Party Games (7 page)

“Okay then.”  He sighed. “The short version: I married fourteen years ago, seven years before entering Parliament.  For a while we were happy, she was supportive of my ambitions until one day she said she was leaving me for another man, taking our only child – our six year old son Daniel – with her, and that she was never coming back.  She said I had been neglectful of them and she had been seeing one of the parents from Daniel’s school, a caring man whose wife had died.  He made her feel special, apparently, more than I had ever done.  I haven’t seen her since.  Oh, apart from the time she turned up out the blue and threw the divorce papers at me.”

“Didn’t you fight for custody?”  Anthea frowned in confusion.  “I mean, you would’ve had a very good case.”

“Of course I did.”  Tristan replied, a little too harshly, but seemed to relax on seeing only pity in her eyes.  “I fought for him like any loving father would dumped by his wife, I was just lucky to keep the whole sorry mess private.  She made up terrible lies about me, saying it was me who was the philanderer and planting false evidence to back up her ludicrous claims, when all the while she had been leaving me with Daniel to spend time with this other man.”  Tristan paused but Anthea’s only reaction was to nod and wait.  She needed to know everything.  “My Association believed me, thankfully, but the courts were not so sympathetic and once she and her boyfriend had been granted custody – something to do with being able to provide Daniel with a ‘loving home’ with two parents instead of one untrustworthy one – I was left out in the cold.  She didn’t even want maintenance payments from me, which I wanted to give.  Instead I’ve set up a fund for him, for when he’s older.  She can’t stop me doing that, at least.”

Anthea opened her mouth to speak but shut it again.  She was sure she saw unshed tears sparkling in Tristan’s intense blue eyes and for a moment she had no idea how to respond except with the obvious. 

“I’m sorry,”  she finally murmured, reaching out instinctively and patting his arm.  She hadn’t really meant to pry into such an obviously painful past, but if they were to continue to see each other then she needed to know.  For the first time she saw him not just as a embittered colleague but as a vulnerable human being who had been hurt and needed protecting.  She felt more than just physical desire, something far more intense and deeply personal.

“My life is so different now.”  Tristan leant his head back, closing his eyes.  Anthea continued to study him carefully.  “Although I never get used to people stabbing me in the back.  Maybe I’m too trusting of others, I don’t know.  My wife – I mean ex-wife – just didn’t realise how much my life was dedicated to politics before it was too late, and by then she hated me for it.  It’s been a long time since I’ve had any sort of close...friendship.”

Her rose blossom shaded lips spread into a reassuring smile, hoping he would open his eyes to see it, but he kept them closed, the grip on his wine glass loosening.  Without a word, Anthea quietly lifted her legs onto the sofa next to him and lay her head on his arm.

“You’re beautiful.”  Tristan muttered.

“You’re drunk.”  Anthea said in a gentle retort.  Her mind swam with heady mix of elation and confusion, heightened by Tristan’s fingers drifting gently over her face and stroking her hair, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world, as if they had been together for years. 

Anthea had never contemplated a relationship with a colleague but she felt a calmness next to Tristan she had never quite experienced with Rodney.  Rodney was too confusing, too difficult to understand.  Tristan, however, seemed to her to be a man who would make his intentions clear from the start.  As she stared, she considered he must have felt the weight of her gaze, as he opened his piercing blue eyes and looked directly into hers.  The kiss which followed felt such an incredibly natural experience of mutual desire that it did not come as a surprise to either of them.  Anthea weaved her fingers through his blond locks and pulled him close, their lips colliding. 

The telephone began to ring, loud and intrusive.  She broke the kiss, recoiling, but Tristan persisted, his lips working their way down her neck, his mouth soft and delicate.  She shivered with delight.

“I should answer...”

“Please don’t, not now.”

The telephone rang off, but as it did so, Anthea began to resist her colleague’s advances. 
Perhaps it had been Rodney. 
A late-night call from her boss, and friend, wasn’t uncommon, and today of all days he may have needed to chat.  She mentally scalded herself for thinking about him when such a good-looking, interesting man was paying her such detailed attention, but she could no longer prevent the guilt.

“Look, I’m sorry Tristan, but I think I need to go to bed...alone.”  Anthea purred softly.  Tristan looked down at her, not all together aware of his own senses.  She brushed a finger across his lips.  “I do hope you don’t mind, it’s just that I don’t think I’m...”

“It’s ok, there’s no need to explain.”  Tristan gently kissed her nose.  “And anyway, as you say, I am rather drunk.”

With a small smile, Anthea rose to her weary feet, stumbling slightly as she did so. “Stay on the sofa, I’ll get you a blanket.  You live too far away to walk and it’s so late.”

“I could get a cab.”  Tristan mused.  She saw disappointment in eyes which remained so alluring, but the last thing she wanted was to be an easy lay. If Tristan really wanted her, he could chase her for a while.  That didn’t mean, however, she couldn’t tease him.

“Please stay, I insist.  You can just leave early.”

After a quick rummage in a cupboard, Anthea brought out a bundle of sheets, but as she approached him she saw he had once again closed his eyes.  His breathing was steady, his chest rising and falling in a deep slumber.  Tristan always had a vulnerability about him, but in that moment she didn’t know whether to mother him or drag him off to her bedroom.  Ignoring a flash of fantasy, she chose the former, draping the sheets across him and hoping that he would pursue her until she gave in and their wild lovemaking would finally bury all her confused feelings.  But, for now, just knowing he was there gave her comfort enough.

Four

Wednesday, 7.15am

From inside the car he watched Tristan closely, snapping away with his long lens, a broad smile of satisfaction across his unshaven face.  He chuckled sadistically, trying to ignore the cold and stiffness in his bones from sitting in the vehicle all night, the crisp October air still fresh from a clear night.

“Well, what d’you know, still in the same shirt and tie as yesterday, but looks like your trousers could do with a good iron.” He muttered in a strong Cockney brogue.  “Didn’t your mother teach you to fold your clothes, even if someone else has helped you undress?  That’s it, turn around, face me.  Wonderful.  Now let me zoom in, just one more….oh is that lipstick on your collar?  You naughty boy, Rivers.”

This was too good.  Too good by far.  A disaffected former senior Shadow Cabinet member goes and sleeps with one of his colleagues the day he’s sacked, but just not any colleague, but Anthea Culverhouse, most known for supposedly not having a relationship with Rodney Richmond.  Did Rivers want some sort of revenge by creating a scandal?  It had been a great tip-off from his ‘anonymous source’.  He laughed again, this time a little harder, as he pulled off his headphones.
God knows what Rivers had told her about his wife, if anything.
 

He snapped a final picture of Rivers driving away in his Volvo.  This was, of course, all for some greater good, or so he had been told, but he didn’t give a damn about politicians and their games.  For him it was for the greater good of his wallet – the joys of cold, hard cash in his hand.  For his client, however, the greater good could only mean one thing - the eventual removal of Rodney Richmond as leader. 

*****

11.05am. He was late.  How
dare
he be late.  The MP stomped his feet on the pavement then walked over to the railings to stare at the ducks in St James’ Park, the sun unusually warm for the time of year.  Golden leaves sprinkled around him and for a time he basked in the temperate autumn breeze, the natural idyll in the heart of London a sanctuary from the political storm ahead.  The minutes ticked by. 

“Oh this is ridiculous.”  Finally he snatched his mobile from his jacket.  Just as he was about to furiously punch in the numbers from the well-thumbed business card in his grasp, he glanced up and saw him striding through the park, his dark hair slicked back, a black bomber jacket zipped up to his neck and wearing mirror sunglasses.   Colin made his irritation known by staring at his watch as the man approached.

“Well?  Got the photos?” 

Colin was wasting no time.  The deal had already been done and this was to be a quick exchange of money for a service.  The private detective, broad and rough-faced, rubbed his fingers and thumb in front of client’s nose without a word.  Pursing his lips tightly, Colin withdrew a tight bundle from his breast pocket and smacked it down hard in the man’s large, puffy hand.

“Photos.”  Colin glared and held out his own hand until he was finally given a memory stick.  “And the other information you wanted.  Just getting the proof for all of it.”

Shaking his head, Colin peered into the mirrors covering the man’s eyes.  “No, no.  I want to see hard evidence, this could be bloody blank for all I know!”

The man’s tight expression turned into a hollow smile, showing slightly yellowing teeth.  Colin suspected he hadn’t been to a dentist in a while, although with the money he earned with each job he pondered that the guy could afford get them all pulled and replaced with a set of mini gold bullions if he wished.

“Yeah, well, I guessed that.  Here are the proofs, taken last night.”  He handed over an envelope, Colin snatching it from him while watching for unwelcome observers.  A ball suddenly appeared at his feet, a small boy running in his direction, a high laugh of childish exuberance reaching Colin’s ears and making him panic.  Instinctively, he kicked the ball back and the boy smiled at the gesture, scooping up his ball and waving at Colin.  Colin found himself returning the wave, but the boy turned with another giggle and ran back to his mother’s arms.

“Well, are you going to look or what?  You’re not my only client, you know.”

A gruff voice jolted him from the unexpected distraction.  Turning away from the boy, he peered into the envelope and smirked.

“Good.”  He said.  “Good.  Keep watching them.”

His companion nodded.  “I’ll be back in touch.”

“Don’t leave it too long.  I need to close a deal, and soon.”

*****

Rodney Richmond liked nothing better than getting out of the bubble that was the Westminster Village. If that included a photo shoot at a London secondary school, one decidedly wooden Shadow Education Secretary, twelve children, a food technology teacher, one cynical-looking headmistress and a handful of press, then he would meet the challenge with all the enthusiasm of a candidate on the hustings.

The long, high ceiling room had an inherent stuffiness about it from years of cooking fumes, the rice pudding-coloured walls adorned with colourful posters depicting smiling, toothy children munching on carrots and apples. Bartholomew Phillips MP, Rodney’s broad-shouldered education spokesman, stood grinning furiously.  Irritated by his lack of engagement in the visit, Rodney wondered if children actually terrified him, but he was a key loyalist in the Shadow Cabinet. Barty continued to smile and do little else.

“We teach them about nutrition in their first year of GCSEs, it’s not all just how to boil an egg.”  The teacher explained, a gaggle of cameras swooping in as Rodney nodded at a bright text book.   He mentally cursed himself for being surprised that the teacher was a young, enthusiastic man rather than a lady with horn-rimmed spectacles and a flour-stained apron.

            Clare paced the classroom, her mobile pressed to her ear. 
Sky News
had failed to turn up, the
Morning Engager
education correspondent kept asking Rodney ‘unsuitable’ questions about the reshuffle, the Martin Arnold story could break any day and Rodney was now behind schedule.  Rodney glanced at Clare, ill with a terrible cold he most certainly didn’t wish to catch.  She began making furious ‘kill the conversation’ signs.

A group of well presented 14 year olds stood solemnly just in shot of the BBC’s rolling camera.  Rodney turned his well-practiced charm up a notch and began asking them pertinent questions as he rolled up his shirt sleeves and hid is concern about his lack of kitchen skills. Never having baked one in his life, Rodney had been well briefed about cake-preparation during the car journey.

“You will show that the Leader of the Opposition can certainly get stuck in over education  – but you will have to do it all in twenty minutes.”  Clare had explained frankly.  Rodney had laughed but she hadn’t reciprocated.

He was soon up to his elbows in flour, the journalists making light banter, and he vowed to return and try his creation at the end of the visit.  Clare shook her dark-haired head but it was too late. 

“I hadn’t actually envisaged you
eating
the damn thing!  ‘Let them eat cake, says Tory leader’.  Brilliant, effing marvellous.”  She would say admonishingly in the car afterwards.

“Reckon you’ve got enough Cavaliers to see off Colin Scott’s Roundheads, eh, Mr Richmond?”  The
Engager
correspondent asked him during a history ‘lesson’ about the English civil war. The children looked blank as Rodney continue to smile, ignoring the ache in his cheeks as he waved away the comment with a quip about sticking to today’s lesson.

“Rodney’s doing an amazing job as leader, and will continue to do so.”  Barty interjected stiffly.  Rodney tried not to let his smile falter.

To his surprise, Clare wasn’t listening to the conversation.  It was all too apparent by her expression that something was wrong.  As he headed towards the door with his entourage, he glanced at her for a visual sign as to how she thought the visit was going.  As he caught her eye and saw ‘that look’ on her face, his public smile froze.
  Arnold.  But when?