Party Games (21 page)

“I’ll tell them you’ll only do education.”  Clare said firmly. 

“No, don’t.  If they want to ask me about it then fine, otherwise it’ll be obvious we’ve gagged them.  I’ll probably want to say something along the lines of: I genuinely do not remember every conversation I have had with my ex-girlfriend about colleagues, but I am satisfied my Shadow Cabinet contains high-calibre political talent and we’re all getting on with the job of attacking this wasteful, authoritarian Government.  I have full confidence in my team.” 

“Once again, McDermott gave us nothing.”  Clare said angrily.  Rodney could hear the tearful quiver to her voice.  “I just don’t understand why - why the
Bulletin
is crapping on us from such a great height all of a sudden!”

“It’s not sudden.  It was always going to happen.”  Rodney said quietly, but decided to say no more.   He had always feared Dickenson and McDermott would want to cause him trouble. 

He ended the call and sat up in bed for a few minutes longer, his dark brown hair so perfect in public a ruffled mess from a restless night, staring at the pillow where a familiar head had once lain. It was best he didn’t concern himself with his own, private feelings about Jenny.  He had a job to do, a speech to deliver and a reputation to salvage.  It would be his own weakness if he reached for the phone and called Anthea for those same words of comfort and reassurance she had given him the day Jenny left him.  He wasn’t worried that she would say he was cheating on her with Anthea, she was shrewd enough not to blatantly lie, but what did concern him were those late-night arguments in which Anthea featured heavily.  Jenny was her mother’s daughter alright and wanted to bring him down, but he was damned if she was going to succeed. 

*****

8.15am

Rodney had called her at 6.30am, from the back of his Prius on his way to the Commons.  Anthea had merely been stirring, morning doziness somewhere between asleep and awake.  She was having a strange, rather lucid dream about her dead father when her mobile rudely interrupted, but when she saw through her bleariness Rodney’s name flashing she answered hurriedly and in panic.   No, she told him, she hadn’t heard anything about the
Bulletin
, nor any rumours that Jenny was about to spill the beans, and yes of course she would come to see him at 11am.  The relief in his voice had been immense, but Anthea didn’t like say she wasn’t all that surprised by Jenny’s actions, nor feel the urge to say “I did warn you”, but the woman was a total bitch and she hoped for Jenny’s sake she didn’t come across her in the near future.

            She was engrossed in her copy of the
Bulletin
when the light knock sounded on her Portcullis House office door.  She could only think of one person who might visit her that early.

            “Come in.”  She called, running her fingers through her hair and moistening her red lips.    Seconds later, Anthea and Tristan were facing each other, alone for the first time since Friday morning. 

            “Hi.”  Tristan said, hovering by the door.  Endearingly to Anthea, he seemed a little nervous.  “I just thought I’d see if you were here, say ‘hello’ before the madness of the day kicks in.”

Anthea smiled coyly, stepping out from behind her desk to reveal a cherry red pencil dress which complimented the strawberry tint to her hair.  It was early and a safe haven for a few precious moments together and to take stock of events since Colin’s interview.  She leant against her desk, smiling, wondering – hoping –he might approach her.

             “I thought I might have heard from you.”  Tristan said.  He shuffled his feet, his blue eyes flickering over her.  “Busy weekend?”  

            “I’m really sorry, Saturday raced by with speech writing, then what with all the Martin Arnold business yesterday and now this
Bulletin
crap I…. Oh, I’m so selfish – how did it go?  On Friday?”

He shrugged, subconsciously producing the ‘lost little boy’ look Anthea thought he did so well.  “As expected, really.  They didn’t exactly threaten to de-select me, but I could see it in their eyes.  In Marjorie’s eyes.  She hates me.”

Anthea pushed aside the
Bulletin
and idly flipped through the less controversial
Cornish Weekly
magazine. 

“I’m sure she doesn’t hate you, and I’m sure you explained your position well enough, there’s probably nothing to worry about.”  She said, but her breath caught in her throat as Tristan unexpectedly reached out, tracing his fingers across hers as her hand rested on the table. 

“I’ve missed you.”  He admitted in a hushed voice.  His touch felt electric as their fingers entwined but the sobering Monday morning feeling helped them both contain themselves.  Anthea toyed with the end of his tie, their eyes locked in a flirtatious gaze. 

“I’ve missed you too.”  She breathed, her fingers grazing his cheek.  “I’ve thought about you a lot this weekend.  I thought time apart would do us good, it’s happening so fast...but the truth is, by Saturday I wanted to see you.  Desperately.”

They kissed urgently, that instant rush of excitement resurfacing.  Neither wished to break the physical contact, but as Tristan’s hand drifted further down Anthea’s neckline she hesitantly brought herself to her senses and took hold of it.

“Maybe we could do dinner?”  Tristan suggested, nuzzling her hair.  “At my place this time?  I’m quite the cook if I put my mind to it.  Anthea, are you even listening to me?”

Something had caught his lover’s eye in the open
Cornish Weekly
and her mouth flopped open.  “I don’t believe...”

“What is it?”

Roughly scooping up the magazine Anthea mouthed the words to herself in horror as Tristan glanced over her shoulder. 

“I don’t believe it.”  Anthea repeated, hurt and anger flickering across her face.  “He did it, went behind my back.”  She turned back to Tristan but there was now a distance in her eyes where a moment ago there had been affection.  “How could he?  How could he discuss the Bill behind my back?  Didn’t he think I’d find out?”

Her voice quivered as she fought back tears of fury. Tristan scanned the article, shaking his head. He sighed. It struck Anthea that it was the first time Tristan had seen her faith in Rodney shaken, but if they were to have any sort of relationship at all, he would see her most inner feelings, raw and real.

“You’d better go.”  Anthea mumbled as she sank into a chair, the magazine hanging limply from her hand. 

 “I’m sure there’s some rational explanation for the article.”  Tristan tried unconvincingly, but they both knew the article smacked of Rodney apparently unable to let Anthea get on with the job.

“When you were Chief Whip,” Anthea finally asked, her eyes still lowered, “did you ever wonder ‘why do I bother’?”

“Frequently.”  He replied.

 “Go on, you’d better go.”  Anthea said softly.  “It’s nearly 8.30, Peter will be here any minute and I need him to hit the ground running today.” 

Tristan pouted, feigning annoyance. “Damn that Chief of Staff of yours!  Does that mean we don’t have time for a little….Martin Arnold moment?”

“A Martin Arnold moment?  That sounds a positive turn-off!”  Anthea laughed, the anger subsiding briefly.  She saw the mischievous smile on Tristan’s face and felt butterflies in her stomach.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t see page five of the
Sunday Engager
.”  He exclaimed flirtatiously, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.  “Desks and all!  Didn’t know the chap had it in him…”

Suddenly they heard a single beep and a key being turned in the lock of Anthea’s office. 
Peter.
  Hurriedly Tristan pulled away from the desk and checked his tie was straight just in time as a serious-looking Chief of Staff, in his early 30s, appeared in the doorway.  Peter raised his eyebrows in obvious surprise at the unexpected visitor but he didn’t look suspicious as he greeted him with a curt “good morning”, tossing his own copy of the
Bulletin
onto the lid of his laptop. 

“Morning.”  Tristan said brightly.  “Anyway, Anthea, good to catch up.  I’ll leave you to it.”

“Tristan, hang on!”  Anthea called out.  Peter frowned as she thrust the copy of
Cornish Weekly
at him, tapping firmly on the article and glancing knowingly at him before she and Tristan skirted out of the office.  Peter rubbed his forehead at the headline, an aggressive but quiet “shit!” passing his lips.

“Sorry about that, he’s never a minute late!”  Anthea laughed, her voice a whisper.  She pulled the door closed behind her.

“Don’t worry.”  Tristan said, keeping his eyes on their surroundings.  “Look, I thought I’d catch up with you in the Chamber today, you’ve got departmental questions, haven’t you?”

“Yes.  I’m keeping it Cornwall-relevant, of course, going to keep on at Ian Harvey until he snaps.”

“Well, I may try to ask a question, keep my profile up, make sure that my Honourable Friend is performing adequately in her role.” 

Although not touching, Anthea felt his closeness, the warmth of his body, the already familiar smell of his skin.  Her mouth felt dry and her heart thumped.

            “Ok, if you insist, but don’t distract me, Mr Rivers!  I’m trying my best to keep business and pleasure strictly separate.”

Tristan glanced up the empty corridor as he brushed a finger across her chin.  “I don’t care where I see you, as long as I do.  Just don’t forget to turn and smile.”

“Shall I call you?  Later?”  Anthea’s voice was so low it was almost inaudible.  Suddenly, they heard voices as two cleaners approached.  Tristan stepped away hurriedly, the two women passing by with a smile of greeting.

“I’m going to…a little get-together later but I should be done around 11pm, if that’s not too late.”  Tristan muttered.  “And good luck with Rodney.” 

  “Yes, thanks.”  Anthea sighed.   She opened her office door a crack, Peter’s voice animated beyond the thick wood.  “But if he thinks I’m going to be all tea and sympathy, he’s got another thing coming.”

Ten

Monday, 10.58am

When Deborah told him that her Chief of Staff colleague Peter had been on the phone, stressing about some article in the
Cornish Weekly
, Rodney hadn’t taken much notice.  It wasn’t that he didn’t usually listen to Deborah when she talked, it was simply that Peter was known for worrying unduly over matters which tended to be of little significance and Rodney hardly felt in the mood for such trivia.  This time he assumed it was no exception.  He was so preoccupied with his own consuming fury with his old boss Sir Geoffrey Dickenson and with psyching himself up for his speech the panicky voices of Clare and Deborah seemed to pass through each ear and out the other with alarmingly little comprehension on his part. 

She didn’t have a copy of that damned Cornish rag, Deborah had fumed at the top of her voice, so somebody better get it for her and bloody quick before Peter called for a third time.  An online print-out finally landed on Deborah’s desk at 11.02am.  It was too late for Rodney to see.

“Ah, Anthea.”  Rodney beamed, failing to notice the look of absolute fury on her face as she marched into his office, shutting the door behind her a little too soundly.  “I’m so glad you’re here, this whole
Bulletin
thing seems to be getting worse, but at least I’ve already spoken to Steven and he’s quite relaxed, I like to think we patched up our differences months ago...”

        “How bloody well could you?”  Anthea interrupted, her voice strained as her eyes flickered angrily.  Rodney blinked, the friendly grin falling away in utter confusion.  Before he could utter “I beg your pardon”, she smacked the open
Cornish Weekly
firmly down in front of him.  Rodney swallowed hard, his face creasing in recognition as his eyes scanned the offending article. 

LABOUR SET FOR CORNISH DEAL WITH TORIES

             “Ah.”  He said with a heavy sigh.  He slumped into his chair and met Anthea’s cold, determined expression.  She folded her arms and stared at him with such an intensity he felt an uneasy shiver ripple over his body.

        “Well?”  She demanded.  “Peter’s not been able to get a sensible answer out of Deborah so I thought I’d give you a try!  Do you know anything about it?  I certainly hope you do otherwise someone’s got an awful lot to answer for!  And who is the ‘Tory source’, eh, it certainly isn’t me…”

            “If you’ll just let me speak I’ll tell you!”  Rodney raised his hands in protest.  Anthea’s mouth snapped shut. “It’s Jeremy, but don’t be angry with him, I asked him to do it, you know how well he can negotiate, everyone loves Jeremy, including many on the Labour benches…”

Anthea looked aghast at the mention of the Chairman’s name.

“This is
my
brief, Rodney, not Jeremy’s, not anybody else’s, and you personally asked him to meet with Jack Fisher - Jack Fisher for God’s sake, after all I said!”  Anthea began pacing the office, unnerving Rodney as he struggled to calm her.

“Anthea, calm down.  I honestly didn’t think Fisher would go to his local press with this, knowing the sensitivities of it...” Rodney began, trying out his best calming smile. It failed miserably. 

“Calm down?  How can I calm down when you've been plotting over Cornish independence behind my back, like I was insignificant, like you could just ignore the fact that
I'm
the one with responsibility for it!  And of course Fisher would go to his local press, the man’s still a loudmouth, he doesn’t
do
sensitive, that’s why I said to
wait
!  And what you said to Clarke, it all makes sense now!  Fisher told Jeremy he wants a referendum deal with us, didn’t he?”  Anthea retorted as her voice began to break, but her large eyes remained tearless as they bore into Rodney as if she were tearing into his very soul.

        “I wasn't
plotting
, let me explain!”  Rodney demanded, his initial shock now irritation.  Anthea cocked her head and raised her eyebrow quizzically.  “Ok, you want to put cards on the table over this?  I asked Jeremy to speak to Fisher as I thought you were wrong to not at least let him know what our intentions were.  You know I thought that, I hardly kept it a secret, we had the discussion about it!”