Charm Offensive

London.

One

You can say what you like about him, but you’d probably do the same. In his defence, he has never tried to be a saint. He is aware, painfully so, that he has no explanation.

Around town, his name has become a byword for how to kill a career. Don’t do a Joe. It’s why he lives in a smaller house now, with white-painted roughcast walls and a mattress on the lawn.

At the door, Muriel slides the chain free.

He has hung about her, successfully, for longer than predicted. He has remained an occupant of the house, still married, despite everything.

He allows his voice to be heard.

‘They’re satisfied.’

‘Okay.’

‘You do believe me, don’t you?’

Just by stepping into the house, you can tell that something has been lost. It feels like the morning after a burglary, like someone has come inside and wrecked everything.

He will clean the mess he is responsible for. He should reposition the cushions. But when it comes to the broken glass - that’s Muriel. The dent on the door is Muriel. The mattress on the lawn is Muriel.

She is keeping her distance, in her white nylon dressing gown and white slippers. On most days, a black camera is wrung around her neck. Today there is nothing.

She is resting her elbows on the kitchen counter, staring from the window. Her collarbone is pronounced. It’s a bony smile across her chest.

‘I haven’t done any work,’ she says.

‘I was going to ask.’

‘No you weren’t.’

Then she motions for him to turn around. She says that his shirt is inside out.

There is a question that he can’t put into words. He could try.

‘What do you want to do?’

She turns from the window and says, ‘Why don’t you have a bath?’

If it wasn’t for him, she might not sigh so often. She might still look young. Her hair might be long and dark, not short and grey. She might be more prolific in her work, more confident, more sociable. He has made her old.

Muriel is sitting in bed with the duvet pulled around her shoulders. She must have spent most of the day like this. It’s hard to imagine that she’s done anything else.

The curtains are closed.

She has avoided the en-suite bathroom, where the hanging wire, chemicals, photographs and light sensitive materials are kept.

‘I should probably go.’

‘Alright.’

In his imagination, it was going to be a front door goodbye. It was going to conjure some emotion. It’s not happening like he thought it would.

‘I’m going away for a bit.’

‘Am I supposed to say something?’

‘No.’

She won’t follow him. For now at least, she won’t be moving.

It’s true that some of her anger is justified. After all, what started all this trouble? It was the finer things, the finer women. But on this occasion, she’s wrong to assume the worst.

‘You don’t have to say anything.’

‘Alright.’

‘I know it’s hard to believe me. I haven’t always been… faithful.’

‘True.’

‘But this is different.’

In the absence of something more to say, there is silence. It’s impossible to live in a silent house. Instinct says it must be a bad idea.

In their neighbourhood there is little of interest. It takes five minutes on foot before you reach the roundabout and its patch of grass. Best of all is the iron bridge, which no-one likes to walk across. You have to tread carefully to avoid the broken glass. And the dog shit.

The pub has broken windows.

What can you say about the beach? Unlike most beaches, no-one is having a good time. The most you can say is that the view is something to admire. No-one can take away the hills in the distance.

It’s possible to make out Barry, leaning on the sea wall. The car will be parked in front of the souvenir shops. Barry is pointing at his wrist, doing his best to hurry the whole thing along. Just relax, Barry.

There is an old pier, which is beginning to look fragile. There are tables at the pavilion, some seagulls, and a mean-looking flag hanging from a kiosk. On the deck is a black chalkboard, and the words are beginning to fade.

Tonight: a conversation with Joe Street,

former Member of Parliament.

You would think someone might have erased it. It would be easy to change the sign, but no-one will make the effort.

From the pier, you can hear the tide wash over the stones of the shore.

There is a parade of candyfloss traders.

A dodgems circuit.

Crazy golf.

On the concrete walkway is a shed where the pedalos are kept. Further along is the lifeboat museum.

There are cranes from where the shipyards used to be.

You can just make out a tanker in the distance.

There are seagulls overhead, circling the sky, crowing for someone to throw something. Don’t they know that no-one cares?

He stares out to sea. If he were a seagull he would shit on the town.

Two

By the end of the week, everything will be fine. All he needs to do is sort out the trouble. Sort out the lie. That way he can make a plan for freedom.

No matter where you look – be it the petrol station to the left, or the business park to the right – there is nothing you would call beautiful. If you hadn’t visited for years, you could be misled into thinking everything is better now. A social revolution in the form of plastic apartments.

‘I’m excited,’ Barry says with his hands on the wheel. ‘For the first time in ages people are talking about Joe Street.’

‘For appalling reasons.’

‘Do you even know the girl?’

‘No.’

The best thing is to clench the seat belt cord.

On the dashboard is a tabloid rag, which Barry must have bought, as if to demonstrate his idiocy.

‘Bastard thing,’ Barry says, shifting into fifth gear.

The car is an enemy. The car is something to resent, and pity. The car is an idiot.

When you look at Barry, there’s a temptation to pull his cheek, just to check it’s not a rubber mask. Aside from their heads, which are balding, they have nothing in common.

‘I think it has become professionally advantageous to acknowledge the girl.’

‘For something I haven’t done?’

‘The public likes honesty. That’s as much as anybody can be these days. Honest and kind.’

‘But I am being honest.’

‘Not in their eyes. They like a man who’s keen to build bridges.’

‘I haven’t broken any bridges.’

‘You’re paddling.’

This is a crisis and he knows it too well. You don’t book a hotel room above the Hanger Lane gyratory system without there being a crisis.

Hanger Lane, in outer west London, is the sort of place you’d visit if you don’t like London very much. There is a tube station if you need it, and a motorway, which allows a quick exit.

The sound of passing cars can be heard through the pane. What is there to see? Eight lanes of traffic and a tube station. Somewhere in space, alien creatures will be looking down and laughing at Hanger Lane. Of course, when you look out of the window it’s hard not to have one of those moments where you think, what am I doing here? The reality is too much to think about. And for a man of his age – fifty-nine – there’s only so much time in which you can keep fucking around.

On the floor is a cardboard bucket filled with grey chicken bones.

A piece of the remote control is missing, which requires him to hold in the batteries whilst changing the channel.

On the television is the rolling news. Watch it for long enough and you’ll lose your mind. It’s the highlights from a debate in parliament. The volume is too low to hear anything. They will probably be talking about the war, and the reasons for sending combat troops. Even without the sound, you can see the cabinet members frowning. Some of the opposition are waving sheets of paper. The speaker of the house bangs the gavel.

‘Order, order,’ the speaker will be saying.

If he were there, on the backbenches, he would be shaking his head. By the time he had left Westminster – or rather, been told to resign – he was an irrelevance. That was four years ago. It was a conventional sort of disgrace. And of course, it was a legitimate scandal, unlike the one that has since befallen him.

‘Would you send troops?’ Barry says.

‘No.’

‘It’s a shame you can’t vote.’

On the next channel is a game show in which the contestants make fools of themselves.

Barry opens his laptop on the desk. ‘We need to stick something on your blog.’

‘I don’t want a blog.’

‘Yes you do.’ Barry fixes something on top of the monitor. ‘Just speak into the lens like it’s a real person.’

‘What do I have to say?’

‘Talk about how the internet is transforming the way young people engage with politics.’

‘That doesn’t sound like me.’

‘I know. Here, look at the screen. Do you see your face?’

‘Is it on?’

‘Yes, go ahead.’

It’s difficult to know where to begin.

‘Hello. I’m Joe Street.’

His voice seems weaker than he expected.

‘I don’t want to sit here and tell you what to think. It’s important for people to decide for themselves what they believe. I just hope everyone can be the person they want to be. Just… be good. Don’t kill anyone.’

‘That was weird.’

‘I don’t have anything else to say.’

‘Don’t kill anyone? Let’s do another take.’

‘No.’

‘We’re recording.’

‘Turn it off.’

‘Good afternoon, Joe. What did you think of the Prime Minister’s speech today?’

‘I think he’s a cunt. Turn it off or I’ll smash that thing on the floor.’

‘Calm down.’

‘Turn it off, then.’

It was all supposed to be simple. If it wasn’t for the lie, he could do what he wanted.

There is a stapled document on the bed.

‘What’s this?’

‘It’s got everything I need to know. Your successes, your failures. I need to update the section on failures.’

‘You’ll need a lot of paper.’

Joe Street, former education secretary. The fallen minister. The lost politician.

Barry walks to the window with his hands on his hips.

‘The kid runs a soup kitchen. He’s a do-gooder type. You must know the sort.’

‘I am the sort.’

‘George, he’s called. A do-gooder.’

‘You said.’

‘Born with a silver spoon in his mouth. His parents gave him some money to set up a homeless charity.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘A guilt complex, I’d call it.’

If he looks at the floor, he won’t have to debate anything. With any luck, Barry will see something funny on the television.

‘I’ve thought about what you should say,’ Barry says. ‘You should be cagey.’

‘Cagey?’

‘You should leave open the possibility that it might be true.’

‘I’m not doing that.’

‘Only a glimmer. You don’t have to hold your hands up. We just want to keep the cycle going.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s a strategy. You can’t go from pariah to prince in the blink of an eye.’

‘I don’t want to be either.’

Barry is frowning, as if there is nothing to be done about Joe Street. A lost cause or something.

‘I’ve seen it all, mate. The amount of Joe Streets I’ve called and they’ve said, ‘Barry, get me out of the papers.’ You’re in good company.’

It’s true that Barry has built a career in damage limitation. He’s cheap, as well.

Barry straightens the duvet cover. ‘Remember, this is a charm offensive. A branding exercise.’

‘What should I say?’

‘Don’t speak about anything negative. It’s a happy occasion.’

‘Will I meet the homeless people?’

‘You should position yourself as close to them as possible.’

‘So I just hang around and hope there’s a camera?’

‘Got it.’

There is nowhere to go. In front of him is the window, the motorway and the miles of traffic. There is no escaping any of it. You can’t exactly jump out of the window and ride on the back of traffic.

‘Did you remember to moisturise your face?’ Barry says.

‘No.’

‘Just remember next time.’

Cutting Corners, which calls itself a hair and beauty salon, is positioned between a bookmakers and a shop that sells ink cartridges. You could set up a good business in Hanger Lane, simply for the fact that so many people pass through it. Cars are allowed to dominate.

If you ask Barry, a haircut is not just a haircut. It’s of the utmost importance. It’s the next piece in the jigsaw, and no doubt the following piece will be just as important. What will it be? A manicure, or something.

‘Have you decided what you want?’ Barry says.

‘Do I have a choice?’

‘You want to look like a pro. Do you know what I mean?’

‘No.’

The hairdresser brings a cup of tea, which she places agonisingly out of reach on the near shelf.

‘What can I do for you?’ she says.

‘I think,’ Barry says, pausing to examine the hair, ‘it should be short. Maybe an inch or two.’

‘I could take the weight out of it.’

‘Yes, but keep something on top. Don’t make the bald spot too obvious.’

‘Is that okay with you?’ she says.

It’s funny to see Barry interrupt himself, as if to acknowledge his own guilt.

‘Yes, of course. What do you want, Joe?’

‘Short is fine.’

‘I think it would look nice short.’ The hairdresser pulls the length at the back.

‘Short and professional,’ Barry says.

She points towards the washbasin.

It’s no surprise to see Barry follow, but a disappointment all the same.

‘Lean back,’ she says.

In theory, it should be simple to lean back in the chair and rest your head in a washbasin. What makes it complicated is his inability to position his head in the right position.

‘A bit lower,’ she says.

The best thing is to close his eyes.

Barry must be standing somewhere.

It’s nice, all of a sudden, to feel the hairdresser work her fingers into his scalp. It makes him forget about everything.

‘You recognise him, don’t you?’ Barry says.

‘Please, Barry.’

‘He’s a politician.’

‘I’m not a politician. I used to be.’

‘He was one of the good guys. Do you remember the campaign to save shipbuilding in Hartlepool?’

‘No.’

‘That was Joe.’

She is doing things, all the while. She is adjusting the temperature. She is listening.

‘How do you know each other?’ she says.

‘I got a call from Barry. There was something written about me.’

‘Was it bad?’

‘Yes.’

She twists the tap screw. The water doesn’t flow anymore.

She holds the white towel on each of his temples.

‘Stand up.’

The embarrassing part is the walk from the washbasin. He probably looks like a dog coming in from the rain.

The hairdresser lifts his arms into a black robe, fastening the strap across his neck. On the counter is the cup of tea, although he isn’t sure what to do with it. One hand is free, the other is under the robe.

With mirrors on all sides, it’s easy to see the back of his head. His hair is thinning, and almost grey. He has been complacent about his face. It’s not that he’s ugly; in fact, if you leave aside his age, his impression to the world is of a handsome man who just doesn’t care. It’s more the fact that he can no longer conceal his sadness. At least he’s got something to work with - a firm jaw without a double chin, and enough life in his eyes so as to give the impression of kindness. Of course, he doesn’t bother to work with it. To hell with it, right? It doesn’t matter what you look like. Yes, he has become complacent.

When they get to Hammersmith, everyone seems delighted about the sunshine. It’s a national event - sun at last.

The shelter is based within a Georgian townhouse. It’s a listed building, and you wonder what its original purpose was. The plaster is crumbling. There are iron bars covering the basement window. You get the feeling it will be worth a lot in ten years, when the gentrification is complete.

In the main hall is a crowd of people. Some of them are journalists. The key is to avoid them like you would a crab. If you keep your distance, the crabs will leave you alone.

You can’t tell who the homeless people are. Barry is looking for them simply by scanning his eyes over the room.

‘I’ll tell George we’re here,’ Barry says, as if the big boys are in town.

‘I didn’t expect there to be this many people.’

‘I find it exciting, don’t you?’

‘No.’

Everyone is working on something. A couple of teenage boys are carrying chairs. Even the journalists are pulling out the table.

Someone rises.

‘Take a seat,’ George says. ‘Thanks for coming down.’

It’s hard to square the George in front of him with the George that Barry had described. There is nothing to hate. George is young, perhaps too young to be running such a thing. Something in the region of twenty-five, twenty-six. What are the clues? The mop of auburn hair; the pimples around the mouth; the straight back, yet to be crippled by sitting in front of a computer for eight hours a day. If anything, you almost worry for George. There is plenty of time for George to lose all hope. It will come.

‘Welcome everyone,’ says George, who is wearing a buttoned-up shirt with a neat collar.

There is enough space at the table. It’s long and white, similar to what you would find in a school canteen.

A photographer picks up what looks like a golf bag.

The journalists follow.

‘Eden House serves fifteen to twenty-five people a night, most of whom are homeless, or struggling with their finances. Most of our food is donated by local businesses.’

One or two of the reporters are jotting notes.

‘We offer counselling and medical information,’ George says. ‘We rely on volunteers and patrons. And of course, any publicity you guys can create is a real bonus. It would be wonderful to have the support of people like Joe.’

‘And Joe is delighted to be here,’ Barry says.

‘Indeed.’

The reporters crowd closer together. Each of them has a name tag pinned to their chest. There are tape recorders and notepads.

‘You’ve had a tough week,’ the Ealing Gazette says. ‘Tell us what it’s been like.’

‘Tough.’

‘Why have you come to a homeless shelter?’

‘I thought if I could speak on a platform, and tell the truth, it would undo some of the damage.’

‘Is it just a cynical attempt to paint yourself in a better light?’ says another reporter.

‘I don’t know what it is.’

‘Have you spoken to Margaret Eccles?’

‘Yes.’

‘What does she think?’

‘She’s satisfied. It’s a non-story.’

Barry has been waiting for his moment. At the first opportunity, Barry will intercept