Part I.2
I.2
Andrew Parnell, the Shadow Chancellor, arrived for his meeting with James Cowerd the following morning in a state of great agitation. Belatedly, he had learned that his bid to poach Tiptoft’s most competent deputy, Jessica Chaple, had been leaked to Dick McSwinney who, with typical lack of consideration, had reported it on his blog. Parnell grimaced; did Cowerd know? If so, he was in for a bollocking; if not, he had to broach the subject now, before Cowerd heard it from anyone else. Which was why he had requested this meeting.
When he entered the office, Cowerd was making assiduous notes in the margins of some brief or other. Boring, uncharismatic, and petulant he may have been, but he was also conscientious to a fault. Parnell waited patiently until his party leader had dotted the Is and crossed the Ts and replaced his pen in the jar at the corner of the desk. Cowerd gestured for his friend to sit in the armchair opposite the desk. ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked politely.
Parnell shifted slightly, a sign of his vague nervousness. ‘I think I’ve mentioned to you before that I’m considering the need for, ah, a new secretary.’ Cowerd continued to regard him patiently. Parnell pressed on: ‘Well, I’ve decided I’d like Jessica Chaple.’ There; he’d said it. His posture relaxed a bit.
Blinking in mild surprise, Cowerd asked curiously, ‘Why Jessica Chaple?’
‘She has a background in economics, her talents are being wasted in Communications under Jack Tiptoft, and she’s an absolute rock. Totally reliable,’ answered Parnell, warming to his theme. ‘I need somebody I can rely on, somebody I can delegate to who won’t fuck everything up. If we’re going to win this election, I need to be able to show that we have competent people in the financial driver’s seat.’
‘Those things are all true,’ Cowerd said slowly, ‘but… I’m not sure it’s a particularly good idea.’
‘Why not?’ demanded Parnell.
‘Jessica Chaple is… well, let’s just say she has some unorthodox ideas about how the economy of the country should be managed. She wouldn’t agree with your decisions; in fact, I think you’d find her obstructive.’ Cowerd spread his hands apologetically. ‘Isn’t there anyone else you fancy for the job?’
‘No,’ said Parnell flatly. ‘What do you mean, obstructive?’
Cower shrugged helplessly. ‘She doesn’t like to see money wasted or spent inefficiently. I’ve had Jack in here a number of times to complain about the way she manages his budget. Effectively, he has to clear all of his expenditure with her, and she doesn’t rubber-stamp. If she was your secretary, you’d be Chancellor in name only, and that’s not why I appointed you.’
For a moment, Parnell looked stunned. Then he said confidently, ‘Well, I’d soon set her straight.’
Raising his eyebrows doubtfully, Cowerd shook his head. ‘Let’s think about it again in a few weeks. You don’t know her particularly well; ask her how she feels about it. Talk with her a bit. Find out how she would approach the position. Then we can discuss it again.’
Parnell knew this was all the conciliation he was going to get for the time being; besides, it was good advice. He nodded. ‘I’ll do that.’
‘Actually,’ Cowerd went on, standing up and handing Parnell a sheet of paper, ‘you can start tonight. I’m having a do at my club to watch Jack on Question Time.’ Indicating the paper, he instructed, ‘Circulate that to our people, would you? I’d get my own staff to do it, but they’ve all buggered off.’
Nodding again, Parnell excused himself and headed to his own office. He walked slowly, thinking: Jessica Chaple could be wooed away from Tiptoft, surely. She must know she was wasted over there. She had the skills to be more contributory; working under a mediocrity like Tiptoft was holding her back. Parnell had great faith in the role of other people’s ambition in the decision-making process. He was certain that, once the situation was explained to her, Jessica Chaple would make the correct, utilitarian decision.
As it happened, his admirable perception of this process utterly failed him when he finally reached his office. Thrusting the paper Cowerd had given him into the startled hands of Thomas Gregory, he commanded abruptly, ‘Circulate that,’ and continued into the inner office, entirely insensitive to the fact that it was neither Thomas’s job to do such things, nor that he had spoken in the tone of a master to a servant rather than that of an employer to a valued employee.
Glaring after his boss, Thomas unfolded the paper angrily and read it. It was an invitation to join the party leader for drinks that evening while Question Time aired. Remembering Tiptoft’s rudeness the previous evening and having read Dick McSwinney’s prediction about who was likely to come out on top in that debate—and still smarting from the revelation that Liberation were still paying their staffers—he allowed his ambition to direct his decision-making process. When he typed up the invitation in an email, he sent it to all the Liberation people as well.
***
When Alistair Bennison noticed, later that morning, that Robert Montgomery hadn’t appeared in his office yet, he rang his friend’s flat.
‘What are you doing still at home?’ he asked. ‘Are you moping?’
‘Yes,’ Robert answered honestly.
‘Fine. I’m bringing you lunch. Have a shower,’ he recommended. Thirty minutes later, after a brief detour, he rang the bell on the block of flats where Robert lived and was buzzed in.
The flat was a tip: Rose’s belongings were strewn about in a way that indicated haphazard, unfinished organisation and packing. Bennison deplored the fact that Robert was surrounded by disorder at home and at work. With a brief greeting, he saw himself into the kitchen and began unpacking the Indian takeaway he’d brought with him. Robert wandered in, wearing nothing but his pants, pale and ill-looking. Bennison sighed. ‘I thought I told you to have a shower.’
Seizing a container of curry, Robert began to eat ravenously. ‘I will. I got distracted,’ he said between mouthfuls. ‘Hey, this curry is excellent. Really hits the spot.’
‘Do you want a plate?’ Bennison asked pointedly, ladling his own portion out carefully so as not to splash anything on his suit.
‘No,’ Robert said. Fork and tin still in hand, he wandered away again. Bennison followed him into the lounge.
‘You look like seven kinds of shite,’ he said bluntly. ‘Did something happen when you came home last night?’
‘No,’ Robert said again. ‘Rose wasn’t here. I don’t know where she goes at night any more. It’s like she can’t be in the same bed with me.’
‘Well, obviously not. How uncomfortable.’ Bennison began to eat. ‘You need to get out. Have you read your email yet today?’
‘I’ve been reading the blogs all morning,’ confessed Robert with his mouth full. The sight nearly made Bennison gag. ‘Do you really think we can win this election?’ he went on.
‘Of course,’ Bennison assured him. ‘But never mind that. We’re going out this evening.’
‘I can’t, I have to watch Merchant on Question Time.’
‘That’s what we’re going out to do. James Cowerd has invited the entire Commons round to his club to watch it. Free drinks.’ He eyed his friend in distaste. ‘But you can’t go along looking like that. Finish your lunch, have a shower, and we’ll do something silly and mindless this afternoon before we go to the party.’
Robert paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. ‘Cowerd’s invited us to his club? Is he mad?’
‘Read it for yourself,’ Bennison suggested, pointing to the computer on the desk in the corner of the room. Robert did as bidden, checked his email, and stared at the screen in puzzlement. ‘Thomas Gregory sent this—he’s Parnell’s researcher. Er… is that normal?’
‘Who gives a fuck?’ Bennison snapped impatiently. ‘If the Populists want to humiliate themselves, who are we to stop them?’
Robert didn’t answer; he was scrolling through the list of people the email had been sent to. ‘Rose is invited to this,’ he said slowly. ‘I can ask her where she was last night—’
‘Oh, for the love of Jesus!’ Bennsion exclaimed. He stalked across the room and switched off the screen. ‘Forget Rose. Find somebody else. I’ll introduce you to every woman I know at this party. I guarantee one of them will appeal.’ Snatching Robert’s empty curry container, he shoved his friend out of the desk chair and steered him toward the bathroom. ‘Clean yourself up,’ he commanded, ‘and stop dwelling. You’re making me miserable.’
Robert managed an embarrassed smile as he closed the bathroom door. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he said. ‘I’ll cheer up.’
‘You’d bloody well better,’ Bennison muttered. ‘Or I’ll have to slit my own wrists.’