Party Games (14 page)

*****

The journalist read through the transcript of the interview a second time.  He would smile at the sheer audacity of his subject, but he declined the indulgence and settled for another mouthful of black coffee.  The liquid was as bitter as his mood.

            “The Conservative Party needs stability, purpose, drive.  It’s at its best when most progressive, advocating small government and embracing freedom.”

            “Does that include freedom for a group of people with a common interest, say, from a particular region, to determine its own future, if that’s what they want?”

            Colin Scott smirked, lounging in his office easy-chair, sporting crisp white shirt sleeves and electric blue tie.  The photographer snapped away as Fergus McDermott, Political Editor of the
Daily Bulletin
, got the exclusive, double-page interview with the Deputy Leader which would turn all the whisperings of dissent into firm words of war.  McDermott smelled blood.

            “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Fergus, but I agree with party policy on Cornwall.”

            “Yes, but is it not the case that you are in fundamental disagreement over the way your party – the way the leadership – is making such loud noises about it?  You have briefed against this issue in private.”  McDermott said in his strong Glaswegian brogue.  He looked at the MP intently, assessing his body language.  It had gone from relaxed to stiff, Scott leaning forward in his chair.  He shook his head vehemently, but the journalist knew.  His boss Dickenson wanted to force Scott’s hand, cause controversy, sell papers.

            “I have not taken part in, nor authorised such briefings.”  Scott said firmly.  His eyes narrowed.

            “I have heard otherwise.  Anecdotal evidence, of course, but some of your colleagues are saying that your supporters are going around, having meetings behind closed doors, briefing against the party line on this Bill...”

            Scott waved away his comment, the anger for which he was known beginning to show itself.  McDermott smiled.  The two of them had much in common.

            “Look, put this in your paper, put it as the fucking headline if you like, but
I did not authorise private briefings against the Tory position on the Cornwall Devolution Bill
!”  Scott growled through gritted teeth, smacking his fist into his palm with each word.  McDermott pursed his lips, but decided to change tack.

            “But you do have your reservations, about the
way
the party line is, what you might say, getting too much air time?”

            Scott paused and McDermott saw the barely suppressed rage in the politician’s grey eyes.  Maybe he hated Richmond nearly as much as he did.  He expected a bland response, perhaps with a hint of malice if he was lucky.  Scott drew breath.

            “Yes.”  He said quietly. 

McDermott raised his eyebrows and swallowed hard.  With one word, he had the scoop.  “Yes?”  He parroted.  He needed more.

            “Yes, I believe that to be the case.”

            “And have you shared this opinion with Mr Richmond?”

“He knows my feelings.”

“But have you had a discussion with him?  Told him how you might handle the issue differently?”

“As I say, he knows my feelings.”

Damn.
McDermott thought. 
Back to the politician ‘answers’.

“That suggests to me that you might not feel able to talk about it with him.  He does seek your advice on matters?”

“Yes, we meet regularly.”

“But you haven’t said to him outright you feel the approach to Cornish devolution needs to change?  That you have concerns?”

“Concerns have been raised, both within Shadow Cabinet, and within our private meetings.”

He’s opening up again.

“And are there any other differences over this within other members of the Shadow Cabinet?”

Colin produced a twitchy smile.  The apparent anger had subsided and he looked in control again.  “Nothing that can’t be ironed out, I’m sure, but those other differences to which you refer do not involve me.”

“One last question on this issue before I move on to other matters – would you find yourself considering your position, if Cornish devolution continues to dominate the agenda for the leadership, if you continue to feel that your point of view is generally being...sidelined?”

“We hope to defeat the Bill at Second Reading very soon, as Rodney has made clear on many occasions...”

“Can you put the rumours to bed right here, right now? Can you say, categorically, that you will not resign as Deputy Leader of the Conservative Party, and, if you felt the timing was right, cause what they call in Australia, a leadership spill?”

“Ah, they do seem to have a habit of deposing leaders over there.  I do admire Kevin Rudd...”

“Can you put to bed the rumours?”

            Colin Scott smiled again. “I never say never, Fergus. Politics isn’t as cut and dried as that, as well you know.”

            “Is that on the record?”

            “Depends how you’re going to spin it.”

            “I think the boss might hope it would be to your satisfaction, Colin.”

The Deputy Leader leant back again, relaxing.  McDermott found him fascinating, an enigma.  He came across mildly bipolar, perhaps, the way the anger would flare up, then subside as quickly as it had surfaced.  He had experienced such moods himself, but at least his own illness had been suppressed by drugs.  He was better now, of course.  Much better.  But it was still there, still with him, and the trigger remained at large, now at the top of the Conservative Party.  Like Scott, McDermott could neither forget nor forgive.  Like Scott, he needed to plan his moment carefully.  But, unlike Scott, the revenge was more than just political death.  The journalist wanted to go further; much, much further.

But, for now, McDermott decided to do what he did best.  Richmond’s time would come soon, but Scott’s interview and Jenny Lambert’s kiss-and-tell would be enough to keep his loathing temporarily sated. The Lambert story was all packaged up and ready to be dribbled out over consecutive issues to cause maximum damage to Richmond in the wake of the Arnold scandal.  Miss Lambert had been far more willing to speak about her relationship with Richmond than McDermott had ever dared to dream, the woman had a major axe to grind and it didn’t surprise him one bit that she had – allegedly, of course – been treated in such an abysmal way.  If he could be a cold fish in his personal relationships, then how could he be expected to empathise with the constituents, or even the country?  
Obviously, therefore, it was in the public interest. 
Richmond should have known
never
to trust the offspring of a ruthless journalist like Jenny’s mother.  Rosie Lambert, recently promoted editor of the Prime Minister’s favourite tabloid the
Morning Engager
, was one hard-nosed cow.  Yes, everything was still to play for, and McDermott needed to know where the rest of the bodies were buried.  He had heard a rumour about Anthea Culverhouse and Tristan Rivers - and they seemed an excellent place to start.

Seven

Thursday evening

Tristan Rivers hated these sort of functions, surrounded by faceless donors who thought they could simply walk into policy making if they threw enough cash in the treasury coffers and demanded to see the right people.  And at the bloody Savoy as well. He was sure that the party couldn’t really afford to hire such an exclusive venue, but most of the Parliamentary Party had been summoned and it was all so fake, so damn cynical.  He could see Richmond’s set smile, laced with a hint of malaise as he posed for a photograph with the Party’s second richest donor, and wondered just how much he didn’t want to be there as well.  The party just wanted their money, and he wondered if Richmond hated the phony courtship of these people, but the current state of the political party funding system was such that there was little choice.  Everyone had to literally grin and bear it.  He would never have come if it hadn’t been for Anthea.  There was little incentive for him to mingle and from the strange looks he kept receiving from people he had never seen before in his life, they saw little incentive to talk to him either.

            Perched at the bar, uncomfortable in his ever-so-slightly-tight dinner jacket, Tristan felt decidedly off alcohol, pondering that Anthea may not see his attractive side if he threw up in her face, especially if he were trying to apologise.  He hoped she had time to calm down.  He sipped a Diet Coke; if anyone asked, it contained vodka.

It was then her saw her, the dark blue knee-length evening dress she wore hugging her curves and accentuating her magnificent figure in all the right places.  The dress was simple and unfussy but its effect was stunning.  He watched absorbedly as she skirted past Rodney, giving him a friendly, almost encouraging tap on the elbow.  Rodney caught her eye and returned the gesture with a smile, one which hinted he desperately needed rescuing, but he quickly turned back to nod at the large, bald man who was busy talking away while cramming an entire tray of canapés into his mouth.

“I thought you weren’t coming.”  She murmured teasingly to Tristan after she reached him.  They kept themselves aware of their surroundings, their voices low, the tension simmering.

“I know, but I didn’t have much else on and any excuse...”  He trailed off, unable to help giving in to his urge to look at her, to let his eyes take her in. 
Any excuse, indeed. 
“You look beautiful.” 

Anthea suddenly looked abashed.  “I hate these things, they’re intolerable.”  She whispered, sighing, but her expression suddenly froze.  “Oh God, I think that Sir Robert
whatshisname
is about to come over, he’s been desperate to speak to me for weeks now, thinks he’s going to become the next chairman of the Local Government Association so wants to pick my brains.  Why anyone would want to gatecrash such a Godforsaken event I’ll never know.”

“Well, let me buy you a drink - at least the party’s not forking out for an open bar!  Then when it seems…appropriate we can get out of here.”  Tristan said softly.  He could smell her tantalising fragrance and watched as her hair swished delicately across her partially bare shoulders.

“We?”  Anthea said, surprised, as they moved swiftly back towards the bar.  Tristan ordered another vodkaless Coke and a glass of wine.  “Look, there was something I wanted to mention to you. As you know there’s a place going on the Public Accounts Select Committee, and I’ve heard on the grapevine that Russell Collins is already thinking of stepping down as Chairman.  Ill health, apparently.”

She gave Tristan a knowing look and he raised his eyebrows.  How he would love to be back on his old committee, he had served on it a number of years back and he had been well thought of.  Perhaps, finally, he would find his niche... But Colin was on his back again, ringing him, pushing, going on and on about Richmond.  As if he had been listening in, the Deputy threw a gaze in Tristan’s direction.
I would hate for things to become awkward between us...no guts, no glory...

            “I, err…”  Tristan stammered, floundering.  “I’ve really got other things in mind, but yes great idea, I would love to, but I’m not sure, just at the moment.”  He winced; very ‘unpolitician’ of him, he knew, but Anthea’s puzzled look made his mind go blank. Her shoulders slumped as Tristan hesitated - the opportunity was a gift and he was about to turn it down. 

“Just let me make sure you get home ok tonight.”  Tristan said, handing her the glass.  He saw the Party Leader heading towards them, unaccompanied.  Tristan had never seen a dinner jacket so immaculately pressed and he felt deep irritation when Rodney smiled and pecked Anthea on the cheek.

“Anthea, wonderful performance on
Today
this morning; fantastic kick in the teeth for the Cornish indie lobby.”  Rodney beamed, his dark brown hair neatly sprayed back off his forehead after his recent trim.  His smile soured ever so subtly when he caught Tristan’s eye.  They hadn’t even so much as passed in Members Lobby since the ‘resignation’ and the fallout which followed. 

“Thanks.  I’m enjoying all the air time I can get while it lasts.”  She said with an awkward smile.  “All going well here?”

Before any more could be said, Jeremy approached, his tall frame looming behind his leader.  Linda, although seven months pregnant, hovered gracefully by her husband’s side, exchanging small talk with a rather short man who ran his own haulage business. Jeremy tapped Rodney on the shoulder.

 “Rodney, it’s time.”  He whispered, nodding a greeting towards Anthea.  “If we keep them waiting any longer I fear they’ll start to chew on the tablecloths.”

Rodney nodded and turned to where Tristan was nursing his drink. 

“Tristan – nice to see you.” 

 “Yes well, not got much else to do have I?”  Tristan muttered coolly under his breath.  He was unsure if Richmond had heard him, the leader’s expression inscrutable.

“Oh, he feels guilty about you, I can tell.”  Anthea said softly as Rodney headed to the top table.  Tristan shrugged – it didn’t really matter to him whether the man felt guilty or not. Then Anthea smiled at him, a glint in her eye which took his breath away.  “And yes, I agree.”

“Agree?” 

“Yes.  Getting out of here as soon as possible sounds like a super idea.”  She gave a small wink.  Tristan felt an unexpected surge of euphoria as Anthea draped her pashmina about her shoulders and glided over to her table.  Tristan knew that two men were flanking her at the table, he had checked it out, but he didn’t think he would feel such an intense, burning jealousy as they greeted her with enthusiasm.  It was irrational, he knew, it was all just a mask of politeness to get them through the evening, but once it was all over, her company would be his and he would see the real Anthea Culverhouse, not the politician. 

He sought out his own table, noting in amusement that he had been placed at the furthest table away from anyone who mattered.  He imagined the distress of the organisers who had to change seating arrangements at such short notice following the reshuffle.  Still, he had a good spot from which to observe the room, and the usual strain between Richmond and his deputy was all too clear.  He had to admire Colin’s sheer audacity.  There he was, smiling away and seated directly opposite the leader he not-so-privately loathed.  He felt like Colin Scott’s dirty little secret, the mistress coming between Colin and Rodney’s loveless marriage.  Soon the cold war would become a bitter, public feud, and Tristan felt powerless to stop it.