Party Games (30 page)

“Oh, just a hunch.  I’ve overheard your name being mentioned a few times back in the Village, appears you’re already impressing.  I’m not usually one to want to see young upstarts giving my lot a run for our money, but if you take my advice don’t stay in journalism forever.  You look good, you sound good – you’ve got potential.  Oh and if you ever see the light and decide to switch to Labour…well, give me a call.”

            Rodney would never admit that a Labour politician had inspired him to want to make a difference, but a certain fire ignited in his belly and his hunger for politics grew.  Once elected, he was quickly noticed by then Prime Minister Felix Jeffers, who took his new protégé under his wing while snubbing other, recently elected and equally ambitious Tories.  Colin Scott never forgot, nor forgave.

            But now, years on, as he sat alone with his microwave meal and the weatherman predicting a gloomy day tomorrow, the Leader of the Opposition knew that the coming week would bring the biggest test of his leadership yet.  Sunday nights brought time for reflection, to allow his deepest thoughts and emotions to manifest themselves. How he desperately wished to see his mother.  The twenty-one months since she had died had flown by, but she hadn’t been on his mind as much since his troubles started.  He felt guilty.  Raw, painful guilt which stabbed at his gut and made him want to sob like a child.  The cancer had returned more aggressively the second time, and he had stayed with her until the end, watching, nursing, waiting.  Mercifully, it hadn’t taken long.  Rodney never wanted to feel so powerless again.

            “You don’t eat properly, Rodney, I can tell just by looking at you on the television.”  His mother’s sister, Aunt Jane, would now fuss with a condescending tut.  “Dear me, I dread to think what you mother would say were she here!  When was the last time you had a home-cooked meal inside you?”

            You
know
the answer to that, Rodney would think in annoyance, as
you
are always the last one to have cooked it.  Tonight, however, after turning down his Aunt’s kind-hearted offer for the third Sunday in a row, he felt growing self-pity and isolation.  Jeremy was being so evasive on the issue of Tristan Rivers he almost felt the need to summon his rebellious former Chief Whip himself.  How he would love to drag him in and pin him up against the wall by his throat until he confessed everything.  Tristan’s revenge had been swift yet painful and Rodney wasn’t sure whether to admire him or hate him; no amount of plotting could be as privately agonising as the thought of Rivers with
her
.

            Rodney began drifting off, the television humming in his subconscious.  He felt bare skin beneath his fingertips, Rosie Lambert’s highly glossed mouth hungry on his neck, her breasts full and voluptuous in his hands as she whispered that it didn’t matter who they were, she had seen how he would look at her and that she felt the same urges and couldn’t hide them any longer.  They could be together, finally stop the rumours…now Anthea cupped his face and stroked his hair with delicate fingers, her touch new and exhilarating while at the same time a familiar comfort.  The petite figure under the sensible suits was as perfectly formed as he had hoped, but as she straddled him, breathlessly urging him to make love to her, her lips descending to meet his, Rodney’s private line began to ring and it all melted away as quickly as it had formed.

            He rubbed his eyes, waking with a start, and dumped his now cold dinner on the table. The phone ringing on a Sunday night meant more depressing news.

            “Rodney, sorry to disturb you.” 

            The new Chief Whip’s usually steady voice was high and stressed and Rodney felt some sympathy towards her, but he had never told her the job was going to be easy after the mess left by Rivers.

            Rodney cleared his throat.  “Hi Bronwyn, don’t worry.  Everything alright?”

            “Not quite, I’m afraid.  Martin Arnold’s done what one might call a runner.”

            Of all the things Rodney thought he might be about to be told, from leadership challenges to more stories about his own private life, he hadn’t expected to hear Martin Arnold’s name mentioned.  He feared the worst, but had to clarify.

            “A runner?  What the hell d’you mean?”

            “He’s…gone.  Out of the blue. Told his Association chairman in a letter, which he copied to me.  He’s eloped with Laura Murphy to God knows where in the world and won’t be coming back except to settle his financial matters.  He says he expects us to take the appropriate measures and he is sorry about the upset he’s caused.  He’s left poor Sarah, and his children, and left us facing intense embarrassment and a bloody by-election.”

            “He can’t
resign
as an MP!  Bloody hell, Bronwyn!”

            “As he hasn’t gone through the
Chiltern Hundreds
route to get himself off the hook, which isn’t surprising considering his shame, we’ll have to expel him. It’ll have to do be done quickly and as painlessly as possible and hope that the Government does the same so we can get the by-election – or by-elections, as I should say – out of the way after Christmas.”

            Rodney was gripping the receiver so hard it was a wonder it didn’t crumple under the pressure.  It was Arnold’s final, horrific humiliation.  The man made him sick.

            “It’s not just that though, is it?  He’s in a marginal, and a tight one at that.”  Rodney fumed with a desperate sigh.  Bronwyn agreed with a pensive ‘yes’ and Rodney found himself grateful she was Chief for such a crisis and not Tristan Rivers. 

“Who’s got the story, d’you know?  Please tell me it’s not going to break until tomorrow, and that the
Engager
doesn’t have it.”  Rodney could see it now; Rosie gloating over his unrelenting misfortune while her paper continued to churn out the Arnold exclusives.

“You’d have to speak to Jeremy, but I think it’s contained for tonight and he’ll agree a formal line with you.”  Bronwyn said, a hint of concern entering her well controlled voice.  “I presume that means we can at least manage the fall-out a little.”

But the final blow from Arnold wasn’t the only grave issue Bronwyn had to discuss with Rodney.  There was now talk of a rebellion over Cornish devolution on their own side, and all the circumstantial evidence pointed to Scott’s handiwork.

“Rivers is just a smokescreen.”  Bronwyn said.

            “Do you think a rebellion could take off?”  Rodney asked tentatively.  There was a momentary silence; a brief but telling pause which confirmed his fear.

            “I don’t know, not at this stage.  But the Government’s falling apart over it and we need everyone on board to win this.” 

            Rodney could understand if his new Chief suddenly felt out of her depth.  It was unfair, to expect her to pull off a narrow victory over a Government with such a huge majority after only days in the job.  He could allow her to threaten, coerce and bully people into line, come down on serial rebels with the full force of her authority, but Rodney knew it might not be enough. 

            “Start hauling them in tomorrow, you don’t need me to tell you who the culprits are.  Deal with Fryer first.  Nip the rebellion in the bud now.”  Rodney ordered.  “But…leave the Shadow Cabinet to me.  Leave...
him
to me.”

It was time to fight fire with fire, to deal with Scott in the only way he understood.  The two of them would thrash it out until only one was left standing.  The political had just got personal.

Monday

Linda Cheeser had just found time in between coming home from a hard day at the hospital and the nanny bringing George home from nursery to take the weight of her swollen feet.  She sighed, raising her weary legs onto the sofa and nursing a cup of hot tea in one hand, a well-deserved bourbon in the other.  She was looking forward to the baby finally arriving.  The pregnancy had not gone as well as the first and she longed to regain some energy, but her age, relentless shifts and regular trips to the constituency miles away left her exhausted.  She was 44, a year younger than Jeremy, and after trying for children for years George happened unexpectedly.  The new arrival was all the more unexpected.  Jeremy was doing his best to help, but it was a difficult time for the party and finding a moment for just the two of them was almost impossible.  Linda pondered her hectic life as she bit into the biscuit, brushing the crumbs off her bump with a swift stroke. 

Her phone rang, so lazily she scooped it up.  She didn’t recognise the number, but it was a central London area code.  With a puzzled ‘hmm’ she wondered whether to just leave it, but an instinct told her to answer it, but with caution.

“Hello?”

There was a silence on the line, and Linda began to think it was a prank.  “Hello?  Look, if you don’t speak, I’ll just hang up...”

“No, please don’t do that.”  A voice suddenly spoke.  A young woman.  “Please, I...are you Linda Cheeser?”

“Who’s asking?”  Linda asked, struggling upright.  “If this is a journalist, I don’t do ‘cold calling’!”

“No, I’m not a journalist.”  The female voice sounded more urgent.  “I...I would like to talk to you.  But I doubt we should do it over the phone.  It’s a delicate matter and, well, I...you’re pregnant, I’m hoping you will understand.  I don’t know who else to try.” 

Linda was confused, but the voice was tearful, panic rising with every word.

“Sorry, but how did you get this number?”

There was another pause before the woman spoke again.  “I would like to meet you.”

Nothing was making sense.  She hadn’t even told Linda her name, and why would some girl want to meet her, or even know who she was?

“I’m sorry, but this is all very strange...”

“I’m pregnant.”

“That’s - that’s - is that a bad thing?  And why call me...?”  Linda trailed off as an horrific thought dawned on her. She held her nerve, ignoring her increasing heart rate.  “And, again, where did you get my number?”

“You will know the father of my baby.”

Linda rose quickly to her feet, feeling a twinge in her side.  Confusion clouded her thoughts.  “I don’t know who you are, or what you are suggesting, but I am not about to meet...”

“No, no, sorry, I didn’t mean your husband! Please, I’m just scared, I don’t know what to do.  I just need to meet with you, just for ten minutes.  But it’s not your husband, I just thought, just hoped...just hoped you might be able to help me.”

Linda felt relief flowing over her and she felt the need to sit down again.  And go to the toilet. She knew in her heart Jeremy could never cheat on her, blaming hormones for her moment of doubt. 

“But it’s someone I know.”  Linda said flatly.  It was a statement more than a question. 
She could be lying
. 

“Yes, you know him.”

Although she was wary about getting caught up in someone’s problems, Linda found the curiosity getting the better of her.  “Ok, if you just give me your first name, I will meet you, but not for long, I’m afraid.”  She checked her watch.  “St James’ Park, in two hours.  By the duck house, where there’s a bench.  You sound like you’ll need a sit down.  I know I will.”

“Thank you.”  The young woman said.  “I will be alone.  And my name is Kathryn.”

*****

DAILY BULLETIN

TORY REBELLION SPARKS RICHMOND CRISIS

By Political Editor Fergus McDermott

Tory leader Rodney Richmond faces a growing threat to his leadership today as rumours of Conservative rebellion over the Cornwall Devolution Bill surfaced.  In a damning indictment of Mr Richmond’s leadership, Tory backbenchers are now beginning to make their displeasure known ahead of the crucial vote on the Bill on Wednesday.  Rumours of a sudden leadership challenge gathered momentum over the weekend, with one Tory source close to potential challenger Colin Scott saying “the gloves are now off; an awful lot of people aren’t happy”. 

            Although Mr Richmond is expected to receive the support of the majority of his Shadow Cabinet, if such a challenge is issued, he will have to answer to the Tory Party’s membership as well as his own backbenchers.

Deputy Leader Colin Scott has been widely talked of as a possible challenger, giving the strongest hint yet in last week’s Bulletin interview that he may resign if Richmond’s leadership didn’t improve.  Support for Mr Scott was gathering pace last night with known members of the Scott camp allegedly making late-night calls to frequent rebels to court an abstention, or even a vote against, the Tory position on Cornish devolution.  Those who may put a cross next to Mr Scott’s name in any leadership ballot include recently sacked Chief Whip Tristan Rivers, still allegedly seething from the way he was dismissed.  Mr Rivers may, the Bulletin understands, put himself forward as a ‘stalking horse’, effectively precipitating a further ballot in which Mr Scott may stand.

Tory spokeswoman for devolved affairs, Anthea Culverhouse, who has been linked romantically to Mr Richmond, is known to have had recent fiery confrontations with the Tory leader over his past relationships and his “interference” in her portfolio.  If Miss Culverhouse blames him for going a step too far over Cornish devolution some at Westminster have observed she may have to wrestle with her conscience.   Her support is crucial to Mr Richmond’s political survival.

*****

Anthea wanted to find Colin and scream at him until he cried at her feet, but she knew that he would merely scoff at her.  His spies were everywhere; those out to ruin Rodney and everything he had worked so hard for.  How
dare
the
Bulletin
speculate she was about to dump Rodney for an unprincipled bastard like Colin, if a rebellion was anyone’s fault it was the Deputy’s.  She may have hit a rocky patch with Rodney but she was not about to abandon him as Colin plunged in the knife and twisted it.