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‘Traffic is bad this morning, sir. Might take us at least thirty minutes to get into town.’
‘Don’t worry Henry, just do your best.’
‘You can count on that, sir.’
The Bentley slid away from Charles’ house and from suburbia, teleporting him away from normality and into his hectic, professional life. Charles attempted to gather his thoughts in the car as his Blackberry® beeped at him continuously, alerting him to urgent emails which required his attention. He loved his job, he did. But lately he felt like a fraud. All the posturing drove him mad. He knew what had changed in him; he’d not been the same since it had happened. Charles closed his eyes in frustration; he had sworn to himself that he would not think about it anymore. Yet here he was, performing the same dance with his mind that he did every morning. He rubbed his temple in desperation.
‘Headache sir? There are some ibuprofen in the cabinet back there,’ Henry said, glancing at his boss in his mirror.
‘Oh right, thanks.’ Charles leant forward and found the box of capsules and took two, knowing that they would be unable to alleviate the cause of his pain.
Charles began to scroll through his Blackberry® whilst gazing out of the car window, watching London begin to rise up all around him. The city was bustling, even at this early hour.
The Bentley weaved through the city streets, sharp and black like a bullet heading for its target. The traffic wasn’t as bad as Henry had anticipated and within twenty minutes they had paused at the black gates which were eagerly parting to grant the car and its important occupant passage.
The car door opened and Charles stepped out, immediately greeted by another man in a suit who shook his hand eagerly.
‘Good morning Deputy,’ Simon Pruit smiled enthusiastically.
Charles didn’t relish being addressed as Deputy. It made him sound like he belongedin an American sheriff’s office, rather than being the British Deputy Prime Minister. He was certain that Simon used the greeting just to get under his skin.
‘Morning, Simon,’ Charles smiled in response, finding the man, as always, irritatingly eager at such an ungodly hour. He envisioned Simon thrusting caffeine straight into his veins in an attempt to keep a permanently preppy demeanour. But Simon was loyal and hardworking, if overly hyper, which were qualities Charles valued highly in his Cabinet.
‘How was your commute this morning? I hear that the traffic was terrible. I suppose it’s the price you pay if you desire to live out of the city-centre,’ Simon rambled the words out quickly as they turned and passed through the most famous door in England; number 10 Downing Street. The door was as black as the Bentley which had bought Charles there and the suit he was wearing. The only dash of colour was the striking blue of his tie, a permanent symbol of his political allegiance.
‘You’ve got the meeting with the American Ambassador at ten,’ Simon began reeling off Charles’ itinerary for the day as the man walked further into the building, delivering brief ‘hellos’ and ‘good mornings’ as they went. It always surprised Charles how many people were present so early in the day, already hard at work. It almost made him feel guilty that he hadn’t dedicated as much time, but then he wasn’t willing to give up sleep altogether, as he assumed they must have.
‘Good morning sir.’ Faye Smith, Charles’ assistant, handed him a stack of pre-opened and date-stamped letters as he rounded a corner to his office. Simon instinctively ceased to walk with him, knowing that the next half hour was when Charles was alone in his office to catch up on correspondence.
‘See you at ten,’ Simon called after him as they parted ways.
‘Good morning, Faye,’ Charles smiled at his hardworking assistant, knowing in his heart that lately there was never a ‘good’ morning.
Charles Lloyd’s office was the epitome of opulent grandeur. The furniture was made from the finest mahogany wood and his chair, and the couches which lined the other two walls, of the softest, most exquisite leather. It was the same office which had hosted Deputy Prime Ministers for decades before him and little had changed.
Personally, Charles was not fond of his office. The décor was not to his taste but he knew better than to attempt to alter it or even vocalise his opinion. The office, and everything in it, was a part of British history; it was he who was interchangeable. The men in the chair came and went, none naïve enough to make the space their own.
In the grand scheme of things, Charles spent very little time in his office; even less time over recent months and that suited him just fine. He found the room almost oppressive. It reminded him too much of his grandfather’s old study; all that was missing was the constant cloud of cigar smoke misting the air. Charles had never been fond of his grandfather, finding the old man far too judgemental of those he was supposed to love and cherish, and sitting each day in a room more befitting to his tastes than his own made him feel uncomfortable and out of place. The office symbolised everything in Charles which he tried to forget; the history, the tradition. He had been born into the elite, and studied at Eton College. From a young age he had shown leadership skills and therefore had been groomed for his current role for many years. His grandfather did not live to see his grandson’s triumph, not that it mattered – he had already done enough during his lifetime to orchestrate the event.
The presence of Charles’ coffee, bagel and morning papers were a welcome distraction from the barrage of thoughts which had begun to penetrate his mind. They rarely stopped these days, with even sleep refusing to offer him the solace he so desperately needed. Faye, ever efficient, always ensured that he had a copy of each of the broadsheets on his desk almost the second after they had been pressed, along with a coffee – black, two sugars – and a bagel with a side helping of cream cheese. The bagel was a relatively new addition to Charles’ breakfast. He acquired a taste for them after a trip to meet with the new American President. He’d also grown particularly fond of pancakes, but he knew that he could not indulge that desire every morning if he intended to keep fitting into all of his suits.
One thing Charles did like about his office was the quiet. He welcomed the solitude he found in there. Outside of the office, people constantly had questions for him, urgent matters they simply had to discuss. Charles never shied away from his duties, always embracing them with dignified sincerity which made him popular amongst the people of England. But he liked that, for half an hour each morning, Faye would intercept his phone calls and he could be truly alone with only the newspapers for company.
Faye would usually highlight key pages which he should read. Whilst Charles was grateful for her zeal, he did sometimes worry that she had little semblance of a life beyond the duties of her job. He had once tried to make idle small talk about her plans for the weekend but the poor woman had appeared so uncomfortable that he chosenever to attempt it again. He would gently berate her if she worked late or emailed him on the weekends but it fell on deaf ears. Elaine would point out when he raised his concerns to her that it was not that she was working too hard, but rather that he lacked the required level of dedication.
In those moments, where Elaine would insinuate that Charles did not work hard enough, he would feel the anger rise up inside him to the point where he had to leave the room for fear of boiling over. Charles had all but forgotten who he was, so consuming was the role of Deputy Prime Minister. He barely had a moment to himself. His circle of friends had thinned to the point where it barely existed, as people tired of his lack of availability. Evenwhen he was available, his security always had to go and survey venues first and often accompany him on trips, which didn’t go down well when he was merely attending a friend’s child’s birthday party. If Charles worked any harder, he would completely fade away and he was determined not to lose himself. He clung on to the tiny shreds of his personality which remained with an intense ferocity.
Recently, things had been even more intense after there was a terrorist threat made on Downing Street. It turned out to be a hoax but now Charles was constantly monitored by his security. A part of him felt sickened to be a target. He valued his life as much as any man and felt foolish to have so openly put himself out there, to become a public figure. But this had never been his dream. His natural charisma and charm had just made him a perfect candidate and those around him who were supposed to love and nurture him had modelled him in their desire to satiate their own needs.
Sighing, Charles shook his head and tried to shake away the angry thoughts which were brewing like a storm. He took a bite from his bagel and began chewing on it as he shifted through the first of his papers. He hadn’t always felt this bitter. It was only recently that he had begun to think about things differently. He loved his job, he loved being a voice for the people, but his heart didn’t feel in it anymore. He felt numb. He was only too aware of the cause of his despondency but he refused to acknowledge it. He hoped that if he ignored the problem it would go away but each day felt a little bit harder than the one before, the lines around his eyes growing deeper, the shadow over his heart darkening.
The first paper offered nothing unexpected. There was a brief mention of the latest arguments brewing about changes to NHS funding which Faye had dutifully highlighted. Charles drank his coffee, the warm fluid as dark as his furniture giving him a welcomed increase in energy levels. Caffeine was his only vice these days. As a young man he had smoked and drank in frighteningly large quantities, but these were attributes which were not befitting a man in power and so he was forced to stamp them out to the point where it was never talked of, like some dirty illegitimate secret. He couldn’t even enjoy a whisky on a plane or at a gala event. Elaine handled his life with such military precision that he never even had the opportunity to be tempted. He remembered fondly how she had gone away for a spa weekend, and home alone he’d drank and smoked to his heart’s content, feeling like a naughty teenager which added to the excitement of it all. The day before her return Simon had helped him air his house and destroy all the evidence. Charles had really enjoyed that weekend.
The first tentative rays of morning sunlight snaked their way across the carpet lining Charles’ office. Aware that time, ever the inpatient mistress, was fading fast, he began to shift through his pile of papers with increased vigour. With his coffee cup now drained, Charles felt renewed and alert. He consumed the remainder of his bagel as he scanned the third paper in the pile before reaching down to pick up the fourth and usually final paper. To his surprise, a fifth paper was concealed beneath the last of the broadsheets, a paper he did not normally read. Bemused, Charles picked up the copy of The Shadow, a notorious tabloid which revelled in stories of smut and scandal. He wondered if perhaps Faye had accidentally placed it there; maybe it was the paper she normally read and had bought it with his own papers and merely forgotten to remove it from the pile. But that wasn’t like Faye; she rarely ever made a mistake. If she had put the paper on his desk there must be something in it she felt he should see.
Charles riffled through the pages of The Shadow but didn’t spot any articles highlighted for his attention. He furrowed his brow in both frustration and annoyance. It simply wouldn’t do for him to be seen reading a tabloid newspaper. He wondered what on earth Faye was playing at? Determined to believe that the presence of the paper was deliberate, he began reading through it once more, this time in more detail. He found himself blushing at the young woman topless on the opening pages; it was so brazen and un-ladylike. He felt that it cheapened sex when women would remove their clothes for money; Charles preferred the mystery of it all and the act of seduction itself.
The second read through still failed to offer any explanation for the paper being on Charles’ desk. Exasperated, he put it down, his hand hovering over the phone on his desk, wondering whether he should call Faye and ask her what, exactly, he was supposed to be looking at.
He cast his eyes over the page which was currently spread open across his desk and he felt his heart momentarily stop beating in his chest. There it was, small and seemingly insignificant, tucked up in the far corner. To everyone else it was barely newsworthy, but to Charles, it was everything. He re-read the same section of the paper over and over again, not quite believing the words which lay before him in stark black and white.
Tears began to gather behind his tired blue eyes and Charles felt his throat throb and ache with the exertion of suppressing a sob. He ran a shaking hand across his face in an attempt to calm himself before reading the words again; trying to absorb the information they held, trying to accept the reality of it.
22-year-old Lorna Thomas of Kent was found dead in her car in the early hours of this morning. Police have ruled that she committed suicide.
The statement was so clinical, so simple. To the world, Lorna Thomas was no-one, just another tragic young death. Her suicide was so inconsequential in the grand scheme of national news that her death didn’t even warrant the inclusion of a picture. Charles was grateful for the omission of her image. If she had been there, gazing up at him from beyond the grave, the news would have been all the harder to bear. Charles reached down and let his fingers rest over the words. They lingered there longingly, as if wishing the subject would somehow manifest herself right there in the office.
Charles closed his eyes and tried to forget where, and who he was. He tried to picture Lorna’s face, her delicate features ever the image of perfection. The thought of her gone was overwhelming, Charles began to feel as though he were drowning, like he couldn’t breathe. Desperately he pulled at the tie that hung around his neck like a noose, loosening it and alleviating some of his tension. There, in the privacy of his office he let his head fall in to his hands and released one solitary tear for the dead girl. It was all he could risk doing whilst at work, beneath the scrutiny of his staff. He needed to be alone; he needed time to think, to process his thoughts.
The benefit. Charles groaned as he recalled the event his wife had reminded him of earlier that very morning. Every night there was a different benefit or gala to attend, a constant parade of charities vying for his allegiance, all of them equally worthy in cause but he himself feeling like a shambled commodity. He attended so many, and with such frequency, that he wondered what integrity his presence even carried anymore. He couldn’t go. He knew that. He was in no mind to be around people, to smile politely and greet complete strangers with the same warmth he would extend to old friends. He needed to let Elaine know. She would be angry, he expected that, and ultimately she would attend without him, which meant that he could spend the evening alone, which was what he needed.
Charles had the receiver in his hand and was about to press the button which would link him to Faye’s desk when he paused. Normally, he would just ask Faye to connect him to his wife, and Faye would dutifully track her down. But Faye had left The Shadow in his office which meant that she knew about Lorna and suddenly Charles felt sheepish. He decided to bypass his assistant and called his home directly. After seven rings his wife answered, sounding clearly displeased to have done so.
‘Lloyd Residence,’ she said tersely down the line.
‘Darling, it’s me,’ Charles tried to keep his voice level and steady, attempting to mask his pain.
‘Charles! Why are you calling me? Is Faye off sick?’
‘No, no, Faye is fine just … busy,’ Charles lied.
‘Busy! Too busy to assist the Deputy Prime Minister?’ Elaine sounded genuinely outraged as she spoke. ‘That girl needs to sort her priorities out!’
‘Darling, its fine, I wanted to speak with you directly.’
‘Oh, I see, what a lovely surprise,’ Elaine’s anger momentarily thawed. ‘As much as I appreciate the call, dear, don’t you have a country to run?’ she said mockingly.
‘Oh, yes that’s right I do, thanks for the reminder!’ Charles joked back. ‘It is just a quick call darling, about the event tonight.’
‘Black tie as usual,’ Elaine answered, presuming the reasoning behind the call.
‘Actually I can’t make it.’ Charles braced himself for his wife’s response.
‘Charles, why ever not? I have promised the organisers that you will be there!’
‘I’m so sorry, darling, but something has come up.’
‘Something? What sort of something?’
‘You know that I can’t discuss those sorts of things with you.’ Charles didn’t enjoy hiding behind his job, but he had done it so many times before that the charade came naturally to him.
‘Right, well, fine. I will have to go though, to represent us,’ Elaine sighed into the receiver.
‘Thank you for understanding.’
‘Yes, well, being married to one of the most powerful men in the country can have its downsides you know, like having to deal with disappointments.’
‘As always, you conduct yourself with grace and poise my darling. I know that you will be an asset to the Lloyd dynasty tonight when you attend.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Elaine was smiling now as she spoke, Charles could tell. ‘I’d picked out the most wonderful Vera Wang dress to wear.’
‘I’m sorry but I must go, duty calls.’ As the conversation veered towards fashion Charles knew it was time to bail out.
‘Have fun tonight.’ He hung up, three last words sticking in his throat, refusing to be released. It had been years since he had signed off a phone call to his wife with the words, ‘I love you’.
Charles thought of the day which lay ahead of him, of the meetings he must attend, the smile he must fake for so many hours before he would be alone again. Until then, he had to push Lorna out of his mind but he knew that would be impossible. For months she had tormented his thoughts, lingered in all his dreams. He knew that even her death would not cease her from haunting him.
He read the tiny excerpt once more. Suicide. The word jumped out from the page, wretched and cruel. Charles failed to understand why a young woman so vivacious and brimming with youth and an insatiable lust for life could suddenly decide that she wanted to die. What could drive her to do something so drastic? Guilt suddenly pinched at the base of Charles’ neck. His own actions could have been responsible for this. He looked down at his hands and wondered if they were potentially drenched in her young blood?
A brisk knock upon his office door disturbed Charles’ thoughts. He shook his head, trying to dismiss the image of Lorna which had settled within his minds’ eye, and cleared his throat.
‘Come in.’
Faye entered his office. She always appeared alert and eager, like a kitten, constantly glancing around for something to do, seeking out any task or errand which needed her attention. But when she saw her boss her features saddened.
‘You saw the paper then,’ she said, bowing her head slightly in respect for the deceased.
‘Yes, thank you for bringing that to my attention.’ Charles tried to appear composed but inside he was starting to fall apart.
Faye Smith had worked for Charles Lloyd since he had first begun his political campaign. She had helped him progress to his current position and felt that she knew him well. She saw now that he was in pain, which was what she had expected would happen.
‘I’ve arranged for flowers to be sent to the family.’ she told him gently.
‘Thank you.’
Charles suddenly wished that he was a nobody. That way he could attend Lorna’s funeral and no one would care, his attendance would go unnoticed. But being somebody meant that if he went there, he would cause a sensation, and detract from the tragic girl within the coffin which would not be his intention at all.
‘Would you like another coffee?’ Faye asked. Charles merely shook his head, his eyes downcast, lost in thought.
Faye hesitated for a moment. She knew what she wanted to say, what Charles needed to hear, she was just unsure if in saying it she crossed a line which she should never stray over as his employee. But she saw his pain, and knew she had to ease it any way she could. Charles Lloyd was a good, kind man, which she knew from first-hand experience. She would not have him feeling any other way.
‘It’s not your fault, you know.’
Charles looked up at his assistant, grateful for her words even if he did not believe them himself.
‘The Ambassador has already arrived. Would you like me to stall the meeting?’ The moment between them had passed and Faye had resumed her role as assistant, effortlessly breaking away from counsellor and confidante.
‘No, no, I’ll be fine,’ Charles said, knowing that, outwardly at least, he would be presentable for his meeting.
‘Alright then.’ Faye removed herself from the office, wondering if she had made the right decision in placing the newspaper on his desk. Perhaps she could have softened the blow for him, but then she had no idea of protocol in these sorts of situations.
Charles closed the copy of The Shadow, sealing away the news of Lorna’s death. It pained him to see how little the media cared, the pittance of a piece she had been given. If they knew the truth, her suicide would have been sensationalized, so perhaps it was best that to them she was still a nobody. Now, only he and Faye knew the truth; that for six months, Lorna Thomas had been having an affair with the Deputy Prime Minister of England.
Chapter Two (#ulink_05fd4bbc-c16a-5ce8-8a4f-374ce92a1488)
An affair to remember
The day flew by in a blur of insincere handshakes with intermissions of coffee. Charles felt like a zombie as he attended his morning meetings, going through the motions but feeling detached from the events which were unfolding before him. He was grateful when he bid the American delegates goodbye and could retreat back to the comforting solitude of his office.
As promised, Faye had cancelled all his meetings that afternoon, leaving him with time, which Charles had discovered to be the most precious commodity. He wanted to sit in his antiquated bat cave and think of Lorna, but he didn’t dare to. To remember her there would make the pain too fresh, too raw. He would wait until he was home alone, choosing to spend the remainder of the day trawling through the mountain of emails which had built up for him since that morning.
Charles sat and hammered away at his keyboard, hoping that keeping up with his correspondence would help dull the throb of despair which was pulsating at the back of his mind. But with each word he typed he sank further into a mire of misery. He wanted to go home but he knew he could not face Elaine. He had no choice but to wait until a later hour when she would be at the gala event. It was either that or book into a hotel but he felt like he needed to be in familiar surroundings. A foreign place, especially a hotel room, would only pour salt onto an already gaping open wound.
As the sun began to set, Charles decided to take his leave. Faye had kept a respectful distance since that morning.
‘See you tomorrow, sir,’ she nodded at him as he passed by her desk, his Bentley waiting patiently outside for him.
‘Hope you sleep well,’ Faye added as an earnest afterthought, aware of her employer’s ongoing battle with insomnia.
‘Thank you,’ Charles smiled, knowing that if sleep had evaded him before, that now with this extra woe, it would surely forever be beyond his grasp. He felt tired just thinking about it all.
In the back seat of the Bentley, Charles could feel his emotions scrambling to the surface, excited by the prospect of at last being released.
‘Did my wife get to the benefit alright?’ Charles leant forward and asked Henry, wanting to ensure that his house was going to be empty when he arrived home.
‘Yes, sir, she did.’ Henry answered politely.
‘Good.’ Charles felt relieved. Alone, he could grieve.
Dusk had set in when Charles Lloyd arrived back in suburbia. He left his car and walked up to his front door, his free hand proffering the household key. He waited until the door was firmly shut behind him before leaning against it and sliding to the ground, his arms locked around himself in a solo embrace. Now was when he wanted the tears to come, the tears which he had fought against all day long, but there was nothing. He wailed out in the emptiness; a cry of anguish and pain. The house was silent in reply and he wailed again, louder this time.
‘She can’t be dead,’ he whispered to himself. ‘She just can’t be.’
Charles remained on the floor by his front door for what felt like hours before eventually hauling himself to his feet and walking in to his now darkened home. He put the lights on sparingly, preferring an atmosphere of gloom than one of radiant light. He wandered upstairs and removed his suit – the uniform he was forced to wear – and put on something more comfortable; some jeans and a pullover sweatshirt. It felt liberating to be wearing something so casual.
‘Lorna.’ He muttered the dead girl’s name, his lips forming the familiar letters with tenderness.
He leaned back, closing his eyes and allowed himself to think of Lorna. Not of her gone, but of when they first collided into one another’s lives. He forced the memory to the surface, welcoming the pain it would undoubtedly bring, because he wanted to remember her; he wanted to relive the excitement of when he first saw her. In his mind he could keep her with him, their love never ending.
Lorna Thomas had recently graduated from Cardiff University with a first-class honours degree in political history. She was a fiercely intelligent girl, her impressive mind matched only by her unwavering ambition. On leaving higher education, she quickly acquired a placement as an intern within Downing Street. For a girl who one day dreamed of being the second female Prime Minister, it was an ideal job.
Charles Lloyd had just completed his first year in the role of Deputy Prime Minister. He felt that he was beginning to find his feet and establish his authority over the Cabinet and the rest of the country. He’d implemented some major changes which, whilst met with a lukewarm reception initially, were now revealing positive outcomes. His political career had reached the biggest peak he had ever known.
Traditionally, interns within Downing Street would be assigned a junior member of staff to shadow for their time there, the goal being to learn as much from them about the role as possible and then to take their newly acquired talents on with them. Charles was a firm believer in the intern system as he felt that it gave an invaluable opportunity to those who were young and eager to learn. He wanted to play a part in helping to shape the minds of future leaders. The positions were highly sought after, with applicants having to go through numerous rounds of testing and interviews before the elite few were chosen to take up the internships for the next cycle.
Lorna Thomas was delighted when she was offered an internship, especially as it was to shadow Faye Smith, the Deputy Prime Minister’s personal assistant. Faye was not quite so thrilled by the prospect, feeling that an intern would merely be a hindrance to her work. She carefully broached the subject with Charles the morning before Lorna was due to commence her internship. Handing the Deputy Prime Minister his coffee, Faye cleared her throat and nervously made her feelings known.
‘As you know, I will have an intern working with me for the next six months.’
