“I didn’t say that… I said…”
“Alright, then. You said that he’s redeemed himself somewhat. Which quite frankly, Rachael - is utter codswallop.”
I was silent for a moment, drinking it all in. Michael was right. Was absolutely right. But there was one element that he had not included in his analysis.
The Shaun and Rachael factor. The unseen thread that always seemed to snake its way back into my life, no matter how many years had passed. Or how many times I had felt sure that I had sworn myself off any level of involvement with him ‘this time’.
And then Michael said, “But anyway. Let’s change the subject. I've also got some interesting news myself. I’ve just come out of a meeting with the PM and Deputy PM. Alex The Twat and Max have been doing a sterling job of spinning the events of Saturday into a 'Bold and Brave Minister' story for me. PM’s green with envy, actually. I can tell.”
“Big head.”
“And the latest is all very confidential of course. So, keep this under wraps. There's a bit of a cabinet reshuffle coming up. PM wants me to swap portfolios. With Spencer Greaves.”
“Isn’t he the health minister?”
“No, silly. That’s Bob Porteus. Honestly, you’ve really taken your eye off the ball with cabinet positions, haven’t you?”
“I do try to keep abreast of it all, Michael, but Scooby Doo monopolises my TV at home. And at work, I’m a little bit too busy dealing with women who’ve had seven shades of shit kicked out of them.”
“I'm sure. But anyway. It’s the defence post! Ministry of Defence. So, what do you think of that then? Rather up my street, don’t you think?”
Although I wanted to leap into a gushing, congratulatory verbal repost, all that my mind could conjure up was an image of Lydia. Of my eldest seizing a water pistol from a naked Matthew in the paddling pool last summer;
“Matthew Russell – we hate guns in this house! And if you ever join the army, both me and Mummy will kill you! You’ll be as dead as a dormouse!”
But I managed to provide him with a verbal pat on the back. His voice softened;
“Do you really mean that? I mean, the words that we had the other night when you heard about my past military exploits… you were clearly not too enamoured with that side of things. So, I've got to say that I have been wondering whether me becoming Secretary of State for Defence… would be very problematic for you.”
Gee no, Michael. How could it possibly bother me? A person who – until recently, when I couldn’t afford the direct debit any longer – happened to be a card-carrying member of CND. How could I possibly not be delighted to be dating the man in the government who I always used to refer to as ‘Dr Death?’
I lied. And reassured him. I mean, after all, he was a good man – now in a bad job, for sure – but, hey. Better than Shaun being given the post, I thought.
“So, all this stuff about needing to keep your career in the SAS under wraps,” I said. “Won't that get a bit blown out of the water? Now that you'll be tampering with Trident and you'll have bigger fish to fry than funding streams for old folk’s homes. I mean, the media are going to go over your CV in painstaking detail. They're going to find out exactly what you did in the military.”
“True. It seems rather pointless to try and pretend otherwise, these days.”
“Plus, I never really understood why it needed to remain secret about your previous stuff with the SAS. I mean, there's already precedents in government. Paddy Ashdown was also the Milk Tray man, wasn't he?”
Michael laughed and answered;
“True. But Paddy was more of your light-touch brigade. I'd – we'd – rather that the public don't know of the very specific kind of operations that I was involved with.”
“Like?”
“Oh, that's a chat for another day,” he rushed on. “But I'm really looking forward to a new post. And I’ve been thinking. I’m going to set up a new working group – to create some sort of an early-warning system for cases like Vinnie. Get them the help that they need, with issues such as PTSD. Before they end up cracking.”
I sighed.
“Sorry, Michael – but my sympathies might run a little bit thin on that side of things. Your time might be better spent on trying to figure out why such psychotic freaks are attracted to the army in the first place. Maybe you can start with yourself.”
“Oh, most amusing. But seriously. I’m glad that you’re okay about it. Because it actually makes things easier for both of us now.”
He paused and then continued;
“Here at the Ministry – at Communities, I mean - we’ve got a few new posts coming up. Created as a direct response to what happened on Saturday. Three new advisors on Domestic Violence and The Family. We all feel that the government hasn’t been taking the issue as seriously as it should have been.”
“Well, that’s true enough.”
“And, Rachael it was suggested – given your previous background as an advisor to Whitehall – and what you do now. And deal with - so well. That one of the jobs – a Tsar’s role in effect – might have your name on it.”
I was stunned.
And then I was cynical.
“Are you taking the piss? If so – that’s not very funny.”
“No. Not at all.”
“Right,” I did my best not to sound sarcastic; “So… are you offering me a job?”
“No. I’m not offering it to you. I’m about to move government departments, remember? And anyway. It wasn’t me as such who flagged you up. It was actually the PM who suggested your name, to begin with.”
I brayed like a donkey.
“You have got to be kidding! Oh now; don’t tell me. Another one of his publicity stunts. Or is the use of my name, of association with Sisters’ Space, another way of him going about with his damage reduction techniques?”
Michael dismissed me;
“No. He got a few people to ask around about you. Apparently. This was even before he asked me what I thought of 'this Rachael girl doing the job.' You do happen to have a good reputation from your previous work with government, you know!”
My head was buzzing. My heart doing the bat out of hell thing. But I still couldn’t seem to stop my gob from trotting out;
“Huh. Like the 'girl' bit. Charming.”
“Oh, he doesn't mean to be offensive. Of the old school, the PM is. So why don’t you just go… well, go… and think about it. We can talk over the details later tonight. Or on Friday when I come back up north.”
“But, Michael, we’re – on a roll with the café and Chocolatiers now. And this new funding that we’ve just been granted… I couldn’t possibly consider…”
“Of course you can, Rachael. There are plenty of other good women who can run Sisters’ Space. No one is indispensable. I told the PM and the civil servants that I thought you’d be excellent. Don’t you want to change things for women at the very centre of things? Get your teeth into the bigger picture? Like you did previously – but with far more power to be able to influence things?”
“Of course, but I’m… And wouldn’t this be a London-based post?”
“Well, yes. But the salary is a bloody good one. Fixed term contract of two years. You could talk ‘secondment’ with Sisters’ Space or something. And I’m sure that you and Lydia and Matthew could bunk up with me until you find a place… or decide to stay indefinitely… or something.”
To this, the only words that I could manage to dredge up were;
“But Michael, I hate London. I really do. I hate all cities. But especially London.”
Straight back at me;
“Ah yes. But you don’t hate me, do you? I think that you have a propensity to not-hate me. As I do to you… to not-hate you.”
My brain felt like treacle. My thought processes; the speed of neuron-transmitter thingies had suddenly been afflicted with sludge in the works. He wheeled on, cheerfully;
“Come on, Rachael. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
A job that’ll get you fixing up a botched system for all your oppressed women, everywhere. The offer of me and my home. Access to some fantastic schooling for the children. Appallingly bad musicals on tap for Lydia. Horseguard Parade for Matthew. And a high-speed rail link back up north, anytime you feel like seeing the folks.”
“You're really — ”
“Plus – your sister is here already.”
“Oh, God. This is all just too big, Michael.”
“Look. I have to go now. Promise me that you’ll think about it. Yes?”
I promised him. I blew him a London Luvvie ‘Mwah’ down the phone and then I hung up and stared across at the scrubby and faded playground equipment opposite my office. The yellow police cordon tape was flapping a farewell in the wind.
Swings and roundabouts.
A man who had stuck his neck out for me, both professionally and personally. Who thought that I possessed enough talent and ability to help women across the country; as opposed to just propping up those living on my home turf.
A man who felt a healthy disregard for anything under the age of sixteen and yet who was willing to fling open his very un-Marmite besmeared Bloomsbury front door.
A man who hadn’t exactly told me that he loved me yet. But who – to all intents and purposes – was acting more and more like a love-struck big Jessie. As my dad would have said.
Swings and roundabouts.
There was a knock at the door. Kirsty tiptoed in, carrying an enormous bunch of red and yellow roses.
“For you – lucky thing! I’ve never, ever had flowers bought for me. Ever.” But she didn’t sound jealous or jaded. Just pleased for me. She shot me a quick smile and then left the room.
I opened the card. It said;
‘Stan. You know I don’t do the L-word. But after this weekend, I will. Blame the morphine, maybe. Whatever. Love always. S.
PS – did you ask him about the vest...?’
A man who knows every trick in the book.
Or rather, two men – who both seem to be pretty savvy at doing that kind of thing.
And a third fella – no longer operating in this stratosphere; father of my children - who would no doubt be egging me on to embrace the risk and the sheer edginess of all of this.
Time to play the blokes at their own game.
To hell with the northern prejudices for once.
We're off to London. Me n' Mine.
Cuckoo in the Chocolate Page 41