Party Games (46 page)

“Tonight’s it, you know.  No more unexpected visits.  You shouldn’t come here again.”  Rodney said a while later.  He lay down, breathless and hot, privately wondering how he had gone for so long without such release.  Now his urgent need had given way to guilt and it made no sense. 

 “God, I know that!”  Jenny laughed, collapsing back into the ruffled bed.  She gazed across at him with a puckered smile and ran the tips of her fingers across the contours of his face.  “But Christ, that was incredible. 
Incredible
.”

Rodney could feel himself drifting into sleep, his body content even if his mind was awash with nebulous thoughts.  She was talking to him and he could sense her warmth and smell but was unable to stop his fall into unconsciousness.  He tried to speak, tell her she should probably leave right now, but he didn’t have the will.

“I’ll always fancy the hell out of you though.”  Jenny nuzzled his ear.  Her voice was distant.  “I’m still so sorry about what I did, I was just so jealous of you and Mummy and so angry you had kept it secret from me.  Rodney, you awake?”

Soft snoring and the slow, steady rise and fall of Rodney’s chest told Jenny that he had stopped listening.  She watched him, a naked leg wrapped around his under the sheets, wondering why on earth Anthea Culverhouse turned him down.  He hadn’t needed to say it; the air of disappointment about him at the mention of her was proof enough.  Anthea would regret her decision one day, Jenny was sure.  Jenny herself might still have harboured feelings for him, but she was a realist.  Tonight, however, Rodney Richmond was the best lover she had ever known in this lonely world and he felt wonderful, comforting.  That loud-mouthed fool Ian Harvey wasn’t a patch on him, sexually nor intellectually.  She wondered whether Harvey had called her home and left a pitiful answer phone message about how his sacking-cum-resignation had been everyone else’s fault and how he was desperate to see her again, like she could give a damn.  Jenny may have screwed him a couple of times, charity for a Cabinet Minister suffering political hardship, but she wasn’t his agony aunt, he could use his poor cow of a wife for that. 
Fucking loser.
 

She lightly ran her nails in a spiral across Rodney’s chest and he twitched in his sleep.  Placing a delicate kiss on his parted lips, she set her mobile to wake her at 5.30 for a swift, inconspicuous getaway then snuggled next to him, draping her arm across his torso.  They would make love again before she finally rose from his bed.

*****

A warm blanket of water brought instant relief to Anthea’s aching feet as she enjoyed a late-night soak.  She forced her mind to relax, her senses soothed by the lavender aroma of the candles around her.  For the first time in days, she felt at peace.  She had thought about Cornish devolution until her brain throbbed and it would have been lovely if welcoming fingers could place themselves on her scalp and tantalise her nerves.  He had been expert at such things and she missed it – missed
him
. 

            Her phone lay on a towel next to her and she was thankful for its silence.  No press officer calling about more interviews, no Chief of Staff worrying, no unsolicited calls from journalists chasing for quotes on the leadership.  She had decided she wouldn’t answer the phone if it rang anyway.  It was there for outgoing calls only.  One call she had to make.

            Opening one eye, she reluctantly peered at it.  She thought again of those fingers, those hands, how they felt over her body, the laughter she shared with him, the long cuddles, his heart beating in her ear as she rested her head on his bare chest. With a defeatist sigh, Anthea dried her hand on the towel and snatched up the phone.  She didn’t need his number written down, it remained etched into her mind, as was the feeling of excitement when those eleven digits would flash up.

            Slowly, deliberately, she punched in the digits and pressed ‘call’.  It rang.  Ten seconds later, still no answer.  There was a sudden click and a sleepy voice spoke.

            “Tristan Rivers.”

            “Well, am I no longer in your address book already?” 

            “Oh God, Anthea, so sorry – didn’t see it was you. I’d fallen asleep, I mean was looking at a report, bit tired you see and it’s, err, well, gone midnight.”

            Anthea smiled, stretching a leg out of the bath as she took delight in his discomfort.   He certainly didn’t deserve an easy ride and nor would he get one.  He had lied to her big-time and had played politics with their relationship, she hadn’t needed protecting from Colin and his scheming, although she wondered who Tristan thought he was kidding if he even tried to pretend his priority hadn’t been saving his own skin.  A single, dubious phone conversation between her and the Political Editor of the
Bulletin
had saved them both, but she could never tell Tristan about the real reason why.

            “How have you been?”  Tristan asked.  “Such a good show tonight, well done.  And Harvey too, not many get a double-whammy like that.”  If he was nervous, Anthea didn’t detect it.

            “Well, if I have to mention ‘Cornwall’ and ‘devolution’ or ‘independence’ or even ‘self-determination’ in the same sentence again I might seriously give up politics altogether!  And you?  When will you find out about the committee chairmanship?”  Anthea asked, blowing bubbles from her fingers.

            “Hopefully in the next few weeks.  Other than that, I’ve been taking up some old business contacts and trying to pacify Marjorie bloody Baker so she won’t deselect me…what’s that noise?  Running water?”

            “Oh, I’m in the bath.”  Anthea had spoken without thinking, his voice soothing her into forgetting her guard. 

            “Right, well…”

            “Tristan.”  She interrupted him to save some embarrassment.  “I wish you well with the PAC, but really, I don’t know what you want from me anymore.  You dumped me, remember, I had begun to get on with my life again, and now here you are, as if nothing’s happened.  You
lied
to me about one of the biggest things in your life, why couldn’t you just tell me you were still married?  And Colin, what he was doing to you – I don’t know why you couldn’t trust me.”

            There was a silence.  The feelings of anger and hurt suddenly, forcefully, resurfaced in Anthea and she wished he were there to shake, to see the disappointment on her face.  She wanted to see him belittled, not have him hide behind silence and his lack of any sort of reasoning.  Sitting upright in the bath she swirled the bubbles around her like a comforting frothy blanket.

            “Don’t just say you were trying to protect me, Tristan!  I didn’t want your
protection
, I just wanted your understanding, someone to relate to in this crazy place!  You
know
how much I had fallen for you in such a short time and now you’re just messing with my head.  Why couldn’t you just leave it well alone now?”

She felt weak.  Tristan was fully awake, pacing his living room.  The look on his face wouldn't have disappointed her.

“I’ve already said it, I love you.  I always did, what I said that night, it was all to…to stop things from getting out of control.  I
had
to do something.  Yes, I should have told you, but Nicole is now granting me the divorce I’ve wanted for years, it had just been easier to pretend to you it had already happened, so I could break away from the past I’m so ashamed of.”

            “What past is that, exactly?  McDermott told me things, but I need to hear it from you.” Anthea felt a chill pass through her, although the bath water remained warm.

            Tristan then opened up, explained it all, while Anthea listened, the bubbles around her fading into the cooling water.

            “God, Tristan, I just don’t know what to think, what to say, how can I trust you ever again?”  She said eventually.  “How do I know you won’t treat me like you’ve treated Nicole, treated these other women?”

            “I don’t know the answer to that.  All I can do is speak the truth now, tell you I’ve changed.  I’ve learned so much since I came into Parliament, I’m not like I used to be. I know what’s important now, and that’s you, Anthea.  You, and getting my career back on track, stop it running away from me again.  I now know what’s good for me and I’ve missed you like hell.  It’s all been so empty without you.”

            Anthea gulped hard.  She wanted to tell him her life had felt empty too, despite the workload, despite Rodney’s attentions. 

“Surely what’s good for
me
is to stay away from
you
.  I’ve already told one man that we can’t be together, why should it be any different with you?”

 “Do you love me?”  He asked softly.  There was a poignant pause.

            “I could say ‘no comment’ to that.”

            “And I would see that as a definitive answer.  You, err, still in the bath?”

            “Again, no comment.”  Anthea smiled, a small laugh passing her lips.  He had worn her down and in that moment she loved and hated that damned charm of his.  “You left a pair of boxer shorts here the last time you stayed over.”

            “Oh, did I?  Well, well.  I thought I was running a bit short, and I could really do with them.”

            Another delicate laugh.  “Is that so?  You could always go commando. I’m not posting them, and I hardly think handing them over in Portcullis House is appropriate either, what
would
people say?”

            “Quite.  One would think there would be a more, well,
obvious
way of getting them from you.”

            “Yes, one would think.” Anthea purred, wondering why she was trying to suppress a smile he couldn’t see.  Perhaps it was because she was finally able to play a little game of her own, make him come running.  As she hung up, she assumed he would do exactly that.

Twenty-Two

Thursday, 7am

Colin Scott had turned down all pre-press conference interviews, preferring to retain a certain enigmatic quality over his intentions to add fuel to the deliberate heavy rumours.  In his office, he flicked on
News 24
for the early news bulletin and re-wrote, for the fourth time, his resignation letter.  He trusted only Matthew Gaines’ judgement over its contents.  Fryer would moan childishly and stamp his ample foot but Colin didn’t care, he increasingly loathed his brashness and lack of intelligence and quietly found it repulsive that such a man had done so well in life.

Frowning over a fresh pile of constituency correspondence and office bills, Colin watched the news with a feeling of irritation.  The daytime BBC political correspondent, Henry Mason, stood outside Conservative HQ in a stiff breeze, rounding up confirmed and likely supporters in both leadership camps.  The Deputy slurped his cool coffee while his croissant remained untouched.

“Mr Richmond’s support certainly appears to be rock-solid this morning.”  Mason announced, his breath swirling around the microphone stuffed in his thickly gloved hand.  Photographs of prominent Shadow Cabinet ministers popped up next to each other as he continued to talk.

“Those publicly supporting the Opposition Leader from his own team include those one would expect; Shadow Home Secretary Steven Sharkey has also come out for Mr Richmond, but he is known to have his sights set on the Tory leadership himself and his allies indicate that anything is possible.  Nevertheless, the Leader enjoys much backbench support and the 1922 Committee – the influential committee of backbenchers from within the Conservative Party which can make or break Tory leaders – will be, overall, encouraging a win for Mr Richmond.”

Colin sucked in his cheeks, frustrated. 
It was all Richmond, Richmond
, surrounded by those who either had no idea how to think for themselves or were too busy seeking solace in a whisky bottle or gay lover to care.  How
dare
this correspondent, whom he hardly knew and looked about half the Deputy’s age, make out like it was a done deal before a contest had even begun.

“However, the still-current Deputy Leader Colin Scott, who is holding a much anticipated press conference later this morning, has received a surprising number of backers within the last twelve hours despite the Government’s defeat, including the twenty names to launch a challenge.  A number of MPs supporting Mr Scott, however, have chosen to remain anonymous – and, of course, the ballot itself is secret.  There are also a few dissenters within the 1922 Committee; Rodney Richmond certainly isn’t out of the woods yet.”

A twitchy smile found itself temporarily onto Colin’s face.  He still needed that one big hitter. 
Sharkey. 
He could yet be persuaded, a deal made involving a healthy dose of mutual agreement; bribery, back-scratching, whatever they wanted to call it.

“Henry, we’re just getting in some breaking news.”  The newsreader said.  “We are receiving unofficial reports that Rodney Richmond is going to...err...
resign
this morning, but, as I say, this has yet to be confirmed by Mr Richmond’s office.  It appears that the as yet unsubstantiated rumour is coming from a
Labour
source.  If this is true, Henry, what do you think would be Mr Richmond’s thinking behind this move?  Won’t this be a huge blow to the Conservative Party?”

Colin felt as if he had received a thump to the stomach.  “Shit!”  He cursed, snatching up his BlackBerry and making a call.  “I bloody knew it!”

“Well, I’m just receiving news of this myself, Kirsty, and it appears that Mr Richmond will be making a statement at around 9.30, half an hour before Colin Scott’s scheduled press conference.  It is frankly bizarre that Labour would be the source of this leak, and for it to be quite so detailed, but it appears to be a race to resign, which is quite extraordinary....”

“Matthew, are you hearing this?  Are you fucking hearing this bollocks?”

“...Mr Richmond will, I am sure, be forcing a leadership spill, gambling on the support of his colleagues, and the party membership, to bring him back, if Mr Scott’s challenge should fail.  I have also just been handed a confidential Tory document, also leaked from Labour sources, an obvious smear campaign against Mr Scott called, astonishingly, ‘Scott of the Anarchic’...”