a grape and slowly began to chew.

“I am a firm believer in keeping this country together, as a United Kingdom, and I think it would be horrific if it were torn apart by this Government.”  Rodney explained.  The champagne was being carried out in time for the toast, fizzing flutes placed in front of the guests.    “I don’t think that the people of Cornwall want to be cut off from the rest of the UK, and I firmly believe there is little, if no, support for such a ridiculous bill out in the country at large, and certainly no money to create such a separate province, as it would become if the Government’s Bill, as it stands, passes through Parliament...”

“But what if the Cornish people want devolution...”

“As I say, Simon, I don’t think they do, and I believe that it can best be solved through the party supporting a referendum on the issue, which I know a number of Labour rebels also are calling for.” 
Shit.
Eyebrows were raised around the table.  Rodney snapped his mouth shut.  Colin stifled a smile as Anthea turned from her seat behind him at the adjacent table, staring.  Jeremy looked aghast.  Colin saw his chance to cause maximum discomfort, aware Clarke’s cold hard cash could be a welcome addition to any potential leadership campaign.

“What Simon is saying is something I’ve been trying to tell you for weeks, Rodney.”  He said abruptly.   “And a referendum would be an expense we shouldn’t have to fund.  I know there is concern amongst some of the party membership that there should be a more robust ‘no’ campaign, and although I too oppose complete devolution for any part of the UK, I completely agree with Simon that the issue shouldn’t cloud other, more important policy areas.”

“Such as international development.”  Clarke quipped.

“Quite.  My point exactly.”

Jeremy lost his grip on his knife and it fell into his lap, butter smearing itself across his crisp dress shirt.  He cursed under his breath, glaring at Colin, the atmosphere between the senior MPs around the table turning frosty.  Linda rolled her eyes, handing her husband a tissue from her bag.  She sipped her
Britvic 55
and murmured to him that she longed for the biggest glass of pinot noir she could find.

For a moment, nothing else was said.  Rodney shot Colin a deadly look across the back of Clarke’s shoulders as the donor topped up his fizzy water.  Colin knew Rodney had to rake this back, take control, otherwise he would look a complete fool in front of a donor whose money the party could ill afford to lose.  The Party Chairman, quite evidently making the stains on his shirt worse with a thickly starched, damp napkin, sought out Rodney’s gaze to exchange a knowing look.

“I do understand yours – and Colin’s – points on this.”  Rodney said with a light chuckle.  Clarke raised a cautious eyebrow.  If he too had been surprised by Colin’s untimely intervention, he didn’t show it. Instead he spoke again before Rodney could defend the policy further.

“But I don’t think, from reading the papers, that a referendum is something I’ve heard mentioned before?  As Colin says, I suppose the money would need to be found for that...”

“Yes, Rodney.”  Colin continued, ignoring the silent daggers the Leader was firing his way. “I haven’t heard about this either.  I think Simon and I need enlightening.”

Jeremy cleared his throat, apparently abandoning the greasy, wet stain.  Linda gave him a nod and he scraped his chair back, ready to move.

“The party’s position on this issue is completely clear, as all of us will tell you, Simon.”  Jeremy’s voice was tense but he smiled.  “We oppose this Bill, and fully intend to defeat it in the House.  Anthea is doing a brilliant job on it, and I think our position is shared by the vast majority of the British people. Right, time is marching on, so I think I should get on with introducing the great man here.”  He rose to his feet before more could be said, ready to bring the room to order. Minutes later Colin joined in the rapturous applause as Rodney delivered the obligatory speech.  Colin needed the reprimand to come quickly.  His patience was fast running out.

Thirty minutes and a glass of champagne later, as the guests headed wearily and drunkenly towards the exits, Jeremy had a word in the Leader’s ear.

“I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”  He muttered.  “Let him know what a complete prick he’s been tonight, warn him off.  Although I already fear it’s winging its way to every major newspaper courtesy of Colin and his inability not to leak everything
.
”

Rodney shook his head, his fury not abating. “No,
I’ll
speak to him.  And now.”

Before Jeremy could hold him back, Rodney stalked over to where Colin was waiting to pick up his coat, his BlackBerry firmly in his grasp.  Most people had gone, including Anthea, Rodney noticing a flash of blue exiting the cloakroom.  He took Colin’s arm and swung him round, his phone almost falling.

“I don’t know what the hell you’re playing at, but don’t you
ever
contradict me, or question policy like that again, especially in front of a donor – one of our
most generous
donors – do I make myself clear?”  Rodney’s attractive face contorted in fury but he kept his voice quiet and steady.

Colin blinked in surprise, shaking Rodney’s grip. “But you’re the one who mentioned a referendum, and I was merely saying...”

“This is not up for debate right now!  I said, do I make myself clear, Colin?  Do we have an understanding?”

Colin simply nodded, his face flushed scarlet. 

“And if I hear this whole thing has leaked, I’ll know exactly who to blame, so watch who you speak to!”

Nothing more was said between the two men as Rodney Richmond eyed his rival with an intense distrust before heading off.  Fred would be waiting.

Colin stood for a moment, thinking.  He was furious with Rodney’s outburst, talking to him like a child. 
But he had heeded the warning shot perfectly.
He had spoken to Dickenson on the phone following the McDermott interview and had asked him to hold the Richmond/Lambert story for now.  The editor had reluctantly agreed - the time wasn’t quite right, but it soon would be.  The interview would be dynamite, and he relished the thought of the fall-out, he had the mind-bogglingly gullible Tristan Rivers just where he wanted him and, with the information he had so far, that private detective would be worth nearly every last penny.

            A small smile inched across his face.  He turned his attention back to his BlackBerry and sent a text: 
Be ready
.  He then sent the same message again, this time to a very different recipient. 

Matthew Gaines would understand perfectly.

*****

Tristan left a safe distance between him and Anthea as he headed along the Strand, loosening his bow tie as he went.   It would be quite a walk back to Anthea’s apartment, and although he relished the evening stroll and the crisp late autumn air in his lungs, he felt twitchy.  He had no idea if Anthea would peck him on the cheek and leave him out on the step or invite him up, and the longer she spent on the phone, most likely talking to that Chief of Staff of hers, the further away a passionate embrace seemed to be.

“Everything alright?”  He asked as Anthea finally ended the call and hurried over. 

“Yes, fine.”  She replied, glancing back to check they were in the clear.  “Peter’s worried about an article, that’s all. I don’t think he ever switches off.  Now, Mr Rivers, are you going to be a gentleman and walk me home?”

Tristan chuckled, holding out his arm.  “Why, Miss Culverhouse, I was about to offer.  Sadly I don’t know where you live, I mean, why would I?”

“Well, well.”  Anthea linked her arm with his and hugged it close to her chest.  He could feel the contours of her breasts through her thick coat.  Clearly at a level of relaxed intoxication, she leant in, her voice becoming a low, seductive whisper. “In that case, Mr Rivers, I had better lead and you had better follow.”

Neither mentioned the earlier argument at the restaurant and Tristan was not about to sour the moment.  They talked about everything during the long walk back to Anthea’s apartment; about her family, how she had coped with her father’s sudden death, about Ben, and the more she talked the more connected to her he felt.  They became so engrossed in each other’s company they took little notice of the Mercedes parked a short distance from Anthea’s building and the camera lens peering over the top of the steering wheel.

“Tonight was all the better for seeing you there.”  Tristan said softly as their walking naturally slowed.  She looked coy as he stopped by her door, breathing in the cool, still air, watching her as he moved closer, her green eyes captivating him through the moonlight.  He pulled her in gently by her waist.  “So is it goodnight then? Or, perhaps, a...a nightcap?”

Anthea smiled and took his hand, dragging him up the steps.  He wound his arms through her coat, hugging her close against the door, before kissing her longingly, their breath warm against the night air.

 “Let’s get inside.”  Anthea murmured urgently, but as they stumbled across the threshold Tristan’s mobile began to ring shrilly inside his coat pocket.  Grunting he broke the embrace and grasped his phone, infuriated anyone should be calling him this late.  The number was a mobile, but not one Tristan recognised.  He cast Anthea a confused glance and answered coolly.

“Tristan, it’s Fergus McDermott here, sorry to call so late, how are you?”  A thick Glaswegian brogue replied jovially.

Tristan’s stomach lurched unhappily as he followed Anthea into the hallway of her apartment building.  “Err, very well thanks.”   With a quick paranoid scan of the street he quietly shut the door.  A journalist ringing this late – it couldn’t be for an off the record chat, a story must need beefing up.

“Good, good.  Have you time for a few questions?”  Keeping his tone, and therefore the mood, light was McDermott’s speciality, as Tristan knew all too well.

“Well, I suppose so, although I’m not so sure I know what I can help you with, Fergus.”  Tristan hoped he didn’t sound concerned, these journalists seemed to train themselves to notice a mere hint of alarm – a slight elevation in the voice, talking too quickly, an all-to-speedy denial of the truth.  No wonder Richmond and Jeremy Cheeser were pros at unravelling their colleagues, dissecting human nature with a ruthless efficiency.  He walked slowly up the stairs towards Anthea’s apartment.  She turned to him on hearing ‘Fergus’, annoyance flushing her face.

“I’m sure you know that Martin Arnold is about to come a cropper in a well-known rag within the next few days.  I just wanted a quick word to get the ex-Chief Whip’s point of view.”  McDermott said, pausing.  “Did he come to you when you were still Chief Whip, before his resignation?  I’ve heard he may have turned up in your office a whole week before the reshuffle.”

Tristan’s blue eyes narrowed as he lowered himself onto Anthea’s sofa and rubbed his chin.  Maybe it was best to give him a little something, stop him from probing him deeper.  “Yes, he did come to see me.  It’s quite normal procedure for colleagues who might….have got themselves into trouble.”

“But do you not think that Arnold should have gone straight to Richmond and told him he had been fingered by a paper rather than simply waiting for him to shuffle his team before he told him?” 

“That’s something for the individual, all I could do is accept what they say and advise them to talk to the leader.”  Tristan kept his nerve, determined not to let his voice falter, but his shoulders tensed.