“Siri, stop.” I repeat, grabbing the stupid speaker and shaking it looking for theoffbutton.
“All right, all right.” Clive takes the pod from my hands. “Hey, Siri, stop.” Instantly the music dies down. “What’s wrong?”
“That!” I say going to the bedroom where my daughter has started crying.
Chapter Forty-eight
Brandon
October
We’re on a short European tour. First stop London for the Mozart Festival.
London. I promised myself not to contact Lessa or try to see her. But since arriving here yesterday, I keep glancing around, expecting to run into her on the streets.
We’re playing at the Royal Albert Hall, and we’ll be joined by a few of our management staff. One of them is Janey, who’s been in London for two months on secondment to the BBC Proms. She’s another thing I need to avoid. Sexual temptation has always been…well, tempting, especially when I have history with someone, it just seems like all the gates are open, lights green. It took me months to learn to be Lessa’s friend and that’s with both of us actively trying not to fall into each other’s arms. But Janey runs at me as soon as I walk into the green room.
“You’re here?” She locks her arms around my neck and lifts her feet off the floor, so I have to hold her up. “I wasn’t sure you were going to take the job.”
Neither was I.
“Hi, Janey.”
“I’m so excited to see you, you have no idea.” She rains kisses on my face and my mouth.
“Janey.” I put her down on the floor. “This is a bit public, and we’re at work.”
We have sound checks all afternoon, then an hour off for dinner before we have to get ready. As soon as we break, I slip outside alone and go in search of a quick bite. Everyone else will be going to High Street Kensington, so I walk in the opposite direction, towards the Natural History Museum and find a small, paved square behind the tube station with various eateries. I choose a table and order something made from chicken. My real reason for choosing to eat alone is that I’ve lost the struggle with myself not to check the press. I brought a couple of news magazines, a weekend paper, and my phone for any online content.
By the time I’ve eaten the something-chicken and paid my bill, I’ve read everything there is about her return to London.
I have to hand it to Clive Smith and his spin team. They have concocted a very believable story. It’s been circulated to all the Sunday papers in one shape or another:
ALICE TRAPPER AND HUSBAND SPLIT UP
There’s an old photo of Lessa, when she was blonde; it’s spliced with a stock image of a baby stroller.
Alice Trapper, former political aide to Minister Clive Smith and her long-term common-law husband, Bradley Harewood have called it quits after three years.
The deliberate misspelling of my name, not just ‘Bradley’ but also ‘Harewood’ instead of ‘Hazelwood,’ is meant to protect me in case anyone tries to google the name. I suspect it was Lessa who insisted.
Bradley, a touring musician, says the demands of both their careers have taken their toll.
Touring musician makes me sound like a long-haired, second-rate rock and roll guitarist. Instantly, I remember Lessa talking about the art of subtle communication and creating a false impression without actually lying.
Last year, when they found out they were expecting a baby, Bradley gave her an ultimatum, to leave her job and try to raise a family with him. She confided only in her boss, MP Clive Smith, last summer who told her the job would always be there for her after maternity leave. Unfortunately, the tabloid press having only half the facts went with the wrong story and Alice was forced to resign.
‘I missed politics.’ Trapper said. ‘I always believed in the importance of what we were doing here. But I tried because I owed it to my partner to make a life together despite my doubts. We held it together as long as we could. In the end, it was clear that we were both unhappy.’
The article goes on to describe the deep friendship Alice Trapper had with the MP, now Minister for Sport, who had been a very loyal friend and a shoulder to cry on. There’s even a quote from the man himself.
“Ms Trapper was the sharpest mind on the team, and she left a huge vacuum when she was forced to resign. Much of my success was the result of her hard work and dedication. Both my wife and I consider her a close friend.”
But the killer, for me, is a short item from two weeks ago, tucked in the inside page under a picture of a mixed group, men and women laughing outside a pub.
While sports minister Clive Smith is hard at work, wife Vivienne is hundreds of miles away, enjoying an extended holiday with friends at Edinburgh Festival.
You have to admire the way this has been stage managed, Clive comes out of this smelling of roses. Everything is being put in place for him to ‘fall in love’ with Lessa when the time is right. The bitter thought makes me wish I hadn’t eaten.
