Chapter One
Alice
The click of my heels on the floor echoes around the ticket hall of Westminster underground station. At 6:32 in the morning the place is almost empty, but I look around worried I’m attracting too much attention.No. Stop that. Back straight, head up! You’re not a shy little girl who can’t make friends anymore.
If I want to be respected in the cut-throat world of politics, I have to look and act the part. I’ve transformed myself from the naïve young woman in beautiful colourful skirts into this sleek, but dull-grey suited, professional.
“Dress like you mean business,” an image consultant advised me. “Pretty women have a harder struggle to be taken seriously. What’s more, you’re in danger of being seen as a lefty, hippy chick. And do something about your hair. It’s your biggest liability.”
Today, my long, burgundy-red curls have become a smooth, pale blonde, tucked away in a refined French twist. After five years and a lot of hard work, I’ve made a name for myself, not in the media – a shudder runs through me even now at the idea of so much visibility – but behind the scenes, in the committee rooms where it really matters. Alice Trapper is the most sought-after political researcher in Westminster. Today, I will finally achieve my dream, the reason I came into politics in the first place.
I head towards the ticket barrier, even though the smell of coffee from the little kiosk calls to me. But next to the coffee place is the newsagent laying out today’s papers on the rack outside his shop. If I go anywhere near the papers, I’ll be sucked into reading the headlines. It’s why I’ve kept my phone deep inside my bag. Today, of all days, I can’t afford to be distracted.
I take out my security card and slot it into the special barrier that leads from the station into a secure corridor to the House.
Beep. Beep. Access denied.
The light remains red; the gates refuse to open.
I try again,
Beep. Beep. Access denied.
Frustrated, I wipe the card on my sleeve and try it again.
What the hell?
I turn back pulling my phone out and dialling the switchboard. The phone rings and rings. Would anyone be there to answer at half-six in the morning? Probably not. I end the call and try Clive’s office. Someone is bound to be there, surely. This morning, Clive will present the Phoenix Bill, the policy we have been working on for months, the policy I’ve wanted for five years. The speech in my briefcase is word perfect, all it needs is Clive’s impressive voice to deliver it in the House of Commons.
The phone rings and goes on ringing. No answer. Where are they? The team should be there already. It’s a big day!
A man walks past me, a newspaper folded under his arm with part of the headline visible.CLIVE SMITH EXPOS– The man exits through the barrier and disappears.
Heart pounding, I turn back to the main foyer, past the café, past the small shops selling drinks and snacks, towards the newsagent and the racks of the morning papers. As I get closer, the front pages become visible; my mouth suddenly goes dry.
A picture of me and Clive, hand in hand on the beach in Plymouth, walking in the surf, trouser legs rolled up, and his shirt unbuttoned.
Midnight tryst for MP and eager researcher,a headline screams.
Illicit love on the beach with flapper Alice Trapper,sneers a tabloid.
And then a picture of me hugging him and laughing:Clive, you’ve been Trapped.
The one thing we never expected. We’d been so careful in public. Not in private, obviously. Everyone in Parliament knew about us; we’re hardly the only ‘private’ relationship.
“Excuse me.” Someone is trying to get past to grab a copy of theDaily Telegraph.
I must have been frozen, still standing in front of the newspaper racks. Stepping aside for the man, I glance around. There are more people in the station now, soon someone will recognise me.
I hurry back to the security barrier, but whatever was wrong with the electronic system hasn’t fixed itself yet, and the gate refuses to open. No choice but to take the stairs out of the station. Once up on the street level, I cross Westminster Bridge Road and make my way to the main entrance. Big Ben begins to sound,Ding dong, ding dong, ding, dong ding. I look up at the clock towering above. A quarter to seven.
Something flashes in my face.
There’s a whirr of cameras flashing and voices shouting questions. “Alice, how long have you been sleeping with Clive?” “Did he tell you government secrets?”
Jesus! Are the paparazzi out of bed already? Shouldn’t they be at home yawning and squinting into their Alka Seltzer?
I hug my briefcase to my chest and run down the pavement, through the ornate gates and into the main entrance to the House of Commons. The gang of photographers behind me are stopped by the police officers at the gate, but their voices still follow me. “Are you going to see Clive Smith now? Does the Prime Minister know of your affair?”
