Martin Dash

by Andy Bailey

  Jimmy Sachs was currently back on a roll since his return to the Blair Cabinet just two months ago. However, this was simply the latest development in a career punctuated by considerable ups and downs since he had gained his first seat at the 1979 election at the tender age of 28.

  In fact, that seat – the safe Labour seat of Islington North – had pretty much been gifted to him by James Callaghan, no doubt in recognition of the hard work he had put in for the party for most of his 20s but also by way of acknowledgement of the way in which he had burnished the already potent family brand that had previously been established by his father, Walter Sachs, who had served with distinction in both the Wilson and Callaghan governments prior to his untimely death from a wholly unexpected heart attack in 1986.

  Walter Sachs had been that rare thing – a politician of the utmost integrity and rectitude. As a young boy, Walter and his German Jewish family had been saved from the menacing clutches of Hitler’s Nazis by the welcoming arms of London’s East End just before the start of the Second World War and had dedicated the rest of his life to showing his gratitude with tireless public service to the people who had taken him in. To that end, his considerable gift for organisation, insight and oratory had been given over to the duties of councillor, MP and, ultimately, Secretary of State for Health, Defence and then Home Secretary.

  Michael Foot, no less, called Walter a “socialist saint” in the address at his funeral.

  This was the standard that his first son, James (always ‘Jimmy'), was required to live up to. And, largely, he did if the record was to be measured in terms of service, appointments, offices; the only question with Jimmy being: 'was he a socialist . . ?' with his card-carrying detractors pointing to:-

  (a) his and Neil Kinnock’s brutal fight with the Militant Tendency in the 80s that ultimately led to his vacation of the Islington seat (and the apparent end of his parliamentary career);

  (b) his support of Tony Blair in the bid to revise clause IV of the Party’s constitution that was rewarded by Blair with the candidacy of the Hampstead seat in 1997 (won); and

  (c) (most damagingly . . .) his unapologetic taste for the ‘good’ things in life (‘wine, women and song' he, only half-jokingly, listed as his favourite things on Desert Island Discs).

  In his defence, his supporters would instantly point to (and many of his detractors would have to begrudgingly accept):-

  (d) his unending and blistering excoriation of Margaret Thatcher for the entire 11 years of her reign (and afterwards);

  (e) the undoubted intelligence and acuity that he brought to bear upon all of the roles that had been assigned to him (and the unalloyed successes that resulted); and

  (f) the endless entertainment and sheer excitement that attended his every move, whether it be his Pavlovian ensnarements by nightclub escorts; pub brawls with enemies, comrades or mere passers-by; or the kneejerk backchat to his ostensible superiors – he didn’t actually allow many of these; in fact, really only the PM (who, in the case of Blair, had an enduring affection for Jimmy, regardless of the insults and indiscretions flung in his face) and the Queen (who – he avowed expressly – should be removed, at the first chance, along with the whole panoply of the constitutional monarchy, despite the warm personal friendship the two actually enjoyed).

  No, there was no real doubt where his heart lay, ultimately; the issue (unlike the way that people seriously questioned Tony Blair's fundamental motivations) was the other Jimmy Sachs; the one that popped up with mechanical regularity to undermine months or years of prior good work; the one who had been caught, literally, with his trousers down with a room maid in Aberdeen (earning him the everlasting admiration of the Scots male and concurrent exile from both the Cabinet and his wife’s household . . . to which he had only just returned); who expended as much ardour on his rows with the extreme left of the Labour church as he did on his war of attrition with the right wing Tory enemy; and whose brand of socialism, appeared – disconcertingly – to embrace, wholeheartedly, the imperatives of the entrepreneurial business classes and which repeatedly led him into the welcoming and manipulative arms of ‘friends’ by whom you would probably not wish to be judged – people like Barry and Joan Rogers, who now appeared, suddenly, at Martin’s elbow, as if from nowhere.

  “Dashing by name, dashing by nature,” Barry leered at the young couple, obviously over-excited by his access to the whole wealth / power / glamour combo.

  “Oh, hi Barry” said Martin, momentarily startled. “Joan,” he also nodded to the perennially grave Ms Rogers, who was unashamedly eyeing over, first Susan, and then Martin, with a clinical and not wholly friendly air.

  “Good evening Martin . . . and Susan,” she batted her eyelids, slowly, at both in turn, with an ever so slight turn at the corners of her mouth which might have been a smile but, equally, might not.

  “What’s my favourite lawyer – Christ, listen to me; how can you favour a lawyer?!” he cackled, delighted at his own 'witticism', believing he was perfectly at liberty to insult fellow guests – even the host’s daughter – because he paid them. “What’s my favourite lawyer doing here then? Have you smuggled him in, Susan?!” More cackling.

  Wearing a smile born more of forced toleration than genuine goodwill, Susan retorted: “I asked Martin to come so I’d have someone sane to keep me company !” with an accompanying dry laugh that was pitched to only just give them the comfort that that was a joke, not a barbed attack.

  Barry laughed, both nervously and, again, leeringly, looking sideways at Martin with the thought obvious on his face of the incongruity of the concepts of sanity and Martin Dash. Joan, tall, pale, forbidding, with her black straight hair and black straight clothes simply continued eyeing the two up and down, contemplating what, it was impossible to tell.

  “I’ll give your mum and dad credit, Susan – they do know how to throw a party. Bloody hell, look there’s Elton John. And his, err . . .” – more leering – “his friend; Whatsisname? . . . Furnished?”

  “David Furnish – shut up Barry and stop being so vulgar,” Joan now hissed and they all looked at her slightly surprised. This was the first sentence she’d uttered. “Don’t go pointing at people. We’re not greenhorns, you know.”

  “All right, all right,” Barry seemed slightly annoyed, “I was only pointing out that Jimmy and Rosa can pull in the A-list when they want to. See, look – there’s Samuel Jackson !”

  “I think that’s Laurence Fishburne actually, Barry,” said Martin, as tactfully as he could manage. Both Joan and Susan rolled their eyes, Susan looking away.

  “Whatever,” snorted Barry, slugging back the remains of his second glass of champagne.

  The front garden and the entrance into the home was now teeming with 'personalities' right from A list to Z – one thing you had to give Jimmy and Rosa: they were supremely democratic when it came to their friends and house guests; their loyalties lay at least as much with old friends from their youth – Rosa’s colleagues from way back at the start of her singing career and Jimmy’s comrades from his early communist associations – as they did with the ‘celebrities’ they’d collected more recently (and even they were an eclectic mix – you were at least as likely to run into a Krankie at one of these parties as you were Simon Rattle).

  “I’m going to take Martin in,” said Susan, thinking to exit Barry’s orbit. “He’s not met Mum and Dad yet.”

  “Aha !” shouted Barry, gleefully. “Going to meet the folks, eh Martin? Must be serious !”

  Barry The Cringeworthy.

  “We’ll see you in a bit then. We’ll circulate, shall we Darling?” said Barry, offering his arm to Joan, who took it, abstractedly. “But I want to have a little word later, if you don’t mind, Martin . . . about . . .” Barry, nodding and winking at Martin.

  “Oh . . . oh, yes – of course,” said Martin, as Susan edged him away.

  “What was that about?” she quizzed Martin as they entered into the shade of the hall of the front of th
e house.

  “Oh, just work stuff,” then, remembering that Susan was work too, “the Crack Harbour funding.”

  Susan looked concerned and pondered what to say but ultimately contented herself, simply, with: “Just watch those pair. I wouldn’t trust Barry as far as I could throw him. Mum’s always telling my dad to stay clear of him.”

  “Why? Your dad isn’t much involved with the Rogers is he?”

  Susan gave him a look – “I wish that were the case . . .”

  Once in through the front door, guests were confronted by a spacious hall, with cream tiling on the floor; ruby red crushed velvet curtains framing tall mullioned windows; a wide first floor balcony overlooking the scene with a black painted staircase arcing down from either side; pretty chandeliers of glass droplets; and a vaulted ceiling with classical frescoes hand-painted on its panels. This was an impressive residence and standing together in the middle of the hall were its impressive proprietors. They both spotted Susan at the same time, both instantly broke into broad grins, clocked Martin, and beckoned them over.

  “Susan, darling,” cried her mother, “come and give your mother a kiss.”

  Rosa Sachs, née Beneditti, was an opera singer who had performed around the world – often, though not always, in the lead – and built up a solid reputation among the cognoscenti. Her parents were – like Jimmy’s – 1930s émigrés but from Italian fascism rather than German Nazism; her father – a successful businessman with many international connections – had decided that a London base was preferable to the Rome he left behind under the ministry of what he called 'teste di cazzo del Duce' ('Il Duce’s dickheads'). The subsequent years proved his derision correct in his own mind and his children were born, and grew up, calling London home.

  Rosa was slightly on the short side of medium height, dark, striking, and her looks and haunting voice had won her many admirers, both opera-loving and otherwise. But there was something about the young Jimmy Sachs that she found compelling. Coming from a family with a constitutional hatred of right-wingers of all complexions, she instantly chimed with Jimmy’s socialist belligerence; and his protean passions and no-nonsense style were, if the truth be told, a straightforward echo of her beloved father.

  Add to that the glamour and excitement of a life in the glare of front-line politics (only marginally less raucous and deadly than the world of professional opera) and the proposition was pretty much irresistible to Rosa. In due course – and, certainly, once their two girls had arrived – she had decided that the supreme effort and slog required to maintain an elite singer’s career were not worth the trouble and definitely not compared with the comfortable life of a high-ranking politician’s wife in cosmopolitan London, with all the attendant conveniences.

  No, Rosa Sachs had, for many years now, reserved all her energies for the several roles – mother, philanthropist, patron – that together made her the prima donna of the political and social set of which her husband’s family and friends were such an important part. And if that demanded a grim nonchalance in the face of her husband’s childish indiscretions, then so be it – she was the child of Italians by whom anything other than a cold-eyed acceptance of the realities of human weakness was itself considered pathetically infantile.

  Jimmy and Rosa had, of course, seen it all and had 100,000 faces thrust in front of them by way of introduction over the years, so their professional poise wouldn’t miss a beat if you presented Lucifer himself to them – they’d simply proffer a hand and a smile whilst instantly appraising the subject from top to toe anyway. But something about the vision of Martin Dash appearing before them did make them stop, if only for a moment. Perhaps it was that this person was not only unnervingly beautiful and strange but with their daughter.

  Susan noticed this and was suddenly embarrassed by the fact that her parents were actually staring at Martin, with their mouths open. Martin was simply staring back at them. So she broke the spell with: “Mum, Dad – this is Martin; Martin Dash. I told you – who works with me.”

  These words make Rosa’s head tilt towards the direction of the speaker but her eyes remained fixed on Martin until she also suddenly realised she was staring and snapped to. Also slightly embarrassed. And nudged Jimmy, who was a little slower to come to.

  Poise regained, hand and smile proffered.

  “Hello, Martin – I’m so pleased to meet you. Susan has told me so much about you.”

  Martin was all polish. He took Rosa’s hand, flashed her the 100 watt smile (producing in Rosa the same reaction as it first had in Susan), and bowed slightly.

  Just for a moment, Susan thought he was actually going to kiss her outstretched hand and click his heels ! Rosa beamed back.

  Then Martin turned his attention to Jimmy, stood more upright, held out his hand and intoned: “Sir, it’s an honour to meet you . . .” and, with a nod back to Rosa, “. . . both of you.”

  Jimmy was tickled by the touch of the old world that Martin had somehow managed to bring to the occasion and, laughing, responded in kind –

  “. . . And an honour to meet you too, Mr Dash.”

  Martin took his cue and laughed too, as they all did.

  “But please call me Jimmy; only the Speaker and the Revenue call me ‘Sir’!”

  There were a number of people standing around the hosts and a gentle chortling rippled around the group at Jimmy’s witticism. This prompted Martin to look round at his fellow guests and he realised that one of those joining in the fun, standing right next to him, was Jude Law, the film actor, whose ravishing features and stellar celebrity conferred on the select parties a satisfying glow of A-list endorsement.

  And now people suddenly noticed the miraculous serendipity of he and Martin standing together. It was one of those occasions when everyone present realised that the same thought was suddenly occurring to them all simultaneously and a breeze of magic hazed between them, like a guttering candle, flickering a shimmering light upon the scene.

  Jude Law had long since been accepted as the gold standard of male sex appeal and was accustomed to always being top dog in the looks class of any social gathering. But he was now stood next to a creature whose allure was at least his match and, as they stood eyeing each other, they looked like brothers. From an alien civilisation of idealised mannequins. Like Sweden, say.

  One of the wandering celebrity photographers allowed in the home spotted the moment and snapped, which broke the spell and prompted a low murmur of 'Aaahh' from the assembled, like a group of old ladies circling a new born baby, realising immediately that they’d been there when a photo like that (which would undoubtedly appear somewhere in the media tomorrow and recurrently thereafter) was taken.

  “Separated at birth?!” cried Jimmy, sparking another burst of laughter. He was on good form tonight. And a fourth Martini.

  “Martin, this is Jude Law, who – I imagine – you might have seen in the odd B-movie here and there.”

  “Fuck off, Jimmy,” Jude shot back, good-naturedly.

  Jimmy carried on, heedless of the profanity, “Jude is helping Rosa with her UNICEF project.” (One of Rosa’s charitable works, corralling celebrities and politicians to raise money for Afghan children and their mothers, her husband having prepared the ground, as it were.)

  “And Jude, this is Martin Dash, who works at Stone Rose with Susan.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Martin,” said Jude, genially pumping Martin’s hand. “Jimmy says we look alike – what do you think?”

  “Well, I don’t know about that,” replied Martin, “but if so, maybe we could swap, like Dickie Greenleaf, and I’ll have your life.”

  Jude’s eyebrows shot up, “So that would make you Tom Ripley – but that’s the role I always wanted !” He was delighted at this little joke. And Martin looked rather pleased with himself, mused Susan, rather disconcerted by this apparent playfulness on Martin’s part. It was most odd. Meanwhile she could see her father was furrowing his brow, obviously having been left behind.

/>   “The Talented Mr Ripley, Dad,” she explained. “Where Tom Ripley swaps places with his rich friend, Dickie Greenleaf – Jude played Greenleaf in the film.”

  “Not so much swaps as kills !” Jude exclaimed, with mock accusation at Martin.

  “Ah, yes, I remember,” said Jimmy, turning to look again at Martin. “He’s a psychopath who assumes a new identity.”

  “Fuck . . .” thought Susan, suddenly feeling warm in her cheeks. She had told her mother about Martin’s condition but had she told her father in turn? This was getting fucking weird. She looked at Martin and he looked entirely unruffled and she recalled it was he who had made the joke in the first place, laughing. Yes, he was unruffled but at the same time he now appeared to be entirely detached from the proceedings, his gaze focussed on something that was miles away, out of this room, out of this house.

  “But don’t worry – he gets away with it, doesn't he, Martin?” said Jude, bringing the joke to a satisfactory conclusion and, indeed, this triggered peels of relieved laughter. But Susan had felt quite odd about the exchange, even paranoid about what her parents (and Jude Law?!) thought about Martin. Proper paranoid. And disconcerted.

  As a senior member of the British Government, Jimmy Sachs had an actual bodyguard on hand at all times (from the Specialist Protection branch of the Met) and, just at this moment, Susan thought she saw this gentleman – a hitherto anonymous figure stood just behind Jimmy – look Martin up and down, his interest in the young interloper perhaps alerted for the first time? Christ ! She was getting paranoid, she decided, and resolved to move Martin out of the house, and into the garden at the back.

  “I’m going to show Martin around, Dad – Mum. Please excuse us.”

  “Certainly, my dear – have a good time, you two,” Jimmy raised his glass genially.

  As they eased past the group, Susan swore she saw the bodyguard’s eyes following Martin. But she was being paranoid, wasn’t she?!