“Less than a thousand,” she replies, trying her best to underplay the significance. “And less than a hundred opened the email before we removed it. We’ve also been advised by the hosting company they’ll take the video down within the hour.”
It’s cold comfort.
“I’m not going to lie to you, William,” she adds “It’s going to be tough for a few days, but this will blow over and people will soon forget about it.”
“And in the meantime?”
“Maybe it would be sensible to spend some time in your constituency.”
“Run away you mean?”
“No, that’s not what I mean. You’re a victim of a criminal act, William. Your welfare is paramount.”
I suppose Fiona is right. I am now a victim of what is commonly known as revenge porn. It only became a criminal offence a few years ago and I distinctly remember voting in favour of the new legislation. Little did I know.
“Have the police been informed?” I ask.
“Not yet.”
“In which case, please don’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because, Fiona, getting the police involved will only increase the chances of this spreading. Once it breaches the walls of Westminster, there will be no escaping it.”
She gets up from the desk and returns to her chair.
“I’m not sure, William. You’re asking me to turn a blind eye to a crime.”
“No. I’m asking you to protect my reputation. What’s done is done and I just want this buried as deep as possible.”
“Can I think about it?”
“Think all you like but be warned, I won’t cooperate or bring charges if you do inform the police.”
“But, William…”
“I mean it, Fiona,” I interrupt. “You have my word this won’t happen again but I need to deal with it, not the police.”
She drums her fingers on the desk and puffs a resigned sigh.
“Fine, no police. There will be an internal investigation though. We need to establish how somebody got hold of that list.”
“Thank you.”
An uncomfortable silence hangs in the air. I suspect Fiona has more questions she daren’t ask, and I don’t want to leave the sanctuary of her office and face the inevitable humiliation.
“Did you know?” Fiona suddenly asks, breaking the silence.
“Know what?”
“That you were being filmed.”
“Of course not.”
“It could have been worse, though.”
“I fail to see how.”
“Well, it’s not as though you were doing anything weird or, God-forbid, illegal. It was just sex.”
“So you’d be okay having your most intimate moments shared with your colleagues?”
“Of course not. I’m just saying, it’s not a bad as it probably seems. We all have sex, William — well, we did, before we had careers. And I have to say, she was a very attractive young lady.”
As Fiona reflects on that fact, her expression suddenly changes.
“William, please tell me she wasn’t…”
“No, she was not,” I interject. “It was entirely consensual and no money changed hands. But thank you for thinking the only way I might sleep with an attractive woman is by paying her.”
“Um…no…that’s not what I meant.”
I can’t blame her for thinking that, and I suspect she won’t be the only one.
“Forget it.”
“Anyway, as I was saying. It really isn’t as bad as it might appear, if you handle it correctly.”
“Correctly?”
“In hindsight, perhaps going back to your constituency is a bad idea.”
“Your bad idea. Not mine.”
“Accepted, but it might be better to simply front this out. You’ll probably get a bit of ribbing but I suspect most of the male staff will slap you on the back and congratulate you. You know what men are like.”
“You say that like I’m a different species.”
“A bit of male bravado,” she says, ignoring my point. “And I think people will react differently. You never know, it might actually enhance your reputation.”
It dawns on me I’ve just borne witness to Fiona’s deft political skills. Within seconds, she has spun the situation into one that might somehow benefit me.
I manage a weak smile. “You were always so much better at this than me.”
“This?”
“Politics. Making the unpalatable palatable.”
“You know me, William — always been a glass-half-full kind of girl.”
On that positive note, we conclude our meeting by agreeing an action plan; one that doesn’t involve the police but does involve an internal investigation, which I agree to cooperate fully with.
As I’m about to leave, Fiona receives an email to confirm the hosting company have removed the video. Too late for the hundred people who’ve already seen it, but with Fiona’s advice ringing in my ears, I hope it’s a number I can contend with.
I thank her and steel myself. Time to face the shame.
12.
I clear two corridors, passing only four people — not so much as a glance in my direction. The gent’s toilets offer a suitable stopping point to gather my thoughts before I complete my journey. I open the door and listen for signs of life. Other than a dripping tap and the hum of the florescent lights, all is quiet. I enter the furthest cubicle and the two most pressing concerns come to the fore before my backside touches the seat.
Firstly, is whether Rosa saw the video. Buoyed by Fiona’s advice, I think I can just about handle the fact virtual strangers have witnessed my embarrassing bedroom antics, but Rosa is a different story. Even if she hasn’t seen it, I can’t avoid discussing it with her. This place is a hotbed of gossip at the best of times so there’s no way she won’t hear about it. I don’t think I have any choice other than to warn her, and that is going to be as shameful as it will be humiliating.
The other concern is Gabby. How she managed to get hold of the email list is a question somebody else will hopefully answer, but more worrying is why she even did it at all. Could it be she tried to sell the video, and with no takers, sent it out of pure spite? That seems the most plausible reason but still, something doesn’t feel right. She must have known her actions were illegal and no matter how annoyed she might have been, surely the threat of jail time was a risk too far.
I consider sending her another text message, but seeing as my earlier message was probably the catalyst for her actions this morning, I decide not to provoke her any further. She’s done her worst, and with nothing further to gain, hopefully she’ll now move on to her next victim. And besides, I should be grateful she never posted the video on social media or any number of porn websites where it could sit forever in public view.
No, it’s best to leave Gabby well alone and hope she’s sated her thirst for revenge. On the upside, she gets to keep her pound.
I exit the cubicle and head over to the sinks. After a splash of cold water on my face and a quick check of my tie, I look at the dour man in the mirror and assure him we’re ready to face Rosa — he doesn’t look convinced.
Sadly, I can’t hide in the toilet forever. I reluctantly venture back into the corridor and make my way to the office.
I step back through the door to find Rosa at her desk, still furiously typing away.
“Everything okay?” she chirps.
“Why do you ask?”
“You said you’d only be an hour.”
“Oh, yes. Right. I did.”
She continues with her typing — her behaviour suggesting she hasn’t seen the video. That might be a blessing but it doesn’t excuse me from the humiliation I know has to come. I slink behind my desk and try to look busy while I consider how to broach the subject.
Every minute that ticks by is a minute somebody could call or text her to share the gossip. I can’t put it off any longer.
“Can I have a word plea
se, Rosa?”
“Erm, sure.”
She steps from behind her desk and takes a seat in front of mine. There is more than a hint of concern in her face.
“Don’t panic. You’re not in trouble.”
“Okay, that’s a relief.”
“It’s a bit…delicate.”
“What is?”
“What I’m about to tell you.”
“Oh.”
Despite her tough veneer, necessary for her role, Rosa is a kind, sensitive soul. Endearing qualities, but it makes what I’m about to say even more difficult. That task isn’t helped when the concern returns to her face at the exact same moment my brain takes a leave of absence. I stare at her, lost for words. She stares back, perplexed.
“Um, is this about the video?” she suddenly pipes up.
My expression switches to one of slack jawed shock.
“You’ve…seen it?” I gasp.
“No. Somebody told me about it.”
“Did they say anything about the content of the video?”
After a slight grimace, she nods.
“I feel I should explain, Rosa.”
“Really, there’s no need.”
“There is. You’re my personal assistant so whatever affects me, affects you. And to be frank, I’d rather you heard the truth than the twisted version I’m sure will already be doing the rounds.”
She shuffles uncomfortably in her seat. “As you wish.”
It’s clear she doesn’t want to discuss it but I don’t want it hanging over us, like some pornographic albatross.
“Honestly, Rosa, this is a conversation I’d rather not have. But if I’m to retain even a scrap of your respect, I have to explain.”
“You have my respect, William.”
“Maybe now, but give it a few days, and enough poisonous rumours, and that might change. At least let me set the record straight.”
“Fair enough.”
“Thank you.”
I consider offering to make tea. Everything seems more civilised with a cup of tea in hand, but time is not on my side.
“Okay. I’m assuming I can rely upon your discretion with what I’m about to tell you? I haven’t discussed this with anyone, and I’d like it to remain between us.”
“You have my word. I won’t repeat it to another living soul.”
“Good. Now, have you ever heard the term, honey trap?”
“I think so, in a book I once read. It’s basically blackmail isn’t it?”
“Exactly. Well, it appears I have been the victim of such a trap. Without going into the sordid details, a woman tried to blackmail me into selling her Hansworth Hall for a nominal fee, and when I refused, she released that video.”
“Oh, William. That’s awful.”
“Indeed. Obviously I wasn’t aware our…meeting was being filmed and I’m beyond mortified it was shared amongst my colleagues. But I want you to know I had no part in it.”
She offers a sympathetic smile. “For what it’s worth, I hope she gets locked up for a long time. What a despicable thing to do.”
“To be honest with you, Rosa, I just want to forget the whole thing. I thought she was bluffing and I was wrong. The damage is done so there’s precious little point in seeking retribution.”
“That’s a very magnanimous stance, William. I’m not sure I’d be so forgiving.”
“I’ll put it down to experience and hope it blows over soon enough. You know what this place is like — there’s bound to be another scandal around the corner to keep the gossips busy.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
With the air cleared and a total humiliation avoided, Rosa returns to her duties. Now all I have to contend with are the whispers and sniggers beyond my office. It then dawns on me that Prime Minister’s questions are about to start in the House of Commons. It’s a thirty-minute session attended by almost all members and I don’t think I have the fortitude to face them just yet. Like a truanting schoolboy, I decide to skip it and head out for some lunch.
I sneak back forty minutes later but with a meeting scheduled and a session in the house later this afternoon, I can’t avoid my colleagues forever.
However, I am nothing if not a pragmatist. In the grand scheme of things, there are far worse situations to be in. I’ve seen enough poverty during my time in Africa to appreciate the difference between my embarrassment and real suffering. I might have to endure a few uncomfortable moments, but I won’t be going to bed hungry tonight. It is always wise to keep a little perspective in one’s life.
With that thought, I pull myself together and head for the meeting.
The journey to the meeting room is uneventful but the moment I walk through the door, the eager chatter suddenly descends into silence. A dozen or so faces turn in my direction.
“Don’t stop on my account,” I bark.
The dozen faces swap embarrassed glances and the silence continues, until a lone voice booms from the far end of the conference table.
“Everything okay, William?”
Adrian Lowe is a fellow backbencher with lofty ambitions. Young, arrogant, and boorish, I despise everything about the man.
“Fine, thank you, Adrian,” I reply, taking my seat.
“Glad to see you weathering the storm,” he adds. “I think I speak on behalf of everyone here when I say you have our full support.”
Nods and murmurs spread across the table.
“I appreciate it.”
“Nobody deserves that,” he continues. “I mean, it was a real slap in the face for personal privacy.”
His deliberate emphasis on the word slap draws stifled laughter from several of my colleagues. He then sits back in his chair with a self-satisfied smirk plastered across his face.
“Thank you, Adrian. And yes, I get the joke. Very droll. Now, if you’ve all finished behaving like adolescents, perhaps we can get down to parliamentary business?”
“Ooh, or what? Are you going to slap us too?” Adrian chirps.
There is less effort to stifle the laughter on his second jibe. I take a second to let it die down.
“Considering your face is eminently more slappable than an arse, Adrian, I wouldn’t discount it.”
Another round of laughter ensues, but at Adrian’s expense this time. He slumps back in his chair and spends the rest of the meeting being deliberately obstructive. As irksome as it is, it’s preferable to further discussion of slapped backsides.
With one meeting out of the way, and less fallout than I envisaged, I head to my next appointment with manageable apprehension. However, that appointment is in the House of Commons where I’ll be amongst hundreds of my colleagues. Trying to put a positive spin on it, I suppose it’s an opportunity for everyone to have a dig in one fell swoop. Death by guillotine rather than death from a thousand cuts.
I can, however, minimise my exposure by ensuring I arrive at the very last minute, before the Speaker silences the house. Another trip to the gent’s toilets is in order.
At two minutes to three, I exit the cubicle and make my way towards the House of Commons.
I scurry through the commons corridor with seconds to spare, and enter the house just as the doors are about to close. My timing, it seems, is perfect. I’m greeted by the sound of a hundred conversations from colleagues on the tiered leather benches either side of the house. It looks like everyone has found time in their diary for the immigration debate.
Keeping my head down, I turn left and skirt the periphery of the hall. My seat is on the second to last bench from the back. I reach the row without incident but I need to squeeze past several colleagues. It’s at that point I’m most exposed.
It doesn’t take long before I’m spotted, and my journey along the bench is accompanied by an ever growing chorus of jeers and wolf whistles, interspersed with a few back slaps as I pass male colleagues. By the time I reach my seat, it feels like every set of eyes is upon me. If there was ever an opportunity to put a lid on this, now is it.
I do the one and only thing that comes to mind — I perform an overly theatrical bow.
It works better than I expected and laugher peals across the house, together with cheers from my side of the chamber. It is with some relief when I finally take my seat and the Speaker calls order.
For three long hours, an impassioned debate ensures my folly is quickly forgotten. And with a much needed drink awaiting me at Fitzgerald’s, I don’t hang around afterwards to prompt any further discussion on the subject. By tomorrow, I will hopefully be yesterday’s news.
My walk to Blackfriars is spent in a contemplative mood. It would be fair to say it’s been an eventful day but I’ve come through it relatively unscathed. As bad as it’s been at times, it could have been so much worse. If nothing else, I’ve learnt a valuable lesson.
I turn into Furnival Street just after seven o’clock and as I approach Fitzgerald’s, there appears to be some commotion at the door. A suited man is hurling expletives at Frank, who in turn is wildly gesticulating back at him. I get within twenty yards when Frank is joined by Clement. The situation takes on a new dynamic as he confronts the suited man. The expletives stop as Clement grabs him by the lapels and pins him against the wall, his feet dangling a several inches from the floor.
I approach Frank. “Everything okay?” I ask.
“Found that bloke snorting coke in the gents. Clement was just updating him on our drugs policy.”
The man pinned to the wall is still mumbling an apology as Clement turns to confirm further instructions with Frank.
“Alright, Bill,” he says as he spots me. His manner is fairly relaxed, considering the circumstances.
“Erm…evening, Clement.”
Frank then nods at Clement and the suited man is unceremoniously hurled halfway across the street. He quickly clambers to his feet and scuttles away.
“Usual, William?” Frank says before heading back into the bar. Clement lights a cigarette and I decide not to hang around.
Once inside, I position myself on a stool while Frank pulls my pint.
“Frank, I thought you said that Clement chap was an odd job man?”
“He is.”
“But based upon what I just witnessed, his role clearly extends beyond putting up shelves and serving occasional drinks. You do realise door staff require a licence?”
Wrong'un (Clement Book 2) Page 9