The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) (3 page)

“Not to The Duchess,” they replied in unison.

“When will you be back?”

They let the ping of the lift answer.

George Brownlow was in a
real pickle. He glared at the mirror. His reflection stared back, flustered.
The overall look was pink and blotchy. His eyes were bloodshot - lack of sleep;
his skin dry and flaky - too many takeaways; he oiked his trousers up, still
not comfortable, far too many takeaways. Holding the hangers in front of his
chest, he tried to decide what to wear. The pale blue designer shirt, tie-less,
or the turquoise stripe with plain dark tie? Were the chinos too casual, too
right on or the green moleskins, too county?

“I really hate this,” he told the mirror.

He dropped the hangers on the floor, pulled the faded denim
shirt off the bedpost where he had left it the night before and, grabbing phone
and car keys, climbed into his beloved classic car. He had a meeting with a
local journalist; someone called Marianne Coltrane who had suggested they
rendezvous at The Cockerel in the picturesque village of Peatling Mill, about
eight miles outside his constituency, heading south. He was annoyed with
himself for not insisting they meet on his patch, but he had been in a rush as
usual.

The mid-day radio presenter was desperately trying to
co-ordinate a phone-in about teenage pregnancy. It was not going well. A vicar
from an inner city Parish was being caring and constructive. A well-spoken
mother of four daughters was all for reintroducing chastity belts, perhaps with
digital locking mechanisms, and when the subject of abortion was raised; a
young woman dissolved into tears and hung up. The presenter opted for an upbeat
dance track to soothe the frazzled airwaves. George frowned, making a mental
note to review his own and the Party’s policy on such matters.

Roadworks ahead were impacting on his very tight schedule.
He had planned to arrive at least fifteen minutes early, order himself an
orange juice, nip to the loo, smooth his hair and return to his seat to sit
staring at a ‘very important document’. He wanted to appear calm, studious,
self-assured. A loud clunking broke his reverie, the steering wheel shuddered,
the engine sputtered, rallied a little with a touch of the accelerator, and
then belching loudly, gave up the ghost. The Conservative Member of Parliament
for Chesterford South, swore like a sailor. He did not even have the bloody
journalist’s mobile number. He tried the pub via directory enquiries but the
line was constantly engaged. He boiled, along with the radiator.

Marianne had finished her interview with Brian, the operatic
barman. Not quite as close to becoming the spectacular new star she had hoped
but she would make a good enough job of it. Paul would take the photographs
later, he had his brief: muted bar room background; handsome tenor in full cry;
rehearsing in the gents’ lavatory where the acoustics were more conducive to
his falsetto. Paul was a good photographer, his pictures would add poignancy to
the piece. She knew exactly what she wanted and was determined ‘The Interview’
maintain its quirky ‘would you believe it?’ character profiles, whatever her
editor decreed.

She closed her notebook, looking around the pub, one of the
few hostelries which had managed to avoid being ‘themed’, so pleasant, if a
little frayed around the edges. She had hoped to kill two birds with one stone,
thinking the ambience of the pub would reveal a softer, more approachable side
of a man renowned for his unswerving dedication to public service. Checking the
time, it appeared the MP was not going to show. She tried his mobile; it
flipped to answer-phone. She could not wait, ‘The Interview’ had to be put to
bed. She finished her drink, beamed goodbye to the singing barman and left.

A couple of miles down the road her speedy two-seater zipped
past a roadside recovery man scratching his head, while a baggy
trousered-bottom stuck out from beneath the bonnet of an elderly classic car.
It fleetingly occurred to Marianne that this might be the Honourable Member for
Chesterford South, unhorsed. She seemed to recall he drove a vintage car. She
motored on, murmuring along with the radio. George Brownlow would live to be
grilled another day, hopefully when she was off duty and Paul would be tasked
with the interrogation. She would have to edit it no doubt but that, she
considered, would be more than enough George Brownlow for her.

The National Media Awards
were fast approaching, the Chesterford Chronicle had been short-listed for a
number of prizes and as Jack had promised a memo about the event that very day,
the newsroom was buzzing with everyone discussing the competition, what to
wear, where to sit.

Sharon handed the memo and table plan to Marianne.

“I see Jack’s already decided who’s sitting where,” she
said.

The others quickly gathered round. Marianne passed the sheet
of paper to Paul without comment. George Brownlow was to be seated on her left
and, the irritatingly Machiavellian Jack Buchannan, on her right. It appeared
Jack would not rest until she extracted some sort of story from their new MP.
Great, she thought as she made her way to the lift, a real fun evening to look
forward to. 

Later, taking a large whiskey to her study, she flicked on
the desk light beside her laptop, and sitting down, pushed aside the file she
had been working on - the follow-up campaign on behalf of the stolen babies
scam - and decided to go through her George Brownlow research again. Surely
there was something of interest, something to give her an angle, something she
would find engaging? All she could discover about their newest MP were the
scrappy bits of biography from his official Conservative Party press release.

Place of birth - Chesterford General Hospital, where his
father had been a paediatrician. Education - a good public school in the
shires, then to Oxford and onto Leeds to read Law. He practiced briefly with a
local firm and from there, moved quickly into politics, staying in the
background until the seat in his home town became available. His life’s
ambition, according to the press release, was ‘to be a true servant of the
people – without cynicism or sarcasm.’ A straightforward mission, allegedly
like George himself, his intention was to be a dedicated public servant the
whole of his working life, in fact until his dying day. Marianne groaned,
who
wrote this rubbish?

She finished her whiskey, turned off the light and padded to
bed, planning to share a taxi to the awards dinner, at least then she could
have a few glasses of wine - she was going to need them.

As it happened, the handsome ‘nobody’ as Jack termed the
guest presenter, never made it to the ceremony, some excuse about baggage
handlers and delayed flights. So it was the aforementioned George Brownlow who
was called into the breach. It was fair to say he did a pretty good job of
hosting on the hoof, and rounded the evening off by presenting Marianne with
the Journalist of the Year Award, for the ‘Stolen Babies Scam’ expose. The applause
was rapturous. Paul feigned despair, rolling his eyes and grinning inanely, as
she swished back to the table.

“Not another bloody award,” he scoffed. “Mantelpiece will
disintegrate under the weight of them all at this rate.”

Marianne beamed, nursing the replica typewriter in her arms.

“Will you put it down to drink champagne?” Jack was very
nearly smiling too.

She waved a free hand. “Can do both, I’m multi-dexterous.”

She downed a good half-bottle before relinquishing the
trophy to zealously embrace the MP when he returned to the table, kissing him
so hard his lips were tattooed red. George seemed genuinely surprised to be so
brutally woman-handled, but pleasantly so, and the pair immediately began an
animated discussion about the origins of the first typewriter company. In fact
MP and journalist seemed to have a lot to talk about and shared another bottle
of champagne, or so Marianne thought, because George only touched his glass to
raise it to her many toasts. Observing the banter, Jack almost smiled again.

Paul had been mortified. 
“You’re going out with who? George Brownlow? Why?  Is it for a follow-up or
what?”

“Well it’s because he asked me, actually. Men never ask me
out, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Marianne airily went back to typing notes she had been
working on through the weekend, part of a training programme she had
volunteered to produce for the newspaper’s graduates.

“George Brownlow? Are you serious?” Paul asked again. “Looks
like a St Bernard, probably smells like one too.”

“Don’t be rude!” she snapped.

“But I’m always asking you out,” he bleated.

“Oh Paul, you don’t count.”

“Now who’s being rude?”

After Marianne and
George’s first date to a smart, celebrity-chef restaurant where they agreed,
once George had paid the astronomical bill, the food had been filthy and they
were both still hungry, their romance rolled out quite easily. George was
thrilled to have someone to share official engagements with and more than
pleased this someone was not only intelligent and entertaining but drop-dead
gorgeous, to boot. Very soon they were enjoying regular Sunday morning
brunches, lazily scanning the newspapers, sipping cappuccino and planning the
MP’s media stance on a myriad of topics for the coming week, and because George
had his career, he completely understood how seriously Marianne took hers. They
were sitting in her neat little kitchen, drinking coffee and scanning the piles
of newspapers George had gathered en route.

“I’ve been thinking,” George said.

“You be careful.” Marianne smiled.

“Cheeky. No, the story, the illegal adoption scam, there
must have been quite a few homes like that which existed across the country in
the 50s and 60s.”

“I’d say it’s been going on long before then and probably
still goes on now. Maybe not telling the young mothers their babies had died,
but there has always been some sort of trade in children, like slavery, it’s
always been there.”

“Well, I could certainly help take the campaign to the next
stage, get the national press talking about it, see if we can’t persuade the
Adoption Service to start an investigation.”

Marianne laid her cup carefully in the saucer. “I appreciate
your offer George, but this has to be handled very sensitively. These people
have other lives, other families, they may not want to be involved in something
like this at all.”

“I do understand,” George said, touching her hand with his,
“this is not a cynical attempt at vote-catching you know – I admire you hugely
for all the work you’ve done and how delicately you handled the story and those
involved. But I agree with you, there’s a bigger picture and I’d like to use
what little sway I have to help.”

She beamed at him.

“You know what George, you’re fantastic.”

He grinned back, turning quite pink.

“You know what Miss Coltrane, so are you!”

They each went back to their newspapers, smiling. Marianne’s
mobile shattered the companionable silence. She checked the caller and left the
table. George could hear mumbling. She burst back into the room.

“Sorry George, I’ve got to go, they’ve arrested Sister Mary May,
all hell’s broken lose. She’s screaming the fifth amendment and demanding to
see the Papal Envoy.” George was on his feet, passing her handbag, taking his
coat off the peg.

“Time to pen the follow-up, eh?”

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“I’ll drive you, you might need a hand, I am a lawyer after
all.”

She tutted at him as he followed her out to the car.

“I don’t know why everyone thinks journalism is so
glamorous, bloody hard work most of the time.”

“Is this a scoop?” George asked, squeezing in behind the
wheel.

George had nearly fainted
though, when only a matter of weeks later, Marianne turned up at his flat with
an overnight bag, dropping it unceremoniously in the cramped hall, meeting his
baffled gaze full on.

“Thought we ought to get the sleeping together thing out of
the way,” she said matter–of-factly. Then burst out laughing at the look on his
face. “Well, we’re hardly teenagers are we? And I don’t think we should have it
hanging over us, you know - will we, won’t we? Besides it’s time we had a nice
weekend away and we wouldn’t want to spoil it by having to hide in the bathroom
to put our pyjamas on.”

She followed him into the kitchen. He was already pouring
them each a very large glass of Pinot Grigio, and George did not drink.

“George?”

“Ah well, you see, I was hoping we could just rub along as
we are for about the next ten years or so, if that’s okay with you?” His eyes
twinkled, “I’m not awfully adventurous in the bedroom department, not built for
it.” He patted his rather large tummy. “Girls tend to go off me once we’ve had
sex, I’m afraid, usually the kiss of death.” He looked dramatically glum.

“But you can’t put me off George. I’ve seen you in your
dressing gown, with a stinking cold and holes in your socks.”

“So you have.” He smiled and not looking a gift horse, with
a glass in each hand, headed towards his shambles of a bedroom. “Follow me
then, you minx and don’t say I didn’t warn you. Can I leave my socks on?”

Making love with George was lovely, warm, easy and
all-encompassing, rather like George himself. What you saw, was what you got
and if there was rather a lot of it, it was all top quality, full-bodied
British male, bought and paid for. When they made love and George drifted off
into a pleasant, just below the surface doze, he would stroke her hair
whispering, ‘My darling girl,’ over and over. He performed he thought, his
secret ritual every time they slept together, whether they had made love or not
and the one thing his darling girl grew to love about George, even though she
hardly dare admit it to herself, was how very much George loved his darling
girl. Marianne was beginning to consider, very tentatively if the
‘career-driven journalist’ might be able to make a go of it with the ‘committed
to public duty’ Member of Parliament.