I double-check I’ve got the right address. I’d only managed to take a sneaky, surreptitious screenshot of this one, single address from that database, but I still needed to be careful. Billy had spotted the stash of USB sticks on my desk earlier and surprised me by being remarkably perceptive.
‘These USB sticks belong to you?’ he’d asked, as soon as Jess and I got back to the office after that photocall with Katherine.
‘Is there a problem?’ I’d asked him politely, with a big, bright smile.
‘You do remember me telling you that the electoral database is highly classified information, don’t you?’ he said warningly. ‘And that it cannot, under any circumstances, leave this office?’
‘Absolutely,’ I nodded.
‘Because you seem to have a hell of a lot of USB sticks lying around,’ he went on, looking at me all worried and frowning and concerned.
I didn’t even regard something like this as an obstacle. Thinking on my feet, thankfully, is where I shine. I eyeballed him, and instantly started acting the klutz. The new girl.
‘Oh Jeez, Billy, that’s nothing! I always have a stack of back-up keys with me, no matter what I’m working on. Just to be on the safe side. And that’s it, that’s all. Nothing to see here, I promise.’
‘Meg,’ he said, looking at me a bit strangely. ‘GDPR rules prevent us, or anyone in this building for that matter, from ever removing a shred of this from the office. Ever. It’s privileged information, and that’s the way it has to stay. We’re only allowed to use it for the purposes of canvassing door to door and absolutely nothing more. I won’t say it again. Got it?’
‘Gotcha loud and clear,’ I said, sounding bright and breezy, while thinking, Oh spare me the bloody lecture, you sanctimonious git.
My own takeaway from that conversation? Don’t get caught.
*
And now, thanks to that precious electoral register, here I am on Myrtle Street, pounding the pavement, checking every house that has a number until I finally get the right one. At least I fervently hope it is the right one, so I can get out of this dump as fast as possible.
It turns out to be a classic two-up, two-down corpo house that opens directly on to the street, in a row of terraced houses exactly the same and all in varying states of dilapidation.
I put on the prop glasses I have with me, scrape my hair back into a neat ponytail, take a stack of fliers out of my bag and knock on the door. The window that opens out on to the street is right beside me, and I can hear the sound of a match on TV that’s in full swing. It’s obviously a big and important match, because it sounds like there’s a gang of lads gathered around to watch it, and every now and then I can clearly hear chants of ‘Go on, it’s a penalty! The referee is an arsehole, is he blind?’
Eventually, on the second ring, the door is answered by a guy about my own age, wiry and lanky, wearing a T-shirt that says Climate Action Now and with the thickest head of hair I think I’ve ever seen, arranged in a gelled-up style that’s shaped like an ocean wave and that has to take a good half-hour daily.
‘Yeah?’ he says, eyeing me up and down suspiciously. ‘You here with the pizzas?’
Do I look like I work for Dominos, I resist snapping at him. Instead, I get straight into character, and launch my little pre-prepared speech. ‘Hi there,’ I smile warmly. ‘I’m working with the Katherine Sisk re-election campaign.’
‘Are you canvassing?’ Gel-Head asks me, shoving his hands deep into his jeans pockets.
‘Absolutely,’ I reply. ‘And I wondered if I could possibly have a word with Jonny Featherstone-Jones, if this is the right address for him?’
‘Ehh . . . yeah. Jonny lives here all right,’ this guy shrugs. ‘So you don’t want to talk about Katherine Sisk’s election promises then? Only I’m a bit of a political activist myself, you know. Except I’m a Green Party man. Gotta save the planet, you know. Climate change is for real. There is no Planet B.’
‘Sorry, but all I really want is to have a quick work with Jonny,’ I say, flashing my very fakest smile, the one I only ever use when I’m dealing with halfwits. ‘If he’s available, that is?’
‘HEY JONESY!’ the guy yells, at a decibel level that makes me wince. ‘There’s some woman here to see you! Get your arse out here!!!’
‘Piss off!’ comes the roar back from the living room, where the telly is on fully sonic blast. ‘We’re almost into extra time – tell whoever it is to kiss my arse!!’
‘It’ll just take a moment,’ I say hopefully.
‘JONSEY? SHE’S ACTUALLY QUITE HOT . . . YOU MIGHT WANT TO MEET THIS ONE.’
Jesus Christ. I wince, and let the casual sexism wash all over me, reminding myself that I’m here to do a job and nothing else.
‘Right then, bring her in here,’ this Jonny Featherstone-Jones calls back.
‘You heard him,’ Gel-Head says, opening the door wider to let me pass through.
I do, and instantly regret it. The stench of an overflowing toilet is what hits me first, mixed with the garlicky, oniony smell of a stale pizza, that’s still in its box, lying with a load of other rubbish in the hallway. Effectively, the whole house looks and smells like a pigsty that hasn’t seen a bottle of bleach in years.
I hold my breath and follow Gel-Head into the TV room, where no fewer than six lads, all virtually impossible to tell apart, sit lounging around, as the final moments of a soccer match play out.
All heads swivel my way, and a weaker character might just find this intimidating, walking into such a testosterone-heavy cesspit. The smell of feet alone would take the wind out of you.
There’s a couple of wolf whistles directed my way, which I will myself not to lose my cool over.
‘So which one of you is Jonny Jones?’ I say to the room, schoolmarm style.
‘I am!’ they all say in messy unison, then, all talking at the same time, try to ask me out on a date.
‘Jeez, she’s not half bad . . .’
‘Nice legs . . . good figure . . .’
‘Reminds me of your woman from the movies . . . whatshername . . . Audrey Tatou . . .’
Enough. That’s it, I’ve had enough. Either I get what I came for, or I’ll murder one of these Neanderthals, it’s as simple as that.
‘Jonny Featherstone-Jones? The registered tenant who lives here? Is that you?’ I ask, taking a potshot and zoning in on the quietest guy, who’s sitting in a corner, the only one who actually seems to remember that there’s an actual match on.
‘Hmm,’ he says distractedly. He stays glued to the dying minutes of the game, as I do my thing.
Age: 27–28. Clearly a man who moisturises. Which is surprising, given the state of where he lives. Whippet-thin and undernourished-looking, with the sunken pallor of a night animal. A smoker, judging by his fingernails, and someone who lives off takeout food, if the crop of acne rosacea clustered around his jawline is anything to go by.
Dressed: in Gap, but it’s clearly all years out of date. Wearing jeans that are badly frayed, and not in a designer/cool way, with battered trainers that the tongues are sticking out of in one foot. And a hoodie. In fact, hoodies seem like a uniform among this gang of lads; every single one of them is in one, like they’re compulsory.
‘I actually am a big fan of yours,’ I begin, wishing that I could get to work on him privately, away from this gang of primates.
‘Aghhhhh!’ the rest of the lads fall around guffawing. ‘Jonny man, you just got recognised!! For the first time in your whole pathetic acting career, you were actually recognised!’
‘What have you seen him in before, love?’ one of them asks me cheekily. ‘Was it the commercial for incontinence pads? Where he plays the loving grandson buying knickers for his grandma?’
‘Some of his finest work, right there!’
‘Other actors dream of playing the Dane. But with our Jonesy, no, it’s incontinence pads all the way!’
‘Fuck off, you lot, will you?’ J
onny says sulkily, eyes still glued to the match.
‘No,’ I say calmly and clearly. ‘No, it was nothing like that at all, actually. As a matter of fact, I saw you onstage. And that’s actually why I’m here to talk to you.’
Silence from around the room now. Just the sound of the TV blaring in the background, as the commentator announces that the match is now going into extra time.
‘Come out to the hall,’ Jonny says, instantly getting up to his feet. ‘Where it’s quieter.’
I do just that, resisting the urge to hold my nose as I step back out into that putrid hallway, taking care to avoid an empty pizza box that now seems to be doubling up as an ashtray.
‘I thought you were brilliant in that play I saw you in,’ I gush, acting as if I’ve just met Ryan Gosling. ‘Except the name of the play slips my mind just now . . .’
‘Two’s Company, Three’s a Crowd,’ Jonny prompts, looking delighted with himself, all interested now that the conversation is about him. ‘So you’re one of the dozen or so people who came to see it? What did you think of it?’
‘You were wonderful,’ I say automatically. ‘In fact, I said it on the night. I said that guy is going to be BIG. And, as it happens, I’m a playwright, with a project I’m developing that I really think you’d be perfect for.’
‘That’s certainly interesting all right,’ Jonny nods eagerly, folding his arms and looking like this is only his due. ‘In fact, you and I should talk some more. Do you want to swap numbers, so we can grab a drink? And you can tell me all about the play? And how big the part is?’
I smile. ‘I’d love nothing more.’
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Harriet
7.30 p.m.
It is like a fairyland. Harriet and her family, the twins included, have just arrived at the de Courcey house, and their eyes are practically out on stilts, cartoon-style.
‘Harriet, be well warned,’ Terry says, ‘if you don’t nab Freddie, I will! Would you look at this place? It’s insane!’
‘Now, boys, on your best behaviour, please,’ says Carole sternly, as they all troop up the dozen stone steps that whisk you up to the main entrance door. There, cloakroom attendants are on standby to take your coats, and the catering staff almost look like they are lying in wait for you, so fast are they to offer you a glass of champagne, served, of course, in crystal flutes, with the de Courcey crest discreetly cut into each one.
The giant stone hallway is thronged to bursting and to see the de Courcey hospitality in full swing, really is a sight to behold. Scores of beautifully dressed guests, all looking their very best, mill around, and more than a few famous faces dot the crowd. There are TV presenters, government ministers, models and actors, high-brow artists and classical musicians, several representatives from the world of literature, most of the country’s championship rugby team; there’s even a world-famous pop star present, but, of course, given that the de Courceys are hosting, this is no wannabe boy band member. No, this is a bona fide, ‘elder statesman’ rock star with a sideboard full of Emmys and a wall lined with platinum discs, widely rumoured to be a shoo-in for the next Nobel Peace Prize. And of course, because this is a pre-election political fundraiser, it seems like most of Government Buildings has decamped here too.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Jack blurts out, ‘it’s like Buckingham Palace in here!’
‘Are you telling me that one family really, seriously live here?’ Terry asks. ‘It’s the size of ten Olympic stadiums put together!’
‘Boys,’ Carole barks at them. ‘You were warned not to act the maggot, just for this one night. Remember, we’re here to support Harriet and Freddie, and if you make a holy, mortifying show of us, then I’m warning you, I won’t be responsible.’
‘Come on lads,’ says Harriet’s dad Sean, who is starting to look a little bit overwhelmed at his surroundings. ‘What do you say we grab a drink and explore around the place a bit? Don’t you worry, Carole,’ he nods to his wife, ‘I’ll make sure they stay well out of trouble.’
‘Can you believe that pair?’ Carole mutters at Harriet, when it’s just the two of them side by side, in that packed, giant entrance hall, where the chatter has risen to a crescendo. ‘Thirty-three years of age, and I still have to talk to them like bold schoolboys. Honestly. It would put years on you. Your poor father is worn out – he says babysitting a pair of toddlers wouldn’t be as much hassle.’
‘It’s such a pity that Sofia and Alisha couldn’t be here this evening,’ Harriet says, gaping up at the ceiling, drinking it all in. ‘Wouldn’t they have loved it?’
‘Tonight is their hen night, love,’ Carole reminds her, ‘and the best of luck to them. I’m telling you, my nerves are shattered just thinking about the boys’ stag night tomorrow. Although I wouldn’t have missed an evening like this for the world. Wasn’t it kind of Freddie to invite us?’
‘Are you kidding, Mam? He was so touched to have been included in our little family dinner last night – he’s been talking about how great you and Dad are all day.’
Just then, from scarily high above them, Harriet hears the sound of her own name being called out.
‘Harriet! There you are – look! I’m up here!’
She and Carole automatically follow the voice upwards – and upwards – and upwards again, and there, standing in a minstrels’ gallery, at least thirty feet above the melee, is Freddie. Looking so handsome tonight, Harriet thinks, in a light blue suit with a white shirt opened at the neck. His coppery red hair looks freshly washed and he’s beaming happily from ear to ear, genuinely delighted to see them, and waving furiously.
‘Sweet divine,’ says Carole, as she and Harriet wave back up at him, ‘how in the name of God did he get up there?’
‘Stay right where you are!’ Freddie yells back down at them. ‘Don’t move an inch – either of you! I’m on my way down. Incoming!’
A few minutes later, he is winding his way through the throng, full of ‘hellos’ and ‘oh, please excuse mes’, till he finds Harriet and Carole, hugging them both warmly and welcoming them profusely.
‘It’s so wonderful that you’re here,’ he’s grinning broadly from ear to ear. ‘I’ve been watching out for you all for ages. And don’t you both look utterly breathtaking?’
He takes Harriet by both hands, as Carole looks on fondly. ‘Love the dress,’ he says to Harriet.
‘Thank you,’ Harriet smiles prettily, twirling around in a pale blue silk dress, with thin spaghetti straps, that clings to her tall, lean figure perfectly and is the exact match of her eyes. ‘Mum very kindly took me shopping today and told me to pick out anything I wanted – money no object. It was the best fun and the biggest treat imaginable!’
‘Sure I haven’t seen my only girl in so long,’ Carole says, ‘it was the least I could do for her. The only one of my kids who gives me no hassle.’
‘You look jolly gorgeous too, Carole,’ Freddie smiles warmly at her. ‘Love the red dress on you – stunning.’
‘Thank you very much,’ Carole says, delighted with the compliment.
‘And your husband is here somewhere?’ he asks respectfully. ‘And the twins too, I hope?’
‘Oh, they’re here somewhere all right,’ Carole says, rolling her eyes. ‘Although knowing them, they’ve probably found their way to the bar by now. But tell me this, Freddie,’ she goes on, ‘how on earth did you get up to the ceiling like that? My heart was in my mouth, just looking up at you!’
‘Minstrels’ gallery,’ he replies. ‘Old trick of mine, back to when I was little and my parents would entertain in this house. I was never allowed to go to any of their parties, but my nanny would let me sit up there out of harm’s way and watch all the comings and goings. Perfect way to spy on all the guests.’
‘This house . . .’ Harriet says, ‘ is . . . just . . . well, I’ve never been anywhere like this before, like ever!’
‘In that case, I’ll have to give you both the whole tour,’ Freddie says o
bligingly. ‘Takes a bit of time though. Hope you’ve got good walking shoes on!’
‘I’d adore to see the house,’ says Carole, looking keenly all around her, drinking it all in, ‘it’s really out of this world. A tour would be wonderful.’
‘Right-i-o. In that case, come with me, ladies,’ he says, linking arms with both women and leading them on through to the ballroom, just to the left of the grand entrance hall. ‘But before I show you over the old homestead, there’s someone here who I should very much like you to meet.’
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Meg
7.40 p.m.
It serves me right for actually thinking that I might snatch a rare bit of privacy. It’s sheer and utter mayhem back at Katherine’s office in Government Buildings, like a sweatshop more than anything else, and in spite of all my watching and waiting, I still don’t get five minutes on my own to do what I need to do and make a copy of that database.
Jess is here, Billy is hovering most annoyingly, Philip Sisk is in and out, and it seems like a whole cohort of Katherine’s well-wishers and supporters have been dropping by all afternoon and evening to offer any kind of support they can, in this, the final push of the campaign.
My phone rings and it’s Katherine.
‘Meg?’
‘Katherine, how can I help you?’ I ask, steeling myself. She’s been doing last-minute door-to-door canvassing all evening and it sounds like she’s calling me from her car. ‘Are you on your way home?’
‘Yes,’ she says, ‘I’m on my way home for a quick shower, then I’m straight back out the door again. But I’ll tell you exactly how you can help. You can change into a little party dress and join me and the rest of the team at a political fundraiser in about an hour’s time. Forgive the short notice, Meg, but I really need you there. And I’m afraid you’ll have to rush – the party has already started by now, so we’re already late.’
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