Party Games (3 page)

*****

Anthea Culverhouse MP, Shadow Secretary of State for Devolved and Constitutional Affairs, shivered as she hurried along the wind-swept colonnade stretching from the main Palace of Westminster to Portcullis House, the modern, airy and newest addition to the Parliamentary estate.  Big Ben chimed 5.30pm, the pale autumn light fading into darkness, and Anthea felt the splash of drizzle on her cheeks as she kept up her fast pace, heeled shoes clopping steadily on the smooth slabs.  For a moment she wondered whether she had brought her umbrella, but her thoughts quickly returned to more pressing matters.  Reshuffle rumours weighed heavily on her mind, and in her stomach.  Rivers was on his way out as Chief Whip, and a woman was heavily tipped to succeed him.  It was just
which woman
.

She waved when she saw the lofty figure of one of her favourite colleagues heading towards her, a warm smile across his face and his curly locks loose in the chilly October air. Jeremy ground to a halt, his long legs stepping to the side so the two of them could talk.  There was, of course, only one topic of conversation.

            “On your way over?”  Jeremy asked. The colonnade was a busy thoroughfare, MPs and staff charging through, chatting loudly.  Anthea nodded, glancing around her.

            “Yes, I feel like I’ve been waiting forever.”  She said surreptitiously. “Why is it that journalists think you know more than you do about these things?”

Jeremy raised an eyebrow.  “Yes, indeed.  I hear Rodney managed to keep Gregory at Foreign Affairs and Steven’s telling everyone who will listen that he begged him to stay at Home Affairs as he couldn’t bear to lose him.”

            Anthea looked incredulous.  “Bet Barty feels lucky to have survived.  If he doesn’t produce a workable education policy by next spring, I think he’ll finally be out.”

            Anthea knew Jeremy was avoiding mentioning Tristan Rivers, but nothing really needed to be said.  They had both read that morning’s
Daily Bulletin
– Anthea might become Chief Whip, but was that because of her long-standing friendship,
close
friendship, with the Leader?  Or because she deserved the job?  It had been nasty, vicious even, and it hurt her far more than she would ever show.

            “Bet Colin’s miffed he hasn’t been given Home Affairs again...”  Anthea began, keeping the conversation away from herself, but she trailed off as Tristan headed towards them, his brow furrowed in concentration as he scrolled through his BlackBerry.  She knew where he was headed.  His fate hung ‘in the balance’, as that evening’s
London Chronicle
had splashed across page 5, and it showed on his face.  His strides appeared to pick up pace, but she smiled at him broadly as she caught his eye.

            “Poor man.”  She said to Jeremy once Tristan had vanished up the escalator. 

            “Yes, he’s...he’s a nice guy.  Really nice, such a shame.  I do feel for him, he’s been treated abominably.”

            Anthea saw the genuine remorse in Jeremy’s eyes.  He was right, and she wished she could help.  There was something about Tristan she found intriguing, almost attractive.

            “Talking of Chief Whip,” Jeremy said quietly.  “Good luck.  Cornish devolution’s going to continue to be a big issue for you one way or another.”

Anthea smiled weakly and made her excuses to end their conversation.  Perhaps, if she went over to the Leader’s Office now to wait her turn, she might catch Tristan after his sacking.

*****

A click of the Leader’s Office door as it shut, and the relatively smooth reshuffle had turned somewhat bumpy.

“Damnit!”  Rodney swallowed, slamming a glass of water down on his desk.  His Chief of Staff Deborah pursed her lips.

“Bloody idiot.”  She said flatly.

Minutes earlier, Martin Arnold, Shadow Environment Secretary, had announced to Rodney he suspected he might need to resign.  Rodney had replied he hadn’t really thought the post of environment all that demeaning, but increasingly the look of utter hopelessness on Arnold’s face meant that the brief had nothing to do with it. 
Was he ill
?  No. 
Was his wife ill
?  No. 
Was anyone ill
?  Not that Arnold knew of.  There was only one reason left for his swift departure, and Rodney had sensed what was coming.  The meeting was over quickly, but not painlessly. 

 “And we’ve still got Rivers to go.”  Rodney felt sick.  He looked at Deborah, the most unflappable of all his advisors.  Her objectivity amazed him and she was invaluable.  “I wasn’t wrong to make him walk, was I?”

            “Not at all.  You made an example of him.  Arnold can’t sleep with the enemy and get away with it.”  She said.  “It’ll produce some bad headlines, sure, but he’d be a liability long-term.  He wasn’t even all that good.  Give his job to Derek Bradbury.  He’s done well trying to stop Tristan Rivers cocking everything up at the Whip’s Office.”

Rodney felt like a judge on one of those talent shows whose decisions can make or break careers, but if he made his choices purely on the balance of merit and raw talent then the new Shadow Cabinet line-up scribbled on a notepad might have looked quite different.  His advisors, Deborah included, may have said “well, it’s up to you Rodney of course, you’re the leader,” but he took this with more than the merest pinch of salt.  Tristan Rivers’ departure, however, was purely Rodney’s own decision.  Cornish devolution was too hot an issue to have it botched up in the House, he needed someone he could trust to battle, make deals and scratch backs where necessary.  And he knew just the right woman for the job.

“Rivers has arrived next door.”  Deborah said, now stood in the doorway.  She lowered her voice.  “And remember, be gentle.  We don’t want two of them sulking on the backbenches, Arnold will be enough.”

Moments later, Deborah had gone.  Rodney smiled warmly at his Chief Whip, waving a hand in the direction of a green Portcullis-embossed leather chair.

“Tristan, thanks for coming.  Please, sit.”  When Tristan refused with a shake of the head, he tried not to let the rejection of comfort in favour of standing unnerve him.  The chair had become a physical barrier, so Rodney perched himself on the edge of his desk.

“Rodney, I...”

“Look, Tristan, let me be straight with you.  I think we both know why you’re here.  It’s not been working for a while, you know that as well as I do.  Your whips see you as too...timid.”  To Rodney’s surprise, Tristan looked him straight in the eye.  There was a defiance in him he had never seen before, and could only wish he had.

“And I’ve tried to be straight with
you
, for a long time now.”  Tristan appeared to be shaking.  “I have tried my very best to stamp my authority on the Whips Office, to run it how I see fit, but I’ve been blocked at every turn.  I feel like I’m beating my head against the brick wall of my office during every meeting.”

Rodney rapped his knuckles on his desk top nervously.  He felt that he had had this conversation with him hundreds of times and he had finally run out of patience.  When he found himself spending too much precious time worrying about the petty bickering of the Whips Office he knew something had to give.  And that, unfortunately, had to be the Chief. 

Tristan fell silent, watching as Rodney turned on his heels and snatched up from his desk a well-placed
Hansard
. He flicked through it to where a sticky label marked a page and flipping it round thrust it at Tristan, pointing at the list of MPs who had passed through the lobbies for the vote.

“Take the fisheries vote from two weeks ago!  It’s obvious which people are missing from this list, the editorial in the
Bulletin
lapped it up!  Gary Lough, Patricia Joseph, Matthew Gaines, where were they?  I mean Gaines, he’s a serial rebel, why hasn’t he been brought in and read the Riot Act like I asked you to?  This was an important vote for us and we blew it!”

Tristan snatched the
Hansard
from Rodney’s firm grasp and stared at the list of names, as if they would somehow prove his salvation.  “I…I tried, I told him to stay in line, I told him I’d withdraw his whip if he didn’t buck up his ideas….”

Rodney interrupted with a snort.  “You have been
trying
for long enough!  Just simply
telling
Gaines you will withdraw his voting rights and not actually
doing
it sends all the wrong signals!”

“I have it in hand, Rodney!”  Tristan gripped the chair.  Rodney looked at him with concern, noting the sweat beading at the man’s temples. “Look, I’ll make an example of him, suspend him...”

“It’s too late.”  Rodney said with incredible finality.  “You’re also meant to feed back to me what colleagues are saying, and I won’t name names, but as for what your colleagues in the Whips Office say about you...”

Tristan’s shoulders slumped, but his voice remained firm.  “Bloody David Fryer, it’s all him, isn’t it?  He’s a complete shit, he’ll drip poison into anyone’s ear...” 

“At least he gets things done!  He gets results!”  Rodney’s face creased in exasperation. 

Tristan’s mouth snapped shut.  Although Rodney privately commended him for defending himself, every time he spoke it was simply another nail firmly hammered into his political coffin.  He was merely making Rodney’s point for him.  Tristan looked broken. 

 “You’re the Chief Whip, they should be terrified of you!”  Rodney’s voice was raised and at a slightly higher pitch than usual.  He glanced at the clock – he was running late. 
Best get this over with.
 

“It’s a mess, and it makes me look stupid.  I’m the one who’s blamed out there in the real world and I can’t afford that.  Look, perhaps getting a space on a select committee would be better for you.  The way I see it, you’ve now got two options.  To resign, here, right now, or to be sacked.  Which is it going to be?”  There.  Rodney had said it.  All this crunchy debating with Tristan had really been futile.  Now at least he had offered him a way out which could minimise his embarrassment, he only hoped he would be shrewd enough to take it.

“So my options are to go, or to go?”  Tristan muttered in defeat.

Rodney gulped, his mouth parched.  He would need something stronger than water after today.  He lowered his eyes as Tristan looked crestfallen, his last ray of hope snuffed out.

“I’m sorry it’s come to this, Tristan.  But basically, yes.”

*****

Anthea had been waiting a long, tense fifteen minutes outside the Leader’s Office, and she wondered why Rodney was running late.  The more she thought about it all, the greater the frequency she glanced at her watch. 

She wondered about Tristan.  He wasn’t as bad at his job as many had made out; people could be so cruel in politics and weren’t interested in seeing the good in people.  Perhaps the role of Chief Whip wasn’t exploiting his talents; he seemed far too genuine for the job and she had hoped Rodney would move him to a more suitable position, but it seemed unlikely.

Without warning, the door flew open. Startled, Anthea jumped to attention as a scarlet-faced Tristan stormed past her, his face contorted in anger as he headed down the corridor.  She had never really seen him incandescent before.  Her presence suddenly appeared to register with him and he paused with a grunt, turning to face her, his familiar blue eyes ablaze with irrepressible fury. 

“Looks like you’re next.”  He growled.  Anthea merely nodded.  “But watch your back, or you may come out with a bloody great knife sticking out of it!”

Opening her mouth slightly to speak, Anthea tried to think of the words, but could only manage a small but genuine whimper of pity.  They locked gazes, but it was obvious Tristan’s thoughts lay elsewhere.  Tristan turned to take his leave, but Anthea suddenly found herself calling out to him.

“If you need someone to talk to..!” 

He stopped and stared at her, but hid any surprise at her offer.

“Thanks.”  He muttered.

            “Well,” She sighed, her voice low and soft.  “I’d better…I’m so sorry, Tristan.  You didn’t deserve it.”

            Tristan might have enquired as to what ‘it’ was, but he appeared to think better of it and merely thanked Anthea again before walking away.

 “So.”  Rodney beamed at Anthea as she perched herself in the chair Tristan had refused.  Rodney’s normally warm smile towards her appeared insincere and fixed, as though it had been etched onto his face and sprayed with starch. 
They were best friends, why couldn’t he just act natural? 
It was his ‘professional’ smile, the one she guessed he had given to everyone who had passed through his door in the past two hours, including Tristan Rivers.

“So...it must have been an interesting afternoon for you.”  Anthea attempted a laugh but then worried it might come across as sarcasm.  She clasped her hands together, her body taut.  Once again he was keeping his distance; for the next few minutes he was her leader and not her friend.  It never used to be like that, in the old days, when they had just been elected and were ready to take on the world. Gone were the evenings when the two of them could get in a bottle of wine and talk politics for hours; a platonic, almost playful friendship made up of gentle teasing, similar political ambition and a simmering, barely hidden tension which had always been suppressed.  It made it simple to keep it that way, and was how they both liked it.  Or, at least, how Anthea liked it.

 “Yes, it’s been – well, it’s not over yet.  Anyway, how d’you think you’re doing?”  The tenseness in Rodney’s voice eased, but as he drummed his fingers methodically on the desk Anthea felt her heart pounding in time with each finger as it tapped the wood.   For a second she pondered whether his nails were actually better manicured than her own, and once upon a time they might have laughed had she enquired, but now was not the time. 
It never was anymore.

Anthea considered her reply. 
A loaded question? 
“Oh, I’ve enjoyed it immensely.”