House of Cards (22 page)

. Late on Monday afternoon when he had come out of
his
drugged sleep, he instructed the besieged Downing Street press office to make it known that of course he would contest the leadership election and was confident of victory. He was too busy getting on with official Government business to give any interviews, but undoubtedly he would have something to say later in the week. He effected to give a display of total authority and Prime Ministerial stature, but unfortunately no one had yet been able to get any sense out of Charles and there was not a word to be said to refute the allegations of illegal share dealing.

While Downing Street tried to give the impression of business as usual, over at party headquarters Lord Williams ordered additional opinion research to be rushed through. He wanted to know what the country really thought.

The rest of the party machinery moved less quickly. For a further forty-eight hours it was stunned into silence by events which had suddenly sprung off in a totally unexpected direction. The rules for a contested leadership election following a general election were dusted off both in party headquarters and in the media, with many discovering for the first time that the process was under the control of the Chairman of the Parliamentary Party's Backbench Committee, Sir Humphrey Newlands, although the choice of
timing
was left in the hands of the Party Leader. This proved to be a wise decision since Sir Humphrey, displaying an acutely poor sense of timing, had left the previous weekend for a ten-day holiday on a private island in the West Indies, and was proving extraordinarily difficult to contact. Some speculated that he was deliberately keeping his head low while the awesome but invisible powers of the party hierarchy were mobilised to persuade Bearstead to withdraw. It would be only weeks rather than months, they thought, before Bearstead found himself preoccupied wilii a senior directorship in industry, in Government as a Junior Minister, or silenced in some other lucrative fashion.

By Wednesday, however, the
Sun
had discovered Sir Humphrey on a silver stretch of beach somewhere near St Lucia along with several friends, including at least three scantily clad young women who were obviously nearly half a century younger than him. It was announced that he would be returning to London as soon as flights could be arranged, for consultation about the election with the Prime Minister.

Collingridge was back in Downing Street, but not in better spirits. Every day brought racy new headlines about turmoil in the Party as newspapers fought to find some new angle on the story. As still further reports began to circulate of growing disaffection between Downing Street and party headquarters, Collingridge began to find himself drifting, cut off from the information and advice which he had previously gained so freely from his wise and wily Party Chairman.

He had no specific reason to distrust Williams, of course, but the constant media discussion of a growing gulf between the two began to make a reality of what previously had been only irresponsible and inventive gossip. Distrust is a matter of mind, not fact, and the press had created strong and virulent perceptions. In the circumstances the ageing and proud Party Chairman felt he couldn't offer advice without being asked, while Collingridge took his silence as probable evidence of disloyalty. Anyway, rationalised Collingridge, party headquarters had let him down badly if not deliberately, and who was responsible for that?

Sarah went for the first visit to Charles, and came back late and very depressed. They were in bed before she could bring herself to talk about it. 'He looks awful, Henry. I never realised quite how ill he was making himself, but it all seems to have caught up with him in a few days. The doctors are still trying to detoxify him, get all the alcohol out of his system. They said he was close to killing himself.' She buried her head in his arms.

‘
I
blame myself. I could have stopped him. If only I hadn't been so preoccupied
...
Did he say anything about the shares?'

'He's scarcely coherent yet; he just kept saying "£50,000? What £50,000?" He swore he'd never been anywhere near a Turkish bank.'

She sat bolt upright in bed, looking deep into her husband's eyes. Is he guilty?'

‘I
simply don't know, darling. But what choice do I have? He has to be innocent. If he did buy those shares, then who on earth is going to believe that I didn't tell him to do so. If Charles is guilty, then I shall be judged guilty with him.'

She gripped his arm in alarm.

Colling
ridge smiled to reassure her. ‘D
on't worry, my love, I am sure it will never come to that.' But his voice was tired, unconvincing.

'Couldn't you say that Charles was ill, he didn't know what he was doing, he somehow
...
found the information without your knowing
...'
Her voice faded away as she began to realise how transparent the argument was.

He took her gently in his arms, surrounding her with warmth and comfort. He kissed her forehead and felt a warm tear fall on his chest. He knew he was close to tears, too, and felt no shame.

'No, Sarah, I shall not be the one to finish off Charlie. God knows he's been trying hard enough to do that himself, but I am still his brother. On this one we will survive, or sink if we must, as a family. Together.'

Mattie's original intention had been to take the whole week off recovering from the after-effects of the media circus which had spent the best part of six weeks travelling around some of the country's less splendid bars and boarding houses following the various political parties' annual conferences. It was an exhausting schedule, and most of the following weekend she had intended to devote to sampling some exotic Chilean wines and soaking in the bath. But the relaxation she sought proved to be elusive. Her indignation at the way Preston had not only trampled on her story but also abused her sense of journalistic pride seemed to make the wine taste acidic and the bathwater turn cold.

So she tried burning off her anger with strenuous physical work, but after three days of taking it out on the woodwork of her Victorian apartment with sandpaper and paint, she could stand hex frustration no longer. On Tuesday morning at 9.30, Mattie was planted firmly in the leather armchair in front of the editor's desk, determined not to move until she had confronted Preston. He would not be able to put me phone down on her this time.

She had been there nearly an hour before his secretary peered apologetically round the door. 'Sorry, Mattie. He's just called in to say he's got an outside appointment. He won't be in until after lunch.'

Mattie felt as if the world was conspiring against her. She wanted to scream or smash something or put chewing gum in his hair brush - anything to get her own back. It was therefore unfortunate timing that John Krajewski decided
at
that moment to see whether the editor was in his office, only to discover an incandescent Mattie.

‘I
didn't know you were in!'

I'm not,' she said between
clenched teeth. 'At least, not
for much longer.' She stood up to go.

Krajewski was ill at ease and awkward, glancing around the room to make sure they were alone.

'Look, Mattie, I've picked up the phone a dozen times to call you since last week, but
...'

'But what?' she snapped.

'I was afraid I couldn't find the words to stop you biting my head off,' he said softly.

'Then you were right!' But Mattie's voice had changed, growing gentler as she realised how totally she had lost her sense of humour. It wasn't Johnnie's fault, so why take it out on him, just because he was the only man around to kick? He was worth more than that.

Since his wife had died two years earlier, Krajewski had lost much of his self-confidence, both about women and his professional abilities. He had survived in his demanding job on the strength of his undoubted journalistic talents, but his confidence with women was only slowly returning, penetrating and gradually cracking the shell which his pain had built around him. Many women had tried, attracted by his tall frame, dark hair and deep, sad eyes. But he wanted more than their sympathy, and slowly he had begun to realise that he wanted Mattie. At first he had allowed himself to show no special interest in her, just the respect of a professional colleague which had only slowly developed into something more relaxed during their shared moments in the office and over countless cups of machine coffee. The thrill of the chase was at last beginning to return to his empty life, helping him tolerate the lash of Mattie's tongue. And now he sensed the softening in her mood.

'Mattie, let's talk about it. But not here, not in the office. Over dinner where we can get away from all this.' He made an irritated gesture in the direction of the editor's desk.

Is this an excuse for a pick up?' The slightest trace
of a smile began to appear at the comers of her mouth.

'Do I need an excuse
...
?'

She grabbed her bag and swung it over her shoulder. 'Eight o'clock,' she instructed, trying in vain to look severe as she walked past him and out of the office.

I
’
ll be
there,' he shouted after her. ‘I
must be a masochist, but I'll be there.'

And indeed at eight o'clock prompt, he was. They hadn't gone very far, just around the comer from Mattie's flat in Notting Hill to The Ganges, a little Bangladeshi restaurant with a big clay oven and a proprietor who ran an excellent kitchen during the time he allowed himself away from his passionate preoccupation with trying to overthrow the Government back home.

They were waiting for the chicken tikka t
o arrive when Mattie told him. ‘J
ohnnie, I've been burning up with anger all afternoon. I think I've made a terrible mistake. With all my heart I want to be a journalist, a good journalist. Deep down I always thought I could be a great journalist, but it will never happen working for a man like that, Grev Preston is not what I left everything behind and came to

London for, and I'm not taking any more of his crap. I'm quitting.'

He looked at her sharply and took his time in responding. She was trying to smile defiantly, but he could see the sense of bitter failure tearing at her inside.

Don't rush it. And don't leave until you have something else to go to. You would regret it if you were out of action right now, just when the political world seems to be falling apart.'

She looked at him quizzically. 'Frankly, Johnnie, you surprise me. That's not the impassioned plea to stay on as part of the team that I was expecting from my deputy editor.'

I'm not speaking as the deputy editor, Mattie. You mean more to me than that.' There was a short, embarrassed, very English silence which he covered by elaborately breaking a large hunk of nan bread in two. 'I understand why you feel like that. I feel exactly the same way.' There was an edge of bitterness in his words.

'You are thinking of leaving, too?' said Mattie with astonishment.

His eyes were dark and sad once more, but with anger rather than self pity.

I've been with the paper over eight years. It used to be a quality paper, one I was proud to work for - before the takeover. But what they have done to you, and what they are doing to everyone there, is not my idea of journalism.' He bit into the warm, spicy bread as he considered carefully what he would say next.

'As deputy editor I bear some responsibility for what appears in the paper. Perhaps I shouldn't tell you the story of what happened the other night, but I'm going to because I can't tolerate any more being stuck with the responsibility for the things that are happening now. Mattie, do you want to know what happened to your story?'

There was no need to answer the question. The chicken tikka and vegetable curry had arrived, with the strongly flavoured dishes crowded onto the tiny table, but neither of them showed any interest in the food.

That night a few of us were standing around in the news room shortly before the first edition deadline. It was a quiet night, not much late breaking news. Then Grev's secretary shouted across the floor that there was a phone call for him and he disappeared to take it in his own office. Ten minutes later he reappeared, very flustered. Someone had really lit a fire under him. 'Hold everything," he shouted. "We're going to change the front page." I thought, Jesus, they must have shot the President. He was in a real state, very nervous. Then he asked for your story to be put up on one of the screens. He announced we were going to lead with it, but first we had to beef it up.'

'But the reason he spiked it in the first place was because he said it was too strong!'she protested.

'Of course. But wait, it gets better. So there he was, looking over the shoulder of one of our general reporters who was sitting at the screen, dictating changes directly to him. Twisting it, hyping it, turning everything into a personal attack on the Prime Minister. And you remember the quotations from senior Cabinet sources on which the whole rewrite was based? He made them up, on the spot. Every single one of them. It was fiction from beginning to end. You should have been delighted that your name wasn't on it.'

'But why? Why on earth invent a story like that? Changing the whole editorial stance of the newspaper by dumping Collingridge. What made him change his mind in such a hurry?' She paused for a second, biting her lip with impatience. 'Wait a minute. Who was he talking to on the phone? Who was this so-called source in Bournemouth?' she demanded. 'Of course, I see it now.' She let out a low sigh of understanding. 'Mr Benny Bunter Landless.'