The ‘there aren’t enough women in government or running companies’ line.
The ‘I try to juggle my family life with politics’ line.
Or the one about the myriad nutters who were vicious to female politicians on social media and threatened them with every sort of abuse possible.
As a married woman without children, which, apparently, was a crime against humanity, according to some right-wing media, Eden never bothered with the whole ‘juggling’ schtick. But for the last six months, she could have written entire articles on the nutters. She’d dealt with social media insults before: randomers who said they wouldn’t bother to rape her, which was a cunning ploy, apparently, because death or rape threats were actionable by the police and ‘I wouldn’t rape you’ wasn’t. And people wondered why there weren’t more women in politics?
The nutter who had been sending personalised letters to her home since January was scaring her far more than any stranger on social media.
First, the letters were sent directly to her home – that was truly scary. Eden extracted the tell-tale yellow envelope from the normal post and wondered, as she always did, if it was worth handing over to the police.
I know your secret, Mrs Tallisker. Im going to tell.
Initially, she’d been shocked and then she’d decided that whoever had sent this to her home was clearly not the brightest bunny in the box because he or she didn’t understand the use of apostrophes.
Then, she’d thought about what the letter said. That the writer knew her secret. And that thought really did scare her. If this was some person who was trying to push her out of politics through fear, that was one thing. But what if this was someone who actually knew the truth? That would destroy her.
‘Is that the post, honey?’ asked Ralph from upstairs.
‘Yes,’ she called back. ‘Nothing important.’
A lie. The yellow envelope almost burned in her hand. ‘I’m going to make coffee. Your father wants me to drop in on him this morning.’
‘Why?’
Why indeed? Retiring from politics had not suited her father-in-law.
‘You have your shower, honey,’ suggested Ralph, ‘and I’ll make breakfast.’
Despite the letter she was holding gingerly in one hand. Eden smiled. Ralph was one of life’s gentlemen, a darling of a husband and, luckily, nothing, absolutely nothing, like his father.
Former government minister and elder statesman of the Belfast Peace Process, Diarmuid Tallisker had once had two offices – his grand one in the Dáil, the Irish parliament, and the much less grand and much bigger premises in a townhouse in Wicklow town.
Now retired, he only had the Wicklow one. The ground floor, suitably chic and with photos of the great man himself with the great and the good all over the walls, was simple and decorated in calming pale green because Agnes, his wife and the power behind the throne, said it was much used in counselling centres.
Initially, Eden thought Agnes was joking but after a few years working as a county councillor in local politics, she’d seen the point of it. Ninety-five per cent of people were perfectly polite when they approached their local representative but a good five per cent were grudges waiting for somewhere to settle and, if a bit of green on the walls calmed them down, Eden was all for it.
The man who’d kept her prisoner in her own office for fifteen minutes one day, having shoved her filing cabinet against the door before demanding she sort out his sheaf of parking fines and pointing out that, as he was the Messiah, he needed a pre-shrunk linen robe, thank you very much, had needed more than green paint.
After the first, hideous blast of fear and the terrifying thought of other brave politicians who’d been tragically killed on duty, Eden had realised the man was unwell, uncoordinated and not wielding a weapon. At that point, she’d tried talking him down and when this didn’t work and he became agitated, she’d rather wished she’d had a stun gun. But, feeling calmer because four people were outside the door banging on it and telling her the police were coming, she’d hit the New Messiah on the side of the head with herIrish TatlerRising Political Stars Award. The award didn’t shatter – ‘Amazing!’ Eden had said in surprise, looking at it – but the New Messiah had groaned and fallen to the floor clutching his head and muttering, whereupon Eden had walked over his body, pulled the filing cabinet away from the door and said, in a shaky voice: ‘We need an alarm button in here.’
‘What were you thinking?’ an anguished Ralphie had said. ‘He could have hurt you.’
‘I wasn’t thinking,’ she’d replied. ‘I was scared – it felt very much him or me.’
Agnes had organised an alarm button for Diarmuid too but Eden felt he didn’t need it. Diarmuid was never alone with any member of the public. His second in command, one-time political correspondent Rian O’Donoghue, was practically glued to him. Eden thought they probably went to the men’s room together.
There was always a senator or two hanging around, looking for help/pearls of wisdom/a place in the photoshoot of the day. Then there were the big men of business who abandoned their Mercs, BMWs and Teslas outside the office and sat with Diarmuid on the top floor of the house, laughing, talking, doing deals on the backs of envelopes. Their eyes roved over Eden but it didn’t bother her. Their eyes roved over anything female. It was pure instinct: she felt that many of them had lost the more thoughtful human qualities and were down to basic survival at this point. Business, she knew, could do that to a certain sort of man. Not all, but some of them. Rip off the tailoring and they were wolves, teeth bared, ready to fight for the deal or the sabre-toothed tiger.
Eden gave as good as she got. She eyeballed the wolves and generally made them lower their eyes first.
Diarmuid loved this. ‘She’s not lunch, boys,’ he’d say. ‘She’s the next generationme.’
‘She’s a woman!’ shouted one fella, who’d clearly missed the seminar on equality.
‘Well spotted, Joe,’ said Eden cheerily. ‘Only the other day, someone was saying you were a muck savage straight out of the bog and only good for building houses but I said no, he’s a champion of women’s rights, dislikes all FWFs—’
‘Obviously, I am—’ began Joe, searching in the recesses of his brain for that speech on equality he’d learned the time he’d insulted the Lady Captain at the golf club. A senior counsel, no less. He still got the shakes thinking of it and what was an FWF, anyway? He never admitted to not knowing things – it got you into trouble.
