“Well, the story’s broken, hasn’t it? He’d better come clean and defend you before the press call you more horrid names. That awful DJ on the radio was calling you a man-eater.”
I try to remain calm and nonchalant, at least while my sister is on the phone. But my insides shrivel and twist.
This kind of public attention is torture to someone like me who’s always been an introvert. Someone who’s always wanted to spend her days between the pages of books or behind a computer screen. It was at Kings College when my professor took me aside after one tutorial. “You know Alice, if you really care about helping the weak and needy, you’re not going to do it hiding in the library and writing a PhD thesis. If you want to make a difference, to defend those who can’t defend themselves, then go into politics. That’s where the real change happens.”
Which is how I ended up in Westminster and eventually developing the Phoenix Bill. It’s also what brought me and Clive together.
“You are not just my senior political aide,” Clive said only last week when we were in Plymouth. “You are the brains in my operation and the fire that drives this campaign. Without you, the Phoenix Bill would not exist, you should have your name on it.”
I’d shuddered and reminded him that the only reason we were a good match was because I was only comfortable working behind the scenes while he worked best in the limelight.
Ironic, now I’m the one in the worst kind of limelight.
A reminder flashes on my screen: Disability Debate. Clive would be there now, but the speech is still in my briefcase.
What would Adele do if she lost her voice to throat cancer, if Benedict Cumberbatch had his face burnt in a fire? Now let me ask you what happens to the thousands of skilled hard-working people who lose their jobs after injury? Do we offer training, help them find a new career, let them become a success? Even old furniture can be upcycled to make something beautiful, so why do we let our people sink into unemployment and poverty? When did we become a heartless nation that takes people’s taxes but offers them nothing in their time of need?
Tears sting my eyes. I can’t be about to fail now, just when we’re so close.
And what’s going to happen to me?
My mind searches for examples of recent history, desperate for a ray of hope. David Mellor MP, Deputy Prime Minister, John Prescot, and leader of the Lib Dems, Paddy Ashdown… all have been caught with their trousers down. And every time, every single time, the same thing happened. The established strategy, the standard, one-size-fits-all solution. The party forms a shield-wall around the star politician and throws the woman under a bus.
I close my eyes.
But then, my memory finds another example… and a small hope flutters like a tiny candle in my heart.
When Barry Porter, MP was caught having an affair, he stood by his lover. Almost immediately after the story broke out, he made a public statement defending her. Then, he left his wife and four grown up children for her.
Surely if Barry Porter, who had a real marriage and children, didn’t lose his job, then neither would Clive. Everyone knows it is a political marriage of convenience. He will come through this. We both will. We have to.
He just needs a chance to talk to the party leader, maybe even the Prime Minister.
– something in the drone of the TV catches my attention:
“That statement from Clive Smith has shed a different light on the story.”
What? What statement? When? How did I miss this?
“You have to respect him for having the courage to say this,” one of the experts is saying. “It can’t have been easy. This must have come after a serious discussion with the Prime Minister.”
My heart leaps.
The presenter explains, “For viewers joining us now, Clive Smith, MP, gave an official statement earlier…”
The scene switches to recorded footage outside the House of Commons. Clive, flanked by two of his colleagues… my colleagues. A police cordon keeps the public and press from swarming him. The cameras zoom in; Clive’s face fills the screen. He looks tired but calm. “I wish to make a brief statement. I’ve been Member for Twickenham South for the last ten years and have worked tirelessly to represent my constituents and the interests of the country.”
He glances around the assembled press and cameras, calm, confident. I know this; he told me how his mentor had insisted on expensive media training. Make eye contact with all the cameras, appear relaxed and warm and confident.
“We have all been very distressed by recent allegations in the press,” Clive says. “I would like to reassure my supporters that Miss Alice Trapper and I are colleagues and friends, nothing more. During the party conference, the long hours working in close proximity can sometimes blur professional boundaries. I may have acted in a way open to misinterpretation. But my wife and I are very happily married, and we’ve discussed this openly and honestly as soon as I returned home.” He pauses and looks to his left. The line of colleagues parts to allow through an elegant woman in a light blue suit. Viv Smith walks over calmly and takes her husband’s hand, kisses him on the cheek before they both face the cameras.
“I deeply regret this momentary lapse in judgment last week, and the distress this revelation in the press has caused my family.”
Lapse in judgment?
Momentary?
My knees buckle. I have to lean a hand on the back of the sofa to hold myself up.
