Kiss and Tell

by Leo McNeir

  “About ten to eight. He’s got a slot for three to four minutes.”

  “A slot,” Mrs Jolly repeated. “That’s not very long.”

  “It’s the usual time they give for an interview, unless it’s with a government minister. Anyway, I expect it’ll be more than enough for anyone to bear. I’m dreading it.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Mrs Jolly. “It’ll seem like an eternity up against someone like Paul Pinder. He’s very sharp. Nobody gets away with anything when he’s around.”

  Anne nearly choked on a piece of toast and had to take a hurried gulp of orange juice.

  “That’s very reassuring,” said Marnie, patting Anne on the back.

  As they ate, Marnie was assailed by conflicting feelings: relief that they had almost reached the end of the line; resignation that they had no more shots in the locker. It was up to Anthony now, and Ralph had reminded her of his reputation in parliamentary debates for thinking quickly on his feet. Now that the time had come to prove what he could do, Marnie felt uneasy. She liked to be running the show herself, and once Anthony was out in the open, they were at the mercy of other forces.

  Her final stroke had been the press release. Late the previous night they had gone to Paddington station and used public fax-phones to send a statement, including a contact phone number, to all the national newspapers ... with one exception. It was a simple message: Anthony Leyton-Brown MP would be interviewed that morning on the breakfast news. The Exclusive banner on the front page of the Globe did not look so impressive that day, when it was the only paper not carrying the story. To keep other reporters off the scent, it had been arranged that he would be interviewed at a local radio station, and he had set off alone by taxi at an early hour.

  The time came round for Anthony’s ‘slot’ while they were finishing breakfast. Mrs Jolly turned up the volume as Paul Pinder was making the introduction.

  ... and has now agreed to be interviewed on this programme. Good morning, Mr Leyton-Brown.

  Good morning.

  Why have you decided to come out of hiding at this particular time?

  I was ... I think I’ve had a kind of ... a kind of breakdown, and it’s taken me this long to get myself together.

  Anthony did not sound impressive. Marnie had the awful feeling he was going to make a mess of this one chance to reclaim his life.

  Can we go back to that time when you were exposed in the press? Is it fair to assume that your disappearance was an admission of guilt, that you were in fact caught with your ... well, this is a family news programme ... let’s say – in a compromising position?

  It was a compromising position, yes.

  So you fully admit that you were betraying the standards that you – and let it be said, your party and your government – have gone on record as saying are the values the country should follow?

  So it appeared.

  Appeared? Come on! The evidence seemed all too plain, don’t you think?

  If you can believe what was shown in the paper.

  You don’t think that evidence was clear enough?

  I came here this morning to clear up one or two points.

  But presumably not to try to clear your name, Mr Leyton-Brown? Some might think it’s rather too late for that.

  I came fully prepared to talk about what you would call ‘scandal’.

  What would you call it?

  Look, any man put in my position would have done the same thing.

  Are you trying to justify your actions? You surely can’t deny the evidence of the photos.

  There was a pause in which Paul Pinder asked repeatedly if Anthony was still there, explaining they were not in the same studio. When Anthony came back on the air, his voice seemed even more strained, as if on the point of collapse.

  What I’m saying is ... I was set up.

  You’re claiming you were the victim of entrapment?

  Yes.

  And what about the girl? You’re saying she was part of that? Or was she in reality your victim? I notice she has not come forward to give evidence.

  She was part of the plot to trap me. I never so much as laid a finger on her until –

  But whatever the circumstances, Mr Leyton-Brown, the fact of the matter remains that you were caught with the girl in a situation that was absolutely plain to see. Surely there can be no explanation or excuse for that?

  At the very least you must see it was an invasion of my privacy.

  Privacy? You’re a public figure, in the party that insists on high moral standards.

  But you’re a public figure too, Mr Pinder. You must know how sometimes the media distort the truth.

  I think this is one public figure having no way of concealing the truth. Or don’t you agree?

  Do you think entrapment can ever be justified, Mr Pinder?

  I think we have to focus on the situation as it now stands. Sadly, our situation is that we’re running out of time –

  So you think exposing someone’s shortcomings is okay, whatever means are used to do it?

  It’s the duty of the press to expose hypocrisy. That can sometimes involve unorthodox methods.

  In his earpiece, Pinder could hear the producer telling him to wind up and move on to the next item. He made a signal that he was coming to the end.

  Well, we’re going to have to leave it there for now, but I think this story is far from concluded.

  I agree. Can I just say one thing?

  Briefly, very briefly, please.

  It’s awful when public figures who want to be respected are revealed to be not quite what they seem –

  Yes, well that’s all too clear. Thank you Mr –

  I used to relax with my colleagues in the Pugin room in parliament over a drink, or Annie’s bar where journalists are allowed –

  I know it well, but now we have to end it there –

  But some people prefer the Pink Flamingo Club in Soho, don’t they? Don’t they, Mr Pinder?

  The ...?

  You know where I mean. It’s famous, the Pink Flamingo Club. Its members are ... liberated spirits with – what do they call it – alternative lifestyles? Is that right? Mr Pinder?

  Pinder turned to the window where the producer was sitting with a baffled expression. Why was Leyton-Brown rambling on about a gay club? Could it be that they were about to have a further revelation? He told Pinder to keep it going.

  I don’t think that really concerns us here and now.

  Oh, I think it does. You see, I came here to talk about scandal, hypocrisy. What if I said that I knew someone was a member of the Pink Flamingo Club, meaning they were gay in their private life, and I came here deliberately to state that in public? Would that be entrapment? Would it be okay? I ought to say I have nothing against the gay community myself. Some of my closest colleagues ... well, that’s perhaps another story ... or two. What do you think, Mr Pinder?

  I ... I ... I fail to see the relevance of what you’re –

  Oh, you do. I’m quite sure you do. And so do your listeners, Mr Pinder. I’m sure they do ... now.

  There was a squawk on the air, but no reply. Anthony continued.

  I’m not sure if I’m still on the air, but I would just say this in case anyone can hear me. Okay, I was in the wrong. I’m a politician and a hypocrite. But I was set up and only reacted like any normal man exposed to that kind of temptation. It was entrapment by the media. And they don’t like having a taste of their own medicine. I’d like to thank this programme for giving me the chance to make my point.

  Mrs Jolly looked stunned as the radio went dead. Seconds passed, and there was a sound of shuffling papers. Paul Pinder’s running mate in the studio that morning was Fiona McLaren, an experienced regular on the programme. She stumbled back into earshot.

  Well, we ... er ... yes ... I think we’ve slightly overrun and it’s time to go over to the BBC weather centre where Steve Young has the latest forecast. Steve, good morning.

  Mrs Jolly stood up and turned off th
e radio. “Well, that was a turn-up. I’ve never heard anything like it.”

  “No.” Marnie looked equally surprised.

  “Did you know he was going to do that, Marnie?”

  “Not exactly. The idea was that he was going to make a veiled hint that media people might have secrets, too, something rather more general. I didn’t realise he was actually going to out him like that.”

  “And is it really true, my dear?”

  “We’ve only got someone’s word for it, of course. But I don’t think they’d lie.”

  “What does that mean for us?” Anne said. “Could it be trouble?”

  “I’m not sure. As long as it is the truth.”

  “Oh, I think Paul Pinder’s reaction meant it was the truth,” said Mrs Jolly. “Don’t you think?”

  *

  Marnie was upstairs making her bed when the mobile rang. She checked the number on the tiny screen. Another mobile.

  “Marnie Walker.”

  “This is Becky Thornton. I heard the programme. Christ! You play hard ball.”

  “Yes. Actually it wasn’t quite –”

  “Listen. I’ve got to talk to you. You’re not going to believe this.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “Not now. We have to meet. Can you do lunch?”

  “Sure. Where?”

  “Make it that pub, the boater’s pub, round the corner from Little Venice. Can you be there before it gets busy, say, twelve o’clock?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  *

  Anthony was out of the studio before the weather forecaster had finished the general synopsis. He hailed a cab and was quickly on his way to King’s Cross station. There, he went straight to the taxi rank and queued for two minutes, concealed behind an open newspaper, and asked the driver for a turning off the Edgware Road. Anne was loitering near the Little Venice towpath gate and swung it open as he paid the cabbie and crossed the pavement. She fastened it with the padlock behind him. Seconds later, Anthony boarded Rumpole and had vanished before anyone had become aware of his presence.

  Anne went to the far end of the towpath, exited via the public gate and walked up to the newsstand by the tube station. She bought a copy of the Guardian and the Globe and returned to Mrs Jolly’s house, letting herself in with a key. She met Marnie coming down the stairs.

  “I got the papers.”

  “Good. I saw you let Anthony in. Did he say anything?”

  “He just muttered something under his breath.”

  “Anything significant?”

  “Vaguely blasphemous, I think.”

  Marnie smiled. “Right. Listen, Becky Thornton rang. I’m meeting her in the pub round the corner at twelve. It’s all very mysterious.”

  “Black cloak or beret and shoulder-holster?”

  “Both. And ... we’ve had a request for another radio interview. The Beeb wants Anthony on the lunchtime news programme tomorrow. You know who the producer is? Tim Rodgers!”

  “Bingo!” said Anne.

  Mrs Jolly was standing in the kitchen doorway. “Won’t they be able to trace your number and know how to find you, my dear?”

  “Not without great difficulty,” Marnie said. “We’ve given out an ex-directory number that we use for faxing and hooked the answerphone up to it. I check messages using the mobile.”

  The old lady shook her head. “I don’t know where you get these ideas, Marnie. It’s all very cloak-and-dagger.”

  Marnie laughed. “I know. I don’t mind the cloak, but I can do without the dagger.”

  *

  Marnie and Becky Thornton converged on the boater’s pub from opposite ends of the street. Marnie reached the door first but went in without waiting for Becky. They found a table in the corner and sat with sandwiches and spritzers trying not to look like plotters. Becky did most of the talking while Marnie listened in silence. At the end of the narrative, they both took a drink.

  Marnie put down her glass. “I can hardly believe it.”

  “It’s true, Marnie. You’d almost think it was fate, wouldn’t you?”

  “It’s certainly bizarre.”

  “So?” said Becky. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “I’ve got to take it in ... think things over ... work something out.”

  “Well, don’t hang about.”

  Marnie sipped her drink. ”Are you sure about this? I mean, about going through with it?”

  Becky shrugged. “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

  “Why are you doing this? You’re taking one hell of a risk, putting your whole career on the line.”

  “I heard that interview this morning, Marnie. It made me think. Frankly, I’m no fan of Leyton-Brown, but he was definitely set up, and the point is, he’s no worse than anyone else.”

  “That’s what he says.”

  “He’s right. I see it all the time. There are so many hypocrites in public life. The cameras go on, they’re all smiles. The cameras turn off, they’re shits. You wouldn’t believe it. I figured, well, he’s going down anyway. He might as well take a few with him.”

  “Mind you don’t get dragged down too, Becky.”

  “Don’t remind me. But I can cover my tracks with a bit of luck.” She drained her glass. “Gotta go. I’ll keep you posted.”

  Pulling open the pub door, Becky glanced back at the corner table. Marnie was already on the phone, talking quietly and urgently.

  41

  There was nothing unusual about Marnie Walker being seen on the towpath in Little Venice that Wednesday morning. She was a familiar sight, well-known and well-liked by the canal community whose colourful narrowboats lined the banks on both arms leading in and out of the pool itself. No-one would have been surprised to see her board Rumpole. It belonged to her friend Roger Broadbent, and everyone knew he often let her use it.

  The surprise would have been to know that Anthony was living on board, a fugitive from the press, whose notoriety had rocketed since his radio interview of the day before. There was no outward sign of his presence, and the curtains stayed closed all day. Marnie pulled them apart now and opened the windows to air the boat. Only the saloon porthole covers remained in place.

  Marnie sat in one armchair and Anthony in the other. “They want you there by half twelve at the latest,” she said, looking at her watch. “That gives us an hour before we need to leave.”

  “We?” said Anthony.

  “Yes. You can’t rely on taxis today. We need mobility. We have to assume the word will be out that you’re on the programme. You can bet your life the press will cover all the exits you’re likely to use.”

  “I can’t go to another studio like I did yesterday?”

  “No. We’re upping the anti now. This time you come out with all guns blazing.”

  “Go on.”

  “We’ve got two aims today. You hammer home the point about entrapment and the corrupt practices of the Globe.”

  “But there’s nothing new there.”

  “No. But that’s just the first message, and we need to keep plugging it. The second is, we carry the battle to the enemy. You spring the surprise on Tim Rodgers.”

  “He’s the producer?”

  “Yes, and he’ll be there in the control room. You’ll be able to see him through the window that looks into the studio. That’s the point. You’ll expose his past life right in front of him. If we’re going to put the frighteners on the media, we have to make a good job of it.”

  “This is about the woman who had his baby and he left her in the lurch?”

  “Judith. Her name’s Judith, and the baby – she’s a little girl now, a sweetie – she’s called Rosie.”

  Anthony wrote the names on a pad. “Judith ... Rosie. Okay. And she’s agreed to this?”

  “She agrees. I’ve been to see her.”

  “What about transport? Ralph’s car?”

  “No. He’s getting a hire car. It’ll be something unremarkable. People might recognise the Vol
vo.”

  “Fine. How long’s the interview?”

  “The PA said three to four minutes. And they won’t over-run like yesterday. This is just a thirty-minute programme, and the main news will be the interest rate rise to be announced by the Chancellor at noon.”

  Anthony looked amazed. “How the hell did you know that? That’d be top secret.”

  “Ralph told me last night.”

  “Huh!” Anthony laughed. “That smart-arse! Could you get him to forecast horseracing results in his spare time? We could make a fortune.”

  Marnie smiled. “Let’s just concentrate on your campaign, shall we?”

  “Sure. Do we know who’s fronting the programme?”

  “Olivia Munnings.”

  “That makes sense. Everyone knows she’s Miss Squeaky-Clean.”

  *

  In the meeting room down the corridor from the studio, the lunchtime news team completed their pre-programme briefing, and Olivia Munnings collected her papers together. As usual she was meticulous and had marked each item in order with a number in a circle in the top right-hand corner of the page. The lead story was an interview with the Chief Financial Secretary to the Treasury, and she would enjoy probing below the surface of the government’s boast that the economy was on the mend.

  Across the table, Tim Rodgers took a cigarette from a packet and twisted it between his fingers, a reflex born of long habit. This was a strictly no-smoking building.

  “You okay about the Leyton-Brown story, Olivia?”

  “Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “No guilty secrets, skeletons in the cupboard?” He teased her with the boyish smile he thought women found appealing.

  “I’m not likely to be outed, if that’s what you mean,” she retorted. “I thought that was why they invited him when I was doing the programme ... to be on the safe side.”

  “Just coincidence, Oli. But I know you don’t really like doing this sort of thing. Not heavyweight enough for you, is it?”

  “It’s fine, quite straightforward. I’ll press him on moral values and hypocrisy; he’ll protest he was framed. I don’t know why we’re so keen to give him a platform.”