Girl Reading (32 page)

He is moved to cover their handshake reassuringly, be avuncular with her. Don’t be nervous. Make yourself comfortable. You are Jeannine Okoro? Did I say it right?

Yes, fine.

I’m Jonathan Ewan. It’s good to meet you. Have you been to Parliament before?

I’ve protested nearby.

Excellent, that’s what we like to hear. Talk to me about your own political outlook.

I’m a Thatcherite.

That’s not an especially popular thing to be. Would you care to elaborate?

I believe in a light touch by government, first and foremost, and for that reason I am a Euroskeptic. I believe in personal freedoms and personal responsibilities. I believe in free markets and the power of strong economies to have positive effects in communities. I think ours is the natural political party for entrepreneurs and working families, and we should be here for those people, advocating their needs, making them feel safe at night. I believe completely that aspiration and choice are intrinsically linked. I am in favor of letting people decide how to spend their own money as far as is sensible, only to tax what is necessary and not a penny more. Government exists to help people in need, and when people are doing fine for themselves, government should back off.

You have not mentioned schools and hospitals.

I like schools and hospitals. Actually no, I don’t like hospitals.

You will be aware that education and health are cornerstones of public debate: these issues dominate.

Certainly.

I suppose my question to you is how do you think we, as the opposition, should be setting ourselves apart from the government on public services?

As I said, by backing off. Public services are groaning under the weight of targets and monitoring. Ask any nurse, teacher, or police officer and they will tell you they did not sign up for an admin job.

You think we should reduce bureaucracy. Haven’t we been saying that for ages now?

Ye-es. But I am talking about more than mere red tape. The
current level of interference can be characterized as paranoia. The legacy of this government is one of spin and megalomania, and I personally have a problem with it. Confident leadership means delegating responsibility farther down the chain. You need to trust people because they’re the professionals, you should give them space to do their jobs. That is what we should say in debate, and that is what we should do when we get in.

Anything else?

Jeannine thinks. I’m in favor of blocking up the Channel Tunnel.

Tell me more.

We simply have to stop the influx of immigrants and refugees because the way I see it, it’s a free-for-all.

The politician’s mouth convulses as though he is going to snigger or make an objection painfully obvious to him. The party has run on that sort of message before, haven’t we? We got clobbered.

We sounded hysterical. And racist. We didn’t make the proper arguments. We didn’t say, “Look, the Immigration and Nationality Directorate isn’t fit for purpose, and you have had a decade to improve it, why haven’t you?” Or that minister for immigration is a job nobody wants, that no one does properly or stays in for any length of time. We come across as unsympathetic, but the irony is it’s even more inhumane to string people along with unresolved status, sometimes for years and years. If a case doesn’t stand up, then send them back to their own countries immediately. Don’t ask them nicely to leave and then be surprised when they resurface eighteen months later cleaning cars for a pittance, sleeping in a squalid bedroom with six other people, and having a nervous breakdown. I’m not saying foreign nationals have an easy life here—actually it’s a huge mistake on our part to suggest they do—but the added pressure on housing, on health care, on the public purse . . . voters are dismayed by the sheer numbers, and government is complicit in a black market of cheap labor, exploitation, and trafficking. We ought
to be ashamed. Retaking control of our borders would be a start. Then fix the system that allowed it to happen in the first place.

Ewan taps one of his teeth while he scrutinizes the letter it took her an entire weekend to write. Let’s talk about your previous experience—

Jeannine describes her first job at a local authority and her current job at the chamber of commerce.

It strikes me that, for a fan of capitalism, you didn’t go into business yourself?

I still might if I don’t get this job. Jeannine adds a smile.

What sort of business?

I’m not sure, but it’s going to have a fantastic website. She shrugs. I am more suited to this.

What do you think of our leader, then?

Jeannine exhales. I think he came along at the right time.

Do you like him?

I’ve never met him.

You have a vote, though. Voters have to reach a conclusion one way or the other about people standing for office, usually without the benefit of meeting them. You’re entitled to your views. Based on what you have seen and heard, I ask again, what do you think of him?

For the first time during the interview, Jeannine hesitates. Jonathan Ewan presses his fingertips together and waits. She says, He has good qualities. He is articulate, engaging, enthusiastic, appealing . . . the party has been in opposition for a while; we need a leader who is appealing in order to win back a majority and he fits the bill.

But . . . ?

He reminds me of a manager at the Carphone Warehouse. I see him on the news and I think yes, I could definitely buy a mobile-phone upgrade from you.

Jonathan makes a noise that sounds like
huh
and he turns his attention back to her CV.

Jeannine senses she should have been more circumspect, wonders if it is too late to walk it back. Her strategy was to be truthful, to speak with conviction, to be unafraid of showing her cards—it was slightly reckless. The MP has moved on to her activism at university and volunteering locally, a chance to redeem herself: On the doorstep obviously, I’ve been a teller a couple of times because they struggle to make up numbers. I’ve done a bit for some newsletters, things like that. I like going to events, so I do try to stay in touch even when I’m busy.

Jonathan describes some likely scenarios the role would bring to gauge her reactions. Finally he says, Today I have to make a decision on who I wish to employ, and I will do so based on these interviews and relevant skills and experience. Out of interest, was there any special reason why you applied to work for me? I’m asking all the candidates. (This is a lie; he thought of it just now.)

Because of your private member’s bill. You were trying to help small businesses.

That was two years ago.

I think you’ll find it was three years ago.

And it wasn’t successful.

I know. But you tried.

The meeting ends. Jonathan likes the sound of it: My assistant, Jeannine, will take care of it; ask for my assistant, Jeannine Okoro; let me spell it for you . . . Yes, it looks good too. She went to a former polytechnic, though. Oh, pish, he mutters to himself. He has made the right choice.

Erica! He shouts for the parliamentary assistant of his colleague.

Erica Twycross, today in a houndstooth suit, comes in and gives a withering look at the MP, who is young enough to be her son.

Sorry, are you on the phone?

Not this very second, Jonathan.

Good. I wanted to thank you for your help today. Seeing as you will be sharing an office with my new assistant, any thoughts? Anyone strike you?

Erica has outlasted numerous elected members and parliamentary staff, cannot be fazed, answers, The black woman.

You mean the last candidate?

Yes, Jonathan, the last candidate (the only candidate who was a woman and black).

Why her particularly?

She was the best.

Did you talk to her? Do you know her from somewhere else?

We spoke a little. No, I don’t know her.

He shifts in his chair, uncomfortable at the thought of challenging Erica on how she has come to her conclusion. What about this one? He proffers the CV of his favorite.

Erica speed-reads the pages. At one point her eyes flick up, then resume their progress. Have you checked these dates for accuracy?

Jonathan does not reply; they both know he has not.

She gives the sheets back. Anything else I can do for you?

No thank you, Erica.

It is the next working day when Jonathan Ewan comes into the office, greets Erica at her desk, says yes, Jeannine was the right applicant, has accepted the job, is starting in three weeks. He has not yet taken advantage of Erica’s connections, but he may wish to one day. Until then he is building up his credit, demonstrating how he values her opinion, affording her respect. He does not mention that the boy wanted more money, that despite his assertions during the interview he dithered when he was offered it, then turned it down. That Jeannine was content with commencing at the bottom of the pay scale.

* * *

Jeannine Okoro wakes to the radio news report about the Wenchuan earthquake. Coffee first, toast with Marmite, and deciding what to wear—gray trouser suit and pink blouse with ruffles, gold hoop earrings and DKNY bag. And suddenly the day has a shape, details, accessories. During this, an item about SATs and whether these are bogging down the curriculum; the interviewee points out they were introduced under the previous administration. Then business news.

She showers during stories about selling British nuclear-power stations to a French company and possible candidates for a European Council president; apparently there is only one contender (she smiles splashily, rolls her eyes at the name), though this assumes the Lisbon Treaty is ratified by member states. Never going to happen, she answers from behind the shower curtain.

Jeannine perches in front of the full-length mirror to style her hair with the GHD straighteners and do her makeup. Good days, favorite days, start with this part going well—when it goes badly, inevitably a stressful or mismanaged day follows. The presenters are describing the newspaper headlines now, and her interest is sparked by more concern on the declining economy, increases in energy prices, decreases in house prices. Not low enough for me yet, and she drinks what is left of the coffee gone cold.

The inevitable update on the US election; voters in West Virginia are saying many Americans will not vote for a black presidential candidate. But Jeannine thinks Obama is running a good campaign, that Obama has kismet. McCain will look unimpressive when they are standing together, debating together, will have to work hard to earn it. The visuals of a black first family. The symbol. It is better reality television than
The Apprentice,
a better political fight than Boris and Ken— She is dressed, a dab of perfume. These
shoes match her outfit, though they let in the rain, but the weather report assures her it will be dry and fine and she is going to risk it. Has her purse, her mobile, her Oyster, her pass, her keys, her—

Down into Old Street station, touches in; London is going to work. On the escalator she checks her mobile; Liam has texted her.

Morning baby. Luv u. Cant wait to see u l8r. XO

Jeannine glows. Then she takes out
Never Let Me Go,
which she will finish today on the Northern or the Jubilee line. She is a Londoner, and skillful at reading standing up on public transport during peak hours. And later, in a random act of kindness, she will BookCross it for someone else in the women’s changing rooms or in one of London’s green squares. Commuters shake open their newspapers magazines bend back thrillers nod along to their iPods.

At Westminster station she separates from the flow of footfall to swipe into Portcullis House through the underground entrance, and crosses the atrium where assistants and politicians, police and public, are loitering and assembling, grabbing coffee to take away, chatting, lost en route to one of hundreds of rooms. A former home secretary draws the gaze of some newbies—Jeannine disdains them for it, strides past with purpose.

In the office bay, Erica’s computer is on but she is away from her desk. The member Erica works for can be heard making a call in his office. As ever, the light on Jeannine’s desk phone indicates waiting voice mail. She starts her computer before taking her jacket off, begins sorting the wedge of letters and memos. There are forty-four new e-mails in the inbox since she left the office late yesterday evening, of which ten are marked high importance, and more pinging in all the time.

Erica, are you getting much traffic on the Human Fertilization and Embryology Bill?

Erica’s rapid typing is uninterrupted. Bit. On various aspects. Why?

We are. Jeannine casts a glance at the mustard cardigan and gray updo. She would have preferred to share an office with someone nearer her own age. Still, Erica is okay, has worked for politicians since the eighties, is the embodiment of those who know but don’t tell. But sometimes, sometimes—

Her colleague rotates the chair and looks over her spectacles at Jeannine, schoolmarmish. What is it, Jeannine?

Has Terry given any indication to you . . . ?

Erica takes the glasses off and lets them hang from her neck on a string of beads. I put things on his desk, he gives them back . . . God knows what goes on between the ears. These issues (the lady dismisses invisible insects from the air), they come around every so often, and suddenly it feels like we are in an elaborate and well-funded debating society, not a place of serious work. And then it dies down. You and I are here to help them.

Yeah. Are you going to the seminar today?

Which one?

Community Responsibility for Social Something-or-Other. I’ve got the e-mail somewhere. (Erica never bothers but Jeannine always asks, makes an effort to be friendly.)

You should go. Erica turns back to her screen, slides her specs on, resumes her wicked-fast typing.

Hazel sips her mineral water, twists the cap on the bottle.

They are at the venue, both clip their event ID badges on their Palace of Westminster lanyards. Jeannine has yet to find out why Hazel is so thin. If she has a medical condition, she has not talked about it, no oblique references to clinics or appointments with doctors; does not mention a strict diet or a regime of exercise, either.
Jeannine Okoro goes to the gym at least twice a week (and eats what she likes) but has never seen Hazel there. Allergic to dairy or to gluten, maybe?