Polls Apart

by Clare Stephen-Johnston

  Henry’s mood eased towards the end of the afternoon and Anna saw her moment to do the test when she passed the ladies’ loos as they toured a biscuit factory outside Cardiff. While the others listened to the factory manager prattling on about top-of-the-range equipment, Anna snuck off and quickly found herself alone in a toilet cubicle with no one timing her visit. She pulled the test stick out of the box and followed the instructions to the letter. This was not Anna’s first test in the last few years, but rather her fifth. Three of her previous tests had been negative and one positive. Eighteen months ago she had got so far as receiving an appointment date for the twelve-week scan but lost the pregnancy two weeks beforehand. She had cried bitterly. Even Richard had shed a tear. So they had opted to hold off for a while with Anna instead choosing to busy herself with work projects – until today, where she found herself standing in a toilet cubicle, waiting and hoping.

  She had been feeling sick and a bit hormonal for the last week and, when things didn’t change, she allowed herself to feel just a little bit of excitement.

  Libby had bought a digital test so she didn’t even have the option of delaying the disappointment by holding the stick up to the light to examine the lines more closely in search of something faint but wonderful. Instead, the test would flash up either Pregnant or Not Pregnant. As blunt as that. Something began to flash at the end of the stick and, just like waiting for a photo booth to spill its pictures, she knew the test was about to deliver the news – good or bad. Anna felt her stomach lurch, and she looked away momentarily, bracing herself for the result. When she looked back down at the tiny screen it carried only one word: Pregnant.

  Anna stumbled backwards in shock and heard herself give a little yelp of glee. She put the test back in her bag and headed out of the cubicle. She stopped to wash her hands and check her face in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed bright red with excitement. “Please let me keep this pregnancy,” she called out silently to the heavens.

  She found Libby and Henry waiting outside the toilets for her – Libby clearly aware why Anna had been in the loo for over ten minutes, while Henry looked confused and impatient.

  “This is quite a reception party,” Anna joked.

  “Everything all right?” Henry asked.

  “Absolutely fine. I’ve just got a bit of a headache, so I took a few moments out – that’s all.”

  “It’s been a bloody manic day, that’s for sure. I’ve got some paracetamol in my jacket on the bus if you want some?” he offered helpfully.

  “That would be great, thanks.”

  Anna winked at Libby as Henry walked in front, leading them back to join the rest of the pack.

  “Well?” Libby whispered, impatiently.

  “Well,” Anna giggled. “This is one trip to a biscuit factory I’m going to remember for the rest of my life.”

  Ray made it over to Bob’s Victoria flat just after seven-thirty in the evening to join him for the drink they’d been promising to have for the last two weeks. This was the one day in the entire campaign that their schedules had actually allowed for them to meet in London without being accompanied by an entourage of some kind. Both men were extremely loyal to Richard, but absolutely devoted to the party, and they had wanted to sit down over a drink to analyse the events of the past fortnight and what they meant for the SDP.

  Bob gave Ray his usual back-slapping, cheery welcome when he arrived and quickly showed him through to the sparsely furnished living room where his cleaner/housekeeper had laid out a selection of nibbles for them, ranging from crisps to stuffed vol-au-vents and warmed quiche. Bob had often told Ray he couldn’t possibly survive without Babs – a fifty-eight-year-old divorcee who had started out doing a few hours cleaning for him, and now organised practically all his domestic arrangements. Beyond its tidiness, however, Bob’s flat represented the ultimate bachelor’s pad, with only the most basic of furniture and carpets and wallpaper dating back to the early Nineties. Even Ray, who didn’t count himself as a particular expert in interior design, could see the place was badly in need of updating.

  “Tuck in,” Bob instructed Ray as he gestured towards the food.

  Ray helped himself to a plate and a couple of pieces of quiche before grabbing a handful of crisps. He and Bob were due to attend a function in the City later that evening and they had arranged for a driver to collect them both shortly after eight p.m. so they could continue talking in the car. With little time, Ray got straight to the point.

  “What do you reckon then, Bob? Are we gonna walk it or do you think Kelvin could do some damage yet?”

  “Well,” Bob replied, hastily trying to finish chewing a prawn vol-au-vent. “I think based on where we are now, we could win a good majority. But my biggest worry is that, wherever I go, the main thing people want to ask about is Anna Lloyd. Not unemployment, not housing, not health, Anna bloody Lloyd. That just can’t be a good thing.”

  “I know,” Ray said, shaking his head. “It’s nice that she’s back and I even think she’s good for the party. She’s young and fresh and helps take us away from the hardline socialist image of the past. As far as women go, she has cross-party appeal – especially after what came out about her past. But, right now, when a voter thinks about Richard Williams and the Social Democrats, they think Anna Lloyd. That means if she starts getting up to some of her old tricks or, unthinkably, if she actually decides to walk, then we could suffer big time.”

  “What does Sandra think?” asked Bob.

  “She thinks he should have married a wallflower and then we wouldn’t be in this bloody mess.” Both men chuckled at the head of policy’s typically severe assessment.

  “Well, Anna seems to have fallen into line for the moment,” Bob optimistically suggested, “so I think we just try to keep things steady, not take any major risks, and go for the finish line.”

  “I agree,” said Ray. “The worst has got to be behind us, so we just need to keep the ship steady.”

  “Do we know of any more skeletons lurking behind Anna or Richard?”

  Ray raised his eyebrows as he considered Bob’s pertinent question. “Henry says no. He said he’d grilled them both straight after Anna came back. So, as long as they’re telling the truth, we’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  “As long as they’re telling the truth,” Bob echoed.

  The rest of the afternoon had passed painfully slowly as Anna patiently waited to find the right moment to tell Richard her news. That time finally came after they had finished eating dinner with the local MP and party chairman in Cardiff, and – rather than taking the battle bus back to London – were to be chauffeured home by Richard’s driver, Les, because of the lateness of the hour. Libby had already left by train earlier in the afternoon so she could make it back home in time to put the kids to bed. Anna had almost burst into tears when she’d said goodbye to her sister, overcome by a wave of tiredness and emotion. She had barely touched any dinner, and just yearned to be settled into the back of the car with Richard and heading home to Highgate.

  It was after eight thirty in the evening and, after they had bid farewell to their Cardiff hosts, Anna and Richard finally climbed into the Prius, where they would be sheltered from politics for just a couple of hours. As soon as she sat down, Anna took off her shoes and undid the top button on her trousers, which she noticed were already beginning to feel tight. Then she curled her legs up onto the seat and tilted her head back. Richard loosened his tie and tossed his papers onto the floor, mumbling: “I’ll read these in the morning.” He very rarely conceded to being tired, but the fact he couldn’t face reading any more briefing documents told Anna that Richard must have been exhausted. She leant into her husband’s side, stroking his arm as Les skilfully whisked them through the city centre and out towards the M4 back to London. For the first twenty minutes they sat mainly in silence, unwinding from the intensity of the day. Finally, his senses slightly restored, Richard turned to look at Anna. “You okay, darling? You’re awfully qui
et.”

  “I’m just very tired,” Anna said wearily, “but happy.” She looked up at her husband and smiled. “I’ve been feeling a little off colour the last few days which made me decide to take a pregnancy test.”

  Richard turned his whole body now to face Anna, eyes wide with expectation. “You didn’t say you were feeling unwell, Anna. What was the result of the test?”

  “Positive,” Anna smiled again, tears starting to spill over with relief at finally being able to tell him.

  “Oh, Anna,” Richard whispered into her ear. “That’s wonderful news. Just imagine a baby in Downing Street. That’s going to shake the place up,” he smiled to himself before taking her hand in his and stroking it as he spoke. “You must take so much care now. You can’t go pushing yourself like this.”

  “I’m fine, Richard, honestly. I’ll make sure I rest when I’m feeling tired, but I’m happy to keep campaigning with you. I wouldn’t be anywhere else right now.”

  “This could turn out to be quite a year,” Richard said, eyes gleaming. “When would the baby be due?”

  “Some time late November/early December I think.”

  “It’s too much to take in, isn’t it?” he beamed, the schoolboy excitement that Anna loved to see so much in him, coming shining through. “We could be having our first Christmas at Number 10 with a newborn baby. It’s unbelievable.”

  “Well, we’ve some way to go to achieve either,” said Anna, with a note of caution. “But that’s the dream.”

  Richard leant in closer to his wife and kissed her softly on the forehead. “We’ll make it a reality, Anna. I know we will.”

  13

  Lloyd and Williams Facing New Claims over Marriage

  Monday, 20th April, 2009, UK Newswire – Richard Williams’ bid to reach Downing Street was once again rocked by claims over his private life when a Sunday newspaper published details of the alleged rows between the SDP leader and his actress wife in the run-up to their recent marital split.

  The Sunday Echo claimed Anna Lloyd had told her husband she was no “Barbara Bush”, in a barbed reference to her image, during an alleged row with him over her role as a lap dancer in an ITV drama.

  The newspaper quoted an unnamed friend as saying the couple regularly argued over Lloyd’s choice of acting roles, along with her public image, which has often courted controversy, leading Lloyd to allegedly tell her husband she was “not a nun”.

  A spokesman for the Social Democrats was quick to condemn the claims as “absolute nonsense, fabricated by a coward who dare not speak her name”.

  There has been much speculation within the media about who the source of the article could be, with one radio show host this morning claiming the details were passed to the paper by a former PR agent to Anna Lloyd.

  TalkLive host Clive Farrell, a former Alliance Party communications chief, claimed on his show that he had been told “at first hand, from someone within the party” that Joy Gooding – who recently separated from Social Democrat press chief, Henry Morton, and who subsequently joined the Alliance Party as a communications officer – was behind the Sunday Echo story.

  Farrell’s claims were immediately denied by the Alliance Party in a statement released last night, which said Gooding knew nothing of the article.

  The statement added that the party “is not interested in idle gossip, but is resolutely focused on the real issues that matter to the people of Britain”.

  Joy could tell just by the smugness spreading across Reggie’s face and the anger over Kelvin’s that her little briefing with Marie Simpson at the Sunday Echo hadn’t gone down well. Emotionally, this created some turmoil for her as, on one hand, she simply didn’t care what they thought but, on the other, she really didn’t want to lose face in front of Henry and word would soon spread that Kelvin had seen it as a complete cock-up.

  “I must say, Joy, that even by Reggie’s standards this is a cheap stunt,” Kelvin said, whilst pointing randomly at the newspaper front pages spread across his desk. Joy switched her eyes to Reggie for a moment – who was propped up like a little meerkat in front of the Prime Minister, hanging on his every word and looking distinctly hurt that he had been put down in this way, even as a joke.

  “Well,” Joy began. “I’m sorry if you feel it has in some way embarrassed you but, even though I agree it’s a fairly low blow, I do believe the article in the Sunday Echo had the desired effect in demonstrating the cracks in Williams’ marriage again. After all, the polls show that voters wouldn’t tolerate another separation and so I feel it’s in the public interest to expose the problems that still exist.”

  “How do you know they still exist?” Reggie asked sulkily, furious that Joy hadn’t been cowed by Kelvin’s jibe.

  “The thing that goes against your argument, Joy,” the Prime Minister flashed a false smile, “is that it was completely bloody obvious that the story came from you – and therefore the Alliance Party. That, my dear, makes us look like a bunch of desperate morons.”

  Reggie then took his turn to stick the boot in. “I had also clearly briefed you that we were not to continue a personal assault on the Williamses’ marriage because it would ultimately reflect badly on us.”

  “You had done no such thing,” Joy replied indignantly.

  “Let’s not bicker about it,” Kelvin cut in. “We’re twelve points behind in the polls, so we’d better come up with something bloody good if we’re going to stop the Social Democrat juggernaut. Lloyd has a lot of public sympathy on her side so I want to make sure we turn all our attention on Williams without being seen to have planted anything. So the two of you need to put your heads together and come up with something good, do you hear? We’re entering the final straight and we need to pull something out of the bag or we’re sunk. No amateur jobs this time,” he added, directing his gaze at Joy.

  She wanted to lean across his desk and slap him but, in spite of his smug attitude, she knew Kelvin had a point. Either they delivered one last cruel and devastating blow to Richard Williams’ reputation or the Alliance would be decimated for years to come. And even worse, so would her career.

  Anna paced slowly around the living room looking for a distraction before eventually deciding to take a seat on the sofa and read the papers. Despite the fact her absence from campaigning – and on a day when the media spotlight would be firmly on their relationship – would surely whip up speculation of a rift, she and Richard had taken the difficult decision the night before that Anna should stay at home. She had been deeply upset by the article in the Sunday Echo, which she instantly knew had come from Joy. She recalled clearly the mobile conversation she’d had with Richard a few weeks ago in which she’d made the comment about not being a nun, and Joy had been the only person to overhear apart from her driver, John, whose loyalty she would never even pause to question. While she and Joy had parted professional ways on fairly strained terms, Anna had still cared about her former friend. She had cried bitterly with Richard the night before at the thought of Joy making the call to the journalist and quite happily spilling Anna’s personal comments for nothing more than political gain. Even worse, Anna knew that Joy wasn’t even an Alliance Party supporter. The only reason she had joined them was for revenge. By nine in the evening Anna had felt so tired and emotional it had become clear she was in no state to travel to Portsmouth with the rest of them. She had instead agreed to travel to Edinburgh with Richard the following day.

  What made her absence worse, was that they weren’t even in a position to say she was pregnant – which would have helped both the situation, and the entire campaign, enormously. Rather, she would now have to mask the waves of nausea with a false smile, and regularly apply blusher to her increasingly pale pallor, which the press would no doubt interpret as a sign of deep misery.

  Anna cast her eyes over the front page of Today, but threw the paper back onto the coffee table as soon as she spotted the lead story, questioning the status of her and Richard’s relationship.


  She reached for the house phone and dialled Richard’s mobile number. It was ten a.m. and she seemed to remember him saying he would be on the bus until at least half-past.

  He answered after three rings.

  “Hi darling,” he said breezily. “How you feeling?”

  “Okay,” Anna replied. “I still feel a bit shaken by the whole Joy thing. It just feels a bit surreal. Is Henry worried about the coverage?”

  “Not really. We’ve taken a bit of a knock in the papers today but he thinks they’ll move on soon enough, especially once they see us out and about again tomorrow. We’ve already put out a statement saying you won’t be campaigning today due to other work commitments, but will be back on the road with us on Tuesday. I think it would be good if you could say a brief few words tomorrow as well, just countering what Joy has put out there.”

  Anna raised her eyes at the thought of it, but outwardly agreed. “Of course.”

  “Oh, and Anna…” Richard broke into a whisper. “I wondered if you would mind Henry staying with us for the last couple of weeks of the campaign. It would make sense from a planning perspective… but, also, he seems pretty down.”

  “Right,” Anna said, taken aback. “Is he upset about the Sunday Echo thing?”

  “I think that’s brought it to a head, yes. He was just saying this morning that it’s very difficult going back to an empty house every night, knowing that the woman he used to share it with is now actively plotting his and our downfall. When you think about it, it must be bloody awful. Thing is, we need Henry to be strong and focused and I just think he could use a bit of support right now.”