Polls Apart by Clare Stephen-Johnston Page A

feeble finger ripple which wouldn’t have attracted a passing bee if his hand had been covered in honey. Feeling a mixture of pity and impatience, Ray finally stepped in and waved his hand vigorously as their waiter walked away from a nearby table. “Another bottle of red,” he said loudly.
    Bob tried to hide his obvious shame, but couldn’t prevent the lighter shade of crimson from creeping up his neck into his cheeks.
    “Don’t worry Bob,” said Richard, patting his friend and colleague on the back. “Fortunately you have other assets to compensate for your inability to order at a restaurant.”
    “And fortunately you have me to do it for you,” chuckled Ray. The three men had been close friends since Richard’s first months in Westminster. Bob had won his seat eight years ago at the same time as Richard. They were also similar in age, though Bob’s ruddy cheeks and portly frame added at least another three or four years to his looks. Ray had acted as an unofficial mentor (and drinking companion) to the young MP s. Richard knew Ray’s initial hand of friendship was not purely down to kindness, but rather his ability to spot future leaders. Although publicly seen as a jovial man of the people, he was in fact a shrewd and considered character, his one handicap in politics being his big heart. He had confided in them at a similar dinner two years ago that he knew they would both go on to great things and that’s why he’d stuck with them, though Richard knew the bond went much, much deeper than that. In each other they had found kindred political spirits. They had a thirst for change that would not be quenched until they achieved it.
    Bundled together in the packed Italian restaurant in Highgate, the three men found a safe haven to relax and offload. It was a place they would regularly meet to bitch about colleagues and, if they weren’t too drunk, talk strategy. The restaurant was dimly lit, giving it an added feel of secrecy and conspiracy.
    Richard finished the last of his soup and tried to get his mind back onto the election campaign, which they had met to talk about. But it was too late. Anna’s face was now firmly etched in his mind. He so desperately wanted to talk to her but she wouldn’t return his calls. He realised why, of course. The moment Henry had finally chosen to confess that he’d forgotten to warn her about his speech – on the train back to London – he knew he’d lost all chance of keeping her on side. He hadn’t wanted a long-term separation – he hadn’t actually wanted any separation – but he had foolishly accepted Henry’s advice to part for a couple of months to get them through the election and into Downing Street. He had thought he was doing the right thing. He had thought that sacrificing their happiness was a selfless act, done for the good of the country. But within hours of making the announcement he had seen his decision for what it was: an act of utter panic, which could only show him to be weak and disloyal.
    The control was slipping away from him and he sensed their marriage could be in real trouble. Particularly if she wouldn’t even talk to him.
    “I can see we’ve lost you again Richard,” Bob said, offering his colleague a comforting pat on the shoulder. “Have you managed to speak to Anna yet?”
    “No.” Richard hung his head. “She won’t answer my calls or texts.”
    “She’ll come all right,” said Ray, with a confidence Richard knew was based on nothing more than optimism. Realising his dining companions expected him to back up his statement, he added: “She’s been stung by the announcement and she needs time to heal. But she’ll soon see you were only trying to do the right thing for everyone.”
    “Do you think it was the right thing?” Bob asked, his candour jolting Richard from the safety of his depressed mood.
    “I didn’t know what else to do.”
    “Well, I guess you could have stood your ground and said that Anna’s past had