by Tom Watson
Manchester Central Convention Complex
Owen is shoving his way through the exhibitors’ hall looking for the chair of the Constituency Labour Party of Rickmansworth. He’s made dozens of arrangements like this to meet face to face with the people he’s been emailing and talking to on the phone all year. It gives him the chance to hear what they don’t want to write down, or say over the phone in an open-plan office, and tell the grittier stories from the doorsteps they save until halfway down their third pint.
And this year he’s not just picking up doorstep intelligence, he’s chivvying and placating and listening on behalf of the whole party. He’s access-all-areas and delivering votes on the conference floor. Strength and unity. That’s the message of this conference and Owen is making bloody sure it stays that way. He hasn’t slept in twenty-four hours, and his eyeballs feel like they are shrivelling in the recycled air, the fuzz of temporary carpeting catches in the back of his throat, but the adrenaline, and the litres of bitter coffee he’s getting through are delivering a hell of a buzz.
A couple of the PSGWU boys stop him by the pop-up book stall to tell him Kieron Hyde is pushing for a public inquiry over banking job layoffs and Georgina is working the phones to get ‘her’ MPs on-side. He thanks them for the heads-up.
‘She knows how to stay on the right side of the boss, that girl,’ Pat Coogan adds with a leer. ‘God, I’d love to have Kieron’s job. All those lovely ladies needing a favour.’
Whatever. ‘But I can count on your delegation vote tomorrow?’
‘Yeah, fine. Kieron says he’s OK with it so far. So long as you keep us in the loop. No nasty surprises. And no union-bashing briefings in the papers.’
‘Understood. Cheers.’
‘Owen!’
Coogan heads off and Owen turns towards the man shouting his name. Ed Kazan. His boss. He’s thumbing through a copy of Robert Shrum’s memoir of working with Teddy Kennedy. ‘You read this?’
‘Yes. It’s good.’
‘’Course you have. Don’t know why I bother asking. So are we going to win the floor votes tomorrow?’ Ed asks.
‘No guarantees.’
Owen is ninety-five per cent sure they will win all the important votes, but he’s not saying so. If you’re wrong, you look like an idiot, and if you’re right it looks like it was a foregone conclusion and you get no credit.
There’s the Rickmansworth guy. Owen lifts up his hand to give him the ‘stay there, with you in two minutes’ sign. Ed is still looking at him. Eyebrows raised. He wants more.
Owen gives it to him. ‘If the polls are as crap as we think they are going to be this weekend, the constituency delegates will buy into party unity rather than a big public row. That’s what they’re telling my team.’
Ed slams the book shut and puts it back on the shelf. ‘Good. Get back in there. Listen to what they say. If we still have a banking system next week we’ll work out the message then.’
Owen just nods and is about to move off when Ed stops him.
‘You know Jay Dewan, don’t you?’
‘Yeah – we share a house.’
‘Thought you did. Is he sound? I’ve been told good things, possible candidate. Maybe he parties too much, but now I hear something about him being unstable too. Shouting at his boss and now interrupting the Chancellor’s calls?’
‘Sounds like bollocks to me,’ Owen says. ‘Jay’s solid.’ Ed grunts and then waves at someone else in the crowd. Owen is released.
Weird. Three people have told him versions of this ‘Jay interrupting the Chancellor’ story now. A snippet to have a quick laugh over between sessions, negotiations. Roughly, they say Jay broke in to a call between the Chancellor and the Icelandic Minister of Finance with some bit of nonsense he insisted was important. Doesn’t seem likely, but when three people tell you something, even if the details shift a bit each time, you start to wonder.
Owen’s given the ‘sounds like bollocks’ line every time he’s heard it, though Jay has been wound tight recently. Anyway, the whole party will be out drinking tonight. Should be plenty of gossip to replace a minor Jay fuck-up by breakfast.
Rickmansworth is a man Owen’s own age with a face badly scarred by acne and wearing a shapeless green coat. ‘New Statesmen party?’ he says as Owen reaches him.
‘Yeah, I got you down as my plus one,’ Owen tells him. ‘Fill your boots and don’t forget to lift some sandwiches for tomorrow’s lunch.’
Rickmansworth doesn’t answer. Owen looks up and sees Christine is coming towards them. He still cannot believe his luck. He’s managed to take her out twice since they met, once drinks, once dinner. The conference has got in the way of things, but Owen is hopeful. Heart expanding, slightly doolally hopeful. It’s adding to the buzz, that’s for sure, and the frustration of not being able to spend more time with her makes moments like this sharper, clearer. He feels them under his skin.
And he notices people notice her. Like Rickmansworth, struck dumb. Owen says they look at her because she’s beautiful. Said it to her last night when they got here and said goodnight at the door to the room she’s sharing with a mate. She laughed, then said they look because she’s black, then lists the number of times she’s been asked if she’s Diane Abbott’s daughter.
‘And anyway, I’m here to work. I don’t like being “admired” like I’m a museum exhibit. Let them keep their eyes to themselves.’
It was a brief kiss goodnight. Then he left her to sleep while he made sure the first round of votes were secure.
Fat chance of men keeping their eyes to themselves if Rickmansworth is anything to go by. Owen introduces her to him and she is nice because he looks nervous and geeky and she’s a kind person. By the time they are back in the Midland at the reception, Rickmansworth’s got over his nerves and is debating policy with her, talking about the latest council by-election results and what the leadership has to do for Labour to win in the Shires.
‘Owen! Have you got a minute?’
It’s Jay. Owen hadn’t even seen him come in. He must have just arrived and headed straight for them. His tie is off and his eyes have an unfocused glimmer. Owen tries to be jovial.
‘What can I do for you, Jay?’
‘Owen, have you heard this story about me breaking in to a phone call?’
The crowd is shoulder to shoulder and getting louder. Waitresses and waiters, all skinny and pale among the drink-flushed, mostly middle-aged crowd, shoulder through with their trays of mini meatballs and dabs of salmon mousse in pastry cases. Owen can feel the sweat prickling the back of his neck. The smell of warm bodies and breath and fish paste is getting a bit much.
‘What? Oh, yes. I’ve heard it.’
Jay squeezes his eyes shut. ‘It’s bullshit – utter bullshit and everyone is talking about it.’
‘Jay, JK Rowling has just given us a million quid. Everyone’s making magic wand jokes. No one gives a crap about you.’
Not entirely true. When the big stuff is messy, serious and complex everyone likes sharing a tidbit about a potential star such as Jay making a twat of himself. It’s the classic mix of jealousy and Schadenfreude which keeps the political world spinning. But still. They are running a country. Not everyone is talking about Jay. Not all the time.
‘Georgina said you’d heard it.’ Georgina? Owen tries to remember. Yes, she’d asked him, off-handedly, on the way into the Q&A. ‘She thinks there is a campaign against me. Owen, take this seriously. This is my career.’
Owen feels his phone buzz in his pocket. A problem with one of the composite motions? He can hardly reach into his pocket to check, the crowd crush is getting so bad. He doesn’t have time for Jay.
‘Oh well, if it’s your career, what the fuck are we doing hanging around? Summon the authorities! Launch an investigation.’
Jay looks stung and Owen feels like a heel. Too much coffee. Too many people.
He can remember the sniggering which followed him around headquarters in the early days when he
mispronounced words he’d only ever seen written down, wore the wrong suit or shoes or admitted he didn’t like The West Wing much while everyone around him was trying to talk like they’d been scripted by Aaron Sorkin.
‘Look, Jay. It’s shit when it happens, but it happens to everyone.’ He puts a hand on Jay’s arm. ‘Don’t go mental about it. Ignore it. Do your job. Laugh it off. If it’s rubbish, your team will know that.’
‘If!’ Jay says it loud enough to make heads turn and shakes off his hand. ‘If! I just told you it was bullshit. God, Owen. You’re supposed to be my friend. You should be out there defending me. At the very least tell me who told you and I can sort it out with them.’
Owen has to get out of here soon. ‘Jay, what’s up with you? I’m not narking someone out so you can make an idiot of yourself shouting at them too.’
‘Owen, it’s got worse. Melissa had a go at me in the office yesterday because she’d been told I was calling her a liar. Now there’s this story going round and all I did was pass the Chancellor a note. We all do it! It’s our job! Someone is out to get me.’
Owen tries to ignore the crowd, concentrate on Jay and make him listen.
‘Jay, you’re knackered. Everyone is. You’ve got to calm down. Ignore it, go and charm the pants off a few people and leave this stupid story alone. Think about something else, for God’s sake.’
‘Wow. Just wow. Thank you for your help, eternally grateful, my old mate,’ Jay says and turns his back, pushing past the waiters and heading for the exit. Had that been an attempt to take the mick out of Owen’s accent? The arsehole. Let him stew, then.
An MP and a reporter chatting nearby watch Jay go, then look at Owen, eyebrows raised. Owen shrugs – ‘nothing to do with me, guv’ – and feels a touch on his arm. Christine, thank God. Her touch fizzes up his bloodstream.
‘Your CLP man says thanks for the chat and he’ll see you round,’ she says. ‘What’s up with Jay?’
‘He’s being an idiot.’
She accepts this without comment. ‘I’m going to drop in on Phil’s event then see if I can find Jasper.’ Her MP. Jasper gets to spend hours a day with her, the lucky sod. How can he get any work done? ‘Though I saw him talking to Georgina earlier, so I’ll probably just get twenty minutes on what a remarkable young woman she is.’
Owen grins. ‘Jealous?’
‘Oh, I know Jasper’s a solid guy, but he’s a bit of a dinosaur about women. Or “the ladies” as he calls us. And Georgina does sort of flirt with him.’ She sips the last of her white wine, considering. She looks composed even in this crowd. ‘You know she’s ditched the automatic payment system from the Union Political Fund? Used to be the local party would just get a cheque in the post, now they get a personal note, signed by her. And she pops by personally to tell the MPs they’ve got their reselection votes for the trigger ballots. All “I rang round the branches and made sure they are happy to support you” stuff. And she does it all with the smiles and hair-tossing and they all act like she’s their niece who’s just turned up with homemade cakes.’
Owen is scanning his messages. Couple of orange flags.
‘She’s smart. Look, I’ve got to go.’
‘What, and I’m not? Just because I think hard work and actually giving a damn about what I do is more important than biting my bottom lip and acting like every lecherous old fart here is my special “Daddy”? It’s not just irritating, it’s bad for everyone. It makes them think they can get away with their sexist bollocks.’
Whoa. She is jealous. He half-laughs, risks leaning forward and kissing her forehead. It’s cool. He thinks of sea breezes and open skies. ‘Georgina is just a great operator, that’s all.’
A narrow crease across her forehead, then she shakes it off. ‘OK. See you whenever.’
Not their warmest goodbye. Owen wonders if he’s done something wrong. Maybe Christine is jealous of Georgina’s contacts – all the Oxbridge crowd, or the fact she’s done so well in the Union while Christine is just another bright researcher. He watches her leave and is about to follow, check she’s not really angry, when a pollster ducks under a plate of mini hamburgers to block his path. Christine disappears.
‘Word in your ear, Owen?’ He starts talking about just how bloody marginal some of the marginal seats are. ‘Long story short, how the money is doled out and spent at the next election is going to make or break us. Strategy is everything. I’ve told Gordon, I’ve told Ed. Now I’m telling you. It’s going to mean making some brutal decisions about who gets money.’
The orange flags will have to wait until later. It’s going to be a long night.
Chapter 9
Tuesday 8 March 2022
Phil’s team has spent the last twenty-four hours turning down media requests left, right and centre, which seems to be driving the reporters into a frenzy. Once the senior party MPs saw which way the wind was blowing on the story, they began to troop out onto the green in front of Westminster to echo his words in front of the camera for evening news then breakfast telly.
They say a lot about how Phil represents the spirit and passion of their party in a post-virus age, and depending on their place on the thought spectrum, either praise his no-nonsense style and independence of spirit (the libertarians), or hold him up as an example of the common-sense embrace of difficult negotiations (the patricians).
Phil says nothing – and they clothe him according to their own desires and agendas.
Ian has been elated, deflated, proud, over-eager and depressed in half-hour bursts since the clip was uploaded. He has also taken to stumbling into the office whenever his mood shifts to share his latest thought with his boss.
Phil looks up from his reading as Ian enters the room for the third time today. He cut himself shaving this morning.
‘Phil, I’ve just had Wilbur Harrison on the phone!’ One of the Secretary of State for Health’s special advisors. A champion of health care privatisation, free market absolutist. Not a natural ally of Phil’s. Not a pragmatic market reformer, oh no. Off the other bloody side of the dart board, really.
‘What did he want?’
‘He’d love to have a sit-down with you to talk through some of the patient care provisions under possible shifts of the trusts to profit-creating centres.’
Phil initials the document he is reading. Picks up the next.
‘But what did he really want?’
Ian sits on one of the overstuffed armchairs, pulls out his phone and scans it while he speaks. ‘He wants to establish a relationship in case the Secretary of State gets the boot and you get his job, of course.’
Phil makes a note on the margin of the page he is reading. A question about the sample size of a survey quoted in the text. It’s the sort of thing he’s famous for among his civil servants, this nerdish obsession with where figures come from. They wish he’d just pick his favourite numbers and throw them around like verbal confetti the way most of the Cabinet do, but also there is a weekly pool to see who can get the most ticks in the margin. A question with an exclamation mark is the booby prize and means you have to buy happy-hour drinks for the whole team.
Ian jumps back to his feet again. ‘I mean, it could happen, couldn’t it? They wait until they see how bad the results of the investigation are. Blame him and then bump you into the top job. New broom, sweeps away past errors.’
New broom? I was there when the Personal Protection Equipment was running out, Phil thinks. When nurses and doctors were dying and terrified they were bringing the bloody virus home on their shoes to their parents and grandparents. I have to take my share of blame for the errors. But to become Secretary of State … ? He could really do something from that chair.
A possible move, but still unusual. Being a junior minister for health didn’t mean you were expected to develop a speciality in the sector then become increasingly senior in it. The way Cabinet reshuffles work you could be in charge of the army one day, health care the next. It was as if the City decided to swap their
CEOs every eighteen months or so. Good at running Twitter? Great, from tomorrow you are in charge of this bank. Top job steering your chemical manufacturing conglomerate through the worst economic downturn of the century! Why not try running Aldi? Promotions within a department did sometimes happen, though – especially when the government had some arse-covering to do.
‘Calm down, Ian. Nothing is going to happen for now.’
He barked. A short gasp. ‘Yes, it is. One way or another, it’s sink or swim time, Phil. You’ve painted a bloody great target on your back. Someone has said the magic words “future leader”, the rest of the Cabinet are going to be on you like foxes in a henhouse.’
He sighs. ‘Normally one fox, lots of hens in that analogy. Try hounds on a stag.’
Ian shoves his hands in his pockets. ‘I bloody won’t. How come you grew up in Essex but say things that make you sound like landed gentry with a shotgun crooked over your arm?’
Phil really has to read this next document. ‘I adapted to my environment. Tell Wilbur I’d be happy to see him; suggest a coffee in the tea room. Don’t want it to look like I’m arranging a coup.’
‘Yeah – be interesting to see if he’s happy with that.’ He pauses and Phil looks up. ‘What else?’
‘Chloe Lefiami, the investigator looking into the Jay Dewan case for the Labour self-flagellators. She wants to talk to you.’ Phil puts the document down. ‘You shouldn’t see her,’ Ian goes on quickly. ‘It’s suicide. The reds might pin what happened on you, and her investigation has no authority over us. It’s a Labour Party matter. Let them get on with shooting themselves in the face.’
Phil rewound to the moment of seeing Sabal in the gallery, the woman with the braids sitting next to him. He turns his eyes back to the page. ‘Tell her I’ll see her tonight. Here. Nine. You can be here, and tell her we want the meeting recorded.’ Ian opens his mouth to protest. ‘I can’t dodge this, Ian. I did nothing wrong, but avoiding her is going to make me look like a coward.’
‘If they don’t use it, your enemies on our side will!’ he says.