Party Games (9 page)

Colin straightened himself and began to spin his glass idly on his mat.  “I've no time to argue the ins and outs of our European policy, Geoff, whether it be on the record or not...”

“Alright, alright, fine.”  He leant forward, his eyes narrowing.  He produced a wry smile.  “I want you to be leader, Colin.  You know I always have, Richmond was never my paper's first choice.  I won't laud you too much, but what I will say is that by the time of the next election I may have to think very carefully about the
Bulletin
's allegiance if Richmond's still at the helm. You wouldn't wish that on your conscience, would you?  That's if you have one.”

        Colin smirked.  For all his insults, he liked Dickenson, he couldn't help it, and he found it terribly amusing that the old Cockney would go to such lengths to try to preach to the converted.

        “You and I, we've both got similar outlooks, similar aims.”  Dickenson continued, his eyes brightening.  Colin wasn’t so sure, but he wasn’t about to argue.  “We could be a very powerful political force, give the party direction.  My paper has the power to make or break you, and I know which I'd rather happened.”

        Colin shifted on his stool at this veiled threat. “What are you proposing?  The same as last time - a ringing endorsement of me in exchange for a say in our manifesto?”  He asked in slightly bitter tone. 

“You're quick, for a politician.”  Dickenson quipped.  “It’s something like that, yes.”

The Deputy hardly believed his amazing luck.  This couldn't have come at a better time.  He had to hear more before he made up his mind, however, and there was no way he was going to let Dickenson in on his little plan. 

        “Now, pledging my paper’s support is the easy bit.  There's just the little problem of the leadership’s current incumbent to contend with first.”  Dickenson whispered, running his tongue over his bottom lip and fishing in his pocket.  He pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it over.  Colin's pulse started to race. 
It all seemed to be going so well.

      “Attractive woman.  Who is she?”  He asked after studying the slim brunette in the print-out.  She appeared to be walking, her slender face turned slightly away from the camera, her long hair blowing across her chin.  The photograph was too blurred for him to guess, but she seemed familiar.

Dickenson smiled slickly.  "You must recognise her, Colin.  She might not lead to Richmond’s downfall but she’ll certainly weaken his standing within the party, show him to be not so squeaky clean as the Party Faithful think he is.”

Colin nodded.  “The lovely Jennifer Lambert.  I remember her well as a teenager.  Richmond certainly kept her under wraps, especially during the leadership election. No wonder she dumped him.”

  “Well, not quite.  And you will remember her mother very well, of course.  Poor old Stanley Lambert, though, such a shame he had to jump off a cliff."   Colin detected a hint of sarcasm in Dickenson’s gravelly voice.  The mention of Jenny’s mother gave Colin a very different feeling.

 “Rosie fucking Lambert thinks her paper can out-circulate mine, but in this digital age I have the upper hand, I reckon.  And anyway, I’ve been waiting years to get the better of that bitch.  As, I suppose, have you, after she dumped you.” Dickenson chuckled sadistically.  Colin’s expression remained nonchalant even though, he considered, he had been doing no such thing.   “If she thinks she can make the
Engager
a better seller than my rag she’s got another thing coming.  Anyway one of my guys has been doing some intense research...”

 Colin sniffed out a laugh.  “You mean you got McDermott to go snooping around where he may not be appreciated?”

Dickenson looked riled for a moment but shook the comment off.  Quickly refolding the photo Colin covered it with his hand.  

“Ok then, tell me, what’s Jenny got to do with anything – and Rosie, for that matter?”

Dickenson moved his beer glass aside he shifted to the edge of his seat, his deep voice falling to just above a whisper.  “I can trust you, can’t I?”

Colin tired easily of such pathetic procrastination, it was obvious Dickenson thought he could trust him or he wouldn’t have dared show his face.  “Yes.”  The precocious teenager he had been introduced to once upon a time had certainly grown up, and now his memory had been refreshed her resemblance to her mother was unmistakable.  It amused him to think he and Richmond did have a little something in common.  It had been so many years since Colin had even spoken to Rosie, let alone done anything else with her, he barely gave her a passing thought these days.

“Well, where’s the scandal, then?  She catch him with his pants down?”

“Nope.” Sir Geoffrey smiled again, his skin almost cracking with the effort.

Colin could feel any anticipation being rapidly replaced with annoyance and he wondered if this was actually some sort of test, or at worst a trap.  The hint of a satisfied smile flittered unsuppressed across Dickenson’s thin lips. 

“Well, the beautiful, Leftie Jennifer and Tory MP Richmond had become close in the months leading up the general election, as you know. When the Party lost so heavily many people, were left feeling bitter.  Betrayed, even.  You don’t need me to tell you how badly Prime Minister Jeffers had been doing in the polls even two years before polling day, yet Richmond remained one of his most loyal supporters.”

“As was I.”  Colin mentioned quickly.  There was no way he was going to agree to anything which implicated him in anti-Jeffers plots. 

Dickenson’s expression soured.  “Yes I know, just listen to me, this has nothing to do with you for once.   You will, of course, have known just how furious Jeffers’ loyalists became after the defeat, blaming everyone except him for the routing. Anyway, Richmond being one of those loyalists was undoubtedly angry too.  He saw leadership in his sights, but felt aggrieved on Jeffers’ behalf.”

“So?”  Colin interjected sharply, shrugging. 
Stay cool.
  “I know all of that, and anyway what’s all this got to do with Jenny Lambert?”

The newspaper editor captured Colin’s hard stare and held it.  “He told her everything.  After the election, he was so devastated and angry with what he called the ‘envy culture’ he needed a shoulder to cry on.”

Colin sneered perniciously.  “And the shoulder just happened to belong to the daughter of a millionaire tycoon and the editor of an enemy tabloid rag?”

“Well assistant editor at the time, but yes.”  Dickenson nodded, unable to hide his glee.  “He told her all that had been going on, who was responsible for the Jeffers hate campaign and exactly how a leadership challenge had been planned six months away from the election.  But that’s not the best bit, not by a long shot.”

Colin frowned, but Dickenson merely smiled and sat back, shaking his head.  “I’m sorry, Colin, I’m not going to tell you everything now am I?  I’m sure I can trust you, but even I’m not about to share every detail of my scoop with you.  First law of journalism.  Well, one of the laws, anyway.” 

The Deputy wrinkled his nose.  Bloody journalists, he hated them all.    “Ok, but how exactly do you know all of this?”  
Well, it was a valid question.
  “I can imagine Richmond’s created many enemies, and if someone found out he had been telling a senior journalist’s daughter the party’s deepest, darkest secrets it could be political dynamite.  Sure you can’t tell me who wants to get their own back?  And how d’you know you can believe second-hand information?”  The desire to know churned deeper than Dickenson could ever imagine. 
Tell me, for Christ’s sake!

Dickenson snatched up his lager-stained newspaper and made to move from the stool, but Colin reached out and grabbed the old man’s arm.

“Is that it?  You’re not going to tell me?”  He hissed, his eyes combing the almost empty pub.  He was starving, his stomach grumbling so loudly he was sure his drinking partner could hear.

With a look of satisfaction, Dickenson pulled out a fag and twisted it between his fingers, his gaze fixed upon it.  “Alright.  You want to know why I can believe it?  Who’s talked?  How I know exactly what Richmond really thinks of Barty Phillips, Steven Sharkey –
you
?  Why it is that she and her mother really fell out and the
other
reason poor Stanley leapt to his death?  Well it’s certainly not second-hand information.  It’s a kiss-and-tell, Colin. 
Jenny
talked.”

Five

For the rest of the day, Anthea was distracted.  She and her team, along with her trusty Chief of Staff Peter, spent the afternoon ploughing through the clauses of the hefty tome which was the Cornwall Devolution Bill so all ammunition was ready to be fired at Second Reading, when Anthea’s team hoped to defeat it.  It was a lot to hope for, but Anthea felt confident.  With a stroke of genius from the Whips Office, a hefty Labour rebellion and an extremely fair wind, Anthea dared to believe that there might be a chance – if a slim one – to defeat the Government and bring the Bill crashing down.  It would be unusual, if not unprecedented, but it wasn’t
impossible
and Anthea relished a challenge. 

But the prospect of a major Parliamentary victory didn’t prevent her from desperately wishing she were in different company.  Her urge to see Tristan again overwhelmed her, and she surprised herself at her own feelings.  He had gone quietly early that morning while Anthea still slept.  Before leaving, he had carefully folded the sheets, downed a mug of instant coffee and left a hurriedly scrawled note: 

Anthea – thank you for such an entertaining evening.  Would love to see you again. Lunch tomorrow?  TR. 

Anthea had read the note over and over, struggling to find any deeper meaning.  He had left his number.  She felt elated.  A smile crept across her lips as she dressed, and by the end of a bowl of muesli she knew she was beaming.  But, now he had resigned, she knew he could become a loose cannon, a bit….
dangerous,
her bit of backbench rough.  He was someone her Shadow Cabinet colleagues - and Rodney - could now disapprove of, and that made it all the more exhilarating.

The postponed Shadow Cabinet meeting from Tuesday had been hurriedly rescheduled by Rodney’s office.  If they were going to feel like a team then they had to start acting like one immediately, so that meant sitting around the Shadow Cabinet table with a full agenda, harmonious language, strong Refreshment Department coffee and two plates of gingersnaps. 

Anthea had arrived along with Barty Phillips, who looked mildly harassed and tapping away as always on his iPad, followed closely by Jeremy, Heidi Talbot, the Shadow Chancellor, and Shadow Home Secretary Steven Sharkey.  Chief Whip Bronwyn Davies and Derek Bradbury were greeted by their colleagues with light-hearted words of approval.  Anthea glanced at Bronwyn with curiosity; it was strange indeed to see someone else where she was used to seeing Tristan.    Then, as the grandiose figure of Shadow Foreign Secretary Gregory Webster began to garble away next to her, it struck her there were certain things which had to stay strictly within the four walls of this drab, rectangular room.  Things she shouldn’t discuss with Tristan, if indeed their relationship progressed.

As often was the case, Gregory was more than a bit tipsy.  The alcohol on his breath was overpowering, his great frame leaning forward slightly over the table.  Anthea smiled weakly, unsurprised but disappointed he could bring his little ‘problem’ into an important meeting and right under the nose of the Leader.  He may be pompous, pushing sixty five and had a weakness for fine brandy but he deserved to bow out with dignity.  As Rodney entered the room, Deborah at his heel, Gregory fell silent. 
He knows he’s drunk, the silly old fool
.  Rodney dropped himself into his high-backed Commons green chair and the chatting subsided, apart from the odd congratulatory word about a marvellous PMQ session.

“Had the PM totally rattled, Rodney, excellent work!”  Jeremy beamed.  Anthea, however, noticed Rodney’s dark mood instantly.

“Right, everyone, thank you for coming at such short notice.”  Rodney said, flashing a brief smile.  “First on the agenda, let me formally welcome our new Chief Whip, and I’m sure you’ll all be wonderfully supportive and co-operative and give her a bit of breathing space as she familiarises herself with the role.”

Murmured noises of ‘hear, hear’ rumbled around the table and Bronwyn produced a fraction of a smile as she nibbled on a biscuit but without dropping a single crumb.  Anthea studied her further, desperate to be critical of the woman’s appearance, but she couldn’t help admit that she looked bloody good for 53.  Her figure was just as trim as Anthea’s, her dark red hair short and stylish and her skin strangely pale and flawless.  Throughout the meeting, Bronwyn’s expression barely changed. 
Botox, perhaps?
Her vibes told Anthea she could be a scary, frosty bitch when she wanted so everyone better watch out.  That included a leader, or perhaps even a deputy leader, who might get too big for his boots. Colin remained worryingly silent, appearing more interested in claiming the last biscuit than discussing policy.

 “Right, let’s move on to the last thing on the agenda - Cornish devolution.”  Rodney said after 45 minutes.  Colin raised his eyebrows but didn’t speak, instead catching Anthea’s eye and smiling, unnerving her.  Rodney gestured to Bronwyn.  “I notice, Chief, that the Bill wasn’t in the business for the next week.  Any rumours about when it might be?”

Bronwyn’s lightly accented Welsh voice remained steady.  “Looks like it might be tenth of November, we’ve got the Government on the back foot over this and they’re beginning to panic about the rebellious noises coming from everybody’s favourite Labour rebel, Jack Fisher.  They’re putting it off, basically.  I’ve already made sure everyone under me have got their ears firmly pressed to the ground over possible numbers for a rebellion, and hopefully we’ll know the date next week.”

Anthea suppressed a laugh at the thought of Bronwyn’s whips literally floored underneath her, their ears pressed painfully into the dirt, her slim skirted posterior balanced precariously on her chauvinist deputy David Fryer, her lips puckered sourly.