House of Cards (4 page)

ITN’
S
exclusive exit poll forecast - and I emphasise this is a forecast, not a result - is...'

He glanced once more at the card, just to check he had not misread it. His professional, emotionless eyes betrayed not a hint of his own views on the matter. From somewhere within Smith Square the sound of a prematurely loosened champagne cork broke the straining silence, but they ignored the cold and sticky froth as it splashed over the desk top.

'... that the Government will be re-elected with a majority of 34.'

The building itself seemed to tremble as a roar of triumph mixed with relief came from deep within. It was winning and only winning that mattered to the professionals, not how they played the game or how close the result. Time enough later for sober reflection as to whether they would be deemed to have had a 'good' war or not.

The whoops of joy drowned out the protesting tones of Sir Alastair as he continued to remind his audience that this was a forecast and definitely not a result, and in any event was much closer than the opinion polls had been predicting. The screen briefly divided between mute shots of the party leaders taking in the prediction, Collingridge displaying a thin humourless smile which indicated no pleasure, while the broad grin and shake of his opponent's head left viewers in no doubt tha
t the Opposition had yet to con
cede. 'Wait and see,' he was mouthing, 'wait and see', but the producer did not wait to see and cut back to Burnet as he proceeded to report on the rest of the election night news. .

'Bollocks’
Preston was shouting, his hair falling into his eyes. 'What have they done?' He looked at the ruins of his first edition, and began furiously scribbling on his notepad. 'Government Majority Slashed!' he tried. It's Too Close To Call'. 'Collingridge Squeaks In'. They all ended up in the bin.

He looked around desperately for some help and inspiration.

'Let's wait’
Mattie advised. It's only thirty minutes to the first result.'

Even without the first result, celebrations were already well under way at the Party's advertising agency. With the confidence that is shown by all positive thinkers, the staff of Merrill Grant & Jones Company PLC had been squashed for nearly three hours in the agency's reception area to witness history in the making projected on two vast TV screens. Not that history would be made for at least another seventeen minutes or so, but like all positive thinkers they prided themselves in being ahead of the game, and the champagne was already flowing to wash down an endless supply of deep pan pizzas and Big Macs. Indeed, the predictions of a drastically reduced majority had only served to spur those present on to greater efforts. Even at this early hour it was clear that two ornamental fig trees which had graced the reception area for several years would not survive the night, and it seemed probable that several young secretaries wouldn't either. Most of the wiser heads were pacing themselves much better, but there seemed to be little reason to exercise excessive restraint. Particularly as the client was setting a fearsome example.

Like so many expatriate Dublin adventurers, Roger O'Neill was renowned for his quick wit, exaggeration and determination to be involved in everything. So many and varied had been his involvements and so wittily had he exaggerated them that no one could be quite certain precisely what he had done before he joined the Party - it was something in public relations or television, they thought, and there was rumour about a problem with the Inland Revenue - but he had been available when the post of Publicity Director had become vacant and he had filled it with great energy, fuelled by a ceaseless supply of Gauloises and vodka-tonics.

As a young man he had shown great promise as a fly-half on the rugby field, but had never fulfilled it, his highly individualistic style making him ill-suited for team games. 'With him on the field
’
complained his coach, I've got two teams out there, Roger and fourteen other players
’

At the age of forty his unruly shock of dark hair was now perceptibly greying and his muscle tone long since gone, but O'Neill refused stubbornly to acknowledge the evidence of middle age, hiding it beneath a carefully selected wardrobe worn with a deliberate casualness which displayed the designers' labels to their best advantage. His non-conformist approach and the lingering traces of an Irish accent had not always endeared
him
to the Party's grandees - 'all bullshit and no bottom' one of them had loudly observed - but others were simply overwhelmed by his unusual energy and charm.

And then there was his secretary. Penelope - Hi, I'm Penny' - Guy. Five foot ten, an exciting choice of clothes, a devastating figure on which to hang them. And she was black. Not just dusky or dark but a polished hue of black that made her eyes twinkle and her smile fill the entire room. She had a university degree in the History of Art, 120 wpm shorthand, and was ruthlessly efficient and practical. Of course there had been much gossip when she had first arrived with O'Neill, but her sheer efficiency had silenced, if not won over, the Doubting Thomases, of which there were many.

And she was totally discreet. 1 have a private life
’
she explained. 'And that's just how it's going to stay.'

Right now at Merrill Grant & Jones - Grunt & Groans as Penny preferred to call them - she was effortlessly providing the centre of attention for several red-blooded media buyers plus the deputy creative director while at the same time carefully ensuring that O'Neill's glass and cigarettes were always available but closely rationed. She didn't want him going over the top tonight of all nights.

He was deep in conversation with the agency's managing director.

1 want you to complete the analysis as soon as possible, Jeremy. It's got to show just how effective our marketing and advertising have been in the election. It needs to be divided into the usual age and social groups so that we can show how we hit our target voters. If we win, I want everyone to know that they owe it to us. If we lose, God help us
...'
He sneezed violently.'... I want to be able to show the press that we beat them hands down at communications and it was only the politics which blew it. We shall have to live off this for the next few years, so don't screw it up. You know what we need, and it's got to be ready by Saturday morning at the latest if we're to get it in the Sunday papers as prominently as possible.'

He spoke a little more quietly. 'If you can't get the figures, make the bloody things up. They will all be too exhausted to look at them closely, and if we get in there first and loudest we'll be fine.'

He paused only to blow his nose, which did nothing to ease the other man's visible discomfort.

'And remember that I want you to send the most enormous bunch of flowers around to the PM's wife first
thing
in the morning. In the shape of a gigantic letter 'C. She must get them as soon as she wakes up. She'll get into a twist if they don't arrive because I've already told her they are corning. And I want the TV cameras to film them going in and to know who's sent them, so make sure they are bigger and more eye-catching than anything they've ever seen before. Even better, send them round in the back of oneof your company vans. That should look good pulled up outside Number Ten
’

The advertising executive was used to his client's breathless monologues by now, and even to some of the extraordinary instructions and accounting procedures issued by O'Neill. But a political party was unlike any other client he had ever encountered, and the last two years working on the account had given him and his youthful agency more than enough publicity to stifle most of the lingering doubts.

Now the election was over, however, and he was waiting nervously for the results, a silent fear struck him as he thought of what would happen if they lost; to have supported the losing side, probably to be made the scapegoat for failure. It had all looked rather different when they had started the work, with the opinion polls predicting
a
comfortable win. But his confidence had begun to evaporate with the exit polls. In an industry of images, he realised that his business could wither
as
rapidly
as
the flowers which O'Neill was making such a fuss about

He sucked his tip nervously
as
O'Neill rattled on, until their attention was grabbed by
the six-foot image of Sir Alas
tair, who was now holding his ear with his head cocked to one side. Something was corning through his
earpiece.

'And now I believe we are ready for the first result of the evening, which looks likely to be in Torbay once again. Breaking all records. It is just forty-three minutes after the polls have closed, and already the candidates are gathering behind the returning officer and it's time to go over live
...'

In Torbay Town Hall, amidst the banks of hyacinths and spider plants, rosettes and mayoral regalia, the first result was being announced. The scene resembled more a village pantomime than an election,
as
the promise of nationwide television coverage had attracted more than the usual number of crank candidates who were now doing their best to capture the moment by waving balloons and brightly coloured hats to attract the cameras' attention.

The Sunshine Candidate, dressed from head to toe in a bright yellow leotard and waving the most enormous plastic sunflower, stood firmly in front of the sober suited Tory, who tried to move to his left to escape from the embarrassment but only succeeded in bumping into the National Front candidate, who was inciting a minor riot in the crowd by displaying a clenched fist and an armful of tattoos. Not quite sure what his candidates manual would prescribe in such circumstances, he reluctantly retreated back behind the sunflower.

Sir Alastair came to his rescue. 'So there we have it from colourful Torbay. The Government hold the first seat of the night but with a reduced majority and a swing against them of, the computer says, nearly 8 per cent. What does that mean, Peter?' asked Burnet, as the screen cut to ITN's tame academic commentator, a bespectacled and rather ragged figure in Oxford tweeds.

It means the exit poll is just about right, Alastair.'

'Great show, Roger, isn't it? After all, it looks like another majority. I can't tell you how absolutely relieved and delighted I am. Well done indeed,' enthused the chairman of one of Grunt & Groans major clients, thoroughly enjoying what was tinning into a fully-fledged victory party irrespective of the fact that the Government had just lost its first two seats of the night. He was standing crushed together along with two other invited clients and the agency's chairman in a corner which gave some slight relief from the pressure of celebration going on all around. 'That's very kind of you,
Harold. Yes, I think a 30 or
40-seat majority will be enough. But you must take some of the credit.' O'Neill was gushing.
‘
I
was reminding the Prime Minister just the other day how your support goes way beyond the
Corporate
donation. I remember the speech you gave at the Industrial Society lunch last March. You know, it was extremely good, you really got the message home well. Surely you've had professional training?'

Without waiting for
an answer, O'Neill rushed on. ‘y
ou've pushed home the message about gaining cooperation from all sides by showing leadership from the top and
I told Henry- I'm sorry, the PM
- that we need to find more platforms for captains of industry like you to express these views.'

There was no need for that,' replied the captain without the slightest trace of sincerity. The champagne had already overcome his natural caution and images of ermine and the House of Lords began to materialise in front of his eyes. 'But that was very kind of you. Look, when this is all over perhaps we could have lunch together. Somewhere a little quieter, eh? I have several other ideas on which I would very much welcome your views.'
y
O'Neill's response was a series of enormous sneezes which bent him almost double, leaving his eyes tearful and rendering any hope of continued conversation impossible.

'Sorry,' he spluttered. 'Hay fever. I always seem to get it early.' As if to emphasise the point he blew his nose forcefully and wiped his eyes.

The TV screen promptly announced the loss of another Government seat, a Junior Minister with responsibility for Transport who had spent the last four years earnestly visiting every motorway crash scene in the country and who had quite convinced himself of the human race's unquenchable capacity for violent self-sacrifice. It did not help him, however, to accept their demand for his own self-sacrifice, and he was finding it very difficult to put on a brave face.

'More bad news for the Government,' commented Burnet, 'and we shall see how the Prime Minister is taking it when we go over live for his result in just a few minutes. In the meantime, what is the computer predicting now?'

He punched a button and turned to look at a large screen behind his shoulder. 'Still around 30 by the look of it.'

A studio discussion then began as to whether a majority of 30 was enough to see a Government through a full term of office, but the discussion was interrupted by more results which now began to flood in. O'Neill excused himself from the group of businessmen and fought his way through a growing and steadily more voluble group of admirers which had gathered around Penny. In spite of their protests he drew her quickly to one side and whispered briefly in her ear, as the ruddy face of Sir Alastair intruded once more into the celebrations to announce that the Prime Minister's own result was just about to be declared.