While all was jollity and happiness in Helen and Nikki's flat, Neil Haughton was buried in the shiny plastic surroundings of his bijou dwelling that all the smart people of his kind had acquired. It was sealed off in its own private road so that no interlopers could intrude. He had moved there after he's separated from George and contacts in the business had tipped him off early before it had gone publicly on the market. He lay back in his armchair in front of the wide screen TV screen which was beaming forth electronic messages which were walled off by his deep depression and growing sense of panic. He hadn't had a good day at work and being at home with nowhere to go didn't help him any..
It was obvious that the government was steadily sinking into the political sunset into a world of dark oblivion as it saw political defeat staring it into its face. He also felt powerless to stop it and blocked from talking properly about it. He was afraid that if he spoke up, he'd be spewing his guts up emotionally speaking and, in such a state of lack of self control, who knows what he'd end up saying? He suspected that others felt the same way and weren't any more comfortable than he was but the same blank faces and smart suits gave nothing away. The only faint hope that buoyed him up was that the general public viewed the opposition of the nasty party of years ago when it last held power.
Certainly, he didn't feel positive when he entered No 10 for cabinet meetings. The Prime Minister was still there, still holding on despite himself. Though his craggy features and malevolent stare still had power, he was a burnt out shell, going through the motions and coming off worst against the steely voiced new leader of the opposition. They periodically bickered over the matters on the agenda but not in the life or death way that the warring and competing way that their egos had once clashed. Each of them had the sneaking feeling of the unreality of their projects and that advancing time was now their worst enemies. At the end of this particular meeting, they each stared into space instead of treading their way purposefully back to their ministries to put them on message. Finally, they all dispersed in dribs and drabs. They'd heard what they were supposed to be agreeing to what they'd been deliberating but this time they were unconvinced of the particular spin on events they'd been accustomed to believe in. In avoiding each other's eyes, they suspected that they were dead men walking more than ever before.
He had been so fired up with enthusiasm when he'd been appointed Home Secretary which, in the unspoken pecking order of ministers, was a step up the laqdder. He'd supposed that he'd been given the job becauswe of his special talents which, when he came to reflect on it, included tenaciouas vindictiveness. The thought rather appealed to him as he'd certainly demonstrated as Minister for Trade and Industry a natural rapport with thrusting entrepreneurs. He'd previously built up a tidy pile in advertising before he entered politics so he was their natural man on the inside. Oh yes, he'd had so many hopes and dreams when he'd ascended the dizzy heights of politics. A sharp headache ereminded him how he didn't want to know how his bitterest enemy and nemesis, John Deed had conspired to thwart his purposes. He didn't want to think how his consort, George Channing, started having puculiar ideas of her own and had upped and left him.
Maybe he was just unlucky or rather that he'd run short of luck just when Deed had crossed his path. His failures weren't down to any fault in himself. It was just that he wasn't being dealt the winning cards when he'd needed them. So all his fellow ministers were all the same including the Prime Minister. The fates were against him and all the rest of them. And now, he had his third General Election to contend with.
"You still here?" queried a Scottish inflected accent with a laugh that really wasn't one."You single men have got homes to go to same as the rest of us."
"Keen to the last," Neil Haughton replied with an attempt at enthusiasm to the Prime Minister. He'd been in an aimless daydream till he'd been interrupted.
"Don't get me wrong, I'm glad of your devotion to the cause," boomed the other man in portentious tones. He was lying twice over, firstly in alluding to principles he'd long forsaken and secondly as he despised Haughton for his oily opportunism.
As Neil Haughton took his leave and descended the wide staircase, he glanced at the photographic portraits on the walls. This present Prime Minister glowered back at him in the end of the line but space was left for his successors. Treading down two steps and the youthful visionary who swept the Labour Party into power smiled down at him with all his white teeth and blue eyes and had eased his own political ascent. Down two steps further, he faced his prececessor, an old Tory Party codger who had limped his way to his own political extinction. Another two steps down, he faced the predecessor, the blond coiffed hair and gaze who stared sternly back at him, the Iron Lady, whose drive and energy he had secretly admired. He didn't bother looking further as past prime ministers disappeared into the haze of the past.
Finally, Nel Haughton made his exit into London's famous street, past the iron security guards and into the ministerial limousine that took him on his uncertain way back to the massive, all-embracing edifice of the Home Office. This caused conflicting and colliding emotions to rise to the surface than restoring his sense of self-worth.
His natural instinct when Percy Thrower, his large Secretasry of State came into his office was to run through the key messages that had been emphasised by the cohort of the dominant ministers who followed the Prime Minister's lead. This time, he rattled on about trivial matters before coming to the one important message that came to mind. The Prime Minister would declare the date of the general election and appear on prime time BBC news. As he relayed this news, he noticed a barely perceptible change of expression pass across the other man's face.
"I suppose you'll be back on the campaign trail in the near future. We'll hold the fort in the time being," he said in his smooth bland voice.
Neil Haughton peered round him suspiciously. This wasn't the first General Election he'd fought as a minister. He remembered the last two occasions as being a tiring but ibnvigorating interlude during which he'd done his share of TV interviews, addressing set piece meetings of the party faithful which all boosted his self esteem no end. He also had to turn on the charm onto his local constituency party, shake hands, kiss the proverbial baby and pose for photographs for the local rag. After all, he'd worked in advertising and all this involved selling himself so this wasn't a great stretch. He remembered how positive and energised he'd been over such a terribly important political milestone in the party's life. Now he felt old and tired before his time and headed for a slow motion fall along with the others and the Prime Minister. Worst of all, he felt his will paralysed to do anything about it.
"That will be all," he finally said. The other man's cynical appraising expression had noticed how Haughton's eyes had momentarily glazed over before wrapping up the meeting. As Percy Thrower heaved his bulk to his feet and went out the door, Neil Haughton felt as if the page of history was about to turn. It was not a good feeling.
In a subdued mood, Neil Haughton made his way to the basement car park to where his chauffeur awaited him with his shiny black limousine. He heaved a breath of relief when this small piece of normality came into view as he's arrived here and departed a million times before. It was a satisfyingly normal routine in his life denoting anticipation and fulfilment in his busy, purposeful of the blue, a freak, undiscliplined thought wormed its way through his strong defences. What if the days of chauffeur driven state limousines are coming to an end along with his accumulated power and prestige? In desperastion, he thought of the comfortable majority at the last general election to give him comfort. surely it was safe and secure enough. He'd been headhunted for this safe seat thanks to him being recognised as a safe pair of hands and his past entrepreneurial flair and experience. Surely he could secure his seat if he put in a modicum of effort, he reasoned to himself. Yes, but that didn't stop him becoming the Shadow Home Secretary and losing all his perks and privileges if enough of the other MPs didn't hold their seats. It was then that his depression turned into real blind panic of the prospect of being reduced to a shadow, of losing what he most greatly prized in life, of a substantial slice of his very identity.
It was just at this moment when the limousine was at the top of the incline from the basement car park that he was hit by a split second flash memory of a past nightmare. It was the moment years ago when Deed had shouted at him contemptuously that day he'd led a disgraceful judges strike and had twarted his plans to limit the power of judges.
"Driver, drive on," he called out in a tone of voice that sounded to him a little unhinged.
"Beg your pardon but I can't do it. The traffic's solid," the driver answered with more patience than he felt. All the pool drivers knew that Haughton was a bloody tyrant with not a speck of consideration. He certainly was an unfriendly sod who wouldn't pass the time of the day as some of the others did. It wasn't worth the hassle to play silly buggers as the guy was obviously stressed up and had a reputation of being vindictive when crossed. Fortunately, he saw a gap in the traffic and screeched away faster than he thought possible.
"We'll soon get you home. I suppose you're used to a busy life," he explained, meaning that he couldn't wait to dump the guy off as soon as was possible. Straightening himself, Neil Haughton reckoned that this suited his purposes even if this driver drove faster than he was accustomed to. Aside from thisw awareness, , he sunk into a depressive haze for the rest of the journey until he arrived at his destination.
He looked around his living room without any great enthusiasm. He'd had it especially furnished and decorated with clinical, clean precision with everything in its place as befitting a well-to-do batchelor. He'd liked the way it had turned out but he was always either engrossed with his ministerial papers or else passing through before going out to meet Important People in classy restaurants. He'd never sought them out being at the centre of the political hub but he noticed recently that somehow his evening appointments had started to dwindle.
After he'd eaten an uninspiring takeway meal, it crossed his mind to look at the sixc o clock news as, after all, he didn't have much else to do. He helped himself to a glass of orange juice, clicked on his TV remote control just as there appeared the opening stacatto music and images of a vast TV newsroom with electronic tendrils reaching out towards the rest of the world. Sure enough, a grey haired sage announced the general election and the camera panned to another studio where the Prime Minister mouthed the preprepared statement, batted off some standard questions in emotionless tones and trhat was all. There was no feelings of triumph, no feelings at all and just a sense of inevitability.
It was then that Neil Haughton slipped further into a morose inner silence as his thoughts churned around with no purpose and the TV screen played away to a zombie at its command. In a way, he was comfortably numb. Short of taking to drink, he had nowhere else to go.
.
The very same news broadcast headlines was interrupted by a burst of derisive laughter from George Channing after she'd unveiled her lastest culinary triumph on the dining room table. Alice had her back to the TV screen and was slow in figuring out the reasons for her partner's hilarity especially as cooking odours claimed her attention. When both women got home, they could be tenderly romantic or sparklingly light-hearted according to their moods.
"You're wondering what's amusing me darling?" she gently chided the dark-haired woman.
.
"I'm not the best multi-tasker around especially when your cooking gets my attention," came the wryly humorous reply.
"There's going to be a general election," grinned George, oblivious to the Prime Minister's portentiously worded explanations in the interview.
"You can't be serious. My favourite TV programmes suchj as they are are going to be elbowed aside for a bunch of self-important men to prattle abouty nothing in particular. They're alol a load of greasy second hand car salesmen in any case. What have they got to do with us and our lives anyway," replied Alice with some heat.
"That may be true but it means that that fearful ex partner of mine is going to be out of his ministerial office and, with any hope, out of a job as well," George said gleefully.
"You don't mean you'll vote for Mr Hug a Hoodie? I mean that's so fake and everything else about him," replied Alice incredulously. This was the first time George had indicated her political inclinations.
"It all depends on which lot I least despise. On second thoughts, I may forego personal cast my solitary vote and help save his skin but there again I might not," George replied in her teasing fashion, while letting the meal cool a little.
"I can't even begin to guess," Alice retorted with a hint of mischief. This playful banter was a periodic part of their life together as she headed off George from enveigling her into a guessing game.
"We don't watch any programmes about the general election, especially party political broadcasts. They're all so boring and so fake. Now let's eat," George finished in her most amusingly domineering tones and clicking the TV off with the remote control.
An hour later, they'd loaded up the dishwasher and tidied everything away so they could settle down for the evening. They savoured the taste of the satisfying meal and cuddled up close together in the settee. Alice felt nice and contented and thought tenderly of her lover and gifted partner in their lives.
"This is the life," Alice proclaimed as she elegantly raised her glass of wine.
"I take it you haven't got any work to catch up with? Good as neither have I," purred George as she raised her glass of Martini dry skywards in a toast to their future. The lights were turned down low and cast an intimate glow on the furnishings which were classy but decorative.
"It's good that so many of us are here with our partners for the long haul," Alice said dreamily as her thoughts floated this way and that. Softly stroking her partner's free hand with her own long shapely fingers helped direct that train of thought.
"I talked to John the other day and I get the feeling thet even he's thinking of settling down. Kristine Thorne is a remarkable woman and not known for long term committments and so is John. That's why they're suited," George said with satisfaction and emptied her glass.
"You've been doing a bit of matchmaking? That's very romantic," teased Alice.
"Not in the slightest. No one could mould such two hardy individualists, not even me. You know that it took a long time for John and I to become friends and get over the anger I felt at his serial womanising. I'm glad he's getting over his loneliness and coming home at last. They'll get to the position the rest of us are in," George said in soft even tones, finally turning to face her partner with a soft smile on her face.
"So we've got the London Pride to look forward to. I've been on it for years but never as part of a group like this. I'm so excited by the thought," Alice said, her face aglow.
"That's good. There's something else that's tickling my fancy," George said seductively as she lissed the other woman full on her lips and ran her hand up the inside of the dark haired woman's trouser leg. Alice returned the kiss and slipped her hand inside George's skirt and the two women started to twine together as their desires started to rise up within them.