Party Games (6 page)

            “That took a while,”  his new Party Chairman said quietly.  The freshly appointed Shadow Cabinet began to chatter and disband, leaving a lonely figure perched on his chair further down the front row, concentrating hard on his BlackBerry.

            “Yes.”  Rodney agreed, walking across the grass, flanked by Jeremy Cheeser.   “Although, if
some people
can’t find it within themselves to smile, even just to fake it for a photograph, then it’s not surprising.” 

            Rodney paused by the colonnade, briefly alone with his closest colleague before his new Chief of Staff demanded to know his whereabouts.  He would trust Jeremy with his life, were it ever necessary.  Along with Anthea, the best campaign manager he could ever want, this fellow ex-journalist, who he personally endorsed for the plum seat of Wensleydale and North Dales, was the key to making his leadership a success.

            “We’ve not managed to talk much since you won.  Personally, I mean.”  Jeremy said in a low voice.  The man had a baby son and a new, demanding and high-profile job – Rodney wasn’t surprised to notice his exhaustion.  “How are things?  At home?”

            “We’ve finished going through the last of Mum’s things and probate’s finally finished on the will.”

            “And Jenny?”

            Rodney hesitated.  “She’s gone.  For good this time.”  He felt there was no point sounding sentimental about it.  “At the weekend.  We tried to work it out, but it just wasn’t...mutually beneficial.”

            “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be.  It was never going to work long term.  She’ll probably go back to the bosom of the Labour fold, if they’ll have her.”  Perhaps Rodney was making the loss of his girlfriend sound like a policy u-turn.  Perhaps the beautiful Jennifer Lambert, the estranged daughter of Rosie Lambert, the brash editor of the Labour-supporting tabloid
The Morning Engager
, had been right when, two days after the leadership ballot, she accused him of simply thinking of her as being an “inconvenience” in his rise to the top. He quite obviously felt something – although she had no idea what – for “that sly bitch Culverhouse”, but he was apparently “too damn emotionally retarded” to admit it.  They had quarrelled all night until, through utter exhaustion, he nodded off as she continued to rant and pack bags.   The last thing he remembered was hoping she wouldn’t try to claim
his
extensive DVD collection as ‘
theirs
’. Next thing he knew, she was out of his house and out of his life. 

            Jeremy looked uncomfortable.  “Well, I suppose she was a bit....you know....”

            “Arrogant?  Very aware of her own beauty and not afraid to flaunt it?”

Jeremy smiled awkwardly, but Rodney couldn’t help but laugh.

“She’s her mother’s daughter alright, even if they never speak.  She was never going to be the dutiful partner, let’s face it.  We were stifling each other, and our politics were worlds apart.  Just imagine her standing next to me at Party Conference, doing that pout of hers and cursing such ‘Tory scum’.”

It was Jeremy’s turn to laugh.  Colin Scott walked past the two men, his BlackBerry obviously a welcome distraction from uncomfortable conversation.

“I just don’t know what to do about Colin.” Rodney said quietly once his new deputy was out of earshot.  “Maybe I’ve made a mistake.”

Jeremy shook his curly head.  “Look, I’ve known him a long time now.  Just give him a bit of time to cool off, he’s shrewd enough to know he needs to snap out of it sooner or later.” 

Rodney often found Jeremy’s soft Lancashire lilt reassuring.  “But it’s the ‘snapping’ bit I’m worried about.  I’ve seen it in his eyes, he bloody hates me.  Nothing I can do or say can fix that.  You saw it yourself at Oxford, how the man bears grudges like badges of honour, and I’m still shocked just how dirty he played his campaign.  He wants revenge, I just don’t know whether it will be served tepid or stone cold sober.”

Jeremy wrinkled his lips.  His mobile was ringing but he chose to ignore it.  “As I say, he may come round.  Give him a year, and if he’s not converted by then, well...he can be reassessed, as it were. It’s only been a week, and even in the face of conclusive statistics he had convinced himself and his handful of supporters that he would win, so he’s bound to be raw.”

“And if he starts to be disloyal?  Gather support again? Drip his usual poison amongst the usual suspects?”

Jeremy looked pensive.  Rodney could sense him wrestling with his Christian conscience.  “You’ve been given a clear mandate by the membership – membership which I personally have to answer to every day in this job.  You’ll have to give him an ultimatum. If he doesn’t accept the terms, then you’ll be left with no choice. At the risk of sounding dramatic, you will have to finish him.  Once and for all.”

*****

“Hello?”  Tristan called out, peering around the door into her rather plain but incredibly neat apartment.  He had expected no less from her, it was common knowledge she hated disorder of any kind in her job, why should she be any different when it came to arranging her TV and three piece suite at home?

“In here.”  She replied brightly, the smell of hot food wafting under Tristan’s nose.  He headed tentatively towards the voice.  “I’m cooking lasagne, only a microwave one mind – you’re welcome to one, I’ve another in the freezer.”

“No thanks, I ate before.  Just pasta, but it filled a hole.”  Tristan laughed awkwardly.  He waved the bottle.  “I’ve brought wine.”

Anthea switched on the microwave, Tristan watching inquisitively as she ran her hand across her neck.

“Wine, lovely - you must have read my mind.  Look, I’m really sorry about what happened.  I had no idea he was going to...well, you know.”  Anthea sighed, producing a corkscrew.  Her eyes flashed across Tristan’s face, his blond crop dark and tousled from the rain.  

“God, let me get you a towel.”  Anthea said, vanishing into her bedroom and returning moments later.  “Here, take this.  Nothing quite like a bit of Egyptian cotton to dry you off.”

Unsure how to respond, Tristan simply smiled and accepted the towel gratefully.

“You’re not going to go to the papers are you?  McDermott’s probably sniffing around already.”  Anthea said, her strawberry blonde head tilted sideways in sympathy.  Tristan felt his face heating up as the wine rushed to his head.

“No, I don’t want to be the lowest of the low like that.  It wouldn’t achieve anything, and it certainly wouldn’t do
me
any good.  I think I’ll lie low for a while.”  He wondered how sincere he sounded, but a bid for an interview had already come in from the
Daily Bulletin
.  Sir Geoffrey Dickenson wasn’t the sort of man to miss out on a big scoop, and his dislike of Richmond was hardly a Fleet Street secret.  If Tristan chose to do the ‘frank’ interview, with the paper’s Political Editor Fergus McDermott, he knew he would be walking on dangerously rebellious ground.  He decided to sleep on it.

“Pardon me for sounding...well, I don’t mean to be rude.”  Anthea said curiously.  “But why are you here?”

Tristan hesitated, not quite sure himself, as she moved towards him, their eyes locking.  Just as he was about to speak she raised her glass and gave him a sultry smile.

“Cheers.”  She whispered, clinking his glass and sipping.  “Here’s to, well, an interesting day.”

Without thinking, Tristan reached out to touch her hand, but the microwave announced that the lasagne was ready for consumption and the moment was gone.  

*****

Fifteen months had passed since his conversation with Jeremy about Colin Scott, yet it often played on Rodney’s mind late at night, when finally alone with his thoughts. 
Destroy him once and for all
.  Jeremy’s frankness had amazed him. He hadn’t said it since, but it was a conversation Rodney knew would be repeated. Soon.  The photograph taken that sunny day, when he and his team first set out on the dauntingly long road of opposition, hung by his desk.  The familiar faces stared back at him, still shell-shocked after their terrible general election routing.

Breathing deeply, Rodney looked away and tore off his tie, his neck stiff. For the first time that day, he was alone.  Colin Scott’s continued presence had only served to darken his mood. 
I must not let him get to me.
  He forced his mind go blank for a few moments to give his mental batteries a brief but well deserved recharge, but clenched his teeth as Scott forced his way back into his consciousness.

He didn’t believe his lies about Tristan’s interest in Anthea.  It was all to rattle him, an attempt to preoccupy his mind with triviality so Scott could slither and hiss his way through Westminster, manipulating vulnerable colleagues, until he sank in his fangs and swallowed them whole. His Deputy might like to brazenly declare his loyalty while privately acting the wronged malcontent, but Rodney was wiser to his antics than Scott might realise.  Robert Williams was a better Parliamentary Private Secretary, acting as Rodney’s eyes and ears, than Scott’s allies gave him credit.

“People like Colin Scott can’t be reasoned with.” Williams told him after a particularly frank Shadow Cabinet discussion over Cornwall.  “He’s building up to the ‘big walk-out’, and provoking you on purpose.  He’s got the largest ego in this place, and that says a lot.  His self-belief is extraordinary.”

“I can’t just back down, Robert, especially in front of the likes of Steven Sharkey, who will also want my job one day!”  Rodney exploded.

“I know, that’s why he does it so publicly, you know that!  Colin
will
resign, it’s a case of when, not if.  You need to prepare for it.”

Rodney shook Colin from his mind and rubbed his tired eyes.  With a click of a mouse, he opened up a blank document on his computer. 
His next big speech.
  He had been utterly determined to at least start this one himself.  His speech writers were well used to his style of delivery and were on the whole extremely competent, but this was a speech
he
wanted to write, straight from the heart.  He felt passionate about giving people back the freedoms which were being gradually but brutally ripped away from them by the new, dictatorial government, he loved his party and the principles on which it was founded, the beliefs and values which had made it the greatest and most successful political force in the world.  And yet, he continued to stare at the stark white computer screen as if the words would magically appear.

Another ten minutes later, and he forced himself awake.  Big Ben chimed 11.30pm. 
Time to go home.
  But home was lonely.  His bachelorhood may have been a ‘gimmick’ to the media, part of his political act, but it wasn’t always the sort of interest an extremely private man wanted.  He knew the stories upset her, making out she was only where she was because of him rather than the political brilliance she displayed.  All the rumours were untrue, they had never been intimate, or even discussed the possibility of becoming intimate.  Yet, for the past couple of years since he had got to know Anthea Culverhouse, Rodney had found it difficult to maintain a loving relationship with any woman.

He felt guilty at his formality with her during their brief meeting.  He had meant to ask her about Ben, but the day had been stressful, with two bad resignations in succession, and he had just wanted to get the other positions secured.  If she had wanted the job of Chief Whip, then Rodney hadn’t meant to disappoint her.  It simply wasn’t her time.  If he had allowed his feelings to be finally realised and cloud his judgement then it would have done her no favours at all.  He had to maintain a professional distance between them.  She would go much further in politics, just not yet.  Still, he felt he owed her an apology – and hearing her voice could always soothe him.  Anthea alone had kept him level-headed throughout the leadership election, encouraging him when he felt all was lost, bringing him down to earth when he got too cocky. 

Without much thought to the lateness of the hour Rodney picked up the phone and called her home.  He waited as the dialling tone rang out, steadily insistent, but no answer.  Frowning, Rodney persisted.  It kept ringing.  With a grunt at the unexpectedness of the situation he hung up then dialled her mobile, but she announced in lively tone that she wasn’t available right now and to leave a message.  He hesitated, but took the decision to abandon it.  The blocked number would ensure she would never know it was him. 

Rodney rose wearily to his feet and called his driver, Fred, to ask him to slide the car along to Members Entrance.  Armed with papers, he flicked off the lights of his expansive office suite, but stopped as he reached the door, his hand resting lightly on the doorknob.  He turned back to the moonlit window, and stared out through the heavy nets down to the late-night bustle of Westminster Bridge, the London Eye illuminated before him.   Loneliness tugged at his heart as he left, conscious not to leave Fred waiting.  Fred, at least, had a loving wife to go home to, and at that moment Rodney Richmond envied his driver more than anyone else in the world.

*****

 “You’re very quiet.  Are you always like this?”  Anthea finally asked him, watching as her companion leant further back into her sofa, his shoulders visibly relaxing. 

Tristan sighed heavily.  “I’m sorry, I’ve not been very good company.  Just tired, that’s all.  You’ve been most patient with me, just turning up like this.”

“Ah, but you did bring alcohol, so that makes up for it.”  Anthea smiled.  “Although...well...we have talked work for quite a while now. Why not tell me about yourself?  I spend so much time with colleagues yet feel I know very little about them.”  She tilted her head and shrugged.  “I suppose it’s none of my business really, but I’m nosy.”

Tristan sat forward, nursing his freshly filled glass.  Anthea sat next to him on the sofa, yet keeping enough distance so not to cause awkwardness.  She watched him run a hand over his narrow but appealing lips before rubbing his smooth jaw line.