The House

by Tom Watson

  ‘Just peachy, and no problem. Hey, funny story.’

  Owen heads down into the atrium of Portcullis House. ‘Yeah, what’s that?’

  He catches sight of Phil sitting by himself with a coffee in front of him, phone to his ear. Owen crosses the hall and sits on one of the long planters filled with actual trees where Phil can see him too.

  ‘Apparently an honourable member drove all the way to Warwick to finish a fight with you, then saw a ghost and turned tail and ran.’

  Owen laughs. ‘So it was you. I thought I was going barmy.’

  ‘Yup.’ Phil crosses his legs. ‘I’ve noticed there hasn’t been any mention of Liam anywhere. I saw him outside your surgery.’

  ‘Did you now? Yeah, a small mercy. He wouldn’t want to get involved.’

  ‘You got him a job?’

  ‘Yes. And we’re friends. He’s a good person. He tells me when I’m being an arse.’

  ‘Most people have to get married for that.’

  Owen smiles in spite of himself.

  Charlotte Cook crosses the atrium between them, talking to one of the Shadow Chancellor’s aides. Phil and Owen look away from each other. Owen rubs his fingers over the glossy leaves of the ficus nearest to him. ‘Is that what you wanted to tell me? About your road trip?’

  ‘No. I wanted to apologise.’ He pauses. ‘You were right. I did give Cameron’s team the list of defensive marginals.’

  Owen leaps to his feet then turns to stare at him across the half-empty tables. ‘You fucking bastard.’

  Phil meets his eye across the space between them. One of the cleaners pushes a cart between them, picking up disposable coffee cups with his gloved hands. Spraying detergent on the tables and turning the plastic marker in the centre of each one to ‘sterilised’.

  Phil waits until the man has gone. Owen can hear him breathing. ‘Yeah. And I’ve regretted it ever since. Owen, I don’t think it won us that election, but that doesn’t matter. I did it, and it was a shit thing to do.’ Owen feels the rage radiate off himself. Phil should be able to see it, like heat waves in the air. ‘It was an impulse. And I don’t suppose you’ll believe me, but I was never spying in the house. I’d even tried to stop talking strategy with you once I decided I was going to leave the party. But I saw it, and the temptation was too much.’ Owen finally breaks his gaze and sits down under the trees again. The air-conditioning makes the leaves above him shift a little and the air smells of burned coffee and UHT milk. ‘But I didn’t leak those draft minutes to the Chronicle.’

  ‘OK,’ Owen says and looks up. Phil is sitting forward at the table, looking in Owen’s direction, but with a carefully blank and unfocused expression.

  ‘Anyway, that’s all I wanted to say … ’

  ‘Hang on, Phil.’ Owen rubs the back of his neck. ‘Did you take the list before or after I punched you?’

  He laughs. ‘After. Immediately after. I went to get a book from your room when I was packing for my hasty exit, and it was on your bed.’

  Cause and effect. Chains of circumstance. Humiliation. Anger. Rage. Unintended consequences. The dance of events.

  ‘I noticed the story broke just after you asked the question about medical data again,’ Phil goes on. ‘I assume those things are connected?’ Owen watches him look at his watch and stare up at the glass and steel curve of the roof. He’s checking he can’t be overheard.

  ‘You have been paying attention. Yes, they are.’

  ‘And did you know I married a brilliant woman?’

  Owen stands up again, thrusts his hand into his pocket, turns away a bit.

  ‘I heard you married a rich one.’

  ‘The first thing led to the second. Anyway, she thinks there might be something going on with the NHS data.’

  ‘Too bloody right there is. Doesn’t she manage a hedge fund?’ Owen asks. ‘Surely she’s the sort of person making a fortune out of this shit.’

  ‘She works on foreign currency derivatives mostly. Owen, you said you had the notes from Jay’s counsellor?’

  Oh, what does it matter now? The story is out. ‘I was gifted his entire medical file. They threatened to use it in the story, and give it to Lefiami if I didn’t withdraw the data question. I did some hard thinking over the weekend, then saw Jay and I just couldn’t be doing with it. So I asked the question again, and bang.’

  ‘Fuck.’ Phil’s voice changes and Owen glances over his shoulder. He is finishing his coffee, getting to his feet. ‘Can I send someone to pick it up? The file at your flat? This afternoon sometime. Text me the address. Does your block have a concierge?’

  ‘No, but I’ve got a neighbour. I’ll get my researcher to pop out and leave it with him now.’

  ‘Can you trust her? Your researcher?’

  ‘Yes. Why do you want it?’

  ‘I was in the house. Like you, I was too busy with my own life to help. I want to look it in the eye.’

  ‘OK. Look, Phil, I think something else is coming down the track. Allegations about Kieron, and women at the Union. Worst sort of shit, by the sound of it.’

  ‘Jesus, poor Georgina!’

  Owen hesitates. ‘I know, and Phil … ’

  ‘Yeah?’ He’s paused in his walk towards the entrance to the tunnel back to the Palace proper.

  ‘Thanks for calling.’

  ‘I should have done it ten years ago,’ he replies, then cuts the connection and disappears down the escalators.

  Owen goes back up to his office and on impulse writes down what he knows about the Collins case and Greg’s blackmail threat. While he’s writing he gets an email from Victor’s professor at Cambridge with a reluctant agreement to meet the next day at his London home, so he includes that. Then he puts the note in an envelope and sends Pam to his flat to add it to the folder and leave it all with Owen’s neighbour. The habit of trusting Phil seems to have come back with full force, yet he’s keeping all this from Georgina. I confided in her! ‘What did you do, Georgie?’ he says to the empty air. He gets no answer.

  Chapter 43

  Sara is waiting for Phil in the Central Lobby when the day finally ends. She kisses him and bows to Ian.

  ‘You staying in town tonight?’ Phil asks her.

  ‘If I’m welcome.’

  ‘Always.’ He hands Ian his red ministerial box, the traditional briefcase ministers carry, stuffed with reports from the civil service.

  ‘Can you give this to my driver and tell him to take it to the hotel?’ Phil says. ‘My wife and I will walk.’

  Ian grunts his agreement and departs.

  ‘He seems particularly vinegary today,’ Sara says, fitting her arm through Phil’s.

  ‘He’s still angry about the statement I sent out in support of Owen,’ Phil says. ‘Some of my colleagues are accusing me of playing the centrist card.’

  ‘But you are a centrist.’

  ‘Worst thing you can say about anyone in politics, as you well know. It’s good to see you. What did you do with the children?’

  ‘Well, I’m proud of you. They are on at-home days for the rest of the week so your mum volunteered to have them. Till Sunday morning.’

  Phil looks unsure.

  ‘Phil, they love it there. Your dad lets them watch gameshows and takes them to proper football matches. I don’t want to breed snobs.’

  It’s true, his kids seem to have a better time at his parents’ house than he ever did. ‘OK.’

  ‘You have work to do, I take it?’

  ‘I can spare a couple of hours. And I got Jay’s medical file from Owen. I think I should read that too.’

  A sharp nod. ‘Let’s just order room service at the hotel, then.’

  They pass the member for Newcastle North West in St Saviour’s Hall. He puts a hand on Phil’s arm to stop him.

  ‘You are a lucky bastard, Bickford.’ He’s been at the bar; his face is mottled pink and his breath stinks of bad red wine. For a moment Phil thinks he is referring to Sara, but no, he’s not staring at h
er chest the way he normally does.

  ‘I am certainly blessed, Paul.’ He looks pointedly at the man’s hand on his sleeve. He doesn’t move it.

  ‘I heard the Daily Mail was going to do a piece about you and your old Labour cronies after that pathetic statement you put out last night, but now Georgina Hyde’s going to blow the bloody doors off something and every drop of newsprint is going to be about her.’

  ‘Blow the doors off what?’

  He sneers. ‘Haven’t you been checking Twitter? Some women’s issue in the PSGWU. Sounds like she’s leaving dear old Kieron. Didn’t you have a thing for her? Might be your chance. You better watch yourself, Mrs Bickford.’

  Sara doesn’t seem particularly worried. ‘I’m trembling in my tiny shoes. Now please stop sweating on my husband’s suit. It’s only just back from the dry cleaners.’

  He takes a step back, and Phil leads his wife away.

  ‘Now, what on earth is this about?’ he says once they are out of earshot.

  ‘I suppose we better watch the news with everyone else,’ Sara says.

  The policeman at the turnstile wishes them a pleasant evening.

  Chapter 44

  Emily Fremantle has worked for Georgina for three years. It is, she explains to the friends who never see her, whose weddings and baby showers she misses, to her proud but confused family, her dream job. Georgina is her mentor and friend, and she is Georgina’s confidante, her sounding board. They are partners.

  Georgina’s policy team – Gabriel, who tears his hair out when she changes his speeches to make them understandable or, God forbid, newsworthy, and Samuel who huffs over his homemade marmalade when Georgina drops the nuance and uses her interviews on the Today programme to go for the government’s throat – do not understand just how important Georgina is. She is not just some empty vessel to carry their policy ideas about. She is a leading member of the opposition, a rising star and obvious Secretary of State in the next Labour government – she is also an inspiration.

  Emily’s friends ask her if she resents working eighty-hour weeks for pay that means she can’t afford more than the rental on a studio flat on the fringes of Mile End, and she laughs at them. Of course she does nothing but work. When work is this exciting, this important, why would you do anything else?

  And she is needed. Georgina relies on her, tells her so half a dozen times a week. And today Emily is needed more than ever.

  Just after lunch, or rather the hour people who have time to eat lunch, eat lunch, Georgina messages Emily and her executive assistant Constance to cancel her appointments and hangs the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door. It’s not a real sign, but Georgina will take no calls, no drop-in visits, and if the building is on fire, they should wait until they smell smoke to get her.

  Emily and Constance don’t know what is happening. They check their Twitter alerts and leave the auto-refresh feeds of the most gossipy online journalists open on their screens.

  It’s a distracted, nervy hour, then one of Emily’s friends at the Guardian calls and asks her about the allegations against Kieron Hyde. Emily promises an exclusive quote in due course in exchange for anything the journalist can tell her right this minute. The journalist says, ‘Nothing solid. Looking a bit Harvey Weinstein though,’ and hangs up.

  She won’t get a fucking quote for that. Emily feels her heart rate increase like she just jumped off the high board and plunges back into Twitter with a bunch of new search terms, Kieron Hyde, PSGWU, MeToo and a fistful of misspellings just to be on the safe side.

  Constance brings her coffee and breaks out the homemade flapjacks. Her equivalent of taking a hammer to the safety glass.

  A swirl of speculation sweeps across Twitter like a breeze through dried leaves. Two names, Julie and Debra, drift across the internet like the perfume of someone you just missed on the street corner. Who are they?

  Emily watches, trying to sort out the journalists who are attempting to sound like they are in the know from the people who actually might be. The fat black phone on her desk has been turned to silent and she decides to let everything go to voicemail for the time being. Tells the others in the office to do the same. Gabriel is about to complain, until he catches the look in her eye, and Samuel looks at his own desk phone in mild surprise as if he’s slightly shocked to see he has his own extension.

  Serious contacts will send Emily WhatsApp messages anyway. At the moment, everyone she knows is just sending question marks and Munch ‘Scream’ emojis. Another light on the phone blinks red and holds steady. She glances round. They are all still staring at their screens. It has to be Georgina dialling out. The call lasts twenty minutes. It blinks off, then on again. Another, shorter, conversation.

  Minutes tick by. The Guardian journalist messages. Defo HW. Assault. Poss rape. NDAs. Harassment. Comment?

  Emily messages back: Details? Dates? Sources?

  The scrolling dots and she just gets Later.

  Fine. The comment can come later too.

  Finally, Georgina opens the door and asks Emily to come in. Emily leaps as if she’s been scalded.

  Georgina goes back into her office, but before she follows her, Emily addresses the whole room.

  ‘Right. We have to switch the phones on again or they’ll say we’re hiding.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Samuel asks. She ignores him.

  ‘But the line to the media is we have no comment at this time. That’s it. Everyone else – take a message. And I mean everyone, including the Leader’s Office, though when they call tell them we’ll call back as soon as possible, obviously.’

  ‘Emily?’ Constance is pointing at her screen. Emily goes to look. It’s paparazzo footage of Kieron Hyde outside the house in Lambeth. He is loading an overnight bag into the back of the BMW. Reporters are shouting about assault allegations. Kieron ignores the questions and climbs into the driving seat, then pulls away from the kerb.

  ‘When was this taken?’

  Constance points to the flashing ‘live’ button. Emily wonders where Kieron is going. Not back to the constituency house, she hopes. Nowhere associated with the family, she prays to God.

  ‘OK. Call the school and tell them to watch for photographers. Some might try and get into the grounds, but they will definitely be there and waiting when school closes.’ She checks her watch, it’s two o’clock now. It can be done. ‘Send a couple of people over to help them. Does the nanny have a car?’ No one knows. ‘Gabriel? Do you have your car today?’

  The policy genius nods, suspiciously.

  ‘Good. Go to the house and pick up the nanny. She’s called Sonia and she’ll probably be shit scared. I’ll text you her number. Go and pick up the kids with her and get them home. But do not drop them all at the front door. Use the back route through the neighbour’s garden on Drake’s Road.’

  ‘What people do I send to the school?’ Constance asks.

  ‘Google personal security and use the most expensive ones,’ Emily snaps, ‘use the office credit card.’ Then goes into Georgina’s office.

  *

  Georgina is sitting at the desk with her head in her hands. Emily closes the door softly behind her and she looks up. She is dry-eyed.

  ‘Emily, babes. I’ve called my parents. They are coming up to London from Brighton right now.’

  ‘Do you know where Kieron has gone?’

  ‘Norfolk,’ Georgina says, and Emily breathes a tiny, invisible sigh of relief. ‘He will rent a cottage in the Broads. Well off the beaten track.’

  Emily looks at the time on her phone. ‘What do you want to do? A statement? Ask for privacy?’

  Georgina snorts then crosses her legs, swinging her chair to one side. ‘As if that’s an option. No. We have to get out ahead of this. I need to read the files, the original complaints, and I need you to dig out my diaries for 2008 and 2009.’

  ‘I have the diaries – we had to send copies to Ms Lefiami.’

  ‘Of course we did. God, this bloody investigation.’


  ‘I don’t know how we can get the reports out of the Union, though,’ Emily says. ‘And the terms of the NDAs. I don’t have many contacts in the Union.’ She covers her mouth. ‘Kieron was head of legal!’

  ‘Getting the reports is not a problem,’ Georgina says. ‘I just better check them for landmines. You should too.’ She passes Emily a memory stick. It is emblazoned with the logo of the kids’ old nursery. ‘They will leak around seven. By eight we’ll need a statement. I’ll draft that once I’m done with the reports. You read it for the press pack and distribute copies, then an exclusive interview for Newsnight, I think. Millbank studio will be fine.’ She nods, satisfied, then catches the look on Emily’s face. ‘All shall be well, Ems.’

  ‘But you have to go home,’ Emily blurts out.

  ‘Why?’

  The memory stick feels hot in her hand. ‘The children. They’ll be frightened by the press outside and need to know where their dad has gone.’

  Georgina raps her fingers on the top of her desk, then gives a short, sharp nod.

  ‘Good point. In my office at home, then. And make sure the interview is live. Me at home, Kirsty or whoever in the studio.’

  ‘I hope the reports don’t leak. They’ll be able to identify the women, and they will be besieged.’

  ‘They’ll leak.’ She pauses. ‘Perhaps the police should advise them to leave their homes for a day or two. To avoid the journalists. Yes. The Leader’s Office should be able to make a call and recommend that. Call them. Suggest that, tell them what we are doing.’

  Emily wets her lips. ‘What is the statement going to say, Georgina?’

  Georgina has turned back to her screen and is reading, a yellow pad like Chloe Lefiami’s at her right hand. She makes a note with a sweep of her fountain pen before looking up again.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Leader’s Office will want to know what the statement is going to say. At least some sort of idea.’

  ‘Oh.’ She waves her hand. ‘Distraught, dismayed, shocked. Kieron Hyde has left the family’s London home while Ms Hyde absorbs the magnitude of these horrendous accusations. That sort of thing.’ She hesitates. ‘Maybe Ms Maxwell-Hyde … No. Too soon and the constituents hate double-barrelled names. Keep it Mrs Hyde for the time being.’