But I don’t even bother acknowledging him. I’m far, far too absorbed by the electoral database in front of me.
I glance over at Jess, who’s still too engrossed on her phone call to pay much mind to me.
Jonny Featherstone-Jones, I think. If you ever voted in any election ever, then I’m coming to track you down.
It’s all working out beautifully.
So what do I do? Oh please, what do you think? I scroll all the way down to ‘f’ for Featherstone which takes forever, given the sheer volume of names here, but eventually, eventually, God be praised, I find what I’m looking for.
Whipping out my phone, I check on Jess again. My luck is in; she’s still not paying a blind bit of attention. In that second, I grab a lightning-quick photo of the address I need, and lucky for me I do, because next thing, Katherine bounds into the office, with Billy right at her side, spouting the day’s media schedule into her ear.
Shit, shit, shit. Not enough time – or privacy – for me to shove a USB stick into the side of the desktop and make a copy of the entire database. But still, I think, smiling brightly up at them, I’ll figure out some way to get back into this office, alone and unsupervised, so I can knuckle down to some very interesting work.
‘So you’ve got a podcast at noon,’ Billy is saying, reading from the iPad in front of him, ‘then you’re on lunchtime news live on Channel 1, and they need you to be in the studio a good ten minutes beforehand. We’re expecting updates from the Prime Minister’s climate change speech live on air, and be warned, you’ll probably get roped in to give your two cents’ worth . . .’
‘Katherine?’ Jess pipes up from her desk, where she’s still stuck on that call, ‘I’m just onto World News Radio here and they really want you for the Women’s Show this Saturday . . .’
Katherine gives her a big thumbs up, as Billy tries to pull her attention back again.
‘And then tonight . . . ehh . . . hello? Katherine? Are you even taking any of this in?’
Meanwhile, Katherine comes over to shake me warmly by the hand.
‘I missed you yesterday,’ she says in a low voice. ‘Come on, you and me, time for a quick coffee, I think.’
‘Ehh . . . hate to put a dampener on any other plans you might have,’ Billy interrupts, ‘but you’ve got about fifteen minutes before we need to leave here . . .’
‘That’s all I need with Meg,’ says Katherine firmly. ‘Come on, Billy, you’re working me like a dog and you know I always function better on a few shots of caffeine.’
‘All right then,’ Billy says, theatrically. ‘Don’t mind me, and this schedule that I’ve worked blood, sweat and tears on. Go on off and have a nice little coffee morning for yourselves. Excuse me for getting in your way.’
‘I’ll be right outside in exactly fifteen minutes,’ Katherine smiles at him. ‘And don’t worry, Billy, if you behave yourself, I might even buy you a takeaway Americano. Meg? This way, please.’
‘Milk, no sugar!’ Billy calls down the corridor, as the two of us leave the office and disappear.
‘And one for me!’ Jess calls too, which Katherine more or less ignores.
It seems to me that we’re walking forever, down one high-ceilinged Georgian corridor after another, before we eventually come to the main staircase, which is, to put it mildly, breathtaking. It’s almost designed like a wedding cake, the coving and plastering detail is so ornate and, as your eye is drawn upwards by another five storeys towards the overhead dome, it seems like you’re standing right at the very centre of the universe. This is the epicentre of government and it’s buzzing with activity, as ministers sweep up and down the stairs, some with teams of advisors trailing after them, others alone and absorbed in phones.
‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ Katherine smiles, seeing the expression of wonder on my face. ‘But follow me, there’s something I very much want you to see.’
I do as I’m told, as Katherine leads me down one flight of stairs and towards a huge landing, with a giant portrait that dominates the hallway below. The painting has to be about twelve feet high and even someone like me, seldom at a loss for words, finds myself just gaping up at it in awe.
‘It’s Countess Constance Markievicz herself,’ Katherine says, as we both drink it in. ‘The very first woman ever to be elected to government. Painted by her future husband in 1919, when she was first elected. Isn’t she something?’
‘Yes,’ I say quietly. ‘Yes, she’s really something.’
‘Every single morning, I walk past this painting,’ Katherine continues, ‘and she reminds me that no matter how hard the going gets, it would have been so much tougher for her, back in the early twentieth century. Can you imagine? So even on the bad days here, and God knows there have been many of them, I often think of Countess Markievicz. And I’m grateful that she paved the way for women like me, to do the work that I’m doing today. To carry on her legacy – hopefully.’
We turn away, and Katherine guides me down yet another staircase and on towards the Member’s Dining Room, which is right on the ground floor, just beside the main entrance portico.
‘Which is why I’m really more than grateful to you now, Meg,’ Katherine says, keeping her voice low, even though the place is actually quiet, so there’s zero chance of us being overheard. ‘For working on this problem of mine and for actually hitting on a solution that might – just might – work for us all.’
‘Well, there’s still a few ifs, ands and buts,’ I tell her, ‘but if you win on Monday, and if Toby Callaghan has to go crawling back to his day job in Brussels, then put it this way. We have a shot.’
‘It would certainly put a swift end to her dalliance with Philip,’ says Katherine, ‘as well as giving him the kick in the pants he richly deserves. So now,’ she adds, leading me into the grand Dining Room, ‘tell me what you think of this?’
‘Nothing to do but gasp,’ I say, looking all around me, even though the Dining Room is built more like a ballroom, really, with teams of wait staff moving like a carefully choreographed ballet around the room.
The floor is covered in elegant dining tables, all laid out with fine linen tablecloths and expensive-looking crystal, and as we’re guided to a tiny table for two, I spot more than a few familiar faces. The Finance Minister for one and, speak of the devil, but is that Senator Callaghan in the far corner? He’s in cahoots with what looks like the political correspondent on the main evening news, but glances up to acknowledge us as we pass by.
Katherine picks a quiet table, well away from anyone else, and with a view right over a neat, cobblestoned courtyard outside.
‘It’s astonishing,’ I say. ‘Wow . . . just . . . wow.’
‘I know,’ Katherine nods understandingly. ‘I think everyone feels the same way the first time they come here. It’s like the whole building is designed to impress – and to intimidate too, of course.’
A waiter comes over to take our order. We both ask for good, strong Americanos, and as soon as he’s gone, Katherine sits forward, lowering her voice.
‘Anyway, I wanted to see you face to face,’ she says. ‘I don’t know what happened or what didn’t happen the other night after the PrimeNews debate, but all I can say with certainty is this. Ever since, Philip is a newly chastened man. He’s being an awful lot better around the house and he’s Dad of the Year as far as my daughters are concerned.’
‘I’m very glad to hear it,’ I say. ‘He and Jess certainly got an unexpected shock, let me tell you.’
‘Now please don’t get me wrong,’ she hastens to add. ‘The very minute this dratted election is over, Philip Sisk won’t know what’s hit him. But I’ve chosen to bottle everything up until after polling day, and I’ll decide what to do then and only then.’
‘And what do you think you’ll decide?’ I ask.
Katherine sits back and takes a moment before answering.
‘I’ll probably make him move out,’ she says. ‘For a time at least
. But until then – thanks to you – I can focus on the campaign properly, without my family life getting in the way. After the election though? You just watch this space.’
I’m already ahead of her.
‘I’m glad you’re happy so far,’ I say. ‘But you know, my work here is far from finished.’
Katherine looks across the table, eyebrows raised.
‘We’re not letting your husband get away with this,’ I tell her matter-of-factly. ‘Not a chance in hell. Part of my remit is to make sure Philip knows exactly what happens to men who cheat. How cold and lonely and miserable life is for a middle-aged man who dares to stray on a wonderful woman like you. I’m already working on something and I think – I hope – you’ll be pleased with the results.’
Our coffees arrive and Katherine takes a sip, listening intently. Then she exhales deeply and takes off her glasses.
‘You’re really something, Meg,’ she says, after a pause. ‘Do you know that?’
I deem it best to look modest, fake humility and keep my mouth shut. But yes, actually, I have to agree. I really am something.
‘Tell me this,’ Katherine says simply. ‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why do you do this? The whole “fixing people problems” thing? It’s like a personal vendetta with you. I’d really love to know what motivates you, that’s all.’
I shrug and take a moment to focus out the window at the courtyard outside.
‘You say you stand on a platform of equality and fairness,’ I say slowly. ‘It’s what you’ve been fighting for all your political life, isn’t it?’
‘It certainly is,’ Katherine replies. ‘And it’s not easy, let me tell you.’
‘Snap,’ I tell her. ‘Because that’s exactly what I stand for too. Equality and fairness in all things. If you hurt someone or cheat, or make their life difficult, you should get a taste of all the pain and humiliation you caused. It’s the least you deserve, if you ask me. And I’m an equal opportunities fixer. Men or women, I don’t particularly care. If you’re in a relationship, be it romantic or not, and mess around, there’s a price to be paid and I’ll make bloody sure you pay it.’
There’s a thoughtful pause, while Katherine seems to be formulating her next question.
‘Did anyone ever cheat on you?’ she asks gently.
‘You mean like romantic partners?’ I scoff. ‘Not a chance. But I do have personal experience of how cheating can wreck a family. Deeply personal, as it happens.’
There once was a little girl, five years of age, who had to move out of her house, leaving behind her lovely bedroom and all of her favourite toys. ‘Everything will follow on,’ her mum said. But her mum was crying a lot when she said it, and didn’t seem happy at all about this big move.
‘But I don’t want to leave,’ this child insisted. ‘We live here, this is our house!’
‘Well, from now on we’re going to be living with Gran and Grandad,’ her mum said. ‘We need to leave here and we need to leave right now. Stop arguing, Megan, and be a good girl.’
It took a long, long time and lots of listening at doors before the truth finally began to dawn.
‘That Charlie is a roaring eejit,’ her nan used to gripe to anyone who’d listen. ‘Him and his new fancy woman. Doreen, the state of her, with the head bleached off her, and her fake nails and her fancy job managing apartments in Marbella. Best thing you could do was to get well away from him, love, and mark my words, he’ll get what’s coming to him.’
But Charlie didn’t get what was coming to him at all, quite the opposite, in fact. Instead, he came into a big inheritance and splashed out on a huge house that he and Doreen moved into, with a bedroom specially earmarked for when Megan came to stay.
Which she never did. Ever.
Aged nine, she’d grown devious in ways to punish her father for what he’d put them through. She’d fake being sick to get out of seeing him and Doreen, who’d suddenly decided she was going to be stepmum of the year. Once, she even locked herself in the fridge at the butcher’s where her grandad worked, to avoid a day of forced ‘family fun’ with her father and his girlfriend.
And all the time, she watched her mum work harder to make ends meet and grow thinner and sadder and more and more bitter, while Megan grew colder and angrier as the whole bedrock of her belief system began to form. Once it did, it wouldn’t go away. Cheating has consequences, she decided at a scarily young age. And no one should get away with it – no one.
Young Megan was aged fourteen by the time Charlie and Doreen got married and although she ignored her wedding invitation, she made a point of turning up to the reception. It was held in the marquee of a five-star hotel, oh, no expense spared for Charlie this time around. Doreen looked a bit like a marquee herself, in a ludicrous billowing dress, with no fewer than six bridesmaids, and Charlie looked like a bargain basement Oliver Hardy, beaten into a suit that was a good two sizes too small for him and bursting at the seams.
Megan deliberately wore her oldest, filthiest jeans and snuck in around the back, carefully picking her moment to corner her dad in the quiet of the Portaloo toilets.
‘Megan! I’m delighted you came!’ Charlie beamed, thrilled to see her. ‘Doreen will be so pleased. All she wants is to be friends with you. But why are you dressed like that, love?’ he said, eyeing her torn jeans and sweatshirt. ‘Look at you, you’re a mess! You don’t want anyone seeing you like that, like you were dragged through a hedge. It’s our special day. Can’t you go home and change into something a bit classier? Then we can find Doreen so you can congratulate your brand-new stepmother.’
‘But I didn’t come here to congratulate either of you,’ Megan replied, folding her arms and looking her father squarely in the eye. ‘I came here to tell you something, Charlie.’
‘What’s that, love?’
She looked at him for a long time, carefully choosing her words.
‘Just remember,’ she said slowly, ‘that you shat on our lives from a height, just so you could marry Doreen today. All those times you were taking Doreen out to dinner in posh restaurants? And whisking her off on sun holidays? I was the one who had to sit in Nan’s house with Mum, not knowing what to say to her when she cried and fell into depression and stopped eating and started smoking twenty a day. Me and Nan were the ones who had to scoop her up off the floor and convince her that life was worth living again. I was only a small kid, Charlie, and because of you, that’s what I had to deal with. You ruined her life, and buggered up mine. So just you remember that. Because, mark my words, one day it’ll all come back to bite you in the arse. One day soon, if I’ve anything to do with it.’
I’m aware of Katherine blinking back at me, waiting on an answer.
‘I got into this for personal reasons,’ is all I say by way of a reply, with a quick, professional smile. ‘But right now, you’re about to do a full day of media with Billy and Jess, so why don’t I help you out a bit? I can start to tackle the list of electors who have to be targeted with your policy manifesto. It’s important in the final run-up to polling day. At least it’s one less thing for you to worry about.’
‘You’re a very hard woman to say no to,’ Katherine says, getting up to leave.
I say nothing. Instead I just remember that fat, juicy database that’s upstairs on Billy’s computer, thinking of what that information means to me, then sit back and smile, feeling deliciously in control again.
Just the way I like it.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Harriet
‘Freddie? Do you not get it? Don’t you see what this means?’
‘Oh, yes . . . yes, absolutely,’ Freddie says, looking back at her in utter confusion.
‘Do you? Do you really see what’s going on here?’
‘Emm . . . yes! Yes, I most certainly do. And it’s dreadful. Shocking! Don’t suppose you fancy a bit of lunch, do you?’
‘Freddie!’
‘It’s just that I only had a b
anana first thing this morning and they’ve got me chained to my desk ever since. Not that what you’re telling me isn’t of the utmost importance, of course,’ he stresses. ‘But couldn’t we talk and eat a nice, tasty cheese panini at the same time?’
Harriet sighs deeply. She’d practically bolted out of the offices of Digby, Markby and Sellers earlier, full of gabbled apologies to Harold and George. All she’d wanted was to see Freddie and talk this over with him and see if he thought her suspicions were right. She’d hopped straight on a bus into town, her mind in overdrive, madly trying to process what she’d just heard.
Because she had to have got it wrong. It was as simple as that. This was unthinkable, it was unfathomable.
But – no – deep down, she knew right well that there was no mistake. This was a betrayal like she’d never experienced before in the whole course of her life.
And that’s what made it worse than anything.
Finally, finally, finally Harriet got a hold of Freddie on his phone, who told her he was out at the Connair offices, which were right beside the airport. It was a measure of just how shocked she was, that she hailed down a taxi in town to get there instead of jumping onto a second bus, not even caring what a ridiculous extravagance it was.
It’s an emergency, she told herself, so that was the end of that.
The Connair Head Office was steely and impressive when Harriet eventually arrived. She barely even reacted when the driver told her the fare was over twenty-five euro. Numbly, she stepped out of the cab and made her way inside the huge glass and concrete structure, with the distinctive Connair logo everywhere you looked.
Flights to Toulouse for €9!
That was just one of the many giant posters that lined the walls of the huge, double-ceilinged reception area, along with dozens of others that screamed Fly to Paris East for €20 and New York for €75! But then, in tiny writing, said that your baggage and booking charges were approximately double that and God help you if you wanted a cup of tea on board.
Normally, Harriet would have been a bit intimidated by all of this. Normally, she’d have thought long and hard about just barging in here unannounced, when Freddie was meant to be working.
The Fixer Page 23