Part I.5
I.5
Inside, James Cowerd was circulating merrily round the reception room, well aware of the need to soothe egos and buoy spirits after Jack Tiptoft’s risible performance on Question Time. George Merchant had handed him his backside on a platter. Rather depressed about it himself, Cowerd nevertheless affected a cheerful demeanour, as if one poor showing for his party were nothing to be overly concerned about. He directed the white-tailcoated waiters hither and thither with trays of wine, champagne, and canapes and drew his guests into conversations about positive, encouraging topics. Some of the bloggers had come out on the Populists’ side today, and whilst Cowerd understood that part of their eagerness for a censorship law was rooted in the hope that it might be used to muzzle their rival bloggers on the opposite side of the political spectrum, he took comfort from their support. Of course, he had no intention of using the law, if it passed, to do any such thing: its purpose was the protection of the vulnerable, not the silencing of political dissidents. Unfortunately, when Tiptoft had claimed the same thing earlier on the programme, George Merchant had pointed out that the proposed legislation was so poorly drafted that its failure to protect speech seemed less like an oversight and more like a deliberate, gaping omission. He had then pointed out that speech was not something to be protected in the face of exceptions, but an inalienable liberty whose completeness permitted no exceptions at all. Tiptoft had spluttered a contradiction; Cowerd and his guests, watching on the screen, had groaned. Cowerd groaned again now, but quietly so that no one else would hear. He would have to speak to Tiptoft about revising the bill; in his opinion, Jessica Chaple should have been given a greater role in its drafting. He began to believe Parnell was correct in thinking her talents were being under-utilised; but if he allowed Parnell his way, with whom could he replace her in Communications to keep Tiptoft in line?
‘You’re looking unusually pensive,’ said an elderly voice by his ear. Cowerd turned to see Lord Crammer, a former Populist MP, standing beside him, nursing a glass of champagne. ‘Wondering what to do about Tiptoft?’ The old man was still sprightly; even at this late hour, his eyes were undimmed by fatigue. Cowerd suddenly felt about a million years old.
‘Something like that,’ he murmured. ‘What do you think I should do?’
‘Get rid of him,’ Lord Crammer answered instantly. ‘He’s a liability. Announce to the public that you know they don’t want idiots in charge, and replace him.’
‘With whom?’
‘His assistant looks likely,’ he said, nodding in the direction of Jessica Chaple, who was chatting rather stiffly with Miranda Markham by the dark picture window.
‘I can’t,’ Cowerd whined. ‘Parnell wants her for his department. Besides, she doesn’t have seniority. She’s only 35. Too young.’
Lord Crammer polished off his drink. ‘If she’s good enough, she’s old enough,’ he said and wandered away, leaving Cowerd no wiser than before.
Robert Montgomery, having supplied himself with a drink, moved away from his friends just inside the door of the reception room and made a beeline for Markham. She was standing on the opposite side of the room by the windows, accompanied by an auburn-haired woman Robert couldn’t remember having seen before. She was rather attractive, he thought clinically, even next to Markham, who always managed to make other women look plain and dull by comparison. Neither woman was smiling; if their discussion wasn’t unfriendly, it was certainly serious. He almost felt guilty interrupting it.
He didn’t get the chance, however; as he passed by a knot of Populist MPs congregating in the centre of the room, an arm snaked out and grabbed his sleeve, followed closely by the rest of the body, which belonged to Jack Tiptoft. ‘What are you doing here?’ he snarled in an undertone. ‘How did you get in?’
James Cowerd materialised nearby, as if magically drawn to the nucleus of a conflict about to occur. ‘Montgomery!’ he exclaimed heartily, shaking the younger man’s hand. ‘Glad you could make it.’
‘He’s Liberation,’ Tiptoft protested angrily. ‘Half their damn party is here. You should have them thrown out!’
‘Oh, don’t be silly,’ said Cowerd. ‘Our differences are ideological, not personal. We should be able to put them aside for an evening and have a nice time.’ He regarded Tiptoft pointedly.
‘Don’t go all genial-host on me,’ Tiptoft shot back. Nodding toward Robert, he said, ‘He’s the one responsible for what happened on Question Time.’
Cowerd’s expression hardened; ignoring the continued bewildered presence of the Liberation MP, he said curtly, ‘You’re the one responsible for what happened on Question Time. You and Jessica Chaple. You’re lucky I don’t sack you here and now.’
‘You wouldn’t,’ replied Tiptoft smugly. ‘It’d be all over the blogs in a heartbeat. It probably will be anyway,’ he added, favouring Robert with an accusatory glare, as if the younger man were that very moment firing off a message to Dick McSwinney.
‘If you cannot be civil to my guests, I shall have to ask you to leave,’ said Cowerd coldly, whilst at the same time nudging Robert away surreptitiously.
As the Liberation MP wandered off, Tiptoft bowed his head in apology. ‘I’m sorry, James. It’s been a long night.’
‘Get yourself another drink then,’ Cowerd responded more kindly. ‘And behave. I don’t know how all these Liberation people got invited, but now they’re here, we must be gracious.’ And he swanned off to continue being the genial host.
Robert carried on toward the window; Miranda Markham had disappeared in the brief interval, but the auburn-haired woman was still there, gazing out of the darkened window. He wondered how she could see anything on the other side until he realised she was actually watching the reflections of the people in the room. ‘Hello,’ he said quietly when he reached her. ‘What did you think of Question Time?’
She turned and looked him up and down before answering. ‘Jack Tiptoft made an arse of himself,’ she answered. ‘I thought Merchant had some very good points indeed.’
Smiling, Robert said, ‘Yes, so did I. But don’t be too unfair on Tiptoft; he did the best with what he had to work with.’
For a moment, the woman’s face hardened; then she sighed. ‘True. As did Merchant. And what he has to work with is better; I would prefer to deal in absolutes, too.’
‘Why can’t you?’ asked Robert, sympathy tinging his voice with warmth.
‘Unfortunately, that’s not the way I operate these days.’
‘Sometimes dealing in absolutes can be difficult,’ Robert admitted, thinking of Rose, ‘but challenges are what make living worthwhile. If you don’t operate that way, change things so that you do.’
She tilted her head and regarded him curiously. ‘And how do you suggest I do that?’
Robert started to respond, but was interrupted by the sudden advent of a young woman in a ragged floral dress and appalling dreadlocks.
‘Ann Carruthers wants a word,’ she said to the auburn-haired woman.
‘Ann Carruthers?’ Robert repeated, astonished. ‘Are you a Populist?’
Smiling at last, although it was muted, the auburn-haired woman nodded. ‘Jessica Chaple. Do excuse me,’ she said, and shadowed the dreadlocked girl toward the centre of the room.
Suddenly seized by restlessness, Robert abandoned his champagne flute on the windowsill and threaded his way through the crowd to find Alistair Bennison. ‘I’m going,’ he said once he had found his friend.
‘Now?’ asked Bennison in disbelief. ‘We only just got here!’
‘Nevertheless, I’m off,’ said Robert determinedly. ‘See you tomorrow.’ Pausing to thank James Cowerd for the invitation, he collected his coat and left the party.
Meanwhile, Jessica Chaple had pulled her researcher, Emma, to one side before joining the group that surrounded Carruthers. ‘Who was that man I was just talking to?’ she enquired softly.
Glancing over her shoulder at the retreating figure, Emma replied, ‘Not sure. Want me to ask somebody?’
‘Would you, please?’
The researcher drifted away; a moment later, she returned and said, ‘I think that was Robert Montgomery. He’s George Merchant’s assistant.’
Jessica froze. ‘What’s he doing here? Does he know who I am?’
‘No idea. He’s gone now, anyway,’ said Emma. Brow furrowed, she considered for a moment, then asked, ‘Why do you want to know?’
Jessica shook her head as if to banish unwelcome thoughts and said absently, ‘Never mind. I just didn’t know… who he was. That’s all.’
Emma frowned; she was sure that wasn’t what her boss had intended to say. But she dismissed the irregularity and nudged Jessica along. ‘Come on,’ she said briskly; ‘Ann wants a conference. And what Ann wants, Ann gets.’
Jessica followed obediently.