Authors: Alastair Campbell
‘No, Ralph, you don’t, because you never take any initiative unless it’s to do with you, your work, your career. Things just happen to you, as if it’s not your creation – like this woman who “targeted” you. I suppose that’s your way of saying you had sex with her.’
‘Look, Sandie, I can barely remember meeting her.’
‘Did you have sex with her?’
‘I think so.’
‘You think so? That sounds like a yes to me.’
‘I honestly can’t remember, Sandie, but she will certainly say I did and much else besides.’
‘And what do you expect me to do in this situation?’
This was a question Ralph had not anticipated. He had expected Sandie to intuit what was expected, without him having to tell her, and regardless of how hurt and angry she might be. He remained silent, trying to make himself look as penitent as possible.
‘I suppose you want me to pose with you in front of the world’s press and talk about all the terrible pressures poor politicians are under, don’t you?’ she said. ‘Well, I’m sorry, Ralph, but I’m not going to be humiliated. I’ve given my life to your job, and now I want to do something for me.’
Ralph felt as if he was going to be sick.
‘Sandie, please don’t do this to me. I am going to lose my career in a matter of hours. Don’t take away my marriage too.’
‘You should have thought of that when Davina seemed to be targeting you.’
‘One chance. Just one chance. It might not be as bad as I think.’
‘Ralph, I don’t care how bad it looks in the papers. I care how bad it
is
. And it is bad.’
‘What if I give up the job, and I get proper help, and we try to make a new start of it?’
‘I just can’t see it happening,’ she said. ‘I can’t see it.’
Ralph could feel tears welling up behind his eyes. He hoped that if he cried, she might think again.
‘Please, Ralph, don’t cry,’ she said, looking as if she might break down herself. For a moment she hesitated, then she got out of the car and started removing his bags from the boot.
‘I don’t think I can take you home with all that’s coming our way,’ she said. ‘I suggest you find a hotel. That one over the road might do. I will put together some stuff for you and your driver can collect it when he’s feeling better. We can talk about lawyers in a few days’ time when the dust has settled. I will talk to the children and if they want to speak to you, they will. Now, in the name of God, go.’
He was stunned. He had imagined every possible reaction, but
not
this, not straight away, as soon as she heard. He stepped out of the car, retrieved his bags from the pavement and watched as Sandie drove off at speed. The road was empty apart from a bus making its way towards him. For a few moments he thought about jumping in front of it, but decided it was not going fast enough to guarantee killing him, so he watched it go by then waved down a cab and asked to be driven to the Health Department in Whitehall.
The call from Number Ten came five minutes after he got there. The switchboard operator, polite and friendly, said, ‘Good afternoon, Secretary of State, I have the Prime Minister for you.’ He then had to wait almost a minute as she linked up the various officials who would listen in to the call.
He knew from the tone of the Prime Minister’s very first syllable – ‘now’ – that his instinct had been right. He was about to be sacked.
‘Now, Ralph. I’ve made a couple of calls about this situation, and I’m afraid it’s not good. I think people might just about understand the sex thing, though it’s not exactly what they want from their ministers. But they will rightly worry about the judgement attached to getting into this situation in the first place. So having thought about this carefully, I’ve decided I am going to have to ask for your position.’
Ralph tried to protest, but the Prime Minister wouldn’t let him. The b in ‘but’ had barely left his lips when he was shut down.
‘You are more than welcome to pop over to Number Ten but I’m afraid there is no discussion about this. I’ve decided. It is tough, I know, but sometimes leaders have to do tough things.’ As he spoke, Ralph could picture the Number Ten officials scribbling that down as they listened, ready to brief the media on how tough and decisive and moral the young twenty-first-century Prime Minister had been.
‘Ralph, this does not mean that one day you cannot come back, and I will say some very nice things about you in the exchange of letters. What I advise you to do is try to save your marriage, work hard in the constituency and, though it pains me to say this, I think you need to see someone about your drinking. We’ve had a number
of
reports to the effect that you have been the worse for wear in public places, and I think you need to sort that out.’
Ralph was shocked that the PM knew about the drinking. He even wondered whether his reference to ‘seeing someone’ was made because he knew he already was.
He had uttered not one single word in the entire call, just half a ‘but’, and he had very little to say now.
‘Very well, Prime Minister. I have made a mistake and I understand why you want to deal with this before the media creates a great frenzy out of it. Just one thing. Could I ask who will be replacing me?’
‘Daniel Melchett, so don’t worry. The department is in good hands. Now you take care and let’s keep in touch.’
The line went dead and Ralph sat holding the phone in his lap, not quite daring to believe that what he’d just heard was true. He looked around his vast office. By morning, Daniel Melchett would be here, master of all that Ralph surveyed. For one, horrible moment he remembered how friendly Melchett’s driver was with his own. Surely Melchett, his closest friend in politics, wouldn’t be capable of such treachery? He started to dial his number. But what would he say? ‘Congratulations on getting my job’? It would not be an easy conversation. He decided not to call.
As it was Sunday, he didn’t even have any staff to help him clear his desk or make a cup of tea. He opened the top drawer, took out the hip flask, and emptied it in seven enormous swigs. Then he picked up the phone to call Martin Sturrock. He wasn’t entirely sure what the psychiatrist could do to help him, but he felt an overwhelming need to see him. Unfortunately, Sturrock’s phone went to voicemail. He left a plaintive message. ‘Martin, it’s me, Ralph. Please, please, please call as soon as you can. I am desperate.’
Number Ten had wasted no time in announcing his ‘resignation for personal reasons’ and the media were gathering outside. He persuaded a weekend security man to drive him out of the back. The security man said he could not leave his post for long, but would get him away from the immediate area.
‘Is this OK?’ he asked as they reached the south side of Westminster Bridge, by County Hall.
‘Yes, it’s fine, thank you,’ said Ralph.
‘Take care of yourself, Secretary of State,’ said the security man.
Ralph stood on the pavement and muttered the words ‘Secretary of State’ to himself. One minute he was. Now he wasn’t. He was no more or less important than the tourists heading for a trip on the London Eye. He watched two nurses laughing as they walked towards St Thomas’s Hospital, and reflected that they were still part of the NHS, and he was not.
It was getting dark, and the lights from the cars and buses and buildings gave him a headache, not helped by the cold and oppressive air. But he thought the Houses of Parliament looked more glorious than ever, lit up against a gloomy sky.
He stood and stared at the building, remembering the first time he arrived there as an elected member, and how Sandie had taken his hand as the cab took them through the members’ entrance, and said he could go as high and as far as he wanted and she would always be there beside him. Then there was his maiden speech and the nice write-up in the
Northern Echo
. He could see the lights on in the room where he attended his first select committee. He recalled his first speech as a frontbencher and the nerves he felt, even in a chamber nearer empty than full. And he thought of some of the great characters he knew, and the friends he thought he had made. Yet he looked now at this beautiful building as though it had just materialised from an alien planet. It had nothing to do with him any more. He was finished.
He had no idea where to go, so walked south down Westminster Bridge Road. Through the windows of the Crown and Cushion pub he could see a TV screen and pictures of himself at the last general election, kissing Sandie as his increased majority was announced. He stood at the window and watched the tickertape box at the bottom of the screen where the words were changing every few seconds as the story was being told.
‘Minister Hall sacked over sex scandal.’ Then: ‘PM regrets “tough
decision
”.’ … ‘Wife stays silent.’ … ‘Tabloid about to expose drunken sex romp.’ … ‘Melchett takes over as PM acts fast.’
There were about fifteen people in the pub. Only one appeared to be watching the breathless reporter standing outside Downing Street.
Ralph walked on, then through a side street into a local estate where he sat on a bench overlooking a tiny children’s playground, and tried to think. There was no one he could turn to. His dad was old and frail – the news might give him a heart attack. And besides, he felt far too ashamed to call his father. As for his children, there was no way he could face them in this state. The thought of spending a night in some anonymous hotel, worried that the staff might tip off the press, and even more worried that he might empty the minibar, filled him with dread. He had to get help.
He tried Professor Sturrock again. Still voicemail.
27
‘I’ll be having that,’ said Stella, whisking away her husband’s mobile and putting it into a drawer. ‘Today is a family day. No patients allowed.’
Sturrock felt too weak to protest. He’d been trying to send a text message to Phyllis about the patients whose appointments she would have to cancel as a result of Tuesday’s funeral. Now he’d be worrying about it all day. He pulled quietly at the rubber band on his wrist and let it snap back against the skin. Think positive. He was finding it hard though. He’d taken an age to get dressed, then spent much of the morning sitting in the kitchen drinking tea and watching Stella bustle about. She seemed happy, excited about the prospect of some time with her son. She even hummed. He felt pleased she was happy, pleased for her, but also glad she was too preoccupied to notice how low he was.
When Jack arrived with his friend Charlie for lunch, he went to meet them at the door. He never quite knew how to greet his son, who was not the most expressive of characters, at least not with him. He had planned on hugging him and saying ‘Happy birthday’ as he arrived, but for some reason Charlie came in first, his son trailing behind, so the moment for a hug passed. Professor Sturrock made do with a friendly tap on the shoulder, and said, ‘Happy birthday, Jack. Mum’s through in the kitchen.’
Stella was putting the finishing touches to a chocolate cake, as well as getting lunch together, so she gave her son a quick peck on the cheek and then gestured to her husband to get the champagne, indicating with her eyebrows that he was to kick off the festivities.
Sturrock realised he hadn’t got off on the right foot. The champagne bottle felt heavy in his hands and he wasn’t confident about getting out the cork without the stuff spraying all over the place. Jack came to his rescue, giving Charlie a look which Sturrock read as saying, ‘Feeble my dad, isn’t he?’
‘Michelle said she might make it after lunch,’ Sturrock said, making a stab at conversation. His elder daughter Suzanne lived with her husband in Italy, so couldn’t come, but Michelle was not far away in Notting Hill.
‘Oh, I just got a text from her,’ said Jack. ‘She can’t make it. Got a friend who’s playing in a rugby match or something. Said to say hi.’
The news came as a blow, although neither his wife nor his son seemed to mind. He’d been looking forward to seeing Michelle. She was the only one of his children who could make him laugh, and he felt particularly close to her. But she was a fashion designer and her work often took her overseas so visits were rare.
‘She’s always so busy at weekends,’ said Stella. ‘If she’s not working, she’s catching up with her friends. It’s nice to know she’s got such a full life though.’
Sturrock took it more personally. Why was someone’s rugby match more important than seeing her father? He felt slighted, even though he knew he probably shouldn’t. Again he pulled at the rubber band on his wrist.
‘Would you like your present?’ he asked. But Stella had it worked out. ‘No, no, Martin. We’ll have lunch, then we’ll have the cake and the present.’
They all stood in the kitchen sipping champagne and trying to make conversation. Jack was taciturn as usual. Sturrock wished one of his talkative daughters was there to keep things going. Suzanne, who had gone to art school in Rome, and settled there after marrying one of her teachers, was now making sculptures – not very good ones, in his opinion, but they always provoked discussion and she could be guaranteed to burble on about the latest happenings in the art world. But they saw her less and less.
Jack was trying to make it as a music producer. His friend Charlie
was
already quite well established and worked in something called ‘final production’, which Sturrock understood to be the final mixing and improving of sounds on CDs. He had worked on a recent album which got a lot of attention because there was no physical product as such. It was download only and had earned a fortune in related advertising. Charlie was always very well dressed, and groomed. He had immaculate short hair, wore jewellery that was fashionable without being gaudy and overly expensive, and he had quite a feminine way of walking and moving. Sturrock was sure he was gay, which of course had him wondering about his son. Jack had had girlfriends in the past, but his one serious relationship had ended when the girl got a job in the Midlands and he hadn’t brought another home since.
He was sure he wouldn’t mind if his son was gay. He’d had many homosexual patients over the years and his emphasis with them had always been that there should be no stigma attached to it. Some were absolutely tortured by their sexuality, their fear of discovery and what their family might think. Yet mostly, once they discussed the issue with their family, they found acceptance. That being said, only three weeks ago he’d had in his consulting room a young man traumatised after a homophobic attack which left him wanting to go back to a state of denial about who and what he was. He couldn’t bear it if Jack suffered similar abuse. But no, thought Sturrock; whether or not Jack was gay was not the issue. Of course he hoped to be a grandfather but he knew his daughters would eventually provide on that front. The issue with Jack was that he didn’t know about his son’s sexuality, he didn’t know how to ask, and it made him feel deeply inadequate as a parent that Jack never really confided in him. He was forced to acknowledge that whereas hundreds of people saw him as the first person they would want to talk to if they got into emotional or psychological trouble, Jack wasn’t among them.