I should have interrupted her to remind her of our policy in relation to derogatory language – but I was rendered dumb by the fact that the slapper in question was actually, yours truly.
Jade agreed. “And old people shagging ... bleugh. Always makes me feel ill. Shouldn’t be allowed.”
Shirley cut right in. Unusually for her, she sounded rather tetchy and complained that Jade was “being ageist towards people”. Then she took it upon herself to remind everyone that “not all politicians are untrustworthy. Tony Benn, for example.”
But Dee got the wrong end of the stick, bellowing, “Tony Benn? He were the one with all those teeth who invaded Iraq! Couldn’t stand the wanker!”
And then, after being corrected by Shirley, she declared, “Well, Tony whatever. They’re all a bunch of rich lyin’ bastards …”
Meanwhile, Bev had been fiddling with her phone.
“I’m googlin’ that Michael Chiswick right now. An’ actually, I reckon we should invite him back … he’d be good PR for us. Tryin’ to get the message across to your usual blokes, I mean. They’d all look up to him round ’ere if he’s riding motorbikes all over places like Brindleford and knocking off the odd lass. An’ if he’s got the power to influence the rest of the dickheads in charge of the whole friggin’ country … let’s get him back ’ere! Give the man more choccie, I say!”
I groaned. Gillian cast me a strange glance. Bev concluded her googling by informing us, “An’ he served in the Armed Forces for many years, apparently. Ooh – I do like a man in uniform!”
Shirley had clearly had one too many cappuccinos that morning, “And I like a nice tall man. Like that Shaun Elliot from the Town Hall who’s always in the Evening News . He must be – what, six foot three, or something?”
Six foot five, actually ...
“Yes, he’d be very handsome, he would, if only he’d smile a bit more. Miserable swine.”
I looked at Gillian, but she seemed as disconcerted as I was. Feeling as though she was trapped in Heterosexual Hell, no doubt.
Shirley carried on. “I always think it’s nice when you’ve got a big bloke towering over you. You sort of feel protected.”
Classic, wasn’t it? Women who had spent half of their lives getting knocked about by men. Trying to change things and to learn a bit more about why this kind of thing happened. Trying to improve their self-esteem and work towards true independence here at Sisters’ Space. And apparently, all we want is a nice tall man to protect us ...
Says little Rachael, who always secretly liked the height difference … (“Keep up with me, Stan!”)
Bev was still staring at her phone screen. “Yeah, but the only thing with big blokes is you know that they’ll end up with a knackered back. ’Cause it’s not natural bein’ that tall. So their backs are always gettin’ shafted …”
Followed by a horrible pervy cackle from Dee as she rubbed her purple leggings, leering. “Send ’im to me, love! I’ll knacker ’is back in no time!” Cue lots of sniggering and shrieks of laughter.
What a bloody nightmare. You spend one afternoon (and night) with a Cabinet minister and before you know it, not only are you flashing acres of your naked flesh to the entire country but you’re rendered speechless in your own workplace while your service users pick over the dregs of your most recent sexual encounters.
Sod. Sod. Sod.
But then the meeting room door opened and thankfully I was beckoned out of the meeting by our receptionist. A phone call from someone who was insisting that they needed to speak to me urgently and who wasn’t taking no for an answer.
Chapter 16
ARISTOPHANES’ ARRIVAL AT NUMBER TEN
I snatched up the landline phone, grateful for the excuse to leave the ridiculous meeting. But my stomach lurched as I heard Michael’s voice at the other end of the line.
“Where have you been, Rachael? I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day!”
I picked up my mobile, which I had left on my desk. “Weird. I haven’t had any missed calls from you.”
“No,” Michael interrupted, speaking quietly and more urgently now. “Sorry – I should have said. As soon as the shit hit the fan this morning, I went out and got a new SIM card for my spare phone. So I could call you. Different number. Different phone. Like I said to you the other day, there are times when it’s best not to use my regular number. Let alone my landlines.”
“Oh, God – crap. Sorry! I kept getting calls from an unknown number. I just presumed that it would be the usual salespeople. Or the bank. So I ignored them. Oh, God. Is it really so bad that you can’t use your own phone to call me?” My spirits slumped. Hitting rock bottom again. I steeled myself. This phone call could well be our last one.
“Yes. Well, no. The situation is nothing like as terrible as it might have felt to you this morning. The PM seems to be on a bit of a positive, upbeat trajectory this week when it comes to certain news items. Most of the Spinny Boys and our Party chairman have decided to take the tack of ‘Here’s a great example of a red-blooded male in top government post, who hasn’t actually done anything wrong and who half the electorate can now really relate to much better’. Has quite a nice PR vibe, apparently. As opposed to the ‘Posh Boy Probably Gay’ rumour that was doing the rounds up until now.”
“Yes. That’s what Bev said,” I murmured.
“Who’s Bev?”
“Oh, just one of the women who uses the centre here. They were discussing you. The newspapers. I kept my mouth shut, of course. But Bev, she reckoned men that … well, the kind of men in her life, unfortunately … would think you’re ‘one of the lads’, as it were.”
He laughed. “Fantastic! She’s on the same wavelength as the PM and his Spinny Boys. And Marvin too. He’s my own Politbureau chap, who’s going to try to milk some positive mileage out of it for me in tomorrow’s newspapers. So your Bev should make the move down to London. She could be earning a fortune down here.”
“No, that’d never work. Bev has this thing about sandwich fillings. And London eateries are notorious for having exotic concoctions. It would cause the nation’s capital to grind to a halt if you had Bev as a resident …”
“Sorry, Rachael, but you’ve lost me now.”
“Never mind. So, what next? Are you going to have to do another press conference or something?”
“Oh, no. It’s very different to the whole Ben Hardy saga. Nothing in this whatsoever about my ability to do the job. It’s just your usual tabloid muck-raking. And because it’s News Of The Nation – Simone Shaw's rag – it’s all coming across as sour grapes. Because of the boob jibe yesterday.”
“Right. So you don’t respond?”
“No. Other than Marvin doing some positive spin on it all for tomorrow’s rival papers. And, of course, the opposition will have a bit of a dig at me in PM’s Question Time, but they’ll be more focussed on Ben Hardy’s screw-up. In fact, the PM seems to think that my manly exploits will help take the edge off all that.”
“Well, then. I guess … that’s good … isn’t it?” I had been taking the phone call standing up, but the relief allowed me to collapse heavily into my office chair.
“It is. But there is an issue that the PM is still quite concerned about.”
“Oh, yes?” I asked, the ball of stress forming itself again in my stomach. I picked up the photograph of Lydia on my desk and tried to polish the silver frame with my sleeve.
“You.”
“Me?” Horror-struck. “What do you mean, me?” I held no particular regard for the prime minister, or his politics. The man held no interest whatsoever for me. But it was still more than a little disconcerting to hear that the leader of our glorious nation had an opinion on Rachael Russell. The shock of this set my mouth off and running.
“He might well be the prime minister,” I began, “but what I do and who I do it with is none of his concern! And you can tell him that I bloody well —”
“Hang on! I think you’re getting the wrong
end of the stick!”
I caught my breath. Michael sounded vaguely amused.
“Apologies, Rachael. That’s my fault. Poor choice of phraseology. What I meant was that the PM expressed concern about – well, in his words, about the lady involved.”
“Really?” Unsure of what to think now. Be flattered? Or appalled? But I let Michael continue.
“I agree with you that our private lives are exactly that. But from his point of view he did have to ask a few questions. I guess you’d call it ‘relationship risk assessment’.”
“Sounds very romantic, that.” Runaway gob again.
“He just wanted assurance that I wasn’t getting involved in anything stupid or dodgy. Because as you well know, that kind of thing can affect the entire standing of the government. And, of course, I’ve got ministerial obligations to honour. So I can’t afford to get all precious about it.”
My anger was ignited. Bad enough with Shaun and his games. Now Michael and his Friends from the Feudal System. Best intentions overruled, I launched – guns a-blazing into a full-on tirade.
“Fantastic! Brilliant! Nice to know that no one gives a shit whether I’m the one getting involved in anything stupid or dodgy. And whether I have obligations myself. Like – parental obligations, or …”
I wanted to say “widowhood obligations”, but it wasn’t something that you could roll around your tongue. Sounded clumsy in the mouth. And I couldn’t think of a better alternative quickly enough.
“Rach,” he answered softly. It was the first time he had called me that.
‘ Rach’. Like Adam used to.
“Don’t take it the wrong way. Please.”
There was a silence. An emotionally drenched pause.
“I’m sorry. Once again, my words do seem to be coming out in rather the wrong way today. Look. It’s the PM’s job to cover his own arse first. And then to check out things from my side. But he trusts me. And he knows that I’m not an idiot.” He paused, but when I didn't respond, he continued.
“So we had this very brief – but necessary – conversation along the lines of ‘Right, Michael. Tell me that you’ve not dropped any bollocks here that I should know about?’ And I said that no, my relationship with you is all squeaky clean. Above board. No hint of a scandal. Obviously he knows I’m single. And I told him that you lost your husband just under two years ago and that you have two small children.”
“Oh.”
“I hope that that was OK?”
“Sure. Well. Of course. It’s a fact, isn’t it?”
“And then, perhaps because of your situation, he was quite particular about telling me to watch out for you. You know. ‘If you can, don’t let her identity get out. Because you know what bastards they’ll be. They won't give a toss about what she and her family have all been through.’”
“Oh. Fair enough. If he said that ... that’s pretty decent of him, I suppose.”
“Well,” I heard him chuckle and try to contain it. “Actually, I dressed it up a little more for you. His actual words to start off with were, ‘Who’s the blonde?’”
“Ha!” Vindication now. “How typical! Just like the tabloids! He judges me by my hair colour!”
“Ah, but I soon set him straight. I said, ‘Oh, no – she’s not a real blonde; I discovered that for myself’.”
“Oi! You better not have!”
Michael laughed dirtily. The mood had changed so quickly between us; the conversation had moved on so fast that my head was having difficulty keeping up with my body. Sudden wave of lust.
“But seriously,” he carried on “You’re right, of course. We don’t have to explain ourselves to people. But it will make life – your life, in particular – a hell of a lot easier if we keep a low profile. I’m a lot more used to this kind of crap than you are.”
And now another change in the atmosphere. Dampening my ardour. Jacking up the paranoia levels, instead.
He picked up on my quietness. “I don’t mean that we have anything to hide. I mean that we should perhaps be careful about who knows. About us.”
(Oh, I’m good at that. I’m very well-practised at all that. The hiding business).
“OK. Well. That side of things is fine,” I answered briskly, trying to shake off my ancient superstitions. “The only people who know are Kate and Jake Bamber. You know – my housing buddy. Neither will say anything to anyone. Oh. And ...”
“And?”
“Hmm. Someone else did guess. But I don’t think it will be an issue.”
“Who?”
“I doesn’t matter, Michael.”
“Who Rachael?”
“This bloke. Called Shaun”
“Bloke. Called Shaun.” He paused. “Would that be the bloke called Shaun that your friends mentioned on Saturday during the phone calls? The Shaun who, when I enquired about him, you gave the classic politician’s answer on? Totally avoided my question.”
I felt awkward. Rumbled. And dirty shame clawing at the pit of my stomach. But I took a quick breath and answered as quickly as I could.
“Yes. That would be the very same person, I’m afraid. It’s a long story. We do have a bit of a history. But I’ve had nothing to do with him for ages. For good reasons, which I’ll tell you about some other time. But the problem at the moment is that he now heads up a lot of Medlock Council, which part-funds Sisters’ Space. And he turned up at work this morning when he realised I was the person in the photo with you.”
There was a short silence. Then Michael said, “Ah. But how did he know it was you? You had your back to the camera.”
“He said he recognised the mole on my shoulder. He knew that you and I had already met, at Sisters’ Space. He put two and two together.”
“What did he say to you, exactly?”
I exhaled sharply. Not a pleasant memory.
“Words to the effect of … that I shouldn’t get involved with a two-faced politician like you. A man who only cares about his career and who likes to slum it on a temporary basis with common-as-muck single mothers. That it will all end in tears. Oh, and that my romping around half-naked in the national press has now compromised my ability to manage Sisters’ Space.”
“Jesus, Rachael. He sounds like a complete prick.”
“Yes. Well.”
“So what did you say?”
“You can imagine what I very nearly told him to do. But I’ve got the centre to think of…”
(And bills to pay.)
“So I was a bit more diplomatic than that. And I think – well, I hope – that I called his bluff. Told him that I would resign instantly if it all led to any work-related issues. He didn’t expect that reaction from me. He’s a pretty overbearing kind of person. He expected me to cave in.”
“Good. So … and I’m sorry to be asking you this … but it is important. Do you think that he would tell anyone that you were the lady co-starring in the News Of The Nation with me?”
I half-laughed “No. He won’t. Not his style at all. But it’s all a bit odd. I don’t know if you remember from that phone call I had with Linda Beveridge on Saturday? He wanted to speak to me about a job. Working for him. Senior management post at the council.”
“Of course I remember. Like I said previously, you avoided my question on that one. But anyway, what’s so odd about that? No doubt you’d be good at the job. And no doubt the guy wants to get into your knickers.”
“Michael!”
“Just stating facts, Rachael. But the point is, are you tempted?”
“By what?”
“Either. Him, or the job.”
I laughed. Trying not to make it sound too hollow. Too fake.
“No, Michael. I’ve already told you. He’s a shithead. And the job is dull. Very dull.”
He wasn’t stopping there, though.
“So would this job involve lots more money for you?”
“Yes. Lots.”
“And isn’t that an attraction for you? You just mentioned that the bank we
re trying to call you …”
Can’t fool this fella.
“Michael, I’d be lying if I told you that I’ve got stashes of the green stuff. Life can be a struggle. As it can be for many people. A bit more cash would be lovely. But we get by. You’ve seen the state of my nails. And my car. My clothes. I’m hardly a high-maintenance girl. But I’ve never really cared about all of the trappings. And the three of us… Well. We cope on what we have.”
(For now.)
“Right. Well. That’s good to hear. Not the bit about you being unable to afford the all-essential weekly manicure and all that. But the fact that the money isn’t a huge motivation for you. Still …” he added. I could hear him clicking his tongue. As though he was thinking deeply.
“Rach, it wouldn’t surprise me if the guy starts upping the ante on you. Especially if he knows about us. About this. And if he does, there is something that I can do. If he starts making it difficult for you.”
“Yes?”
“Well.” A long pause. I could hear the sound of London traffic in the background. The whine of a distant ambulance siren.
“We can take him out. ‘Little accident’ or something. No sweat for me, given my connections. Sorting out that kind of thing…” A cold and detached answer. Not one that I had been expecting to hear.
I suddenly remembered that Michael was an army man. The wars and conflicts that had actively required combat and armed action on his part. My mind spooled back to the weekend. To the scarring that blemished the skin on his back. To those war wounds that he had said he would tell me about, one of these days. Perhaps I had been wrong all along about his character. Perhaps Michael was yet another man on this earth whose preferred solution to a difficult problem was to resort to violence …
“Rachael?”
“What?”
Mind Games and Ministers Page 25