Party Games

by E J Greenway

  *****

  Anthea had been waiting a long, tense fifteen minutes outside the Leader’s Office, and she wondered why Rodney was running late. The more she thought about it all, the greater the frequency she glanced at her watch.

  She wondered about Tristan. He wasn’t as bad at his job as many had made out; people could be so cruel in politics and weren’t interested in seeing the good in people. Perhaps the role of Chief Whip wasn’t exploiting his talents; he seemed far too genuine for the job and she had hoped Rodney would move him to a more suitable position, but it seemed unlikely.

  Without warning, the door flew open. Startled, Anthea jumped to attention as a scarlet-faced Tristan stormed past her, his face contorted in anger as he headed down the corridor. She had never really seen him incandescent before. Her presence suddenly appeared to register with him and he paused with a grunt, turning to face her, his familiar blue eyes ablaze with irrepressible fury.

  “Looks like you’re next.” He growled. Anthea merely nodded. “But watch your back, or you may come out with a bloody great knife sticking out of it!”

  Opening her mouth slightly to speak, Anthea tried to think of the words, but could only manage a small but genuine whimper of pity. They locked gazes, but it was obvious Tristan’s thoughts lay elsewhere. Tristan turned to take his leave, but Anthea suddenly found herself calling out to him.

  “If you need someone to talk to..!”

  He stopped and stared at her, but hid any surprise at her offer.

  “Thanks.” He muttered.

  “Well,” She sighed, her voice low and soft. “I’d better…I’m so sorry, Tristan. You didn’t deserve it.”

  Tristan might have enquired as to what ‘it’ was, but he appeared to think better of it and merely thanked Anthea again before walking away.

  “So.” Rodney beamed at Anthea as she perched herself in the chair Tristan had refused. Rodney’s normally warm smile towards her appeared insincere and fixed, as though it had been etched onto his face and sprayed with starch. They were best friends, why couldn’t he just act natural? It was his ‘professional’ smile, the one she guessed he had given to everyone who had passed through his door in the past two hours, including Tristan Rivers.

  “So...it must have been an interesting afternoon for you.” Anthea attempted a laugh but then worried it might come across as sarcasm. She clasped her hands together, her body taut. Once again he was keeping his distance; for the next few minutes he was her leader and not her friend. It never used to be like that, in the old days, when they had just been elected and were ready to take on the world. Gone were the evenings when the two of them could get in a bottle of wine and talk politics for hours; a platonic, almost playful friendship made up of gentle teasing, similar political ambition and a simmering, barely hidden tension which had always been suppressed. It made it simple to keep it that way, and was how they both liked it. Or, at least, how Anthea liked it.

  “Yes, it’s been – well, it’s not over yet. Anyway, how d’you think you’re doing?” The tenseness in Rodney’s voice eased, but as he drummed his fingers methodically on the desk Anthea felt her heart pounding in time with each finger as it tapped the wood. For a second she pondered whether his nails were actually better manicured than her own, and once upon a time they might have laughed had she enquired, but now was not the time. It never was anymore.

  Anthea considered her reply. A loaded question? “Oh, I’ve enjoyed it immensely.”

  “Lots to do over the next few weeks.” Rodney stated, as if barely hearing her. Anthea felt as if the whole meeting was following a script. “I’d like you to stay there, build up our strategy of attack over Cornwall; our plan of action. The vote is around the corner and you’re a very capable woman, Anthea, and I want you to carry on the good work.”

  A very capable woman? A wave of disappointment flooded her and she swallowed hard. The Chief’s job hadn’t been hers for the taking after all. She felt utterly stupid.

  Rodney was still talking, his tone that of the professional politician he had become over the past months. “There will be an awful lot of press interest in this issue, and I know you will be able to handle it. This Bill’s implications spread far wider than just Cornwall, the ‘yes’ campaign for regional bureaucracy won’t just stop in the South West…”

  “I know.” She interrupted. Suddenly, all she wanted to do was get the hell out of there.

  “So you’ll stay then?” Rodney smiled again, but it appeared more genuine. His brown eyes softened, catching Anthea’s for the first time.

  “Of course I’ll stay. As you say, much to do.” She hoped she didn’t sound disappointed. If she wasn’t the woman to succeed Tristan, who was?

  “Wonderful.” Rodney appeared relieved. “I couldn’t do much of this without you...I mean, without such brilliant colleagues around me.”

  He wearily rose from his seat. Anthea took in every detail of him, from the slight stomach he seemed to have developed to the strands of dark hair uncharacteristically out of place after a day’s brow-scratching and unwanted meetings. Her time was obviously up and he still had a Chief Whip to appoint; Anthea was simply one of many meetings, although she was unsure whether he didn’t feel like chatting as much as he didn’t have the time. Can’t he even ask me about Ben? He knew that her estranged boyfriend had only sent her two postcards in the last three months.

  “Are you alright?” Anthea chanced. “I’ve just seen Tristan.”

  Rodney headed for the door. “He resigned.”

  Anthea blinked in surprise. “Resigned? But I thought...”

  “He resigned. That’s the story, makes it simpler. Gives them one less thing to write about.” He opened the door a crack. Time to leave.

  “Right, indeed.” At least it was something Tristan could hide behind and save a bit of face. That’s if he wanted to hide at all.

  As Anthea moved to pass beyond the door, Rodney placed his hand gently on her elbow. His heavy gaze was sudden and lasted the merest moment, but Anthea had no desire to reciprocate. She left, that familiar confusion resurfacing until she pushed it, quickly, back into her subconscious once again.

  *****

  8pm

  Two men sat on the mezzanine at the popular Westminster haunt the Cinnamon Club, looking down on the main dining area in prime position to spot anyone worth their interest. Decorated in marble and stone imported from Rajasthan, the restaurant was filled with the echoes of gossip and laughter. The place oozed class and exclusiveness, the essence of modern dining, decorated with tasteful browns and creams.

  Home Affairs Whip, David Fryer MP, licked his fingers and wiped his mouth, his companion polishing off his crusted monkfish and gulping the last of the Merlot.

  “The food’s delicious here, I could eat another whole plateful if there wasn’t a bloody vote just around the corner.” Fryer said gruffly as he stabbed at his shrimp pickle.

  Sir Geoffrey Dickenson, editor of the tabloid paper the Daily Bulletin, chuckled throatily. “Ah, yes, voting. Blasted nuisance, I suppose.” There was little doubt as to where Dickenson had originated, his cockney accent as broad as his grin. “Got me autobiography coming out in a few weeks, remind me to send you a signed copy.”

  “Building up for retirement, Geoff? You don’t strike me as the kind.” Fryer smirked. He liked to gently mock his old acquaintance.

  Dickenson shook his head with a small burp. “Nah, not quite. Not letting those bastard foreign con-artists get hold of this baby. The Morning Engager’s sold out, but I’ll be bloody damned if I will.”

  “Well, you founded the Bulletin in the gutter, I’d never expect you to drag it out of it.” Fryer said wryly. Dickenson smirked. “Oh, bugger.” Fryer dropped the last of his munched crustacean and lowered his head, his gaze across the restaurant floor.

  “Not scared of a brown-nose like Cheeser, are you?” Dickenson asked, turning to look. Fryer furrowed his substantial brow in annoyance, watching as the tall, lean frame of the
Party Chairman hurried to a table on the far side of the restaurant to join a fellow MP.

  “No, it’s just...well. Never mind.”

  “He’s fucking ruining everything, him and Richmond.” Dickenson waved his fork in the air. “The party I’ve supported all my life, poured my own bloody money into, is slipping into wrack and ruin, after all I’ve done for your precious leader and his career. Richmond turned as wet as a baby’s nappy once he left the paper and began crowing about public duty and helping people. He was a much better bloody journalist.”

  Fryer saw a flash of darkness across the editor’s face, a raw nerve obviously hit hard.

  “Scott can give you what you want.” Fryer said flatly. He clicked his fingers at a nearby waiter, who began to clear the table.

  “Yes, I’m sure he could.” Dickenson agreed. “Shame most in the party can’t seem to stand him. Still, he’s got balls, and if I twist them enough he’ll squeal like the runt he is and be at my mercy. And you – you’re just the muscle Scott needs.”

  Fryer took that as a compliment. “Although it would be far easier to get support if Richmond had kept the incompetent Rivers where he is.” He pulled his napkin from his collar. “I mean for God’s sake the fellow’s a bloody idiot. Although, once Colin’s at the helm, I’ll be Chief Whip. I’ll have the bloody run of the place, you wait.”

  Both men smiled in understanding as they thumbed the dessert menu. The meal would be on Dickenson’s expenses. Scott had sent Fryer on a mission, and he was about to close the deal. Old alliances were being reborn.

  *****

  “The Leader rewards loyalty, just be patient.” It was a line Jeremy Cheeser had become accustomed to uttering. Although not always strictly true, it often did the job, Jeremy’s reassuring tone softening potentially rebellious hearts and giving people hope of a career progression. His lunch companion’s expression hinted that he had heard this one before, but Jeremy ignored his own uneasiness and simply smiled.

  “I personally wouldn’t have any reason to be disloyal.” Came the response.

  “Well no, of course not. The leadership election is clear blue water under the bridge.” Jeremy smiled and picked at his cauliflower and cheese parcel. “I hope we have time for dessert before voting. The lemon tart here is exquisite.”

  “Indeed.” His colleague leant in over his curry. “However, there’s a lot of...concern about, in the party. People can be patient, and many on the Right are giving Richmond the benefit of the doubt, but Cornish devolution is becoming a worry. Many feel Richmond’s a bit...obsessed by the issue. I know you, Jeremy, you don’t go around with your head in the sand. You’ll have sensed the feeling at Party Conference.”

  Jeremy felt exasperated. He sipped his water to buy some time, but as he did so, he caught sight of two very familiar faces up on the mezzanine. He stiffened in his chair and swallowed the water hard, but it caught in his throat and he began to choke.

  “God, you ok?” His companion asked, pouring him more water. Jeremy flushed, smoothing down his blond curls and dabbing his mouth. His parcel had turned cold.

  “Yes, sorry, wrong way.”

  “As I was saying, Cornish devolution – you know Scott has been saying privately that Richmond’s bullish approach is a waste of time. Many are inclined to agree with him.”

  Jeremy barely heard, his eyes flicking between Fryer and the table. Everything suddenly looked bad. Very bad.

  “Colin doesn’t say much that’s private anymore.” He muttered. “Look, Rodney’s sure that it’s a vote-winner, and Conservatives have to make a stand against the break-up of the UK, even if some feel that a ‘back water’ like Cornwall can do what it likes and there not be consequences. There’s principle here, you know that as well as I do. Colin’s just – if it wasn’t this issue it would be something else. Like Europe, or taxation.”

  “Just be warned, by a friend and colleague. Scott’s not going to stay this quiet for long, and today’s reshuffle isn’t going to make a blind bit of difference. He’s putting out feelers again, trying to shore up support for what he sees as the battle ahead.” Jeremy’s fellow MP placed his cutlery down and folded his arms.

  “Yes, I can see that.” Jeremy nodded slowly as Fryer caught his eye. The two men locked stares.

  Suddenly BlackBerrys vibrated simultaneously around the restaurant. Hands pulled out their electronic gadgets from pockets and handbags, a collective sigh following in quick succession. VOTE EXPECTED SHORTLY. Damnit. Always before bloody dessert. The briefest of smiles flickered across Jeremy’s lips, acknowledging Fryer but sending him a silent warning. I’m watching you.

  Three

  It had been a long evening for Anthea by the time she returned to her Westminster apartment. Normally she liked to nip back to change or freshen up before evening functions but today she hadn’t had time to do half the things she wanted, and that made her grumpy. She fished for her keys, mumbling expletives under her breath, finally opening the door after a couple of failed attempts. The street light had been out for nearly two weeks now, another minor irritant to her already stressful day.

  Strewn across the carpet was that day’s post. As she shuffled through the bundle of envelopes, she stopped and raised her neatly plucked eyebrows in interest. It was a postcard, a night-time scene of city lights and ‘Greetings from Japan’ scrawled underneath in fluorescent pink.

  “Well, well.” She muttered, flipping it over as she paced slowly through the hallway. The message was simple and to the point.

  ‘My darling Anthea, still having a wonderful time, sushi’s great – you’d love it. I’m writing to let you know I’ve met someone, I’m sorry but I get very lonely out here. I think you know what I’m trying to say. I’ll always be fond of you. Will be in touch about my things. Yours, Ben.’

  “Great!” Unsurprised, Anthea sniffed, furiously scrunching up the postcard. “You bastard! You get very lonely? Whose damn fault is that?”

  She thumped down on her kitchen bin pedal furiously with the point of her black patent kitten heels and dropped it in with an air of finality. Still, she didn’t feel nearly as disappointed as she thought she might; in fact she felt a strange pang of relief as the anger died away.

  In her mind, at least, she had dumped him months ago. They had been together for the best part of six months when Ben announced he was off to Japan to help run an IT business, just as the general election campaign had been hotting up. She had pleaded with him to wait just a few more weeks, but he had shrugged with indifference and gone anyway.

  Anthea flicked on the television to catch the ten o’clock news. The ‘No to Cornish Devolution Alliance’ had kept her busy most of the evening. She dared not remember the allegedly ‘Cornish’ pasty forced on her at that faceless hotel, but she and the poor Cornish guests had to make do with what they were given – gristle and a slight feeling of nausea.

  “Westminster is in shock tonight after Opposition Chief Whip Tristan Rivers resigned during Rodney Richmond’s first Shadow Cabinet reshuffle as Opposition Leader. Mr Rivers, whose was in charge of keeping wayward MPs in line, later issued a statement saying he felt the time was right to step down from the Shadow Cabinet to pursue his own political interests. He also clarified he had not been offered any other job. Mr Richmond has now appointed a new Chief Whip, MP for the Vale of Glamorgan, Bronwyn Davies. The other surprise exit was Shadow Environment Secretary Martin Arnold. Our Chief Political Editor Zoe Simpson reports.”

  Bronwyn Davies’ appointment had been known only minutes after Anthea’s meeting with her leader, leaked on Twitter by the usual suspects. She was 15 years older than Anthea, experienced and with a robust enough personality to take on the whole of the Parliamentary party at once. She continued to watch Zoe Simpson’s report, her dry mouth longing for a glass of something red and alcoholic to wash away the stresses of the day.

  “Mr Rivers didn’t have an easy relationship with Mr Richmond from the start, and a number of MPs have said to me privately to
night that he just didn’t have enough clout. Shadow Devolution Secretary Anthea Culverhouse had been tipped for the job of Chief Whip. What isn’t clear is whether she was offered the job but turned it down, but one source close to the leader said tonight they wanted to bring in a fresh face from outside the Shadow Cabinet. The other new face is Deputy Chief Whip Derek Bradbury, who succeeds Martin Arnold after his mysterious exit at Environment…”

  “No I bloody wasn’t asked, Zoe.” Anthea sniffed bitchily to herself. “And you know full well I wasn’t.” Shrugging off her jacket, Anthea rewound the report and watched the entire thing again. The wine could wait a few more minutes.

  *****

  Richmond was talking. On and on. Cornish bloody devolution again. Colin Scott blinked away a glazed look and cast a subtle eye over his watch. It was all so fucking pointless. An issue over which he was never consulted was taking up far too much of his precious time at such a late hour. It disgusted Colin, how Richmond feigned this…like for him. It was, of course, necessary for him to reciprocate.

  “Anyway, here’s to a job well done on an excellent reshuffle.” Colin raised his charged class and grinned, managing to nauseate himself. It had to be the emptiest smile he had given in his life, apart from that day fifteen months ago when he stood on the steps of Conservative Central Headquarters for the necessary photocall, the vanquished candidate barely hiding his fury while firmly shaking the hand of the new leader who stood exhilarated beside him. It had taken all Colin’s self-control not to crush that hand to dust. He had wondered if anyone had noticed the blind rage he felt at his defeat; whether the tone of his runner-up speech, although littered with words of unity and praise for the victor, had revealed his deepest resentments and utter contempt towards his intellectually inferior rival.