Body Politic

[Lady_Mornington]

(This is a closed thread)​

The rain was hammering against the windows of Portcullis House, gusts of wind driving the drops almost horizontally across the facade of the most modern addition to the Houses of Parliament. It was just after 8 in the morning, and the corridors had begun to bustle with activity as another day at the centre of British democracy began.

Rebecca McAlister sat perched on the windowsill, precariously balancing a chipped mug bearing the logo “World’s Best Mum” on her knee as she took another long drag from her cigarette. She blew out a cone of smoke that rose like a banner before it was torn to shreds by the hammering rain and flicked the butt out the window and closed it with a little more force than necessary. The Honourable Rebecca McAlister as the title read could style herself MP for Reigate and member of Her Majesty’s Cabinet. At 35 she was the youngest member of the government as well as the youngest female within that august body.

Despite her relative youth she was not as inexperienced as some would think. Rebecca had practically been born into Westminster. Being the daughter of Simon Meadows and the granddaughter of George Andrew Meadows, who had both held the seat at Reigate as well as being members of Conservative governments had more or less determined that she would follow in their footsteps. She had always had her father’s support in her venture, even though more than a few had thought that it would have been her older brother Daniel or her younger brother Adam who would carry on the family tradition. As it happened, Daniel had embarked on a military career and Adam had wanted nothing to do with politics, thus leaving Rebecca to shoulder the responsibilities that came with the family name. After finishing her studies at St Andrews she had stood in the by-election in Reigate as Simon Meadows resigned his seat. Not that it proved a spectacular victory, Reigate was Tory through and through, and the name Meadows carried considerable clout in the constituency.

Rebecca had married Edward McAlister shortly after entering Parliament in 2003. He was the son of a wealthy Edinburgh banker, and an up and coming man in international finance, she the heir to a political dynasty and their wedding had even made some of the tabloids. Even to this day they still ranked among the 100 hottest couples in the UK, admittedly clinging on to the lower half of the list but still lending some flair to the Tory Party by virtue of being considered at least a little bit hip.

She paused for a moment as she examined her image in the mirror on the wall. Rebecca McAlister glanced back at her, dressed in a sombre grey suit with a blue blouse and a discreet brooch on her left lapel. Reasonably tall with her dark brown curls swept back into a simple bun that contrasted nicely with her pale complexion. Not a model, Rebecca conceded with a sigh, but not likely to scare people away by merits of being hideously ugly.

There was a knock on the door, which told Rebecca that it was not her researcher Zara Millar. With a glance at the clock Rebecca noted that it was close to half eight which meant that her assistant was half an hour late. She walked across the carpeted floor and opened the door, being greeted by her colleague Stephen Martyn, MP for Ashby and a fellow member of the Cabinet.

“Good morning Bex.” Martyn stated curtly as he walked past her and sat down in one of the armchairs. He was immaculately dressed, Savile Row and Jermyn Street all round. Then again Stephen Martyn was as rich as they came. “It’s Rebecca thank you very much.” Rebecca replied drily as she sat down behind her desk, putting as much distance between herself and Martyn as possible. While she respected Martyn for what he had achieved as trade minister, she couldn’t help but feel slightly tainted by being in too close a proximity as him. Stephen Martyn was an incurable womaniser, and while his numerous liaisons had never amounted to any significant scandals, his actions didn’t sit well with Rebecca. Her assessment was that Stephen Martyn was a man for whom appearances were everything, whether it was wearing the most expensive tailored suits, or being seen with the latest darling of the tabloid press.

“So what can I do for you Stephen?” Rebecca looked at her colleague over the rim of her glasses, pushing a paper around her desk to create the image of being busy. “Straight to the point, eh Bex?” Martyn shot her a radiant smile “Well it concerns the review of the Intelligence Services.” Rebecca cocked an eyebrow, fixing Martyn with a piercing emerald stare. “As far as I know the results of that review does not concern neither you nor your department.” Rebecca put her pen down as she shook her head trying to push the increasing irritation with her colleague away. It was just another one of Stephen’s little ploys, poking his nose where it didn’t belong. She was about to further put him in his rightful place, debating whether to inform him that she would have to mention this to the PM, which would possibly amount to nothing more than a slap on the wrist for the MP for Ashby.

Rebecca was interrupted however as Zara Millar walked into her office, although walked was an understatement. Swept was probably a more apt description of her assistant’s entry. Ms Millar mouthed of what Rebecca considered a half-hearted apology before battering her eyelashes at Stephen Martyn, who true to his habit, and shot her a smile that was just a tad too toothy to be pleasant.

It would have been easy to dismiss Zara Millar as just another rich little girl with family connections; and possibly, Rebecca added, questionable morals. Yet the fact was that beneath the shallow surface, Ms Millar was quite the brilliant researcher, and she would probably have made a career for herself even without the aid of her father’s. Rebecca sighed inwardly. John Millar and Simon Meadows had both been members of Lady Thatcher’s last government, and while not exactly friends they had formed the kind of professional relationship that had been symptomatic of upper class Britain for half a millennia. Thus it was that when Zara graduated from Oxford, John Millar had a quiet word with Simon Meadows who in turn got Rebecca to hire her as her assistant and researcher.

All in all having Zara Millar around was a mixed blessing. While she had the capacity to be quite the brilliant researcher and administrator when she put her mind to it, there was something about her that made Rebecca feel less generously inclined towards her. Zara, blissfully oblivious to what occupied Rebecca’s mind handed her a manila folder with a smile stating that the report on predicted cutbacks in the GCHQ was outlined. “Thank you Miss Millar.” Rebecca replied as she took the folder from her researcher and placed it on the polished surface of her desk before turning to Stephen Martyn. “I’m sorry to cut this short Stephen but I need to discuss some things with Zara.” She nodded to her colleague indicating that the audience had come to an end. “Well I guess I’ll see you later then...Bex.” Stephen smiled and offered Zara a wink before he left the office, closing the door behind him with a barely audible click.

Getting up from her seat, Rebecca paced over to the windows, debating whether to comment on the fact that Zara had clearly replied in kind to Martyn’s not so subtle flirting. It was really none of her business, but the fact that her researcher had been late and not even bothered with a decent excuse caused her to lash out, albeit in a most polite way.

“You know I expect you to be here on time Zara.” She fixed the younger woman with a concerned gaze. “It’s a matter of professionalism after all and as you know I am relying on you to make sure that I can carry out the job that the voters assigned me to do.” Rebecca leaned back against the windowsill and continued in what she liked to think of her reasonable tone of voice. “Furthermore I don’t care whom you are seeing on your time off but you will not flirt with members of this Cabinet during office hours is that understood?”

Rebecca watched the colour rise on Zara’s cheeks as she seemed to prepare for a retort to the accusations. “I really don’t intend this to be an argument Zara, merely a reminder what our jobs entail.” She smiled mirthlessly as she put her jacket on and collected a few folders. “I’ll be in the Committee meeting for the rest of the day. I trust you will handle my calls.” She flicked through her diary, “Oh and could you pick Lindsay up after school, I am not sure I will make it.” She offered Zara an apologetic shrug as she handed her assistant her credit card. “I guess you will have to bribe her with hamburgers or something of the kind but I’m sure you two will get on just fine.” She flashed Zara another smile, as empty of any warmer feelings as any of the previous had been.

The day droned on with the committee meeting followed by the unavoidable paperwork back at the office. It was close to 6 when Rebecca could slip out the doors of Portcullis House and hail a taxi to take her home. Arriving half an hour later at her home in Earls Court and hurrying up the stairs of the Victorian building. “I’m home!” Rebecca called out as soon as she had shut the door behind her and hung her coat up. “So we hear darling!” Edward replied as he stepped out from the kitchen, carrying two wine glasses and pecked her cheek. “I invited Zara to stay for dinner, after all she’s been spending most of her afternoon looking after Lindsay and I figured that it was the least we could do. Apparently Johanna called in sick today so she pretty much saved both you and I from getting the scowl from little miss McAlister.”

Rebecca sighed inwardly. Having to spend the better part of the evening with Zara Millar was not something she had planned. Then again it would be terribly bad form to cause a scene about it. When all was said and done, the great British virtue was the ability to be perfectly polite to even the worst of your adversaries.

“Of course dear.” Rebecca smiled sweetly at her husband “Will you bring an extra glass?” She paused for a moment “Where’s Lindsay?” Usually her daughter would have been throwing herself around her and subjecting her to a barrage of questions and tales of her day. “Oh she’s watching telly with Zara I think” Edward answered as he lay the finishing touches to the fillet of beef that he was preparing for the frying pan. “Edward please!” Rebecca sighed with exasperation “we’ve agreed that she ought not watch TV after six.” It had been one of the points of discontentment between the two of them. “Yeah sorry about that Rebecca but apparently Zara helped her with her homework and I figured that it wouldn’t hurt just this once.” He smiled and pecked her cheek before her to the task at hand, leaving Rebecca in no better mood than when she had arrived.

She strode purposefully to the living room, finding Zara dressed in less pretentious attire than she had worn at Portcullis House, sitting on the floor with her back against the sofa, and Lindsay nestled against her chest. The image, innocent as it may be still filled her with both anger and regret, she rarely had the time to spend with Lindsay, one day every other month was considered good and sometimes it didn’t even amount to that much. “Hello Sweetheart.” Rebecca said softly as she walked across the carpeted floor smiling as she met Lindsay’s gaze. Her daughter glanced up but only for a moment and then returning her attention to the telly with just the merest nod in her direction.

Zara too seemed engrossed by the tv-show and even though she offered her a nod and a smile it was evident that she would rather finish watching the program with Lindsay than partaking in any activity that would necessitate her acting like an adult. Rebecca could feel her temper flaring almost to the point where she would physically toss the little tart out of her house and preferably out of her life. Thankfully Edward interrupted, poking his head around the door and announcing that supper was ready.

“Come on girls!” Rebecca forced herself to sound chirpy “Can’t let Daddy eat supper all alone can we?” It was cheap but it did the trick, propelling Lindsay off Zara’s lap and sent her bounding for the dining room. She watched as her assistant got up. “Great work on the GCHQ report and for picking Lindsay up.” She smiled sweetly, for all intents and purposes acting the perfect boss and grateful mum, but it was evident, at least form a closer look that the sweetness of both smile and tone had yet to reach her eyes.

 

[Tanned_babe]

Hearing the God awful screech of her alarm the young woman, lifted her face which was mostly hidden by her dishevelled dark brown locks, from her pillow and read 6.14AM on face of her alarm. She could spare another 20 minutes, besides she had only just gotten home at the back of three this morning.

Upon wakening up the second time she looked at her clock again, this time it read 7.23AM. Cursing herself Zara jumped out of bed and staggered towards her en-suite, tossed the t shirt and underwear she had slept in on the bathroom floor and hopped into the shower, it wasn’t until she stood under the warm water did she realise just how sore her head was and how incredibly dry her throat was- a sign of way too much alcohol and way too many fags.
By just before eight she was finishing applying her make-up and quite pleased with the transformation. Having gone from untamed her hair was tied neatly back into a pony tail- she would normally wear it down, however the way the rain was battering off the windows of her two bedroom flat, that didn’t seem like a good idea- and from panda eyes, with blotches of last night’s foundation to tastefully applied MAC make up and having phoned for a taxi earlier she was just about ready to go.

Stepping out into the autumnal gale Zara wrapped her long grey Burberry coat around herself and bundled into the back of the black cab along with her Fendi hand bag and her leather laptop back- something that if went missing would have disastrous consequences.

The journey from her flat in Culross Street just off Park lane was incredibly tedious. Despite her hatred for early mornings Zara did appreciate not having to spend half an hour in the congested traffic of London’s city centre.

She left the notes for the cabby in his tray, not waiting for her change and made a dive for the building. Upon entry to the familiar airy glass entrance, lined with trees she scanned her ID and made her way to the elevator, her heels 4 inch Jimmy Choos, which were feeling rather damp, clicked on the flooring.

On the way up to Rebecca’s floor Zara checked her appearance in the lifts reflection, her make-up was done down to a tee just like her perfectly waxed eyebrows. She ran over her story of how the tube was horribly delayed and when she then back tracked to get a cab, everyone had the same idea as her, causing her to be 30 minutes late.

The door knob to her boss’s office clicked as she slunk inside the room. The two women were separated by a small reception area/where Zara played the double role of PA and researcher to Rebecca McAlister, someone who under different circumstances, Zara would very much admire. Well more than she did at the moment.

After tossing her bags on her black leather chair Zara undid her coat, revealing her tall trim figure, clad in a black pencil skirt, a crisp fitted Armani shirt tucked into it which was covered in a beautifully cut corporate jacket. She was determined to keep her legs on show for as long as possible; the English winters were long enough!

The 24 year old he walked straight into Rebecca’s main office, meeting her bosses gaze as she pierced Zara with her green eyes. “I’m so sorry I’m late Mrs McAlistair,” She said genuinely, “The tube was a nightmare and I tried to get a cab....” Her voice trailed off as she caught Rebecca’s eyes, that as good as said don’t waste your breathe. It was then that she noticed Stephen Martyn, the rather scrummy MP for Ashby. “Oh, good morning Mr Martyn.” She smiled- a perfect smile, which was only obtained through two years orthodontic work and which probably paid for her dentists new BMW. Which was returned by the MP ten-fold.
“Here’s the report on the predicted cuts in the GCHQ.” She said, tearing her eyes from Stephen and handing Rebecca the manila folder. “I got everything you need, it’s pretty concise but I figured that would suit with what you need it for but I have another bulkier copy if you need it let me know.” Zara was pretty pleased with herself, however it was apartment Rebecca was not. ‘Miss Millar,’ knew exactly what that meant.

When Stephen winked at her, Zara could literally feel her boss’s blood pressure rising so she did her best to stifle a grin and smirk and sit down. Whilst Rebecca spoke, it wasn’t anything Zara hadn’t heard before, a lot of rubbish about her not doing the voters justice, although Zara’s head snapped up when she mentioned the flirting. “I most certainly was not flirting! If I stepped into your office and completely ignor-“ Zara, not being completely thick knew when to stop, well at least when it came to arguing with a senior. Particularly when the senior in question was your boss.

Yes of course I can handle your calls Zara said to herself a trained monkey can handle phone calls. In another life Zara would have been incredibly grateful to be working under such a successful woman like Rebecca McAlistair. However her ever intervening father had to get her the job. I mean, graduating from Oxford with a Masters in both Politics and Economics, meant she was only fit for marriage and child birth unless without the help of a superior male!
“Eh, wait a minute!” Zara interjected when her boss told her she’d be picking up her brat. But she was already half way out the door.

The day was relatively uneventful, she had a few articles to read up on for Rebecca and a couple of emails to attend- she wasn’t exactly snowed under.

The one perk of having to deal with the boss’s kid meant getting out of work a good three and a half hours early. So after printing off a few pieces to give to Rebecca later Zara headed back out into the bracing weather, catching a cab from Port Cullishouse to a posh little primary school about 20 minutes from Earls Court. “Just wait here.” Zara ordered the driver, getting out the cab, only to reopen the door and grab the laptop that she kept on her person at all times.

Picking up Lindsay wasn’t too big a palaver, word had been given so the head mistress knew it wasn’t just some random kiddie snatcher off the street picking up little girls. “This isn’t fair! Johanna should be picking me up.” Moaned the little girl, who was incredibly articulately for a 5 year old. Smirking, Zara bent down, “Do you want to know what’s not fair Lindsay?” She asked quietly, raising one perfectly waxed eyebrow, “The fact I attended Oxford, somewhere you may well be in a few years, one of the most prestigious schools in the country. And I am now a glorified baby sitter. Now come one!” Zara said briskly getting back to her normal height, “You can either; stay here until tomorrow morning of come with me and get ice cream?”

Zara had to admit the afternoon with Rebecca’s daughter was like an afternoon off. She went home and changed before heading to her boss’s home, a stunning 4 bedroom Victorian town house in Earls Court. She had been to Rebecca’s house a few times to drop bits and pieces up and had a rough idea of the layout but never the less got Lindsay to point her in the right direction.

By six o’clock both girls had finished their ‘homework’, said hello to Mrs McAlistair and were not engrossed in an episode of ‘SpongeBob Square Pants’. After much persuasion Zara allowed the little girl to sit on her thighs and rest her back against Zara’s chest. “Is this the way you and mummy watch TV?” Zara asked. “Oh no, mummy and I don’t do stuff like this.” Lindsay murmured.

Hearing the commotion of Rebecca arriving made Zara a little uneasy and annoyed- her comments about flirting in the work place were still stinging the young woman but there was no point in bringing anything up. So she braced herself- hoping the GCHQ went well- at least that would be one tick in the box.

Looking up at her boss as she came in Zara gave her a gesture of acknowledgement when she came, disapprovingly, check on her child. Zara didn’t make a move until the little girl was told her dinner was ready and as she jumped up from Zara’s lap digging a little elbow into her ribs causing Zara to wince as she stood up.

“How did you get on today?” Zara asked before Bex could thank her for her efforts. “Not a problem, she’s a sweet girl.” Zara commented, noticing how her boss’s eyes completely betrayed the bone she had just thrown her PA.

The two women made their way throw to the dining room and Zara wasn’t going to lie- she felt awkward. Having turned down four invitations to stay she finally conceded when Mr McAlistair gave her a spiel about how she had done such a big favour and such- totally forgetting that Zara actually got paid at the end of the day!

Sitting down across from Lindsay and between the two McAlistair’s Zara stayed relatively quiet until asked by Rebecca whether there were any important messages. “Well you’ve got a message from one of the senior clerks at the Exchequer regarding projected savings for the defence budget. They want an assessment from our dept, that shouldn’t take too much time. I have what you presented today in even more detail, should be able to get that done in a few hours.” Zara sipped her wine before continuing, “Radio 4 want you for The Weekly Politics roundup before the end of the year- told them you’d be in touch, erm... Oh I RSVPed no to some gallery opening at the Tate.” Before Rebecca could interject Zara sighed, “You are have the Harrods Christmas event, arrive at 8am, with Lindsay,” Zara was grateful she could look up from cutting her steak and turn her smug skirt into a radiant beam at the little girl. “You arrive at eight, have breakfast and then you watch the parade and THEN you get to see Santa!!” Zara told the little girl and flashed her eyes toward Edward for a second before having another drink. There was more going on that night for Mr and Mrs McAlistair but Zara reckoned she had jolted her boss’s memory enough.

After thanking the pair for dinner Zara bent down to Lindsay’s height. “Hopefully you’re mummy will be busy again soon and we can hang out.” She smiled, before following Edward out the front door.

 

[Lady_Mornington]

Rebecca MacAlister

Rebecca could not help but feeling every inch the bitch as she sat through supper with Edward, Lindsay and Zara. Not that she let that sentiment show, but in her mind she was forcibly ejecting Ms Millar from her house and furthermore firing her from her position. It was being unfair, Rebecca realized this as she listened to Zara counting off the various engagements that she had been scheduled for. It was all very well until she mentioned the Harrods Christmas event. On the whole Rebecca did not care much for the blatant publicity stunts as that but she had, mainly due to guilty conscience agreed to it so that she could spend a bit of time with Lindsay, but now it seemed that Zara had planned on being the one spending time with her daughter. She exchanged a dark look with Edward, who true to his nature acted the perfect gentleman around Zara, clearly showing his approval of her ploy at playing the perfect PA.

“Thank you Zara.” Rebecca pointedly put her knife and fork down and dabbed the corners of her mouth with the linen napkin and stood up. “Edward will you call a cab for Zara?” She offered her PA a sweet smile which didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Oh come now Bex, I’ll drive her home” Edward got up from his seat and nodded to Zara “I need to get some stuff from the supermarket anyway and seeing as you saved us today that’s the least we can do”. There was precious little else Rebecca could do but smile and nod as it felt like the rest of the McAlisters had joined forces against her. There was no mistaking Edward’s relief of having Zara add some kind of structure to their lives, nor could Rebecca overlook the absolute pleasure in Lindsay’s eyes for having made a new friend. She had labelled it that in her mind but it was clear that what Lindsay had seen in Zara was an adult who actually paid her some attention, which was more than could be said about Rebecca’s attempts over the last two years.

“Time for you to go to bed honey.” Rebecca scooped her daughter up and carried her upstairs. “It’s way past your bedtime you know” She pressed the tip of her finger against Lindsay’s nose and got a giggled ‘beep’ in response before Lindsay continued to tell her, for the fifth time by Rebecca’s count, all the things that she and Zara had done during the day. It took quite a lot of resolve to at least appear interested while the only thing Rebecca wanted was to be spared having to hear about how great a person little Ms Millar was. Perhaps it was a case of overreacting but the jealousy that Lindsay’s comments elicited was quite over-powering a sensation. Being a cabinet minister meant that everything else in Rebecca’s life had been put on the back burner: and while Edward was expected to at least understand it, she could not demand that from her daughter. Guilty conscience was the constant companion of any parent with a full-time job ran the general argument, but in her case it was more than that. Rebecca sometimes found herself wondering what lasting memory Lindsay would have of her? A distant figure who had been too busy to do all the things that a mother should do with her daughter, or perhaps not even that.

Rebecca kissed Lindsay goodnight, making sure that her teddy was within reaching distance and silently crept out of her room. It was quite depressing a situation all things considered but nothing good would come from dwelling on it. Her father had explained that a career in politics would mean making sacrifices and the only thing that could balance that was to make sure that they were not needlessly made. Duty to Queen and Country and possibly the electorate had been Simon Meadows’ motto, perhaps reflecting that the voters were at best a nuisance to be tolerated. Different generations had different focus but the dedication to the task at hand was the same. She got changed, discarding the suit that she had been wearing and donning a more homely attire in the shape of a pair of sweatpants and a nondescript old top before taking her red despatch box from her study and going through the contents. No matter how much preparation there was always more work to be done. The GCHQ report that Zara had compiled occupied most of her attention and she grudgingly had to admit that her PA had actually done quite a good job with it.

She looked up as she heard Edward come home; the sound of his footfalls echoing throughout the otherwise quiet house. “Still up are we?” He smiled as he leaned against the wall giving her a long and somewhat concerned stare. “I was thinking that perhaps you could perhaps wrap up your important job and spend some time with your long-suffering husband and a bottle of wine?” He winked as he crossed over to her desk and sat down on it. “That would be lovely Edward but I really need to get this done..:” Rebecca felt like a broken record, it had been too many nights with the same excuse. “Yes I know”. Edward sighed as he ran his hand over his face. “Queen and Country, eh?” There was a shallow smile on his lips, too shallow to be considered genuine. “Well I guess it’s just me and Top Gear then”: He got up and then added “Look I know that this is important Rebecca but perhaps you should consider the things you stand to lose. I know that is probably unfair to say but I miss my wife and Lindsay misses her mum”. Rebecca looked up, meeting her husband’s gaze. It was an understandable position but that didn’t make it less hurtful “Edward you knew that it was going to be like this..:” She began but was cut short, “Yes Rebecca I knew that and I thought I could deal with it but it’s not as easy as it may seem. I’m not sodding Dennis Thatcher, content with seeing more of my wife on the news than in my bed.” Edward crossed his arms across his chest, squaring his jaw as he gave her another long stare, not so much belligerent as resigned as Rebecca matched it with one of her own. “It’s just that you’re not the girl I fell in love with” Edward sighed, seemingly deflated. “No but I’m the woman you married Edward.” Rebecca replied, hating herself for stating it but seeing no other way out of the predicament.

There was another shared gaze, more sadness than anger as Edward got up and closed the door as he left the room. The silence that followed was almost oppressive and while Rebecca thought she should get up and follow her husband down the stairs she knew that it was well past that point and that the damage had already been done. It was symptomatic really; her elevation to cabinet minister had caused her marriage to deteriorate into what seemed like a carefully orchestrated play. It looked impressive; the successful McAlister family complete with the handsome businessman-husband, beautiful politician wife and adorable daughter. Yet for all the perfection that the image conveyed it was not the truth. Rebecca was a politician by profession, and it meant that she had to withhold the truth from the wider public almost on a daily basis. She never actually lied, that had been a promise to herself as she assumed her seat in Parliament, but right now it felt like a very hard one to keep. It was no denying the fact that her marriage was in shambles,

It made her feel like crying, but if Rebecca had but one defining trait it was her iron will, she had never let her emotions guide her actions. She was jokingly referred to as the Iron Maiden among the inner cabinet, a reference to Lady Thatcher’s honorific rather than the eponymous band. While she had taken a certain pride in that, it really made the burden of being Rebecca McAlister seem all the more heavy. She adjusted her glasses and made a small sound, halfway between a snort and sob as she picked up the next file from the red despatch box, trying her best to shut out the sounds of her marriage falling to pieces around her.
***
She woke with a start at the sharp tone of the phone. The luminescent hands of the clock showed that it was just after 3AM. The light was still on and her case notes were sprawled all over the antique oak desk that made up her workspace. Rebecca reached out, slightly groggy and picked up the phone, managing a muttered “Hello?” in way of a response.
“Ah Mrs McAlister. I’m sorry to be calling at this dreadful hour”. She immediately recognised the voice of Dwyn Jones, the Prime Minister’s private secretary. “What can I do for you Mr Jones?” Rebecca sat up, there must me something big going on if the PM needed to talk to her at this hour. “I think that it’s better that you ask the Prime Minister, Mrs McAlister. We’ve sent a car round to pick you up. Will you be ready in 20 minutes?” The call was terminated before Rebecca had time to respond. She got up from the chair, collecting the files that she had been working on and stashed them in the safe and hurrying to the bathroom. A shower was out of the question so she had to make do with splashing her face with cold water before tiptoeing to the wardrobe and getting changed into a pinstriped business suit.

“What’s happening?” She looked up seeing Edward standing in the doorway looking thoroughly dishevelled. “I don’t know but I need to be at 10 in ten.” Rebecca answered not realising that she had made quite the poor pun. “Oh what’s now? Late night drink with the PM?” Edward tried for a joke which didn’t quite manage to hide his irritation with the further encroachment of their private sphere. “I don’t think that Samantha would take too kindly to that” Rebecca replied as she hadn’t detected the barb in her husband’s attempt at a jest. “I really don’t know what’s up Edward but I’ll call you as soon as I get a better idea”. She kissed him on the cheek and then paused for a moment “Perhaps we could make some plans. Go away for a weekend or so, just the three of us?” She reached out to caress Edward’s cheek but he quickly turned his face away “Sure Rebecca we’ll do that.” The rest of the sentence was left unfinished but they both knew that the suggestion would most likely never be realised given Rebecca’s current job.

She shrugged as she hurried down the stairs and stepped out on the street where a nondescript Vauxhall Insignia stood parked. There were always three officers form Special Branch stationed outside her home. They were usually very discreet and it was thusly quite alarming to find Tamara Rogers, the ranking officer, standing by the gate wearing what Rebecca assumed was a bulletproof vest as well as a holster at her hip. “Good morning Mrs McAlister. There should be a car here shortly but please stay behind the wall.” Rogers spoke in a deferential tone but it was evident that right now it was her show and Rebecca would not be able to influence the outcome. Still she tried “Really Tamara is all this really necessary?” The Special Branch officer nodded “Prime Minister’s orders Ma’am.” There was the sound of static from the walkie-talkie and she looked up. “Raven’s left the nest. I repeat Raven’s left the nest.” There was another crackle of static before a voice could be heard on the radio “Chariot is moving. Rendezvous in 20 seconds!”

Rebecca sighed. She would never understand why every uniformed service had to play secret agents but she realised that there was precious little she could do about the nomenclature at this particular point. There was the low hum of an engine and a Jaguar pulled up by the gates to the townhouse, and before Rebecca could react Tamara had gently pulled her down the stairs and got her into the backseat of the car and quickly followed suit. “Go!” The Special Branch officer barked the command and the driver revved the engine of the Jaguar taking the car out onto the eerily quiet London streets. Looking out the window Rebecca noticed that there were two motorcycles bearing the insignia of the Metropolitan Police providing an escort for the car, which underlined her suspicions that this was bigger than a failed vote in the Commons.

She arrived within the walled of enclosure of 10 Downing Street less than twenty minutes after she had been picked up and found herself politely ushered into the PM’s office where the Leader of Her Majesty’s Government was waiting. He was in his shirtsleeves, and looked quite dishevelled, most likely fuelled by coffee and pure determination rather than anything else. “Long night, eh?” Perhaps it was too informal a greeting but the PM didn’t seem to mind. Rather he offered her a tired smile as he indicated for her to take a seat. “And getting longer Mrs McAlister. Can I get you something? Coffee, tea or perhaps a Scotch? You’ll probably need it.” He shook his head as he opened a cabinet and took out a crystal decanter and two tumblers. “Laphroaig” The PM shrugged as he pressed a button on the intercom. “Sybil will you be so kind to bring Mrs McAlister a cup of tea?” before sitting down heavily in his chair. “Well I’ll get straight to the point Rebecca”. Formality over and done with, Rebecca thought as she sipped the single malt. “We’ve got a potential scandal on our hands. It’s Pat.” He paused as the secretary brought in a tray and placed an exquisite cup in front of Rebecca. “Thank you that will be all”. The PM dismissed his secretary and then focused his attention on Rebecca again. “We got a potential scandal on our hands. To cut a long story short. Pat is dead. Officially it’s treated as suicide but with the added” The Prime Minister pinched the bridge of his nose before he continued, “benefit of having a dead wife thrown into the mess for good measure.”

“Oh dear.” Rebecca tried to get her head around the enormity of the situation. Patrick Hawthorne was, or rather, had been the Home Secretary and a damn good one at that. However successful and respected he had been he had been struggling with bouts of depression. It was a kind of open secret amongst the Cabinet. It had looked as if the condition wouldn’t cause any big stir, but apparently, they had all been wrong. The Prime Minister continued to describe what had happened in a curt, laconic way. Pat having discovered that his wife was having an affair and had taken to the most primal of self-medication and confronting Jenny. It had ended with the latter’s untimely demise, a kitchen knife run through her heart. It was clearly a crime of passion, and there were possibly mitigating circumstances. However these remained academic as Pat had decided that he wouldn’t suffer the indignities of a trial and had consequently shoot himself. It was, as the Prime Minster concluded “a right fine mess and the tabloids will have a field day tomorrow.” He paused and then straightened up, suddenly seeming more alert than he had done during the entire conversation.

“As you are well aware, the Parliament is elected by the people, with a little help from the Queen of course, at least as far as asking the leader of the winning side to form Her Majesty’s Government. The Prime Minister appoints his, or her” The Prime Minister glanced at the photograph of Margaret Thatcher with a wry smile “cabinet and when unfortunate things happen it thusly falls to me to sort them out so that we can continue our work.” Rebecca arched an eyebrow at the impromptu lecture, which the PM seemed to pick up on “Sorry about the pompous manner. Anyhow and without further ado, I hereby appoint you the new Home Secretary”. He reached out to shake Rebecca’s hand and then added “Good luck, God knows you’re going to need it.”

***

It had probably been the longest night in Rebecca’s life. At least that was how it felt as she finally managed to get a few moments to herself in the Home Secretary’s office in Whitehall. Acting Home Secretary, now there was an impressive title, although Rebecca would gladly have foregone that, seeing the mess that her predecessor had left. She pinched the bridge of her nose and walked over to the large window. Armoured glass, of course, that caused the dull morning light to look fractured as it spilled in over the plush oriental carpet that lined the floor. The younger Rebecca, the one who was always peering over her shoulder, winced at her. This would have been the crowning glory of a political career that had few comparisons in modern history. Her younger self would be absolutely smitten with the idea, awed by the responsibilities of office and quite possibly, obnoxious in her desire to make things ‘better’.

The older, and admittedly, more cynical Rebecca wasn’t too sure that things could be changed for the better. Politics was about damage control rather than building a new Jerusalem. Rebecca snorted derisively as she opened the window and lit the umpteenth Benson & Hedges and leaned out to feel the cold autumn breeze on her face. The sharp smoke made her cough, she realised she had smoked too many cigarettes during the night. In a fit of disgust she flicked the remainder of her cigarette out the window and slammed the window shut. “You need to get a grip Rebecca” she told herself as she sat down in the leather armchair, making a mental note to replace it as soon as possible as would most of the furniture. It would probably be permissible, and if not then she’d do it anyway. The thought caused her to smile, if only for a moment. God know there had been precious little to smile about since she had been raised to the honourable office of Her Majesty’s Foreign Secretary.

And Zara hadn’t shown up, never mind answering her mobile phone.
Rebecca wasn’t sure if it was just another addition to the irritants of the day, or a blessing in disguise. It wasn’t that Zara did a bad job, quite the contrary, but her personality continued to chafe Rebecca’s sense of propriety. However If the truth was to be told, the main part that had suffered from Zara’s flamboyance was Rebecca’s ego. She hadn’t acknowledged that, even to herself and the admission somehow seemed to bring about a sense of calm. She’d been needlessly hard on the girl, after all, the fault was Rebecca’s as well, although there was no excuse for not showing up, or at least getting back to her.

“Sir Peter Rose is here to see you Home Secretary.” The heavy door opened as the secretary noiselessly walked inside and put a folder on the polished desk. “Can’t it wait?” Rebecca was in no mood for a meeting with the chief of MI5’s section B. “I’m sorry but Sir Peter was most insistent that he’d get to see you.” Jeanette, that was the name of the woman, Rebecca remembered as she nodded her assent “Very well I suppose we have to face up to the gritty realities of governing this Sceptered Isle.”

“Right Ma’am” the secretary smiled politely as she disappeared as silently as she had entered and a moment later ushered Sir Peter into Rebecca’s office. They had met before, and Rebecca seemed to recall that he had a past history in the army, decorated for bravery on at least one occasion. Rebecca got up from her seat and nodded as the spook walked across the carpeted floor. There was something almost homely about Sir Peter; his appearance reminding her more about an uncle with a penchant for military history than the man in charge of counter terrorism in Britain.

“Sir Peter.” Rebecca extended her hand across the desk and shook the director’s hand. “Home Secretary” came the laconic response as he waited for permission to sit down. “Acting Home Secretary for the time being. Please sit down.” Rebecca stressed the ‘acting’ part of her job description. “Of course Ma’am.” A polite smile as Sir Peter reached for his briefcase and coughed, as if preparing to deliver some mildly unpleasant news. “I’m sorry about this Home Secretary” he began as he consulted a dossier while declining an offer of tea. “About what?” Rebecca fixed him with a long stare. “No easy way to wrap this up I’m afraid so I’d best cut to the chase. Last night two of my officers apprehended Stephen Martyn.”
“On what charge?” Rebecca felt a chilly fingers grip her insides. Stephen Martyn, while not a friend, was an important frontbencher of the Conservative Party and with the news of Patrick Hawthorne’s untimely demise it was a thing that the Government couldn’t afford. “Espionage and possibly treason. Though that is for the Crown Prosecutor to decide of course. The matter at hand however does not concern mister,” Rose made the title sound akin to ‘child murderer’, “Martyn but rather Miss Millar.” He gave a sympathetic shrug as he looked at Rebecca. “It would appear that before Martyn went to see his contact” Rebecca quickly interjected “Presume for a moment that I am not familiar with the terminology of the security services. What contact would that be?” The question was pointed enough to make the director take pause. “I beg your pardon Ma’am. We’ve been keeping tabs on Martyn for some time now, and it proved that he was delivering classified information to an MSS operative.” Sir Peter made another pause “MSS, Chinese intelligence.” He offered her the explanation “My officers caught him and his handler in Soho a few hours ago.” Rebecca nodded “Commendable, though I can’t see what anything of this has to do with my PA.” Another piercing stare, which didn’t seem to rattle the spook. “Yes Ms Millar” Rose nodded “it would appear that the information that mister Martyn passed on the Chinese came from Ms Millar.” Once again Rose went quiet as if the matter was settled with the admission.

“Proof?” Rebecca sighed as she tried to make sense of the imparted information. “A USB-stick containing information related to the GCHQ report taken from miss Millar’s computer. We, that is, my officers...” Rebecca held up her hand in a pre-emptive gesture. “I think I get the picture. So where is Zara now?” She absentmindedly pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, “At Thames House. My people are interviewing her as we speak.” Sir Peter said in a neutral tone. “I presume that you haven’t coaxed a confession out of her yet then?” Rebecca felt a wave of anger rush through her “well I’m glad you told me Director and I expect that you will let her go. In fact” Rebecca continued in a low but determined tone of voice “I shall come with you to Thames House so you can safely release Ms Millar into my custody.”

She reached for her cigarettes and, despite the no-smoking policy of Whitehall, lit one. What use was there in being Home Secretary if she wasn’t allowed to break the rules? The sharp smoke drifted towards the ceiling in ghostly tendrils “Perhaps you should give your people a call Sir Peter. Tell them to hide the waterboard and what not.” She regretted the sentence as soon as she’d said it. “I apologise. It’s been a long night and I’d rather have spent the day with my daughter than having this on my desk.” Sir Peter shrugged “I can sympathise with that Home Secretary but nevertheless. It’s highly irregular to release a suspect just like that.”

“You know what?” Rebecca pushed a strand of hair from her forehead “When I saw the PM he gave me a lecture on the workings of our great democracy and the long of the short is that as Home Secretary I’m responsible for the Security Services. Keeping that in mind I think that we can assume that I not only can but also will, Sir Peter, have Zara Millar released. Do I make myself clear?”

“Abundantly so Home Secretary.” The Director smiled faintly as he collected his mobile from a pocket. “I shall make the call immediately.”

 

[Tanned_babe]

Whilst Mr McAlister drove his wife's researcher home, Zara's mind was not on the pleasant chit-chat the two exchanged. She was too busy considering her pending drinks with Stephen Martyn. It had been rather bolstering when the gent in his late 30's had ran out of Portcullis house in the cold London drizzle to invite her for a late supper at Rox, a lovely little bar/restaurant on Trafalgar Square. Not only was the MP for Hackney the type of man who looked good on proverbial paper but it would irritate her boss, who had been impeccably rude to the young woman this evening, a hell of a lot.

Being brought back to the present day as Mr McAlister cursed an irate driver who had just pulled out in front of his brand spanking new Jaguar. "So, I hear your parents are having their silver wedding anniversary party at The Balmoral next month." Mr McAlister commented. "I think we shall try to make it. Any excuse to get back to Edinburgh, you know. And of course give your parents our best wishes in person."

"Oh yes. I'm sure they will be very pleased to see you." Zara said trying to sound moderately enthused at the idea of spending yet more time with the McAlisters. Her father was, and still is, quite friendly with Rebecca's father. They had probably invited the McAlisters, not for this reason but as a not so subtle thank you for giving Zara a job. The young woman sighed heavily at the thought. "I doubt we'll see you there though."

"Oh, and why might that be, Zara?"

"Well, Rebecca doesn't seem to have much time for anything that isn't to do with the sodding conservative party, even-" Zara bit her tongue, she was about to say, Lucy but managed to stop herself. "And Scotland's a bit of a jaunt just for friends of the in-laws wouldn't you say?"

As the Jag pulled up outside Zara's flat in Park Lane, she turned to Mr McAlister as he thanked her, yet again for looking after Lucy. She looked at, what was a very attractive middle aged and wondered why he had settled for her boss. The woman seemed cold, indifferent and was probably rather frigid. Zara knew of several 20 something's that would be very keen to get to know him a little better. She actually did feel sorry for the man. "Hope to see you next month." Zara said and shut the door. Instantly pressing a cigarette between her full lips and inhaling the sweet aroma of nicotine.

Sixty minutes later Zara reemerged having gone from jeans and a Jack Wills jumper, smelling of the overpowering air fresher her bosses cleaner had sprayed that day to a sufisticated and stylish young woman. She was wearing a pair of black skin tight Armani jeans and a simple white floaty vest, contrasting, not by fluke, with an Agent Provocateur black bra. She had encased herself in a black blazer, allowed her hair to disrespect her wishes for it to keep straight, wearing it in a slightly messy wavy fashion and was about 4 and a half inches taller than when she had gotten out of Mr McAlister's car. Accountable by the beautiful black heels she had dawned.

A black Merc was waiting at the foot of the stairs of the Georgian building she shared with several other well-to-do types. Zara took a deep breath as she walked down the stairs towards the car. She had been on her fair share of dates and recently was feeling less and less excited at the prospect of sitting across from an upperclass 30-40 something listening to them rambling about politics, the 'underclass' and their holiday homes in Marbella before going back to her flat and having, what was normally, disappointing sex. However, she had been after a date with Stephen since the first time he had sauntered into Rebecca's office. Since that day she had watched him date numerous women, from older day time TV presenters to barely 18 year models covering Elle and Cosmo.

"Get in here, Gorgeous." Stephen said, with the slightest hint of authority as he rolled down the Merc's darkened window. "I hope you're hungry, I had to pull a couple of strings so they'd keep a table open for us."

"I thought when you said you'd pick me up, you were driving. Glad to see our party spends the tax payer's money in the right way. Also, I've already eaten." The young woman said as she slipped into the car, feeling the cool leather through her clothes. Zara, for all incredibly keen on tonight's going on, was not about to make Stephen aware of this.

"Fine, I'll just ply you with cocktails as I eat then." He winked. "So, rumour has it you have been demoted to nanny on accounts of flirting with male members of staff..."

The evening went from there. They do say that a jolly good bitch unites people and it was no exception for, Mr Martyn and Miss Millar. They went from Rox and moved onto 4F for another couple of drinks. Stephen, acting and looking the perfect gentleman all evening, he was, as always Savil Row through and through. Sipping his double 20 year old Balvenie, having just ordered Zara her fourth champagne cocktail.

Stephen, having sat on a chair opposite her moved round to the join her on the bench she was sitting upon. Pushing the crystal martini glass towards her Stephen inquired “So, obviously, you don’t get to be Sexy Bex’s researcher just by looking after little brats. I heard you put together a rather brilliant report on the GCHQ”

Raising a perfectly waxed eyebrow, Zara merely shook the comment off. “Yes, it was very good. However, I think we have discussed work enough, don’t you?” Zara, for all followed the goings on of her party was somewhat of a rarity within her work. She had never really campaigned, balloted whilst at University or even been a member of the ‘Conservative Society’. She had merely done as daddy had told her, determined not to become a mere housewife for a well to do businessman. But her recent lack luster for the political scene had meant there was a realization that she may end up following in her mother’s footsteps. Giving herself a subconscious shake she broke short silence that had formed, “So, Stephen, are you currently involved with anyone?” She asked, tilting her head to the side allowing her long blonde hair to cascade down over her shoulder.

“Well, not really.” He replied, readjusting himself, so he could look directly into Zara’s eyes. She wasn’t going to lie, she was disappointed- every women knows what ‘not really means’. “You see, I’ve been waiting for a certain…. Certain type of woman. And I know you may have heard the odd scandal about me in the media, but those bastards, they just blow everything way, way out of proportion. It’s because of all these hiccups that I’ve struggled to… obtain, if you will, the type of girl I really want. But, as I saw you heading out in that awful rain today, looking thoroughly ticked off, I could not wait any longer to ask you to come to dinner with me. I’ve just been waiting for the right time to ask you, you see?” His hand had slid down onto her denim encased thigh as he moved forward and planted her lips firmly on his. The hair’s on the back of Zara’s slender neck as he pulled away, moving his lips close enough to her ear that she could feel his hot breath as he whispered “I don’t want this to just be a one night thing.” Pressing her soft cheek against Stephen’s, Zara attempted to process what Mr Martin had just revealed to her. In her slightly intoxicated state of mind it all made utter sense. Why wouldn’t he want to be with her? Of course the media attention was nonsense. Her lips found his, again, kissing him hard on the mouth, gripping the expensive material of his suit jacket as she felt his strong hands moving further up her thigh to her slight waist.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Waking with a hard jolt, Zara, for a moment, thought she had dreamt the insessant banging coming from the direction of her hallway. Grudgingly, she got out of bed, only to be greeted by a wave of nausea, causing her to vomit in her washing basket. After several gut wrenching moments and having wiped her face on a miscellaneous item of clothing the young woman mustered the strength to tell, the person responsible for the banging door to shut up and that she'll be a minute.

Pulling on the first item of clothing that came to hand, a pair of black briefs and yesterday's white shirt she had worn to work yesterday Zara started making her way towards her front door. With every step she took, Zara was granted a flash back of the goings on of last night. She remembered her and Stephen had come back here. There had been music- loud music. Glancing towards her open plan kitchen she cringed, seeing an almost empty tequila bottle by the sink. She remembered being sitting on the marble worktop, in her underwear. He had poured the stuff into her mouth, it had seemed incredibly sexy at the time. However at this point in time, the thought made her gag.

With another step she was granted another flash back. He had deffinitely flung her, rather roughly onto the leather couch and gone down on her. And, yes, the beautiful Reese Vaun lamp her friend has given her was lying on the laminate flooring.

She seemed to have drawn a black as she reached the door. However, was granted a prompt as her bare foot brushed against a bottle of Don Perrigon. Zara cursed, she had been saving that for something special. Instead it had been half drunk, half used by Mr Martyn to pour down her back as he pushed her up against the wash hand basin in the bathroom and took her from behind.

She was at the front door now. 'Stephen! What the fuck are you doing out here?' she hissed opening the door, only to see, not Mr Martyn, but three suited personnel and four police officers. The foremost suit held up his badge, 'Chief inspector Thomas. You are Zara Millar, yes?' Zara barely managed a nod 'What-' but with that two police rushed forward, forcing her hands behind her back as the Inspector spoke again. 'Zara Millar. You are under arrest under charges of espionage and assisting in treason. Anything you say may be used against you in court'. She was then handed to another suit and escorted down the stairs of her flat. Only to hear Thomas tell he P.Cs to get forensics to 'turn the place upside down.'

----------------------------------------------------

'Get an interrogation room set up for Miss Millar,' Said the silent suit to another police officer at the reception area of Thames House. 'Yes, Inspector O'Donnell.'

'And get her changed, I don't want her thinking answering her door half naked will mean we'll go easy on her!'

After repeatedly asking why she was here and what was going on, Zara was getting inpatient. Hand cuffed, she could not grab the inspector to get his attention so gave him a swift kick on the back of the thigh. Her bare feet were by no means enough to hurt Inspector O'Donnell but it sure got his attention. 'You want to know why you're here, you little tart?!' he shouted, yanking on her head back with a fistful of her hair. 'You fucked that slime ball, Stephen Martyn silly last night before giving him access to top secret government information.'

'O'Donnell. Save it for the interrogation.' Shouted the inspector who arrested Zara in her apartment. 'Janet, get Miss Millar changed into something a bit....warmer.' He added.

--------------------------

Having sat in the interegation room, alone in her blue boiler suit for a short while thousands of thoughts were racing through Zara’s mind. There must be some mistake? She could not have been played the way that inspector said she had? And what's worse, they think she is in on it? Her career was over. There was no way this would go unpublished. Her parents would read all the gory details. Rebecca would fire her- she'd have to. The panic within Zara's mind began to build and she could feel the anxiety almost bubble over. She did her best to try and stifle the oncoming panic attack and had no option but to do so as the door burst open. It was Thomas and O'Donnell. They sat opposite her and turned the recording device on.

'Do you have any idea who my father is? The connections I have?' gasped Zara. The two men looked at each other before Thomas spoke, 'Well, of course we do, Zara. The question is, are you aware of just how badly these people could be affected by your actions?' he asked, looking at the girl sitting across from him in a very concerned manner. 'Do you really want to get external parties involved in all this, right now? How about you tell us what happened last night?'

‘I need my lawyer. I am not going to say another word to you without a lawyer present.’

‘Come on, Zara.’ O’Donnell growled, getting up and moving behind the young women. Zara heard the light jingle of keys and felt the pressure ease from her wrists as he removed her handcuffs. ‘Recon between today and last night you would have had enough of these.’ He chuckled placing the shiny restraints on the aluminum table in front of her. She could feel her cheeks redden in both embarrassment and anger. ‘Anyway, you say you want a lawyer? Well, that’s no problem. You are entitled to your phone call, of course. So charge on- call your high profile family lawyer, you know, the one who can’t leave his office without the media following him.’

‘Zara, don’t be stupid. Just tell us what happened. Did he pay you? Blackmail you? Hurt you?’ Thomas enquired with a look of concern on his face. It was classic good-cop-bad-cop. The two continued their attempts to gain information from the young woman, however she stayed quiet battling her urge to both hyperventilate and scream at the two men. Eventually, Zara reached breaking point and, visibly shaking, throw both her fists down onto the metal table- causing a loud bang which made all three people in the room jump. ‘I didn’t do anything!! I don’t need the money! I was not blackmailed! I just had too much to drink and made an, obviously stupid mistake! Why the fuck can’t you see that?!’

This outburst was greeted a swift nod from the chief inspector sitting before her followed by a harsh yank of her long, albeit messy, hair. Zara winced with the pain as she was forced to look up O’Donnell who had remained behind her throughout the interview. It was evident the slightly overweight, unattractive inspector was not pleased and about to demonstrate his anger, however, there was a knock at the door. He let go of Zara’s hair, pushing her head roughly out of his hand and headed towards the door. ‘I told you I didn’t want any fucking disruptions!!’