Party Games (19 page)

*****

Tristan Rivers had left his new lover’s apartment that morning in a rather better mood than he thought he might, his tiredness merely a sign of a good night’s activity in delightful company. But, as Friday wore on and the sparkle of the morning disappeared, he became irritable again.  Driving to the constituency took considerable effort, the clunking of his Volvo estate reminding him that it was time for a service – or a new Volvo.  Much was playing on his mind but, as he drove, the light fading, drawing him nearer to the confrontation that awaited him, he dwelled on the negatives.  He would need to speak to Nicole again, plead with her to cut the legal cord of their dead relationship.

Colin had telephoned him just as he was throwing his weekend bag into the car.  The call took him by surprise and annoyed the hell out of him, the man was like a dog with a bloody bone, he couldn’t just leave it.  Tristan had seen his
Bulletin
interview and felt like talking to Colin even less than usual.  He began to palm him off, tell him that perhaps it could all wait until the New Year, but once again he was finding it difficult to say ‘no’.  Colin Scott just simply failed to understand the delicacies of some people’s situations. Or maybe he did – he just didn’t care.  Tristan agreed yet again to come to some gathering or another the following week, just to get him off the phone.  It worked, and he was left to drive the rest of the way in solitude, the clunk of the car and Radio 2 his only companions.  It was bliss.

That evening, unimpressed, accusing faces greeted him at the emergency meeting of his local Conservative Association.  Tristan may as well have stood naked on the top of Big Ben while publicly denouncing the Leader through a megaphone rather than resigning from a post he no longer enjoyed or benefited from. 

            “Are you sure there was
nothing
you could have done to prevent your resignation?”  The Treasurer Jane Douglas asked him in a quiet, almost disappointed voice. ‘Personality clash’ with his colleagues had been translated into ‘betrayal of the leadership’ and that, to loyal party members like Jane Douglas, could be a hanging offence.

            “No.  Really, believe me, no.” Tristan shook his head emphatically as Mrs Douglas sucked in her cheeks and cast a glance at Marjorie Baker, the efficient Association Chairman.  She hadn’t liked it any more than Mrs Douglas.  The official photograph of Rodney Richmond, smiling but professional, hung just above the Chairman’s head, and seemed to Tristan to loom even more prominent than usual in the small hall.  His agent, a very capable man with abundance of energy, looked rather lacklustre.  He had obviously been beaten down by the two women before the meeting, and Tristan’s begging glances were met with a knotted brow. Seven years after his selection as a candidate, Marjorie Baker needed any excuse to start de-selection proceedings against him.  It was a ‘personality clash’ of the worst kind – in so far as much as the old crow didn’t seem to have one.

“Look, I’ve been honest with you all, Rodney had a different idea of how he wanted the Whips Office to be run and I disagreed, so rather than dragging it out and risking public attention I decided it was in the best interests of everyone concerned to resign.  I’m sorry I couldn’t have given prior warning but it all happened so quickly.” 

“That’s politics, I suppose.”  Mrs Douglas said, but her expression remained unconvinced.

A few of the Association members nodded in mute sympathy, the young female chairman of Conservative Future even raising a reassuring smile, but Marjorie Baker and Mrs Douglas remained distinctly frosty.  It had been, in the end, one of the most unsatisfactory Association meetings Tristan had ever attended.  Even caffeine junkie Ted Evans didn’t move from his seat to boil the kettle for the obligatory after-meeting coffee.

That night, he was simply exhausted.  He had been far too focussed on the meeting for it to even occur to him to send Anthea so much as a text message until two post-meeting beers and half a take-away pizza had found their way down to his grumbling stomach.  Even then he had hesitated before abandoning his mobile in exchange for the TV guide and a glass of port.  What could he have said to her?  ‘I love you’?  ‘I’m missing you’?  ‘I think that journalist knows about us’?  ‘
I’m still married’
?

The next day, Tristan tried to call Nicole, but, as always, she wasn’t home. Or just not answering. He needed to send his son’s birthday present, although knowing what to buy a 13 year old he barely knew was almost impossible.   Nicole would probably send it back anyway, but he felt there was no harm in trying, even though Daniel lived with a man he now called his step-father.  Tristan blamed himself for not remaining in contact; he was at least telling Anthea the truth when he said he tried to fight for access, but Daniel was only six at the time and he had felt he had caused the child more than enough upset.  It would have been best for everyone if he had simply walked away, so in the end he did.  Regret could be a powerful emotion. If Nicole wasn’t prepared to be civilised then he would have to take more drastic action before it was too late.  He was already in love with Anthea and he was damned if Nicole was going to ruin it out of a spite which he thought was done with years ago.  He desperately wanted Anthea to understand.  He would tell her.  Next week.

The rest of the day was spent in his home gym, attempting to keep his 48 year old body fit.  Anthea had hinted how much she liked a man who took care of himself and although he hoped he wouldn’t disappoint, he needed to keep up his standards.  Stepping onto the running machine, he fixed the controls to a steady jog.  He had put off seriously thinking about his political future so as he began to find a good jogging rhythm, the balls of his feet padding lightly on the moving belt, his breathing steadied as he focussed his mind.

Sunday

The Martin Arnold story was well and truly out in the open.  Tristan barely felt like dragging himself away from cold toast while slouching in his boxers in front of
Sky News
.  He hadn’t even been swimming.  It wasn’t like him at all.

           
The Sunday Times
had been delivered as usual, with one article in particular catching his eye:

           
Power struggle at the heart of the Tories:
16 months on, the Conservatives are still reeling after their election routing.  Can Richmond ever heal the wounds, or do they run too deep?

Tristan would save that article for later, happy to note that he wasn’t mentioned.   Right now he needed to force himself to get some fresh air – and a copy of the
Sunday Engager. 
He had wallowed in his own self-pity for long enough.

“Morning, Mr Rivers.”  The newsagent smiled, raising a hand in greeting as Tristan, bleary-eyed and in his shirt from the day before, tried to enter his local shop unnoticed.

He nodded. “Yes, good morning Bob, and how has your week been?”  He put on his usual pleasantries but he hardly cared for the reply, it was always the same anyway.  His eyes had already wandered from Bob to the spread of Sunday newspapers.

 “Oh, so-so.  That group of school kids was in again, trying to nick half of the chocolate bars in the place.  I threatened to call the police again and they soon scarpered.  I only let two in at a time, as you know, but I shouldn’t have to.  Sorry to hear what happened with your job, d’you think you’ll get another one?”  Bob paused as he watched his MP scratch his forehead, obviously not listening.   Bob frowned.  “Didn’t you get your usual delivery this morning, sir?” 

Tristan had spotted the garish reds of the
Engager
, the headline bold and to the point:

TORY’S COMMONS ROMPS WITH LABOUR MP

“Err, yes I did, I just wanted some additional papers.”  Tristan replied, furtively snatching up a copy of the
Sunday Engager
and holding it close to his chest as if it were a top-shelf magazine.  As he hurriedly paid, one elderly lady caught his eye and smiled at him broadly. 
Damnit,
the woman had headed straight for him and began chattering away.

“…..oh and they play their music so loud, all night sometimes, Stan and I can hardly hear ourselves think let alone get a good night’s sleep!  They leave rubbish in our garden like it was the local tip and the children are so rude, Mr Rivers, they should the most awful things and that dog scares my Milly half to death!”  The diminutive lady held onto his arm and looked up at him pleadingly from behind thick lenses.  “What are you going to do about it?  Do I need an Anti-Social Behaviour whatsit?”

Other people had stopped to stare, as if they were all waiting for their MP to come up with some amazing solution to the old woman’s problem.

“The best thing, Mrs..?”

“Corkhill, Betty Corkhill.”

Tristan tried to produce his best smile but he was certain it had come out as a grimace.  “The best thing, Mrs Corkhill, is to speak to your local councillor or write to me with the details...”

“Oh can’t do that, my fingers are arthritic and my husband’s nearly blind.”  Mrs Corkhill shook her frail head as if he had asked her to play the have-a-go hero with her noisy neighbours.  Tristan kept his cool; how he hated it when constituents accosted him when he was going about his own, private business.  Didn’t they realise he needed some time off from their woes, especially on a Sunday?

“Ok, you can either make a surgery appointment or if you give me your phone number I can ask my caseworker to give you a call next week.” 

The woman mumbled something inaudible but generally seemed placated.  Tristan waited patiently as she shakily wrote her name and number down on the side of his
Engager
; if she noticed the headline she didn’t comment.  Maybe, Tristan thought cynically, people were now immune to such scandal clogging up their papers it barely registered.

After a joking “Not you, this Tory, is it sir?” remark from Bob, Tristan saw his chance to break free and hurried out to his car, climbing in and slamming the door firmly.  Anthea still hadn’t called, but he hadn’t really expected her to.  No doubt she had her nose buried in her own newspapers.  He folded out the
Engager
on the passenger seat and took stock of the headline before delving into the text of the article:

‘Westminster was rocked last night after it was revealed top Tory MP and former Shadow Environment Secretary Martin Arnold has been having a secret year-long affair with Labour backbench MP Laura Murphy.  The two first became friendly while on the All-Party Badminton Group, only weeks after the general election. 

Mr Arnold, married for ten years to top businesswoman Sarah Mortimer, has two children while his lover Laura Murphy is engaged to her long term partner and has a teenage son from a previous relationship.  Neither Mr Arnold nor Ms Murphy were available for comment last night, although friends of Mr Arnold says he is “working it out” with his wife and the two have “no plans to separate”
.

Mr Arnold surprised his party when he resigned last week but rumour soon replaced confusion after it was revealed he had had a secret meeting with the then Opposition Chief Whip Tristan Rivers…’

Quickly Tristan flipped the page, his heart in his mouth.

‘….a whole week before his departure during which Mr Arnold told him about his illicit relationship.   Tory Party leader Rodney Richmond issued a statement to us last night saying Mr Arnold “did the right thing” in resigning, while his local association has given their MP their “full backing”.  Ms Murphy’s local association declined to comment which may spell bad news for one of the Government’s potential high-flyers. 

It is alleged that Ms Murphy swiftly broke off their relationship once she had heard it was to become public knowledge, although one close friend said she had been “devastated”.  “At first it was a bit of harmless flirting but then it developed into something more serious.”  The source said last night.  “In the end she thought she was in love with Martin, they had grown very close despite their political differences.  It will take her a long time to get over it and now she is worried her career is done for.”’

The story went on for pages, interspersed with detailed descriptions of locations where the physical aspect of their relationship had allegedly taken place and photographs of the cheated partners in happier times.  Although Tristan was firmly heterosexual he could tell that Laura’s fiancé was better looking than Martin and he wondered what is was with women, maybe they were simply less shallow than men.  It made him think of Anthea; by any woman’s standards she should be with Rodney and not him. 

            He scanned the other pages –there were many.  The paper would be pretty pissed off Arnold had gone from the front bench before they could force him out, kicking and screaming, after a painful day or two of “wrestling with his conscience”.  Nevertheless, the paper would do an excellent circulation this Sunday and cause Richmond some added short-term discomfort.  Somehow Tristan knew full well more was to come, no paper worth its salt would spill everything in one edition. 

Grunting, Tristan turned on the engine.  He couldn’t help wondering what the papers would make of him and Anthea.  He pulled away from the kerb and was half way down the street before he realised.  He had forgotten to buy the bloody milk.

Nine

Sunday night

Sundays weren’t often all that busy at the Conservative Central Headquarters Press Unit.  This Sunday, however, Clare had felt as if Martin Arnold existed only to cause her agro.  At 28 she was already at the top of her field in the party, having recently been promoted from senior press officer in the leader’s media support to Rodney’s Press Secretary, much to Deborah’s consternation. She was too inexperienced, Deborah had argued with Rodney.  Yet here she now was, heading up the media onslaught during the small hours of Sunday morning.  She had assistants who dutifully shared the load but it remained relentless throughout the day as they fielded calls.