Polls Apart

1

LLOYD’S MURDERESS ROLE COULD THROW ELECTION CAMPAIGN

Friday, March 13th

2009, UK Newswire

Anna Lloyd, wife of SDP leader Richard Williams, today faced further criticism over her decision to appear nude in a controversial TV drama to be screened just weeks before a widely-expected General Election.

In the ITV thriller, Dancing With Danger, Lloyd plays a serial killer who cuts the throats of her clients while performing for them in private at a lap-dancing club.

The 37-year-old actress’s decision to appear in the show has angered many in the Social Democratic Party who fear the controversy could throw their campaign off course before it has even begun.

Mr Williams has yet to comment on his wife’s role, but sources close to the opposition leader say he is concerned about the public’s possible reaction to her performance which comes as Prime Minister Kelvin Davis looks set to call a May 7th General Election.

Joy Gooding, spokesperson for Lloyd, dismissed the controversy as nothing but a storm in a teacup, and said the actress was hugely proud of the production and of her performance.

Anna held her hand up protectively in front of her as she battled her way through the throng of reporters, photographers and TV crews all jostling to get close. Her PR agent, Joy Gooding, walked directly ahead and tried valiantly to get the crowd to clear a path. One particularly persistent TV reporter kept thrusting her microphone under Anna’s chin whilst repeating the same question over and over: Are you hampering your husband’s bid to become prime minister, Ms Lloyd?

Anna hated people getting too close and she felt panic surge as she struggled to dodge the reporter’s microphone only to stumble into the path of a photographer. She tried to correct her footing, but her left ankle twisted under her and within seconds she was heading for the ground. She gasped and thrust her hands out to break her fall, but the inevitable thump against the pavement was halted by a sudden firm grip around her left arm. She looked up into the face of the man pulling her to her feet. He was staring intently and mouthing words she couldn’t make out above the sound of the crowd and the blood rushing around her head. His eyes were a piercing, icy blue that cut straight into her, drawing out a sickening mix of emotions she hadn’t experienced in twenty years. It couldn’t be, she thought. He was dead. But the man clasping her arm and staring at her in confusion was a terrible reminder of him.

She flailed momentarily then pulled herself sharply from the man’s grasp, unable even to offer a simple thank you.

Don’t mention it, she heard him call after her but she didn’t look back – she wanted to get as far away from him, and the memory he evoked, as possible. No doubt he would think her rude. After all, it wasn’t his fault he happened to bear a striking resemblance to the man who still haunted her in her dreams, but it was too late to make amends now.

She saw Joy holding the car door open and quickly climbed inside.

With the door now shut behind them, Anna closed her eyes and began the breathing exercises taught to her by her therapist.

Joy sat quietly next to her, aware she shouldn’t interrupt the ritual.

Anna tried to focus only on the sound of her breath and to put the afternoon behind her. She had been helping launch a new homeless charity initiative which Joy had promised would take under an hour but had, in fact, ended up running to more than three times that. By the time she’d toured the women’s hostel, met some of the volunteers and residents, posed for pictures inside and out, and generally been shoved around, all she wanted to do was go home, relax and leave the exhausting public persona outside. Her jaws ached from smiling and her head throbbed from the sheer effort of constantly having to talk and listen.

The breathing was beginning to work its magic and she felt a sense of inner calm return. She drifted into a semi-sleep only to be brought back to reality seconds later by a tugging on her sleeve.  

Anna opened her eyes and turned to look sharply at her friend and PR representative.

It’s Richard, Joy said, waving her mobile phone in front of her. Did you not hear your phone ringing?

I was trying to relax. She flashed Joy an annoyed glance as she reached out to take her phone, hoping she would get the hint that she hadn’t appreciated the extended outing.

Anna hastily answered, confident Richard would be calling to praise her on the hostel trip.

Hi Richard, she said breezily.

Happy now? he barked.

I beg your pardon?

You heard.

Richard, Anna answered calmly, no stranger to his stress-induced rants. I’m in the car with Joy at the moment. Can I call you back later?

No you bloody can’t call me back, Anna. I have two minutes before I have to go into yet another planning meeting that will more than likely last hours. Top of the agenda is sure to be my actress wife grabbing the headlines again and threatening to overshadow every ounce of effort I’ve spent the last two years putting in to winning this damn election.

Anna turned to look at Joy and rolled her eyes. She knew her assistant had become used to overhearing her spats with Richard. Privately she was embarrassed that their rows were so frequently overheard, whilst publicly she would make light of them.

Don’t be ridiculous, Richard. It’s only a TV role – how could that possibly throw your campaign off track? Anna winked at Joy again, indicating she felt she had the upper hand in the argument.

Because, who I’m married to and what they do matters, Anna. Everything you do, I have to defend. Today, instead of answering questions on our new Young and Working initiative, I had to explain why my wife would be appearing nude as a psychotic lap dancer before millions of TV viewers.

Deep down, Anna could see that her latest role didn’t exactly fit with the straight-and-narrow persona the Social Democrats expected from a leader’s wife, but she’d done it now and she wasn’t going to let Joy hear her backing down to Richard again. She cleared her throat and prepared to strike back. Well, you should be grateful you finally had something interesting to talk about, Richard. Look, I’ll never be Barbara Bush, okay? Twinset and pearls are not my style. I’m an actress, not a nun. And anyway, I’ve just spent the whole afternoon in a refuge for the homeless; my every blink picked up by the cameras. That’s bound to make up for any negative coverage today. Anna smiled again, satisfied she’d done enough to win Richard over; but her husband was not for turning.

Nice idea, but you have to do a lot more than hang out in a homeless hostel for a couple of hours to win over a sceptical electorate. I have to go. See you tonight.

Okay, said Anna, with more than a hint of meekness. Richard...

Yes.

I love you.

I love you too, darling. I’m just bloody stressed to the eyeballs.

Anna tossed her mobile phone into her handbag before leaning back against the headrest and letting out a long, frustrated sigh.

Take it Richard’s having another bad day? Joy asked with a raised eyebrow.

Richard is always having a bad day at the moment, and I usually seem to be at the centre of it. I blame Henry Morton, personally.

Yes, he is a total shit, isn’t he, agreed Joy, her New York accent still dominating what had become an anglicised drawl after fifteen years of living in the UK.

Why are you married to him then?

Gotta have someone to split the mortgage with, haven’t you?

Joy laughed. Course, you won’t have that problem when you’re living at Number 10.

No, but even more than now I’ll be expected to keep my mouth shut and swap Dolce and Gabbana for an M&S twinset.

His expectations of what you’ll wear aren’t really that severe are they?

Well. Anna shrugged. Henry has already warned me about my ‘alternative look’. In his view, I’m expected to look ‘uncomplicated’, keep my mouth shut and do whatever I’m told.

"Just stick to who you are, Anna, and you’ll be fine. You’ve got a terrific career in your own right, and Richard should count himself damned lucky to have you by his side. The best celebrity endorsement poor old Kelvin can come up with is a half-extinct Dad’s Army star. I wouldn’t swap you for that."

Thanks, Joy. Anna smiled. That’s good to know.

* * *

Anna poured herself a glass of red and happily sank into her favourite leather armchair while she waited for Richard to get home and berate her further. On the rare evenings he was in they would often sit with a glass of wine and pick over that day’s controversy, sometimes involving them but more often – and more fun – involving Kelvin and the Alliance Party.

That was what she relished about her relationship with Richard most – the fact that, despite all the pressure, they could still laugh together. She glanced at the antique clock proudly taking centre stage on their mantelpiece. It was nearly nine o’clock, so she guessed Richard would have already eaten on his way home from his constituency or wherever he was tonight; she rarely asked any more. At least it’s a Friday, she thought.

She sat back and tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair as she waited, before suddenly springing upright again after spotting an enormous cobweb covering the corner of her ceiling. Anna made a mental note to ask Joanna the cleaner to get rid of it when she arrived on Monday. As her eyes trailed around the rest of the room, she felt a pang of sadness at the thought they would more than likely have to leave their house in what felt like the sheltered suburb of Highgate soon to live in Downing Street. They had bought their home together when they married six years ago. Anna had decorated each room herself, choosing traditional styles, splashing out on thick, heavy curtains, luxurious merino throws, Persian rugs and fine furnishings. Not very SDP, she realised, but then she had paid for most of it herself. Tonight, she took an extra moment to appreciate her handiwork.

She heard Richard’s key in the lock and waited as he hung up his coat in the hallway. When he finally appeared in the doorway to the lounge he looked as soaked from the rain as he did frazzled.

I’m guessing you could use one of these, Anna said, dangling her glass in front of her.

I need more than one.

Help yourself, she said, pointing to the glass and bottle she’d left for him on the coffee table.

Thanks. He quickly poured his drink and sat back against the luxurious mass of cushions that lined their sofa. Anna could tell by the way he was staring blankly at the ceiling that he was stewing on something.

Is it all my fault today then? she enquired.

Mostly you, if I’m honest.

What. All over a bloody acting job?

Not just that, no. He turned to look at her. You’re increasingly being seen as a liability. It’s very difficult to paint a picture of a man firmly in control of his party – and soon country, hopefully – when I don’t appear to be able to get a grip on my own wife.

Get a grip on me. What does THAT mean?

It means you never stop to think how your behaviour might reflect on me. You run around taking any acting job you like and are too busy attending showbusiness gatherings with Joy to come to official functions with me.

Oh, this is just Henry talking now, Anna said, flapping her hand as though batting his criticism away.

No, Anna. This is not Henry talking. This is me talking.

Richard leaned forward and stared into his wine glass which he now clasped firmly between his hands, the vein at the top of his temple pulsing as it always did when he became highly agitated. What are you going to do when we get to Downing Street, Anna? Have you thought about that?

Anna watched Richard take several large gulps from his glass before running his right hand through his increasingly-thinning hair. Although he was only forty-four, she noticed the last two years of party leadership had not been kind to his once youthful looks. He’d given up the gym several months previously when his timetable could no longer afford it, with the direct consequence that his once lean and solid frame had now settled for just lean. The greys sprouting through his jet-black hair were strengthening in number and intensifying their march across his scalp.

Anna, on the other hand, was faring considerably better at thirty-seven, and was still being cast as women ten years younger. Regular visits to her hairdresser, Torquin Sellars, ensured no one need ever know she, too, was harbouring greys among her once-natural blonde locks. And she was still clinging on to her place in the top ten of the annual most beautiful women polls – though she knew those days were numbered. While critics had regularly questioned her acting ability, none had ever questioned her looks and she frequently wondered – feared – her face and figure were the sole reasons she’d ever got anywhere in life. To many she appeared as the vacuous, trophy wife with the easy life. But she knew the truth: life was anything but easy when you had a destructive secret boring its way a little further into your soul with every passing day. The burden of tortured days left behind, but never forgotten.

She turned to look at Richard who was by now staring intently at her awaiting an answer to his last question which she desperately tried to remember. But it didn’t take her long to work it out considering it was a question he’d repeated almost daily in the last few weeks: How will you behave if we reach Number 10?

I don’t know what I’ll do, Richard. She sighed. I guess it’ll just have to be whatever I’m told. You obviously won’t settle for anything less.

* * *

Richard woke early with a knot of worry firmly embedded in the pit of his stomach. It was all going too damn well. It was just a bit too easy. He spoke, people applauded, he made a suggestion, everyone agreed. Even the old dinosaurs who lined the back benches were singing his praises. It can’t last, Richard fretted. Somehow he had to keep the good headlines going until the election. Kelvin looked almost certain to call a May vote because he’d been warned the polls were only going one way, and if he left it to September he’d be lucky to beat the also-rans.

Richard knew if he could just keep things at a level, maintaining both the country’s favour and the sense of confidence amongst the party, then an election win was firmly within his grasp. Still, the pressure was often gut-wrenchingly intense. It just took one very public slip-up and the pendulum could swing again. Kelvin had a reputation as a political bruiser who would stop at nothing to take out an opponent – a fact that left Richard feeling very unsettled as he wondered when the first major blow would land.

He stretched his arms above his head and turned to look at Anna peacefully sleeping next to him. She never looked more beautiful or more innocent than when she was out for the count, silent and unable to create trouble. He admired once again the smooth skin, carefully groomed eyebrows and pursed, angelic lips that had given rise to so many column inches on the beauty pages. The fragile features and tiny frame that belied a more defiant nature, carved out by the years of suffering about which they rarely now spoke. He just needed her to toe the line for a few weeks until they made it past the election. She was volatile, he knew, but surely she could do this for him. The knot in his stomach further tightened when he thought of how hard he’d worked first to become an MP when he won Bristol South eight years ago, and then to beat the odds – and the party hardliners – to become SDP leader. It was hard to accept that beyond Kelvin Davis and the Alliance Party, his own wife could be the greatest threat as he prepared for his biggest political battle.

The tension between them now was in sharp contrast to their early romance when they had talked endlessly of their shared dreams. Curled up in bed, staring into each other’s eyes, Anna would smile excitedly as he told her of all the wrongs he wanted to put right in society. How he would face down the toughest of challenges in a job he believed he was born to do. She had believed it too. And, before the headiness of fame and adulation had set in, she, too, had spoken passionately of trying to help those who had shared her past pain of poverty and neglect. He reached out and lightly touched her arm as he remembered their closeness, their complete devotion.

Somehow he had to try and convince her to get behind him again. This could only work if they shared the vision once so vivid in their minds. But how to win her over, Richard just didn’t know.

He sighed, tossed the covers back and headed for the shower.

* * *

Anna bristled as, for yet another Sunday, she had to endure Henry’s signature doorbell ring – finger solidly on the buzzer until the occupant answered. Today’s was even more aggravating than usual as she realised he would almost certainly have a go at her over the recent coverage in the tabloids. Actress in gritty TV role shock – hardly the news story of the century, but her every move was under scrutiny at the moment and the natural rebel in Anna just wanted to kick out.

Richard made it to the front door first, dressed for the weekend in his open-neck shirt and crisply ironed jeans. Casual, Anna thought, but never relaxed.

As Anna followed Richard down the stairs she spotted Joy standing sheepishly behind Henry, all too aware his buzzer antics would have riled her hosts.

Good morning, Richard greeted them with typical enthusiasm.

Morning Dicky, Henry boomed in reply before quickly making his way past Richard, almost managing to flatten him against the wall with the enormous pile of newspapers he was carrying under his left arm. He was typically dressed in a crumpled shirt and jeans – a look that was only marginally upgraded in the week when he would wear chinos instead and add an ill-matched tie. It was a style that only he could carry off in the SDP circle where he was regarded as something of an indulged schoolboy, his foppish hair and gentrified good looks masking his otherwise low-maintenance appearance.

Richard shook his head as he watched his guests make their way towards the living area. No matter how many times he told Henry not to call him Dicky, he still insisted on doing it – unless in public. At least Richard had that to be thankful for.

Anna reached the bottom of the stairs in time to kiss Joy on the cheek before escorting her to the sofas.

Coffee all round then, Anna called as she made her way towards the kitchen.

Actually, I’ll have a tea, said Joy, it’s just dawned on me that my years of insomnia might actually be down to the fact I’ve been drinking up to ten cups of coffee a day.

Yes. Might just be something in that. Richard laughed.

You can’t sleep because of your relentless desire for me, quipped Henry.

That must be it, dear. Why hadn’t I thought of that earlier, she replied, adding a sarcastic smirk.

Anna smiled to herself as she watched the scene unfolding in the living room. The serving hatch that had annoyed her so much when they first moved in had actually proved to be a very useful spyhole when they had visitors, and Anna had overheard many an interesting conversation from the very position she was now standing in setting out coffee cups.

She studied Joy for a moment; a vision in a cerise-pink wool dress, matching pink lipstick and black stiletto boots. Anna often wondered what brought her and Henry together as, style-wise, they were such polar opposites, but she figured that was part of the attraction. Like Henry, Joy took a no-nonsense approach to life and called things as she saw them, which often made for lively conversation between the four of them.

What are the papers saying today then, Henry? asked Richard.

Better than yesterday, but not much. Henry sniffed as he spread the array of mastheads out on the coffee table between them. Joy was perched attentively in an armchair next to her husband while Richard leaned forward on the sofa opposite.

Anna comes in for further criticism over her career choices, and even her fashion sense is questioned in this feature. He triumphantly waved the highlighted article in front of Richard. An expert describes your style as ‘rebellious’, Anna. They say it’s a ‘public statement of your refusal to conform to the more traditional style demanded of a leader’s spouse’.

Is that right? Anna said scathingly as she carefully made her way towards the coffee table before abruptly setting the tray down. To think someone actually gets paid to come up with that crap.

You dress the way you’ve always dressed, Joy chipped in, and you’ve not always been a politician’s wife.

As hard as that is to believe now. Anna sighed.

Maybe they’ve got a point, Anna. Henry fixed his target with a meaningful glare. I know an excellent stylist who could work with your tastes but bring them in line to be something that sits better with the press and public.

You mean the press and politicians, Henry. Let’s face it. Anna returned his glare, thrusting his cup of coffee towards him and sending the liquid sloshing into the saucer.

Now, now, children. Richard smiled. Let’s not fall out over a choice of blouse. It wouldn’t do any harm for you to meet with a stylist, Anna. We’re only talking about a few weeks until the election.

There’s nothing wrong with the way Anna looks, Joy said firmly. The public love her for who she is and the press are just looking for something to write, so let’s drop this.

All right, said Henry, a steely glint suddenly coming into his eyes. "In that case why don’t we talk about the phone call I took last night from Damian Blunt of the Sunday Echo asking me exactly how and when you two met."

What about how we met? asked Richard, furiously stirring his coffee.

That’s what I can’t work out. Why would the editor of a Sunday paper suddenly start asking me about that? Henry’s eyes darted between Richard and Anna as he searched for clues.

Well, did you ask him? Anna said impatiently.

"Yes, Anna. And