The Fixer

by Claudia Carroll

  There’s a loud knocking at the door, which we both ignore.

  ‘If you’re concerned that gossip about your private life will leak to the media,’ I say calmly, ‘I promise, you don’t need to be. I’ll have everything sorted for you, long before the election. I did only begin working for you yesterday,’ I remind her, gently but firmly. ‘And as I explained to you then, these things don’t happen overnight.’

  But Katherine is beyond listening.

  ‘I can’t do it,’ she says, turning to face the dressing room mirror. ‘I just don’t think I can take one more unendurable minute of this. I have to go out there and face the public and the press and smile and act like my family life is tickety-boo, thanks very much. And then I have to go home and look at Philip and listen to all the lies he comes up with when he says he’s going out canvassing door to door for me, when I know he’s really meeting up with her. It’s too much. Do you hear me? It’s just too much to bear.’

  She’s crying. There’s no mistaking it, the woman is shedding real, actual tears. The same woman who’d been grilled up, down and sideways on live TV for the past sixty minutes and who’d taken it all in her stride is now bordering on being a big, weepy, uncontrollable mess.

  ‘Senator Sisk, you’re needed out here, please!’ shouts a loud voice from outside, to the sound of urgent rapping on the dressing room door.

  ‘Just give us a moment!’ I yell back. Then, noiselessly, I kneel down beside Katherine and slip a comforting arm around her shoulders. Emotional people, I know of old, need to be handled with kid gloves. A bit like tired, cranky children, really.

  ‘You know what’ll happen now?’ Katherine sniffs, as hot, angry tears flow down her face. ‘I’ll get home later on tonight and I’ll be catching up with the kids and organising dinners and all of that, and Philip will tell me he’s going out to walk the dog, and that’s when he calls her, and I’m supposed to act like I’m thick and I don’t know what’s going on and I want to bloody well kill him and I want to fire her. But I have to wait till after this bloody election and, in the meantime, I’m expected to smile and look “electable” and keep up this gruelling schedule even though I’m ready to fall over with tiredness, and then I’ll collapse into bed tonight and I won’t even have the luxury of sleeping because I’m so, so worried that it’s only a matter of time before the media find out about Philip and that witch who’s right outside this door. And I’m human, Meg. And I honestly don’t know how much more of this I can take.’

  She finally pauses to take a breath.

  But I say nothing.

  Instead, I scoop my handbag up off the floor and rummage around for the kit I carry with me at all times, for emergencies precisely like this one. In a quick, practised movement, I pull out a small make-up bag and unzip it. Next, I produce a tiny bottle of Rescue Remedy, a fresh lipstick, a bottle of foundation, a packet of tissues and a travel-sized bottle of perfume.

  ‘When the election is over,’ I say soothingly, handing over a Kleenex. ‘Then and only then, you can deal with Philip. I know it feels like a lifetime away, but there are only six days left and you can do it. In the meantime, this is my department and mine to deal with. So we’ll have no more tears, please,’ I say, taking charge. ‘Open wide.’

  Obediently, Katherine does as she’s told, and I place a few careful drops of the Rescue Remedy directly onto her tongue.

  ‘Good woman,’ I say. ‘Now close your eyes, while I patch up your make-up. You are going to go back out there and you are going to face the media and you are going to do it all with a calm, confident smile on your face. There are few enough women in public life as it is, and you are not, repeat not going to allow the misogynists and haters out there to see you upset and weepy. Give them no ammunition, and leave the rest to me.’

  ‘I must be insane,’ Katherine says flatly. ‘To bring you into all this, and to ask so much of you, in such a short space of time. But I need you to fix this, Meg. Make it go away. For God’s sake, help me.’

  ‘It’ll all be done,’ I tell her, looking at Katherine’s reflection in the mirror and giving her a final squirt of Jo Malone Pomegranate Noir, before I’m fully satisfied. ‘Come on, then. Here we go.’

  ‘I swear to God,’ Katherine mutters, getting up to go, looking a hell of a lot better than she did a few minutes previously. ‘Once I’m re-elected, you’ll see a whole new me.’

  ‘And . . . it’s showtime,’ I say, opening the door for her, and feeding her to the lions.

  It’s sheer mayhem in the corridor outside, packed and crowded, and everyone seems to be vying for Katherine’s attention all at once.

  ‘Senator, please, we need to go to the media room right away for questions!’

  ‘Still trending on Twitter,’ Jess is saying, barely looking up from her phone. ‘And it’s too early to say, but it now looks like you could be up as much as four percentage points in the polls.’

  ‘If you’ll all excuse me,’ Katherine says, sounding a lot more composed now and back in control, ‘it seems my work here still isn’t done.’

  She sweeps past everyone as Billy catches my eye.

  ‘So what was all that about?’ he asks straight out.

  ‘Trust me. You don’t want to know.’

  *

  The media room, post-interview, is about as close to a rugby scrum in a match at the Aviva as you can possibly get, without the need for actual shin guards and a gumshield. It seems like every media outlet in the country is there, all jostling for position in an overpacked, claustrophobic press room. The clamour is deafening, the flashbulbs blinding and everywhere you turn, all you can hear is, ‘Over here! Senator, please just one more question!’

  Katherine is instantly surrounded, then escorted up to a makeshift plinth, along with the four other candidates, to face further grilling from the print media and twenty-four-hour news channels. There’s a moderator onstage who’s acting as MC, and conducting the questions from the assembled room full of hacks as skilfully as you would a concert orchestra.

  Meanwhile, Callaghan’s older brother and election agent is leaning up against a wall, arms folded, looking worriedly over at his man. He’s on his own too, with no one around him. Perfect.

  I take the ball and run with it. Fuck it, I think, it’s worth a shot. If this gamble pays off, then wouldn’t this be a perfect way to fix this and to keep everyone happy at the same time?

  I make a quick, calculated assessment, then, without any hesitation whatsoever, jump straight in. Right at the very back of the room, well away from prying eyes, where no one, absolutely no one, could see or even possibly guess at my long-term game plan.

  *

  At the end of a long, weary night, finally everyone is packing up and heading off to make print deadlines or, in the case of Katherine’s team, going home and collapsing after yet another gruelling day.

  ‘And just think, people, we get to do it all again tomorrow,’ says Billy cheerfully, as we troop out of the TV studios together, finally free to leave. ‘Starting at 7.30 a.m. sharp, when you’re booked to go on Good Morning TV. So you’ll be there, Jess? Because I have meetings for the entire day back at HQ.’

  ‘Emm . . . yes, of course, absolutely,’ Jess says distractedly, scanning the road outside the TV studio for a pre-ordered cab.

  ‘I need you to stay in touch with me all day tomorrow,’ Katherine says quietly, gripping my arm, as we walk towards the bank of waiting cars and taxis.

  ‘Absolutely,’ I say reassuringly, wishing for a minute that I could bilocate, given the number of people to meet and places I’m expected to be, all on the same day.

  ‘Well, goodnight then everyone,’ says Katherine, clambering into her government car, which is parked on the kerb waiting patiently for her. ‘And thank you for all your hard work. Let’s keep it up, we’re almost home and dry.’

  A quick, telling glance at me and she’s gone.

  Jess, meanwhile, hails down her own cab and is already opening the bac
k door, when Billy ambles over to me, loosening his collar and tie.

  ‘Well, I don’t know about you,’ he says lightly, ‘but I could certainly do with a stiff drink after that. Don’t suppose you—’

  ‘Goodnight, Billy,’ I instantly cut him off mid-sentence, before striding straight after Jess and, whether she likes it or not, jumping into the back seat of the taxi beside her.

  Go for a drink. For fuck’s sake. As if. Who in the real world has that kind of time?

  Chapter Seventeen

  Meg

  ‘Ehh . . . this is my taxi. I think you probably need to order your own,’ Jess says, looking up at me in rude surprise.

  ‘Not at all, we’re going the same way anyway,’ I lie smoothly, strapping myself into the seat and dumping my laptop carrier down beside me, as the driver zooms off.

  ‘How do you know where I live?’

  ‘Your address is on the team call sheet.’

  Jeez, I only wish every job came with such a handy crib sheet.

  ‘Yeah, well, I’ve actually got a lot of media calls to make now,’ says Jess, kicking off her high heels and starting to massage the soles of her feet. ‘So if you don’t mind, I think it’s probably best if you make your own way home.’

  ‘Jess,’ I insist, fully prepared for roadblocks like this. ‘Just listen to me for thirty seconds, will you? Something has come up and I need to talk to you urgently. In private. And, let’s face it, this is as close to private as you and me are ever likely to get.’

  She looks warily across at me. Knew it. I knew the whiff of a scandal or gossip would pique her interest.

  ‘Go on,’ she says, clearly interested, but unsure what this is all about.

  ‘You may have noticed,’ I say, pitching this super-carefully, ‘that I was talking to Callaghan’s election agent just now. When we were up in the media room for the Q&A?’

  ‘You said this was urgent?’ Jess cuts right across me.

  Jesus, I think. What does Philip Sisk see in this one anyway? What does anyone see in her? And how does someone like this actually end up working in PR? She isn’t even particularly good with people to begin with. Surely a prerequisite for a job in PR?

  ‘Hear me out,’ I smile sweetly, twisting around in the back seat to face her full on. ‘Because there’s actually a perfectly good reason why Callaghan’s side wanted to reach out. And it might be of particular interest to you.’

  Jess says nothing, just continues massaging her stockinged feet and blankly ignoring me.

  ‘As you know, Senator Callaghan’s election agent and PR is actually his older brother,’ I tell her, careful to keep my tone as innocuous as possible. ‘Name of Alphonsus Callaghan – short, tight grey hair, early seventies, heavy build, did you notice him?’

  Because I bloody well did. And once I’d discovered exactly who he was, I was straight over to this Alphonsus Callaghan, with a pitch that I thought might just work for him. And for myself too, naturally.

  ‘If he offered you a job on the opposition team,’ says Jess, ‘then I strongly suggest you go right ahead and take it. Because frankly, Meg, you were about as much use to me today as a chocolate teapot. So go on then, grab whatever money Callaghan’s team are dangling in front of you and best of luck to you. I’d love to say you’ll be missed, but being perfectly honest, having no assistant is better than you.’

  ‘Oh no, you misunderstand,’ I say, in a tone that I hope will charm the birds off the trees, even though she’s being nothing but insulting. ‘It’s not me they’re interested in at all. It’s you they’re after. You’re the best in the business, and don’t they know it!’

  Now I have Jess’s full attention.

  ‘So . . . here’s the thing,’ I say. ‘They very much want to speak to you about future projects they’ve got in the pipeline. Exciting things, too. You know Alphonsus Callaghan’s PR reach is huge, and it seems they’re going to need a young hotshot to head up their constituency offices in Brussels. Particularly if Callaghan loses the election, which looks increasingly likely, doesn’t it? Well, you saw for yourself what he was like out there tonight, he was brutal. The man needs all the help he can get, you agree? Of course, I’m just a humble go-between in this,’ I add. ‘They wanted me to sound you out first, knowing how loyal you are to Katherine. But then, I suppose that’s one of the things that attracted them to you in the first place. Everyone knows that your loyalty is legendary.’

  Bit much, I wonder?

  Apparently not. Jess’s face is momentarily lit up by the headlamps on a passing car and I see it, clear as day. A carrot has been dangled and there’s a definite spark of interest in those cold, grey eyes.

  ‘Can you imagine the kind of money they’d be prepared to pay you?’ I toss in. ‘Not that someone like you is ever motivated by salary, of course.’

  ‘Did they really mention Brussels?’ Jess says, starting to look hungry now.

  ‘They certainly did. And obviously they wouldn’t sound you out like this unless it was going to be worth your while financially. So here’s the business card I was asked to give you,’ I say, handing over a neatly printed card which I’d tucked away into a pocket of the tailored jacket I’ve got on. ‘They’re expecting your call, Jess. And, judging by Callaghan’s performance tonight, the sooner the better, I’d say. If he loses this election and has to crawl back to Brussels with his tail between his legs, can you imagine the amount of PR rehabilitation work that will need to be done?’

  So I’ve dropped the bait and now it’s your turn to say something. Come on, this is Brussels. This is Europe. This is a massive step up the ladder for you . . .

  ‘Hmmm,’ is the only response I get though. But instead of going straight back to staring at her phone, which Jess seems to spend ninety-nine per cent of her tim doing, now she’s just sitting back against the seat of the car, staring blankly out of the window, lost in thought.

  Gotcha, I think.

  11.00 p.m.

  ‘Drive around the block a few times, will you?’ I say to the taxi driver, as soon as Jess has clambered out of the car. We’ve just dropped her off at her flat, which is in a row of newish-looking town houses, all red-bricked, all identical, all neat and perfectly well maintained.

  ‘Seriously?’ says the driver, twisting around to face me.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll pay you in cash,’ I reply coolly. ‘Just keep driving and, whatever you do, make sure we’re not seen from the house, OK?’

  I’m working on a hunch here, and I’ve got to make sure I’m right.

  ‘Jaysus,’ the driver grunts, turning back to the wheel. ‘Up till now, I’ve only ever heard people come out with that kind of thing in Robert De Niro movies.’

  11.10 p.m.

  Well onto our fourth spin around the block, and nothing. Just a cyclist from Deliveroo pedalling furiously down the road, leaving a smell of garlic wafting after him.

  Come on. Come out to play.

  I’m here and I’m waiting.

  11.14 p.m.

  ‘What’s the story, anyway?’ the taxi driver asks, most annoyingly.

  I blank him, of course, but he still insists on chatting.

  ‘Are you stalking that young one, or what? ’Cos my guess is she’s your ex-girlfriend and you’re mad jealous on account of she’s seeing someone else.’

  Silence from me, as I stay focused on the road outside.

  ‘Well, just as long as you’re not going to torch her house or do anything stupid like that, love, all right?’

  ‘Do you mind?’ I sigh wearily. ‘I’ll pay extra if we can just do this in silence. Keep driving around the block and be sure to keep out of sight. And if it’s all the same,’ I add, ‘I could really do without the running commentary.’

  11.34 p.m.

  And there it is.

  Just like I figured it would be. A sleek, black Audi glides up to the row of town houses and pulls over. There’s a minute-long delay, most likely because he’s either calling or texting her. A
re you home now, is this a good time? Need to see you. The same shite I know goes on between couples in love all the time. Gormless, easy-to-read shower of idiots that they are.

  But then a woman gets out of the car. Older, wearing medical-scrub blue trousers and a white healthcare uniform on top, with a watch pinned to the side of it. She has the exhausted look of a frontline medic who’s been working a late shift at a hospital and who’s only getting home to bed now. She reaches into the passenger seat for a box stuffed full of thick files, then plods her weary way to the house right next door to Jess.

  Bollocks, I think crossly. Have I read this all wrong? Am I losing my touch?

  11.40 p.m.

  Not as much as a leaf stirring. No cars coming down the quiet little cul-de-sac where the taxi’s parked. But at least he’s reclined his seat and is almost dozing off, so I’m spared from having to listen to his stream-of-consciousness babble any longer.

  Using the time productively, I whip out my second phone, the vital one, the one that if I ever lost, I’d be utterly bereft without.

  Nineteen missed calls and voice messages. Jesus. That’s how flat-out busy I am, that’s how little time I have to be loitering out of sight of a target’s home late at night, hoping that a hunch I had earlier might pay dividends.

  I click on my voicemail.

  ‘Meg? Denys here,’ is the first message. ‘We spoke yesterday, remember? About that tosser on my team at work who I need gone, ASAP? I’ve sent you on as much of the information that I have, just like you asked. His Twitter handle, plus all his Instagram details. He’s on Facebook too, but unfortunately you have to send him a friend request to access his page first. Anyway, I’m still waiting for you to get back to me – so ring as soon as you can. The gobshite messed up a big order on me today and, of course, he blamed everyone else around him, except himself—’