At the turnstile inside the entrance, my card still won’t work, so I have to run towards the glass booth holding up my badge to the officer. “Can you let me in, my card isn’t working.”
He grimaces as he takes the card from me and checks it against a list on a clipboard. He must already know me and is just pretending to check.
“I’m sorry, Miss Trapper, your access has been withdrawn. I can’t let you in.”
“I work here, I’m expected.”
“I’m sorry, I can only follow orders. Can’t let you through unless someone signs you in.”
Since when? I’ve worked here for five years!
No doubt some overzealous idiot in security saw the papers in the wee hours and decided to play safe.
“Can you please call Jo Grant, she’s head of admin?”
A moment passes while the man tries a number then shakes his head. “Sorry, no answer. She’s not at work yet.”
I try her mobile.
It rings three times then goes to voice mail.
“Hi, Jo. It’s Alice. I’m down in reception, but my card isn’t working. Security seems to think my permission has been cancelled. Could you please find out and fix it. And ring down to reception, tell them to allow me in?”
I give the security man a reassuring smile. This will be resolved soon; Jo is always quick.
Twenty minutes go by with nothing from Jo. People walk past me, a few glancing my way, curious, some even seem to recognise me, probably from the newspapers. God! Of all the things I hate in the universe, this kind of fame is the worst.
I go back to the booth. “Look I have the MP’s speech for the debate, and I need to get it to him.”
The security officer shrugs.
“It’s the Disability Compensation Bill. It’s in committee this morning. It’s very important.” I plead.
“You can leave it here and if he comes through, I’ll be sure to give it to him.”
Is the man joking?
“It’s highly confidential. No one should see it before the debate.”
He shrugs again.
I try everyone I could think of. Upstairs in our offices, over in the ministry, in the Whip’s office. Not available. Not available. Not available. The doors have slammed shut in my face.
Can they think I’ve leaked the affair to the press? Whatever they might be thinking, I can’t stand around here like an idiot. Better find a café somewhere and think of another way to reach Clive.
Unfortunately, the ladies and gentlemen of the gutter press are still waiting outside. As soon as I walk out, they go for me.
“When did your affair start?”
I hurry towards the underground station then change my mind. They’d only follow me inside and ride the train with me; then there’d be no getting away from them.
“How many politicians have you shagged?”
“Do you like stealing men?”
A black cab, his light on, drives slowly by and I run after it, yank the door open, and throw myself in.
Their questions follow me, of course. “Did you think about his wife?”
