Martin Dash

by Andy Bailey

  “This is an amazing place isn’t it?” said Martin, abstractedly, as they moved down the hall towards the back of the building. “And a hell of a party. Your dad really is the big cheese, isn’t he?”

  “If you say so.”

  “Yes, I do – look at the people who are here. This is proper A-list territory.”

  “Well, it might get a bit A+ soon.”

  “Why? What do you mean?”

  “Oh, nothing,” Susan smiled enigmatically as they walked, squinting against the sun, into the expansive rear gardens. “A surprise. Possibly.”

  “Well, look who is here” said Martin, gazing around the crowd. “Jack Straw . . . Vanessa Redgrave . . . Alex Ferguson . . .”

  “. . . and Jude Law,” interjected Susan. “So what was all that Tom Ripley business about?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Oh, you must remember: the psychopath pretending to be someone he isn’t. There was you and Jude Law competing for the role, my dad making insinuations. It was all a bit odd – you seemed to be going along with it somehow . . .”

  Martin scrutinized her but, as usual, with no visible clue as to whether he might be annoyed, glad, indifferent . . .

  “Susan, you really do need to rein in the paranoia, you know; after all, it’s supposed to be me who has the mental illness.”

  “Supposed to, Martin? – supposed to?” Susan didn’t know why she was choosing this time and this place to be having a go at Martin but something about the exchange inside had set her wheels rolling.

  There was an uneasy silence between them which Martin broke – “You think I’m a fake, Susan?”

  Susan looked into his eyes and was tempted to say ‘yes’ just to watch his reaction – to see if she could get a reaction – but, while she couldn’t say she could see actual hurt in his eyes, she thought she could see there a weariness borne of not being believed or understood many times over and found herself being afraid that she could see him mentally moving her onto the list of people he could no longer trust – the list of suspicious people. And she didn’t want that.

  “No, no – I don’t, Martin,” she moved closer to him and took his arm in her hand, earnestly. “No, you need to know – I’m your friend.”

  He could see her genuine anguish and smiled, “Sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

  Susan was relieved and they both lightened up. As Susan was leading Martin towards the back of the gardens, the gentle babble of the party’s chatter swelled suddenly to an all-out hubbub which seemed to emanate from the forecourt on the other side of the building.

  “Ah !” cried Susan. “The surprise ! Come on,” and she grabbed Martin’s hand and led him back into the hall they had not long left. As they entered, it became clear that the noise had come from the press pack milling at the gates; the party guests themselves were trying to be more cool but there was no doubting a heightened sense of excitement amongst them as, just striding into the hall, Martin saw, was the Prime Minister, Tony Blair himself, flanked by two bodyguards like Jimmy’s (one).

  Susan shot a mischievous sideways glance at Martin, smirking, which Martin had to acknowledge.

  “OK, A+,” he smiled.

  Here he was, in the flesh – the great political ogre of the age; the man who had sent British troops into more wars than any other prime minister in history; who cosied up to the big beasts in Washington and Jerusalem; who – in the opinion of many of Jimmy’s friends and colleagues – had long since sold out the proud and principled traditions of the Labour movement. And yet Jimmy stood by him; Jimmy – whose family name was a byword for the eternal struggle against the imperial and corporate depredations.

  No, whilst accepting unreservedly that Blair was not perfect (indeed, few of Blair’s trusted circle had challenged him quite so much), Jimmy pointed to the minimum wage, gay rights, the Northern Ireland peace, and the redistributive record for which he was never properly credited. Jimmy said that you had to be realistic, pragmatic; that Tony Blair had won three general elections in a row; that he was the best weapon the Labour movement had for keeping the Tories out. And it was that sort of pragmatism that had kept Jimmy in the game of front line politics for 30 years now.

  No, Tony Blair saw a kindred spirit in Jimmy, someone he could trust not to stab him in the back when the going got tough, and, indeed, someone he could trust to deliver. Thus, the warm embrace between the two men now; thus, a serving British Prime Minister makes time in his schedule to pop into his old friend’s party for a few drinks in the first place; thus, Jimmy’s latest rebirth, phoenix-like, into the Cabinet, after the debacle of 2004, when Blair had been forced to let his trusted ally return to the back benches following the revelation of Jimmy’s involvement with the Sunny Glades development. Some had presumed that would be the last time they saw Jimmy Sachs in front-line politics; others knew better the regenerative powers of the 'Hampstead Hound', (a moniker bestowed by appreciative colleagues in a conscious twinning with the only other Labour member who was considered to match Sachs for fire and brimstone and wit: ‘The Beast of Bolsover' – Dennis Skinner).

  There was no great crush around Blair; all the guests considered themselves important and, again, were playing it cool. So Susan had no difficulty in marching Martin straight into the circle surrounding her father and the Prime Minister, who were chatting amiably, swapping notes on the holidays they’d both recently taken. She managed to catch her father’s eye at an appropriate point and Jimmy got the message straight away.

  “Oh Tony, you know Susan, of course, but here’s her friend, Martin, as well – Martin Dash, who works with her.” This last qualification – made, it seemed to Susan, with every mention of his name – was by now beginning to grate with her but she held out her hand and smiled sweetly anyway (and actually bowed, imperceptibly).

  “Prime Minister.”

  “Good evening, my dear – lovely to see you again. Thank goodness you’ve taken after your divine mother in looks rather than this old croc,” and he kissed her on both cheeks in the continental fashion.

  “And . . .” he turned to scrutinise the vision stood next to her “. . . I’m sorry . . ?”

  “Martin, Sir – Martin Dash,” his hand reaching out to shake the great statesman’s.

  “Well, hello Martin – charmed, I’m sure.”

  “We reckon she’s landed herself quite a catch, Tony – we’ve been debating who’s the better looking between Martin and young Mr Law here . . .” (Jimmy had downed two more Martinis by now and was loosening his tongue) “. . . What do you reckon?”

  Jude Law blushed and Susan spun on Jimmy, furiously, “Father, don’t be so rude – you’ll embarrass Martin.” But Martin wasn’t embarrassed (Tony Blair – the ultimate operator – noticed that, as he had the young man’s striking countenance in the first place); he just stared at the Prime Minister with that far-off look that no-one had yet fathomed. And the security men – including Jimmy’s from earlier – noticed that. And Susan noticed that too. Paranoid again.

  “Jimmy, you old rogue. I’m not here five minutes, haven’t even had a drink yet, and you’ve already got me judging a beauty contest of young Adonises. And," pointing to the photographers on hand, "with the wolves waiting and slavering in the wings.” Effortlessly, Blair had broken the ice, and continued: “I’m sure there’s a whole lot more to you than good looks if you get to work with the redoubtable Susan – a chip off the old block, that one – and this time I’m referring to her father.”

  Susan blushed again but Jimmy beamed with pride – he loved both of his daughters dearly but had always felt that, if at all, it would one day be Susan that carried on the Sachs mantle of campaigning public services, despite her protestations to the contrary.

  And now he waded in: “Oh yes, there is; there’s a whole lot more to Martin . . . as I understand,” Jimmy looking from Susan to Martin, praying for leave to continue.

  Susan glared at her father.

  “Oh?” said the Prime Minister,
his interest piqued.

  Martin simply smiled with the slightest nod to Jimmy, which he took as the green light to press on.

  “Well, I hope you don’t mind, Martin, but Susan tells me that it’s something you wish to be open about; perhaps to make people aware of the condition and help other sufferers?”

  “Yes, it’s fine.”

  Blair was definitely interested now – “What’s that then?”

  “Well, as Susan’s described it to me – and I hope I have this right, Martin, so please correct me if I don’t – Martin bravely carries on his life and a successful career whilst suffering from a condition that means he feels nothing. Is that right Martin? Do I have that right? Andonia is it?”

  “No, Anhedonia,” corrected the Prime Minister, “It’s Anhedonia, Jimmy. I know of it.” All heads swivelled to Blair.

  “I do sympathise, Martin. I knew someone – years ago – who suffered from the very same thing.” He was scrutinising Martin closely now. “No desire – for pleasure, for money, for anything, and no sadness or upset either. It’s most . . . interesting. But a strange thing to have to live with. I do sympathise.”

  “What became of your friend, Sir?” asked Martin, intensely, and Susan thought she’d not seen him as engaged with anything before.

  “Oh, he . . . he learned to live with it. In fact, he became very successful. In many ways he had the advantage over other people, he wasn’t held back by . . . well, feelings and anxiety; he simply took decisions and did things . . . logically and rationally, without impediment.”

  All in the group were now staring at Blair, who was looking wistful.

  “But he had no feelings for anyone? No . . . love?” asked Susan.

  Blair looked around the group and seemed to correct himself somehow: “Well, yes; that’s the tragedy of it, the flip side . . . you don’t have the downside of life – the upset, the sadness – but you don’t have the upside either.”

  He looked again at Martin and then, realising he was describing something that was probably very personal for the man in front of him: “Well, at least that’s how I understood it.”

  “Yes, that’s it,” said Martin, flatly.

  “Who was this, Tony? I’ve never heard you mention him before?” asked Jimmy, who had known Blair as well as anyone for 30 years now.

  “Oh, someone from years ago – you don’t know him, Jimmy. I ought not to say who it is, actually,” and then back to the younger man: “But I believe that it can be cured, Martin?”

  “That’s what I’ve been told.”

  “But . . . not yet, eh?”

  Martin shook his head.

  “Well, I hope you do work your way through it. You’re to be commended for not letting it stop you from getting on with your life and making friends.”

  He glanced at Susan (blushing) and back again, “I admire you.”

  “Well . . . thank you.”

  “Martin, you’re now supposed to say: 'And I admire you too'” chipped in Jimmy, joking again; everyone laughed again and so did Martin. But he didn’t say it.

  Blair turned to Rosa, “And how’s the lady unluckiest in love that I know?”

  “How so?” said Rosa, taken aback.

  “So beautiful, so talented, and yet ends up stuck with this old bugger !!"

  Cue more merriment and the premium grade craic continued on with Blair and Sachs trading affectionate punches to the delight of all. For most of the assembled, their usual view of these two political heavyweights was on the television, robot-like, doling out bland platitudes, so to see them now, relaxed, boozing and joking was a real eye-opener and, truth to tell, not something that they were afforded too often – at least in the case of Blair. The Prime Minister was coming under particular pressure at the moment as people worried about the sustainability of the long economic boom the country had enjoyed up to present and questions were beginning to be asked – most dangerously, by some cabinet colleagues – as to whether the curtain would also be coming down on the reign of a man who had now been in the job nearly 10 years and was perhaps beginning to look like damaged goods.

  So it rather looked like he was taking the opportunity of his friend's summer party – with no other functions to attend afterwards – to wind down a little.

  In fact, the whole shindig was going swimmingly. Even though there were a few handpicked photographers allowed in, the party had a relaxed, informal feel with many of the fêted celebrities present allowing themselves to be off guard and, with the champagne flowing freely, they were getting louder and more playful. In all of this they took their cue from Jimmy and Rosa – Jimmy, in particular, was known for his no-holds-barred personality and penchant for a good time. He was not going to allow any party of his to be inhibited by the Presbyterian killjoys from the celebrity fanzines (or 'shit paper', as Jimmy liked to call them), perpetually lying in wait, and the great and the good now thronging in his hall, kitchen, sitting room and the green, red and gold of his garden seemed to appreciate this too. It felt like an exclusive gathering to which only the cool dudes had been invited, without – for once – the attendant drag of the bores they were usually obliged to humour.

  Susan was, despite herself, having a good time and Martin looked like he was too. She generally avoided these affairs, decrying the awfulness of the political types usually gathered around her father but, happily, there were few of them here and this was a trend that appeared to have been established for this mid-summer party of Jimmy’s in recent years: a largely politics-free oasis in the otherwise sodden social calendar. Perhaps in recognition of Rosa’s oft-cited argument that he needed a break from the back-stabbing, intriguing and pressure that otherwise attended his every waking hour. An exception had been made for Blair, of course, and perhaps this was why he also appeared to appreciate the chance to let his hair down and turn off the approved script for a while. Why, he might even get the guitar out later !

  In due course, Susan had found herself in the kitchen, mixing another drink and chatting to her aunt, Jimmy’s younger sister, Audrey. She had decided to let Martin explore the party on his own for a little while (sending him on his way with a little quip that had delighted her as soon as it entered her head, on the subject of their encounter with the PM: "The Great Communicator meets The Great Non-Communicator !") and she was now catching up with family and friends whilst trying to set her stamp on the music being played on Jimmy’s impressive sound system (for these sorts of parties he didn’t hold with the usual tasteful quartet in the corner, so you might just as well be confronted – on entering the place – with 'Sympathy for the Devil' being blasted from every strategically placed speaker).

  As Susan was moving through the kitchen towards the patio doors leading onto the garden to look for Martin again, she heard his voice just around the corner, outside – talking to Barry Rogers – and something made her pull up short to ponder the spines of some books on the shelf just by the doors, so that she didn’t look as though she was ear-wigging.

  “The £15 million will come through next week and the other £5 million probably the week after,” Barry was explaining to Martin.

  “And we do the property transfer when?” asked Martin. They were talking about the Crack Harbour development.

  “Only when the second lot arrives,” Barry, emphatically.

  “OK, so where’s it coming from?”

  “Ad Jalal – the investors I’ve been telling you about.”

  “Who’s acting for them?”

  “Nobody, you’ll just get the money direct from them.”

  A moment’s hesitation from Martin, “What about their due diligence? Who’s going to do that for them?”

  “No need. They trust me. I’ve told them what a good lawyer you are ! We’ve done a proper job, haven’t we?”

  “I suppose so. But we’ll need to do the usual anti-money laundering checks on them if we’re dealing with them direct.”

  This time a moment’s hesitation from Barry, then: “Nah, no
need – Gerry knows them. Have a word with him if you’re unsure.”

  Martin simply concurred, “OK.”

  Susan desperately wanted to jump in to ask 'Oh really, Barry? So Gerry knows them does he? What’s that mean? We act for them too? We’re acting for both sides on this? You and some dodgy outfit from God knows where? £20 million sloshing through our account?! Jesus Christ, Barry, do you think we’re stupid or what?'

  But she knew she couldn’t. She’d already learnt enough in her time at Stone Rose to know that you do not front up to clients like that – valuable clients, as Barry undoubtedly (irritatingly) was. But by the same token you don’t expose yourself and the blue-chip business that’s been built up over decades (two centuries, in fact) by playing the patsy to a fast-and-loose merchant like Barry Rogers. So any concerns get dealt with quietly, among the partners.

  She could have a word with Gerry. However, it wasn’t her matter – Susan had been assisting Martin on a number of projects but not this one. Had Gerry kept her off this one because of her father’s – what: acquaintanceship? friendship? – with the Rogers? Involuntarily, she shuddered inwardly.

  Also, she was suspicious of Barry’s relationship with Gerry, who seemed to do whatever Barry told him. Did Barry have something on Gerry?

  Did Barry have something on her father? A horrifying thought.

  Some other rather unpleasant speculations on Barry were drifting cheerfully through her mind when her reverie was interrupted by a tap on her shoulder and a “Hi, Susan !” It was only her cousin, Trudy, but Susan jumped and promptly spilled her drink down the front of her dress, which caused her to let out a shriek.

  Which drew attention.

  Barry’s and Martin’s faces appeared from around the patio door jamb in a way that only added to the comedy.

  But Barry was perhaps less than comic: “Oh, hello Susan. We didn’t know you were there . . .”

  Susan gathered herself but was clearly somewhat flustered – “I was just bringing out drinks but it looks like I’ll have to go back for more now” – and turned on her heels back from whence she came.