Polls Apart (15 page)

Anna reached for her wallet and placed a twenty-pound note on the table.

“What you doing?” Don asked, perplexed.

“I’m leaving,” Anna replied, smiling.

“Why?”

“Because meeting you today, Don, has made me realise everything that’s wrong with this business. You said we were alike. You were right. You are like the self-indulgent, mixed-up person I was. But that’s not who I want to be now.”

Don was staring at her as if she had just lost her mind – unable to even comprehend how she could insult someone of his stature and turn down the chance of starring in one of his films. Taking advantage of his stunned silence, Anna stood up to leave.

“Good luck with the project,” she smiled.

With that she turned her back on Don Monteith, and all those like him.

Richard and Henry were so transfixed by the lunchtime news that they didn’t even hear Anna coming in the office door. It was only when she perched herself on the table behind them that Richard turned and smiled to acknowledge her presence.

She could just make out the strap line running across the bottom of the screen. “
captured missionaries released – pm to make statement
”.

Anna instantly knew the story they were referring to was that of the two British missionaries who had been taken hostage in Manila three years ago. Their families had been calling on Kelvin Davis ever since they were taken to help secure their release by putting pressure on the Filipino government to intervene. Kelvin had seemed reluctant to get involved until the last few weeks when, as the third anniversary of their capture approached and the media coverage around it increased, he had clearly spotted the opportunity to win points with the voting public. Unsurprisingly, he was about to milk every possible popularity-boosting second out of the situation. The picture cut away from the studio and brought the
TV
audience live to the Downing Street press conference where Kelvin was just approaching the podium wearing a bright pink tie and a look that, to Anna, seemed infuriatingly smug.

As he stood to address the assembled press, pictures of the two missionaries appeared on a plasma screen behind him, just to ensure there could be no doubt in any viewer’s mind as to Kelvin’s involvement in this diplomatic triumph.

“Debbie Cartwright and Lorraine McGann were, one hour ago, released from the hell that has been their lives for the last three years.” Kelvin pursed his lip at the end of the sentence as if stifling a personal pain before continuing. “For their families, who never stopped fighting, the nightmare is finally over. This Government has been working tirelessly with the Filipino authorities to secure their release and, in the last few days, I personally spoke with the Filipino president regarding this matter…”

“Give us a break,” Henry shouted at the screen, shaking his head in frustration.

“… I am overjoyed,” continued Kelvin, “that our efforts have now paid off and that these two missionaries are returning home to the love of their friends and families. I have spoken with them both by telephone within the last twenty minutes and they are very tired, but very happy.”

Richard grabbed for the remote and cut Kelvin off in his prime.

“I can’t watch any more,” he said, folding his arms across his chest in a gesture Anna saw as half-protective, half-defeatist.

“Look, he may win a couple of points from this, but any bounce won’t last more than a couple of days,” Henry declared convincingly.

“The guy is a complete charlatan,” Richard vented. “And he keeps getting away with it.” Anna watched the vein on her husband’s forehead start to pulsate as he raged against his political adversary. “I mean, who’s he trying to bloody well kid when he says his government have been working on this tirelessly. He barely knew these women’s names until a couple of days ago when it was patently obvious they were about to be released. And there’s AllNews
24
blindly attributing their freedom to Kelvin Davis. It’s sickening.”

“Let it go, Richard,” Anna said, putting a firm hand on his back. “Henry’s right. This can only buy him a few decent headlines for a couple of days max. Then it’s back to where he belongs.”

“Sometimes, I just don’t understand why we’re even having to fight this election. Isn’t it obvious to anyone with half a brain that Davis has sold this country out. Why are we even having to debate it, for God’s sake? It’s just so fucking tiring.” Richard shook his head.

Anna could see the dark circles setting more deeply under his eyes as he sat himself down on the desk edge and swept his hand over his forehead. She wanted to reach out and hold him, but it wouldn’t have been appropriate with Henry in the room. Instead, she moved to sit beside him, in the most basic display of solidarity.

“Just a couple more weeks, Richard,” she said quietly. “Then this will all be over and Kelvin will just be another name on the speakers’ circuit.”

Anna could hear her mobile ringing in her bag. She wondered whether it would seem selfish to pick up now, but Richard hated to hear phones ringing out so she answered to find it was Libby.

“Hi Libs,” she said in muted tone. “How’s it going?”

“Rather well, actually,” Libby replied smugly. “I’ve been doing a little muck-raking on Kelvin Davis and I seem to have unearthed a rather large skeleton.”

Anna listened in total silence as her sister filled her in on Franchesca’s rather fruitless dalliance with Davis before proudly announcing that she had convinced the woman to talk to the press about the shabby way in which she had been treated by the Prime Minister.

Richard and Henry could only look on in bemusement as Anna took the call. But before she could even tell them what had happened, they were smiling too. The sheer unadulterated pleasure on Anna’s face told them Christmas had come early.

She ended the call before turning to look at them. “Seems like Kelvin’s bounce will be shorter-lived than he thinks…”

The four large glasses of sauvignon blanc Marie had just finished drinking in the pub had left her feeling almost numb as she drifted down Oxford Street towards Marble Arch tube. It was only ten when she had decided to tell her friends she was calling it a night. They had tried their best to get her to stay, but she had nothing more to give. She felt drunk and tired and empty. The black cloud that liked to hang over her sometimes was back with a vengeance – and rather than just staying for a few hours, it had been hanging around for over a week now blocking any light she had left in her life.

It was a lovely, mild London evening; the kind that would usually have given Marie a little spring in her step as she walked, but instead her feet hit the pavement heavily, drumming their own solemn beat with each step. She studied the faces of the homeless people who filled the shop doorways along the street. Some appeared suitably haunted, but others seemed merrily resigned to their feral existence; at least one even displaying some signs of contentment, propped up under his blankets, reading a book. Could it be, Marie wondered, that some of these wretched souls were actually happier than she was?

Her career was going from strength to strength, and her recent run of front-page scoops had made her the talk of Hackland, but she was significantly less happy than she had been six months ago as a general news reporter on a daily paper. She had enjoyed her busy days out covering press conferences, talking to people who were part of major events. She may have been deluding herself, but Marie really believed then that she was actually making a difference in the world: fuelling democracy and throwing light on issues that needed to be exposed. Her parents had been proud. And so had she.

The
Sunday Echo
was one of the world’s biggest selling papers so when Damian had actually headhunted her to offer her a job, it had been too tempting an offer to turn down. He’d added ten thousand to her former salary too. He’d promised her she could steer clear of kiss-and-tells and focus more on political and social issues. What the job had now turned into though, was more like political mud-slinging. Worst of all, she was slinging the mud at the party she wanted to win the election, whilst giving Kelvin Davis – a man she despised – a leg up.

And Marie sensed there were more claims and counter-claims to come from the Alliance Party and the
SDP
in what was turning out to be one of the dirtiest campaigns ever. Meanwhile, she had, somewhat unwittingly, found herself as the main catalyst in the whole sorry affair.

Her humble and dignified parents had preferred to say as little as possible about her recent run of headline-grabbing articles, her father simply commenting: “Well, you always said you wanted to see your stories on the front pages.” That had only depressed Marie even further as she remembered how she would sit with him until late in the evenings, even on school nights, discussing weighty issues like Northern Ireland, the Middle East and social inequality. He’d always laughed when she got fired up and would tell her it was only a matter of time before she could put the world to rights in print.

She guessed that kiss-and-tells on politicians wasn’t quite what he’d had in mind.

But there was no getting out of it. She was weighed down by an enormous mortgage and she needed the money. Her dance with the Devil would have to continue for now. Endless days of shovelling shit stretched out ahead. And to top it all off, she would turn thirty next week, still single. Still desperately lonely and still feeling like a worthless piece of nothing.

Marie tutted aloud at the sheer self-indulgence of her thoughts. She should pick herself up and get on with it, just as her father had every morning that he’d walked into the pen-pushing job he’d hated so much.

She saw the lights of the Underground station on the other side of the road and stepped off the pavement to cross. She heard the blare of the bus’s horn first before turning in time to see the look of shock and anger across the driver’s face. She leapt back, falling and hitting the pavement edge with a thud. The base of her back ached where she’d taken the impact. She rolled on her side to catch her breath and eased herself backwards so her legs were no longer on the road.

“You okay, love?” a friendly passer-by asked with a booze-induced slur. “You nearly got yourself killed there.”

“I’m fine,” Marie replied, hastily standing up to avoid a further scene.

The pain in her back twisted with every step, forcing her to slowly hobble towards the station.
What was I thinking stepping out like that?
she asked herself.
I could have died
. And then that nasty, unrelenting voice in her head came back at her.
And what a loss to the world that would have been,
it sneered.

M
onday, 27
th April,
2009
, UK Newswire – Prime Minister Kelvin Davis was today fighting claims of sexism after a former lover accused him of humiliating her in front of male aides and making disparaging remarks about a female Alliance
MP
.

Davis, who separated from his wife Trish five years ago, admitted to seeing forty-three-year-old single mother, Franchesca Carruthers, “several times” at his Downing Street flat. But he vehemently denied calling her a “typical bloody woman” or
MP
Lizzie Ancroft “a prime example of why women should not be allowed in politics”.

Carruthers told the
News on Sunday
newspaper that she first met Davis at a charity function where he had invited her to share dinner with him at Number
10
. But she claimed that on the third occasion she visited him Davis had humiliated her in front of staff.

She said: “It was obvious that Kelvin regularly had women to stay at Downing Street and that he had no interest in female company other than for his own gratification. Once he got what he wanted I was dispatched pretty quickly with him instructing me in front of a male aide to “pop off home now”.

Carruthers also told the newspaper that Davis made no secret of his dislike of fellow Alliance
MP
Lizzie Ancroft.

“He said he found her [Ancroft] way too outspoken for a woman and that he saw her as an embarrassment to the party,” Carruthers alleged.

An Alliance Party spokesperson conceded Mr Davis had shared several dates at Downing Street with Franchesca Carruthers, but denied claims of sexism.

He said: “The Prime Minister is entitled to a private life, just like any other human being. He is not, however, a sexist and has nothing but admiration for Lizzie Ancroft and the great work she does on behalf of her constituency and the Alliance party.”

The allegations came as the Social Democrats maintained a healthy lead in the polls, despite Davis’s recent bounce following the release of the two missionaries kidnapped in Manila. The
SDP
is nine points ahead of the Alliance Party with ten days to go until Britain votes.

Joy found herself a nice, dim corner in the coffee shop and sat down. She savoured every second as she laid her cup in front of her before lifting the book out of her bag, opening it and placing it on her lap. She was going to enjoy this twenty-minute break from Alliance
HQ
. The pressure of working in the press office was becoming unbearable. There was hardly a second where someone was not demanding something of you. She felt she had to be across absolutely every media comment or Reggie and Kelvin would be down on her like a ton of bricks. Her working life now was in sharp contrast to the days when she was her own boss, handling Anna’s publicity. She wondered where it had all gone wrong. She had spent her career in communications and yet there had been a total breakdown on that front between her and the two people she had once been closest too.

She blamed Henry, she blamed herself, she blamed the shitty existences called the worlds of showbusiness and politics. Within these worlds there was no reality, only illusions.

Her mobile started ringing. She thought she had turned the damn thing off, but she clearly hadn’t and it was Downing Street – and almost certainly Kelvin. She wavered before plucking up the courage to answer.

“Hello. Joy Gooding speaking.”

“I have the Prime Minister for you.”

Joy raised her eyebrows at the pomp and ceremony surrounding the man she now knew to be totally unworthy of it.

“Hi Kelvin,” she said, certain her casual greeting would piss him off.

“Joy,” he started tersely. “It has occurred to me that your decision to place the exposé on the Williamses’ marriage with the
Sunday Echo
has now triggered some kind of tit-for-tat, just as I feared.”

“Well, they will be looking to gain some ground, yes.”

“Yes,” Kelvin echoed sneeringly. “In my view they’re not only gaining ground, they’re absolutely trouncing us when it comes to press coverage.”

“I can understand that you’re angry about the Carruthers story, Kelvin. But, of course, legal action is still an option if the claims she made against you are untrue. I mentioned that to Reggie last night.” Joy smirked to herself, knowing that legal action would be out of the question in this instance.

“Let’s just worry about winning the damned election, rather than pissing around with lawyers, shall we? You agreed to turn your attentions onto Williams and deliver a highly damaging story about him so please just get on and do your job so I can keep mine.”

The line went dead as did any pleasure Joy had managed to reap from her two minutes of solitude. By now she hated Kelvin with a vengeance. But she also knew she couldn’t bear to see Richard, Anna and Henry celebrating at Downing Street without her. So she would finish what she had started. Then figure out what the hell she was going to do with the rest of her life.

The air was thick with tension as the three women travelled in silence, squashed together in the back of the chauffeur-driven car like feuding schoolgirls waiting outside the headmistress’s office. They were to be at the women’s refuge in Kent for nine thirty in the morning, so it had been an early start. The car had collected Anna first before travelling south of the river to collect Sandra and Libby. Aware that Sandra viewed her as nothing more than a frivolous liability, Anna hadn’t even attempted to make an effort with her. Henry had insisted she joined them on the visit “just in case the press interest gets out of hand” and simply wouldn’t take no for an answer when Anna protested. Her only defence had been to invite her sister along for moral support. Sandra had openly sneered when Anna told her they would be picking up Libby, making it clear she found the thought of accompanying the two of them even more laughable.

“It’ll be a family affair then,” she’d said, raising her eyebrows in what Anna had found to be a very dismissive manner.

Libby had tried to break the ice by offering her two fellow passengers a ginger-nut biscuit, but this gesture had only seemed all the more bizarre to Sandra who’d openly guffawed, turning her down with a wave of the hand and a “not for me”. She’d then sat glued to her Blackberry in silence while Anna and Libby nibbled on the biscuits and exchanged a few self-conscious sentences, aware Sandra would be paying far more attention to what they were saying than she was letting on.

Ten minutes later Sandra laid down her Blackberry and started to give the women a quick briefing on both the refuge and the
SDP
’s planned policy of creating one hundred more centres like them in the UK to offer sanctuary to those affected by domestic violence. She spoke slowly as though addressing children, taking care to emphasise important points whilst looking at each of them to make sure they had understood.

Anna, she explained, was to meet the staff first before having morning tea in the lounge with the residents. “Don’t worry though,” she’d added, “they usually make sure the complete nutters are kept well away from important visitors – though you always have to be prepared for anything. Just try not to look shocked if something strange happens. Keep your cool as though you’re used to dealing with such situations.” Afterwards, Anna would be expected to say a few words to the press outside. “Keep it simple and don’t get emotional,” Sandra advised. “And don’t make any statements or answer questions about policy. In fact, don’t answer any questions at all. We all comfortable with that?” she asked, her tone clearly implying there would be no room for disagreement.

Anna and Libby had dutifully nodded their heads before deciding the best course of action for surviving the journey unscathed was to say as little as possible – which seemed to suit their travelling companion more than adequately.

Though his caller
ID
always flashed up as unknown, Victor Nemov’s thick Russian accent allowed the person he was contacting to establish his identity well before he’d finished uttering his first word.

“Damian,” he said, pronouncing it
Demien
.

“Good morning, Victor,” Damian replied with a shrill voice he knew gave away his anxiety but couldn’t seem to stop himself doing it.

“How are we doing on election coverage? Are we knocking competition for six?”

It always amused Damian to hear Victor’s Pidgin English, which he had failed to improve on despite the countless private tutors he had employed to help him crack the language. It was the only chink in his armour Damian could find, so he regularly used it to his own psychological advantage to uphold what little bit of confidence he could retain in Victor’s presence.

“More than six, Victor. We’ve stolen the show in this campaign with a set of absolutely cracking exclusives.”

“Okay, okay,” Victor said in an impatient tone that was designed to remind Damian he was rarely impressed with what had already happened. “I had discussion with Kelvin Davis yesterday.”

“Oh, yes,” said Damian, holding his breath.

“Yes, he didn’t feel our front page was strong compared with
News on Sunday
and the Social Democrats is gaining ground.”

Damian raised his eyes to the ceiling with the realisation that Kelvin had likely got Victor worked up into a panic that the knighthood he’d no doubt been promised if the Alliance won, was fast sailing down the river. Now he would be asked to come up with an exclusive that would ensure the
SDP
was well and truly crushed at the polls.

“We need to finish this on top, Damian. What have we got for Sunday?”

“Well, we’ve got a great celebrity kiss-and-tell and…”

“I’m not interested in celebrities right now!” Victor shouted.

“I know, Victor. I was just about to say we’re also working on something huge about Richard Williams.”

“What huge?” Victor asked, his English fast deserting him now he was worked up.

“Something that will undermine everything Richard Williams has said about his reunion with Anna Lloyd.” The second the words had left his mouth, Damian regretted them. They didn’t have a story about one of the Williamses having an affair, or anything even close – but now he was going to have to come up with one.

“You’ve got someone who says they have affair with Richard Williams?”

“Not quite, but we’ve got a very big lead which I can talk you through in the next couple of days once we’ve fully checked it out.”

“Okay. You let me know when you’ve come up with goods. We need big story; big sales.”

“Got it, Victor. I’ll call you soon.” Damian ended the call and put his head in his hands.

The staff at the refuge were warm and welcoming and Anna immediately felt at ease as she was led, along with Libby and a sullen Sandra, into the reception room where several residents were waiting to meet them. The room was large and bright and not at all like the shabby, dingy dwelling that Anna had imagined. Against her wishes, but very much in line with Sandra’s, television cameras had been allowed to film some of their visit. The
TV
crews would not be allowed to capture what they were saying, but they would be able to use footage of Anna greeting the women who had agreed to appear on camera. The first of those was a young single mother called Jessica who Anna thought looked a lot like Libby when she was younger, with her naturally curly hair and warm, open face, free of make-up. She smiled encouragingly as Jessica was led over to meet her. Anna immediately noticed the young woman was shaking so she took her hand as they exchanged hellos, then leant forwards and whispered: “Don’t worry. I’m nervous too.”

Jessica smiled shyly, tears filling her eyes. “I asked if I could meet you today,” she told Anna, “because I wanted to thank you for saying what you did about abuse. When I saw that someone as beautiful and successful as you had been through the same as me it made me feel better about myself.”

Anna’s hormones raged within and she battled not to burst into tears herself. She knew she would be accused of acting if she dared lose her composure. Instead she gave Jessica a friendly rub on the arm and said: “It means a lot to me to hear that. Thank you. How are you finding the hostel?”

“Really good,” the young woman replied. “The counselling here has helped me a lot and I’m feeling better about being able to get a job and that.”

Anna studied Jessica’s face for a moment, and saw in the dullness of her complexion and the faint lines already beginning to form in her skin that life had not been kind to her. She also knew there would never be a fairytale ending for Jessica. No weekend stays at Chequers, no first-class travel, no luxury hotels. Jessica would likely live in poverty every day for the rest of her life, the memories of abuse and neglect still burning away, undiluted by the kind of distractions and indulgences that filled Anna’s days.

Kelvin doesn’t care about Jessica
, Anna thought.
But I do.
She glanced over at the refuge manager who was waiting to introduce her to another resident, before turning back to the young woman.

“I really wish you well, Jessica,” she said. “It’s been lovely to meet you – and thank you for talking to me.”

Anna turned to find Libby sitting behind her in deep conversation with a middle-aged woman, and felt glad she had invited her along – even if her primary motivation had been for moral support. Meeting others who had been through similar situations was as therapeutic for Anna and her sister as it was for the women they were there to help. Libby beckoned Anna over and introduced her to Alice who had waited until her youngest son had left home before she decided to flee from a violent husband. As she listened intently to Alice’s story of a life destroyed by a man who had lost all control, Anna’s attention was momentarily distracted by the sight of Sandra sitting on the other side of the room, holding the hand of a young woman. Sandra’s face was side-on so Anna couldn’t be absolutely sure, but she could have sworn she was crying. To see this iron woman showing something that looked decidedly like emotion came as a total shock to Anna and she found it very difficult to turn her focus back to poor Alice. Could it be that Sandra wasn’t quite as unreachable as she made out?