The House

by Tom Watson

  ‘Sorry, Pam. What can I do for you?’

  ‘We have a meeting? To go through the grid for the Budget?’

  Owen closes his eyes briefly. This bloody investigation; Christine stirring up trouble when she isn’t even in parliament anymore – and all while they are closing in on the most important days in the political year. He’s hardly given it a thought yet.

  He pulls himself together. ‘Of course. Come in and let’s get cracking.’

  Pam’s already found and talked to a range of businesses in Owen’s constituency about what they hope for from the Budget, and what they fear. Pencilled in a rough schedule of visits he can make to talk to the owners and workers in person over the weekend after the Budget and the debates, a photographer in tow; ‘but no press, so it’s a proper listening session.’

  Her list is good, a mix of manufacturing and tech, a bakery that managed to survive the virus by doing deliveries locally and a couple of citizen support groups and their clients.

  ‘This is great.’

  She flushes. ‘Thanks. Liam helped a ton. And Marcie.’

  Liam. Owen’s stomach twists again. Is Liam going to get dragged into this? He looks at his watch. ‘What else have I got today? Other than emails?’

  She takes him through it. A committee meeting later. A tour.

  ‘And what should I know?’

  ‘Phil Bickford got a lot of good press.’

  ‘I saw.’

  Couldn’t miss it really.

  ‘Knock, knock!’

  Pam turns round in her chair as Georgina Hyde pushes open the door. She’s wearing a powder-blue trouser suit in some sort of silky material and her hair is loose and curled. She looks halfway on a line between Margaret Thatcher and Melania Trump. Pam and Owen both get to their feet.

  ‘Sorry to barge in, Owen, but the guys outside thought it would be OK, and I’m trying to hide from my policy team.’ She spots Pam and puts her hand across her chest and bows to her.

  ‘You must be Pam! I’m Georgina. I hear Owen is very lucky to have you working for him.’

  Pam blushes to her roots. ‘Hi, yes! That’s me. Lovely to meet you!’

  ‘Sorry, Pam, it’s your meeting I’m interrupting! I’ll go hide somewhere else.’

  Pam shakes her head. ‘No, no that’s fine, Ms Hyde. We were just finishing up. I’ll get out of your way. Can I get you anything? Tea?’

  ‘Thank you, but no. I had to have about fifteen cups to get me through a really boring breakfast meeting. And do call me Georgina. Ms Hyde makes me sound like an evil Victorian nanny.’

  Pam giggles and practically backs out of the room, murmuring her farewells. As soon as the door closes, Georgina flops dramatically into one of the armchairs, and blows her long blonde fringe out of her eyes. Owen laughs.

  ‘How are you, Georgie? I heard you on the Today programme yesterday. Good job.’

  She swings straight again and he comes and joins her at the coffee table. The emails can wait for a bit.

  ‘Thanks! It did go pretty well, didn’t it? I sometimes get really stiff in those interviews.’

  ‘Pretend you are arguing with me, or a friend, then just say what you would say – without swearing.’ He considers. ‘No, don’t do that exactly, just make it sound like that’s what you are doing. Are you really hiding from your policy advisors?’

  She wrinkles her nose. ‘A bit. Mostly I’m just having one of those days when if I see a member of the Cabinet I’m just going to scream at them to get out of the way so we can get back into power and start doing something. Seen the latest polls?’

  He nods. ‘Looking OK at the moment, but you can’t tell anything until an election is called and that might be the best part of two more years.’

  ‘Ever the optimist. I swear, this is the longest parliament there has been in the existence of the universe. But then I guess a pandemic and a recession will do that.’

  She shakes her head and looks at him. She has that gift of turning the full beam of her attention on you. Jay had it too. ‘So how are you doing, sunshine?’

  ‘You mean this investigation?’

  ‘Yes, and the story. Any idea why they are coming after you? Come out of the blue a bit, hasn’t it?’ She is watching him closely.

  ‘It has.’ He resists the power of her attention and doesn’t say any more. ‘I saw you with Jay’s dad yesterday.’

  She smiles. ‘I’m very fond of him. We’ve kept in touch.’

  Then she’s back on her feet. Owen is sure she has more energy than she had a decade ago. ‘How are Kieron and the kids?’

  ‘Oh, fine. Come and have supper sometime.’ She glances at her watch. ‘I guess that’s my “me” time over. Self-care on speed. Look, Owen, I’m asking around quietly about why you are suddenly villain of the month, but if there’s anything you can do to make it go away … Well, I’d be very grateful. Last thing I want is the tabloids to find pictures of me at Glastonbury with flowers in my hair. Not the image we want as we convince voters we are the party of sound fiscal policy.’

  Owen stands up, smooths his tie. ‘I’ve been wondering, why did you come, Georgie? To Glastonbury? You weren’t into the music. We could have found someone else to take the ticket.’

  She looks surprised. ‘You know, Owen? For the life of me, I can’t remember. A last fling before I became the model of propriety all female politicians have to be, I suppose. Ridiculous, isn’t it? You can have a prime minister who won’t confirm how many children he has, but God, can you imagine a single mother as PM!? Besides, I wanted to keep an eye on your boys’ club.’

  That surprises him. ‘If we were a club, Georgie, you were part of it.’

  ‘Sure. Look, if I hear anything, I’ll let you know, but if you can squash the story, please do. Going over that time … It can only hurt us all.’ She puts her hands together as if in prayer.

  ‘Of course.’

  She rewards him with one of her TV-ready smiles and heads back out into the fray, her head held high.

  Chapter 12

  Sunday 21 September 2008

  The Midland, Manchester

  Owen loads a plate at the breakfast buffet as soon as it opens and has the morning newspapers half-read before seven. The polls are worse than they thought. Bad. Party in danger means the delegates will behave. Good. A lot riding on Gordon’s speech. Inevitable. Speech is in good shape. Hopeful.

  He’s so engrossed in one of the Guardian reports that he doesn’t notice Georgina until she puts down her plate on the table next to him. He twitches a copy of the Daily Express out of her way as she unwraps her cutlery from its paper napkin straitjacket.

  ‘You OK with me being here, Owen?’ she says, pouring herself coffee. ‘I mean, we have breakfast together most days, so I can sod off if you prefer.’

  ‘You’re all right. Didn’t see you last night. You OK?’

  Now the polls are out he feels relieved. Battle lines are drawn and he’s ready for the fight. His buzz buzzes at a slightly higher frequency.

  ‘Few drinks at the Midland trying to smooth things over after the Jay incident. Then the News International Party. You?’

  ‘New Statesman, then about five hours spreading a message of unity and strength in the Midland. God, Jay’s an idiot.’

  ‘They’ve sent him home. Some excuse about sorting the Chancellor’s schedule for next week.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘Simon thought so.’

  Georgina starts on her breakfast. Smoked salmon, scrambled egg, wholemeal toast.

  Owen watches her as she flicks open the Daily Mail and starts scanning the coverage. In the months they’ve lived together, he hasn’t got to know her that well, but putting a plan together with one of the senior members of the Treasury team to get Jay out of the way until the story dies down – that shows smarts and access. Better for Jay, too.

  ‘Actually,’ she says, turning the page and not looking up, ‘I wanted to ask your advice about something. J
ust between you and me.’

  ‘Sure. Fire away.’ He closes the paper.

  ‘Did you know Adam Riddell is definitely retiring at the general, whenever it is?’

  Riddell, Coventry East’s MP for the previous twenty-five years. Veteran. Owen hadn’t heard it was certain yet. ‘You sure?’

  She nods and sips from her coffee cup. ‘Janie, his wife, told me he was definitely standing down last night.’

  Owen looks up in the air and gathers his thoughts. ‘It’s a safe seat. Still hanging on to some of its industrial base. Chair of the CLP is a good bloke.’

  ‘Any women?’ Georgina sets down her cup carefully.

  He thinks. ‘Treasurer of the CLP and membership secretary both under forty and women.’

  She smiles at him. ‘You’re amazing, Owen. Like a walking database.’

  Owen almost blushes. ‘Yeah, well, I talk to most of these people every week. So, what’s your interest? Looking into it for Jay?’

  A flinch and then she scrunches up her nose. ‘Look, this is delicate, but I’ve been approached myself. That’s why Mrs Riddell wanted to speak to me last night. Would I be interested in standing.’

  Owen’s buzz is momentarily shut off. First Jay and now Georgina? Thank you, universe. He controls his expression. Tries to. He could just about handle Jay being head-hunted, but Georgina too?

  ‘That’s great, Georgina. You want it?’

  She looks pained. ‘Yes, yes, I really do. I mean, you can do so much more in parliament, can’t you? Make a real difference in the world. Ever since I was a child I’ve wanted to be an MP.’

  News to Owen.

  ‘So what do you want to know? I mean, it’ll be tough. You’re coming out of nowhere.’

  ‘Not quite nowhere. I know some of the locals through the political fund.’ He remembers what Christine said last night. Of course. Smarts and access. Georgina hurries on. ‘But it’s not that, it’s Jay. He was born there, you know. So he’s a local even if the family did move to London when he was two. I was born and raised in Brighton.’

  Owen wipes up the last of his egg yolk and brown sauce with the hotel’s thin white toast and eats it.

  ‘And I think he’s just expecting it,’ she goes on. ‘But he’s not helping himself. The missed calls, now this Alistair story and a drunken brawl with a senior advisor in the Midland to cap it off!’

  ‘What are you asking me, Georgina?’

  She looks him straight in the eye, a sort of dizzying frankness. ‘Oh, sorry! I want to know what’s best for the party. Me or Jay.’

  What’s best for the party. The words tattooed across Owen’s heart.

  ‘If Jay can get himself together and repair the damage – Jay. If not, then you or someone else.’ She looks hurt. ‘It’s the local thing, Georgina. You are both posh and a bit too New Labour for that constituency, but him being a local boy wipes that out. Some of the locals won’t like the fact he’s gay, but it’s 2008. They won’t want to show it. But there is going to be lots of competition for that seat if Jay isn’t up to running. You don’t have any local connections at all?’ She shakes her head. ‘Then you’re not just posh, you’re posh and southern.’

  ‘Kieron Hyde was brought up there, though. He knows everyone. If he supports me, that’s got to make a difference.’

  ‘Of course it would. He’s a hero in that constituency – anyone who has Kieron’s support will probably walk it. But he’s unlikely to back one candidate wholeheartedly, even you, this early. Surely he’ll spread his favours around until he sees which way the wind is blowing.’

  She breathes in sharply, then looks down at her food.

  ‘Rebuilding Britain’s manufacturing base. That’s what I’ll campaign on.’

  He picks the paper off the table and starts to read it again.

  ‘Hold your horses, Georgie. Jay’s just had a bad couple of weeks. He can recover and like you just said, he was born there.’

  She sighs, then puts her knife and fork together.

  ‘Yes. That’s true. And the selection process won’t even start until after Christmas. You’re a good friend, Owen.’ Georgina pats her mouth with her napkin. ‘I really appreciate it. Don’t say anything to Jay, will you? I mean, I haven’t decided what I’m going to do next.’

  ‘’Course I won’t. I’m trying to stay out of his way until he chills out a bit, anyway.’

  She gathers up her plate and gets up. Owen picks up his newspaper, but finds he watches her all the way out of the dining room.

  Chapter 13

  Tuesday 8 March 2022

  The call saying that Christine is waiting for Owen at security comes exactly as the reminder on his phone beeps. She was always punctual.

  ‘How much time have you got?’ she says as soon as the ‘hellos’ are out of the way. He leads her through security.

  ‘I’ve a ton to do, but no meetings till later,’ Owen replies. She’s looking good. Slim, wearing tight jeans and long boots – an outfit she wouldn’t have risked when she was an MP. All the women have to wear some narrow variation on the trouser suit. Her hair is tied up in a rough bun, her face framed by the stray tendrils, just as it was when they first met.

  ‘Let’s just get something at the Despatch Box,’ she says. The central atrium of Portcullis House, with its fig trees and mix of benches and tables, is a sort of upmarket food court. The escalator leading off the floor doesn’t lead to a shopping mall, though, but direct to the Palace for MPs scurrying off to vote. The tunnel under the road saves them from having to jostle through the 5G protesters, anti-vaxxers, temperature checks and security gates. The integrity of the bubble is preserved.

  ‘I thought you wanted to go to Strangers’ Dining Room?’

  She smiles broadly, sudden as the sun coming out from behind a cloud. ‘You know what? I changed my mind. The thought of all that linen, painted wallpaper and roast meat makes me cringe.’

  ‘They do a plant-based steak for us and the Lib Dems these days, you know,’ he tries, and is rewarded with a half-laugh.

  ‘Come on. This will do.’

  They queue at the coffee bar with their plastic trays, making small talk. Her husband Rob is well, he’s down south, too, at the moment, talking to suppliers. Chris is having some meetings, going to galleries. The children are fine, having a ball staying with Christine’s mum and enjoying bracing walks on the beach at Alnmouth.

  They are served the salad box of the day by a girl with artfully drawn-on eyebrows. A tattoo of a rose on the back of her hand shows through her thin blue gloves. Her eyes, peering at them over her mask, look tired.

  They sit, and the way Christine unwraps her cutlery reminds him of Georgina preparing to enjoy her smoked salmon that morning she first mentioned the Coventry East seat at conference in 2008. But then, everything drags him back to 2008 at the moment. Has Chris heard about the investigation? He wants to ask, but she speaks first.

  ‘So. The question about the data consultation?’ Christine says and starts spearing the cubes of goats’ cheese in her salad, the baby spinach leaves slick with dressing.

  ‘Chased it.’

  ‘I was worried you’d be distracted by this bullshit investigation, Owen.’ So she has heard. ‘You had nothing to do with what happened to Jay.’

  ‘I’ve been going over and over it.’

  ‘And?’ Christine asks.

  ‘I’m beginning to think I was a bit of an arse back then.’

  She laughs darkly. ‘You were a white, twenty-eight-year-old bloke, Owen. Accent on the bloke. You were all right, just a bit oblivious. Especially to the small things. But they add up, you know. Lefiami’s asked to speak to me too, by the way.’

  Small things. He suspects she’s being generous.

  ‘What will you tell her? Lefiami, I mean.’

  ‘The truth,’ she replies, as if it’s that easy. ‘Jay was getting more and more paranoid and turning the house toxic. We started avoiding him a bit, then the leak made things so much worse.’ She p
uts a hand, lightly, briefly, on his arm. ‘You didn’t do anything wrong.’

  Yes, he did, and he’s got a horrible feeling he’s going to be forced to pay for it.

  He finishes his salad and pushes his sagging cardboard salad box away. Time to ask the question. ‘Why do you want me to push on the medical data so much, Christine?’

  Should he add that it could cost him his career? That the newspaper wolves are tracking him through the forest and he’s bleeding? There are causes he’s willing to fight all out for, causes that would take him onto the streets and up onto the barricades. He’s just not sure data security is one of them.

  She flicks the ring pull on the can, lifting and releasing it with her index finger, making it twang. ‘You’re going to be pissed off with me. So can I ask you to remember I’ve been working on my own: no researchers, no constituency agent.’

  ‘OK.’

  She breathes out quickly like someone steeling themselves for a final set of reps. ‘This isn’t just an “on general principle” inquiry. It’s about a young woman with family in my old constituency. She came to me and I’ve been trying to help her. I believe her family is the victim of a great injustice.’

  Bee in her bonnet. Crank to hang her frustrations on. Greg’s words from last night clang in his mind. ‘Have you vetted her? When did she come to you?’

  ‘Three months ago. And no, I mean, I can’t beyond Google, but I trust my gut.’

  She was right. He is pissed off. ‘Great. You’re hanging me out to dry on the basis of one woman and your gut?’

  A slight frown. ‘What do you mean “hanging you out to dry”? What’s happened?’

  He could tell her. Tell her about the late-night visit and the file and the ugly allegations in Jay’s own words. But he can’t. Not now and not here. It would make it too real.

  She’s still thinking. ‘You don’t think that this investigation is because of the question? They are coming after you because of that? I heard it was to get out in front of something in the Chronicle … ’ She looks – damn her – she looks excited. ‘Oh, if they are behind the Chronicle story we must really have hit a nerve! We’ve got them rattled. This is excellent news.’