One Day in May - Catherine Alliott [30]
‘Walk with me,’ he said impulsively.
I caught my breath. Back to the Commons, on a beautiful early summer’s evening.
‘I’ll only be ten minutes, then we can wander back here again.’
By which time a velvet night would have descended, maybe with a scattering of stars.
‘No,’ I shook my head. ‘I’m tired. I think I’ll have one more drink then go to bed.’
He nodded, but his eyes held mine for a moment longer than was strictly necessary. And then he turned and went.
As I went slowly back upstairs, my heart was pounding against my ribs. Oh God, oh God. Not good. Not good at all. I made to go back into the kitchen to join Laura and Hugh, but from the hall, saw two heads bent low over the kitchen table, both unloading tales of recent heartbreaks. The bottle of wine was going down rapidly. They didn’t even notice me in the doorway. Instead I walked on down the corridor, and went to bed.
7
I’m not proud of this next bit, so I won’t be lingering. In fact you may even get edited highlights. The reshuffle was scheduled for two weeks hence, and in the days leading up to it the atmosphere in the Commons was electric. Insecurity about jobs was rampant, everyone was tense, and Dominic, as whip, was presumed to have the PM’s ear. As I swept down the corridors of Portcullis House beside him – Katya managing only three days a week now – arms full of papers, heels clicking in a spookily déjà vu way – dark-suited figures would emerge from the shadows: ‘Can I have a word, Dom?’
Dominic would either stop and take two minutes to chat and reassure, or excuse himself politely on the grounds that he was in a tearing hurry, which he always was, but the eyes that followed seemed to say – does he know? Is he letting me down gently?
He was both respected and feared, and, as the right-hand girl I was rapidly becoming, I felt some of that powerful dust settle on me. I’d be sounded out by other secretaries, sometimes even MPs, who invited me for coffee, lunch in the Commons dining room. I wish I could say I was impervious to it, that it rolled off my back, but I loved it. I was twenty-three, barely out of university, and some of the most important and influential men and women in the country were courting me, canvassing my opinion. My head was not so much turned as spinning.
On the morning the reshuffle was due to be announced, the News at Ten journalist whom I’d recognized on day one, stopped me in the lobby.
‘Any news, Hattie?’
‘None whatsoever,’ I muttered, hurrying on.
‘Come on, poppet, be a sport. Any inkling?’
But I was on my way; my overriding concern to make sure Dominic was all right. We’d worked late the previous night, and he’d confided to me that, contrary to popular opinion, he barely knew about any cabinet positions: had had a meeting with the PM that morning and attempted to delve, but the shutters had come down and he’d been told nothing. I’d never seen him so rattled.
‘Surely if my job was secure I’d be tipped the wink by now?’
‘Not necessarily,’ I’d consoled. ‘He knows everyone badgers you for information. He might be protecting you.’
He’d regarded me suspiciously. ‘No one protects anyone in this place, Hattie. You have to watch your back at every turn. It’s every man for himself.’
Later that morning, one by one, the cabinet were called in. Dominic later said that the walk he took from Portcullis House, across the road, past Big Ben, and through the main gates opposite Westminster Abbey was one of the longest of his life.
Katya was in that day – oh, you bet, bent double, face racked with pain, but she was there. The two of us waited, each at our post, our computers, chatting nervously at first, and then, as the morning wore on with no word, turning to our screens for solace, typing silently, mechanically. This, surely, was bad news. A lengthy interview meant there was a lot of explaining to do on the part of the PM. A lot of thanks for all the hard work, effort, etc., followed by a pained, grave expression as he let the bad news sink in. Katya and