‘But the reason I’m calling you in is that I’ve just been appointed project manager on a new venture for my company,’ Denys says. ‘Which, as you can imagine, is big for me, huge. Career-making.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘And this tosser is just dragging my team down, constantly. Now, don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t want anything, like, bad to happen to him – nothing like that.’
Jesus, what does this guy take me for anyway? An execution squad? The mafia?
‘I just want you to get him . . . to move aside, if that’s possible,’ he clarifies. ‘To another organisation. Preferably one that I never have to deal with. So that my team can get back to work and lazy-arse becomes someone else’s problem. A big ask, I know, given that it’s his family’s company, but it’s not like he gives a shite about them.’
There’s a pause as I give myself a quick up and down in the full-length mirror in front of me.
Looking good. You know what? This works.
Just one more finishing touch, I think, dragging a comb through my hair, (shoulder-length, chestnut brown – utterly nondescript, ideal for my line of work). It’s been hanging loosely around my shoulders since I left the flat at dawn, but now I slick it back into a neat, tidily low bun, with not a single stray hair loose. Glasses? I wonder, picking up a pair and testing them out. Too swotty? Trying too hard? Bit much, I think, putting them back into a drawer in the dressing table, which I keep specifically for props just like it.
If I say so myself, to look at me now, I’m utterly unrecognisable from the super-casual, almost studenty way I was dressed first thing this morning. Now I look like a slightly older, successful professional, a solicitor maybe, or a finance manager. But then, the last thing I’d ever want is to be recognised by someone I’ve worked on in the past. When it comes to appearance, in this line of work, the best thing you can be is a chameleon.
Finally happy that I’m wearing the right armour for what lies ahead, I step back out into the main, open-plan living area and sweep on through to my little study, immediately clicking on my laptop, so I can give the full focus of my attention to Denys and his dilemma.
‘Right, then,’ I say, briskly getting down to business. ‘I’m going to need quite a few specifics from you. The sooner you can give me all the details, the sooner I can knuckle down to work.’
‘Oh, it’s such a relief to hear you say that,’ Denys says wearily. ‘Because if I have to look at this deadweight for one more second, I really will strangle him. I made the cardinal mistake of trusting this muppet with a pitch for the company, a new client we’ve been trying to land for months, and honestly, a child of ten would have done a better job . . .’
The bitching, I know of old, could go on for hours, so I cut him short. No rudeness intended, but I’m a busy woman and frankly, who has time for this?
‘I’ll need the guy’s full name and date of birth,’ I say briskly, ‘his Twitter handle and a link to his Instagram account would be useful, if you have those, too. A home address is essential and any information about his personal life is a big bonus. Is he straight or gay? Single? In a relationship? Does he go to the gym? What does he like to do on his time off? The clearer a picture you can give me, the faster we get results.’
‘Wow,’ Denys says, a bit taken aback. ‘That’s a whole lot of information.’
‘You want me to help you or not?’
‘You really think you can?’ he asks hesitantly.
‘Trust me,’ I tell him, allowing myself the luxury of a little smile. ‘I’ve got a pretty good track record at this.’
But the truth is a bit more than that, actually. Because in this highly niche job which I’ve more or less created for myself, I’ve yet to fail.
Not once, not a single time.
Is it blowing my own trumpet to say that?
To be perfectly honest, I don’t really care.
Chapter Three
Meg
I’m juggling multiple clients at the moment; I barely have time to go to the loo, never mind deliver the successful results everyone expects, and yet here I am, about to take on yet another.
A very, very big fish.
Far too big for me to even consider turning down.
Bang on the stroke of midday I arrive, punctual to the dot, for a meeting even I’m more than a little nervous about.
The constituency offices of Senator Katherine Sisk are right in the heart of Dublin’s city centre, in an old Georgian building, easily identifiable by the posters plastered over every window screaming, ‘Vote Katherine Sisk, Number 1!’
Godawful photo, I think, eyeing it up quickly as I buzz the intercom at the main door.
Katherine Sisk is a well-known, high-profile serving senator, famous for her liberal, left-wing views, who’s up for re-election next week and who seems to be a shoo-in to top the polls. Popular and outspoken, she was one of the leading lights in the marriage equality and abortion referenda and is universally respected as a champion of women’s rights.
In her poster, however, the woman looks every single day of her fifty-something years; her bullet-silver hair needs a right good cut and the forced smile on her face makes her look constipated.
Honestly, I think, brushing a crease out of my neat black coat and buzzing on the door again. Why is it that politicians end up looking like terrorists whenever they try to come across as being approachable and ‘one of the people’? Haven’t they anyone half-decent on hand to tell them the truth?
To my surprise, the mighty Katherine Sisk opens the office door herself. which is a bit like the Queen letting you in at the gates of Windsor Castle and asking you if you’d mind wiping your feet.
‘Hi,’ I smile brightly, reaching out to shake her hand. ‘I’m Meg Monroe, it’s good to meet you. Fabulous poster, by the way!’
That’s the other thing; in my line of work, I’ve always found hypocrisy to be a particularly useful tool. Don’t mind what anyone else says; having two faces really is the most wonderful asset.
‘You’re her?’ Katherine asks, looking at me cautiously, then glancing up and down the street, almost as if she’s afraid there might be a photographer lurking behind a wheelie bin who might jump out and pap her at any second. ‘You’re really her? The woman I spoke to on the phone?’
‘That’s me,’ I say confidently.
‘You’re younger than I would have thought,’ she says doubtfully. ‘Considerably younger.’
You know what? There’s no right answer to that, so I don’t say anything at all. Instead, I just scan Katherine Sisk from head to foot and do my thing, instantly drawing conclusions.
Height: 5’ 4”, even in heels. Which, by the way, are tatty at the heel and scuffed at the toes.
Physique: a little on the curvy side. Her shirt is straining a little across her stomach – probably as a result of quite recent weight gain. She’s been too busy to cook and been living off take out food lately, is my guess.
Clothing: plain black trouser suit. Reiss, but badly dated now, four years old, at least. Makes her look like she’s on her way to a funeral.
Make-up: too heavy, too ageing. Concealer patted around the eyes, clearly intended to disguise too many late nights and a lack of sleep. Sadly, though, it has the opposite effect, and only makes her look even more worn out and exhausted.
‘And you’re sure no one knows you’re here?’ Katherine asks, keeping her voice good and low, so there’s no danger of being overheard. ‘I mean, no one knows we’re meeting? Because . . . well, you know. Obvious reasons. In my line of work, you can’t be too careful.’
‘Of course not,’ I reassure her, taking care to sound positive and upbeat – always the best way to win over any potential new client. If I inspire confidence – I know of old – that’s half the battle.
‘Right, then,’ says Katherine uncertainly. ‘I suppose you’d better come in. At least inside, we can have a bit of privacy.’
She’s nervous, I think. And t
witchy. A clear indication that the Good Lady Senator is slow to trust. Which, in my humble experience, only ever means one thing.
That someone close to her has betrayed her, in the very worst way, and at the very worst time imaginable.
*
Senator Katherine waves at me to follow her inside, on through the bowels of the constituency office, where it’s busy and bustling, as election volunteers and campaign officials flit in and out of tiny, interconnected offices, most of them on their phones, everyone looking stressed and hassled. The main office is dominated by a TV streaming live news, and a besuited, bespectacled guy is studying it closely, drinking in the results of a poll that appears to put Katherine in a five-point lead over her immediate rivals.
‘It’s a head start,’ he shrugs at Katherine, as she glides past. ‘But that’s all it is. I certainly wouldn’t crack open the champagne just yet.’
‘At least there’s some good news over here,’ an energetic-looking aide says from behind a desk, peeling an earbud out of her ear, while she juggles a phone, iPad and laptop all at the same time. This one looks early thirties at most and has a mane of wild, unruly red curls, so thick there’s a biro perched on the top of her head that isn’t budging.
‘I’ve got PrimeNews on the line and it’s a yes for tomorrow night.’
PrimeNews no less. Even Katherine stops in her tracks to absorb that particular nugget. PrimeNews is the single biggest late-night political talk show in Ireland; you’re absolutely no one unless you’ve been grilled by its legendary host – and the more savagely, the better.
‘What’s the catch?’ Katherine asks, folding her arms and frowning. ‘Because with that shower, there’s always a catch. I don’t want to be the token woman on the panel, not like last time. It’s got to be a fifty/fifty mix. Fairness and equality, that’s the message we’ve got to keep hammering home, time and again.’
‘The mix is gender-balanced,’ this red-haired aide replies, ‘plus they want you to discuss climate change, which can only be good for us – it’s central to our whole message.’
‘In that case, get straight back to them and tell them it’s a very firm yes,’ Katherine says decisively. ‘And by the way, everyone, this is Meg.’
A few disinterested heads swivel in my direction and there’s a couple of muttered ‘hi’s from around the room.
‘Meg’s a consultant,’ says Katherine, ‘and I just need to have a quick private word with her. If you’ll excuse us for a few minutes.’
A consultant, I think, following Katherine into an empty office space, where there’s boxes of campaign posters spilling out over every spare surface.
Well, I’ve certainly been called worse.
A lot worse.
*
‘Forgive the mayhem,’ Katherine tells me, closing the door firmly behind her, just as her mobile starts to ring. ‘We’ve got exactly one week and counting till the election, so, as you can see, it’s all hands to the pump.’
It’s tiny and cramped in the office, but at least there’s some semblance of privacy in here.
Katherine automatically clicks off her call, but no sooner has she done that, than her phone rings yet again.
‘Oh, shoot,’ she says, ‘this one is vitally important – I have to take it, do you mind?’
Of course not, I wave silently.
‘Yes, Minister, thank you for calling,’ she says, sitting down behind her desk, putting on her reading glasses and bringing up some kind of document on the screen in front of her. ‘Not yet, but we are moving forward on it . . . let me just double-check those figures for you . . .’
I seize the chance to have a quick scan around the place, just so I can piece together a bit more information on Katherine and her campaign, which doesn’t take too long. But then, it never does. I also use the time to run a few preliminary Google searches on my own phone, and by the time Katherine winds up her call, I’m prepped, primed and ready to go.
‘You’re a busy woman,’ I say, pacing around a bit and thinking aloud. Walking and talking always works best for me. Besides, who has time to sit still? The last time I can remember sitting down was back in 2017. ‘So, let me save us both a lot of time. It’s got to be your husband, surely? Well, clearly it’s him, because why else would you need to see me?’
Katherine winces and there’s a tight little pause before she nods yes. But that’s all it takes; I’m already well ahead of her.
‘Say no more, I understand,’ I tell her, efficiently tapping away on my phone. ‘You’re up for re-election and any kind of scandal that would detract from your message would be hugely damaging to you. Plus, you’re a mum.’
I throw a curt nod in the direction of some of the Sisk family photos dotted on the desk opposite. ‘Two kids, one in college, and one in senior school, by the look of it. Do they have any inkling about this? Rows, arguments at home, anything like that?’
‘No . . . not at all,’ Katherine says hesitantly, clearly not used to being with someone who takes the lead.
‘Good,’ I say, warming to my theme. ‘Then let’s keep it that way. Your kids don’t need to know about this any more than the general public does. Your family life is strictly off limits, and my job is to make sure it stays that way.’
‘Go on,’ says Katherine, taking off her glasses, swivelling in her chair and listening intently.
‘If you want my help,’ I say, pacing and thinking and thinking and pacing, ‘then you have to do exactly as I tell you. First and foremost, you absolutely must not blame yourself for this in any way. If your husband is offside, then I’ll deal with him, quickly and, above all, discreetly. But be warned: as soon as I’m done, then you, Senator, will have some pretty big decisions to make. You might subsequently choose to separate and start afresh, or you might decide to take your husband back, go for counselling, and put it all behind you. How you decide to live your private life in the future is, of course, your own business and no one else’s.’
‘So . . . how do you propose to . . . ?’ Katherine asks, looking a bit confuddled, but I’m already clicking away on my phone, miles ahead of her.
‘Your husband is Philip Sisk, he works for an environmental consultancy start-up, he’s active on your campaign, and he’s a stay-at-home dad too. At least, according to what I can glean online. Nice family photo, by the way,’ I add, holding up a feature that had appeared in a recent Saturday weekend spread. A group shot of the whole Sisk clan, even though the two teenage daughters look like they had to be nailed to the sofa to pose for the picture, and everyone’s smile is strained.
But then, aren’t they always in these ‘casual, at home’ shots?
My eye falls on a particularly ugly shot of Katherine, dressed in an uncomfortable, ill-fitting cocktail dress, leaning up against her already set dining table, pretending to light a candle, as if it were Christmas Day. Jesus. Do people really fall for this crap?
‘Philip is working on your re-election,’ I say, still walking the room and thinking out loud. ‘Therefore, my guess is he’s out and about at all hours of the day and night, covering your whole constituency, just like you. So it doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure out that he was thrown into the company of someone who works equally long and crazy hours. Someone on your team, for instance. Possibly even someone in this very office.’
At that, I stop dead in my tracks.
‘Maybe even someone who’s here right now.’
Got it in one. Katherine flushes hotly and that’s all the confirmation I need.
‘There’s no possible way you can have known that . . . ’ she stumbles to say, but I’m already over at the glass wall that separates Katherine’s private office from the main campaign HQ outside, scanning through it and taking careful note.
‘Curly, red-haired woman who had two phones on the go when I came in?’ My eye quickly falls onto that distinctive mane of red hair.
Not a huge stretch either; this particular aide is young, pretty, she cl
early isn’t wearing a wedding ring and she has the banjaxed look of someone who works twenty-four/seven. Or at least, who claims that she does.
A curt nod from Katherine.
‘I’m more or less certain,’ Katherine says quietly, starting to sound genuinely upset now. ‘I’m not stupid, I’ve suspected for a long time. Phil takes calls and disappears out of the house at all hours, then tells me it’s about the campaign. At first I believed him, mainly because I wanted to . . . but then . . . then . . .’
Her voice cracks and I almost feel the first stirrings of sympathy for her.
Almost.
I don’t indulge it though – because that’s the golden rule. You don’t get close – you never get close. These people aren’t my friends, they’re my clients.
I got close once before, and it turned out badly. For all involved. Never again.
Self-pity, I’ve always found, helps nothing and hinders much. Cold clear-sightedness is what sorts out messy, emotional situations. In confidential talks like this, I always have to be the strong one, the dominatrix, the bossy-pants. Clients might not like it, but in the end, they’ll thank me.
‘You need to be fully upfront with me about everything,’ I tell Katherine. ‘Remember, I’m here to fix this, but I can only do that if you’re a hundred per cent honest with me. At all times.’
‘Oh Christ, this is a nightmare . . .’ she sighs, fumbling up her wrist for a tissue as her eyes begin to tear up. ‘It’s just the bloody cliché of it, that’s what gets me more than anything. Phil and I have a life together, a good life, or so I thought . . . and now this? At quite literally the worst time imaginable. With a general election in less than a week.’
‘Just stick to the facts,’ I tell her coolly, folding my arms. ‘That’ll do me for now.’
‘OK . . .’ Katherine says, making an effort to compose herself. ‘So I caught him out in more than a few barefaced lies. He’d tell me he was out doing door-to-door canvassing, but I subsequently discovered he was with her the whole time. Dog-walking is another great excuse of his, but I know right well that poor Mycroft, the family Lab, is being walked no further than her front door.’
The Fixer Page 2