Chapter VIII The Invitation

 

 

 

 While the socializing continued downstairs Chris, Emil and I were invited up to the first floor portacabin by Lord Smallbridge. His urbane charm was replaced by a look of black fury. “What are we going to do about this bloody woman, Chris? Obviously, she is entitled to ask questions and voice criticisms. But she is not even giving this scheme a chance. And she keeps hogging the press. It can be very damaging to our investors. You saw Mr Sheremovsky’s concern.”

Chris buckled under the onslaught and looked at Emil.

“Well, he mentioned he was concerned about his investors,” Emil commented sarcastically. “I suppose he meant himself.”

“Never mind that,” snarled Smallbridge. “What about this woman Sheldrake?”

“She’s from the opposition,” Emil replied calmly. “We can’t be held responsible for their antics. Our side has an ample majority on the Committee to see this project through. And the other minority parties will support this as long as we address some of the ecological issues and can obtain the right level of community gain.”

“Community gain indeed!” snapped Lord Smallbridge. “You mean the generosity of our funding for your little pet schemes. Well, there won’t be any pet schemes if there’s no development. Those Chinks were ready to pull out before our Ruski friend intervened. It’s all down to him. He doesn’t mind the high profile in a way. And he has no link with Russian government’s policy to the Chechens, which Sheldrake complained about, though frankly they deserve everything that they get. But prolonged opposition with the support of the media can build up a head of steam and can cause some of you Councillors to backtrack. I know about local government politics better than you think. Your majority is only 3 votes. I convinced Sheremovsky to go for this site in your Borough after I discussed this with your officers. You better not let me down”. He looked at Chris Finneston. So did I. I was suddenly very concerned. I could see now that there must have been a hidden agenda of which I had not been aware. No wonder the scheme was so dove-tailed to our Borough Plan!

“Lord Smallbridge,” Emil reverted. “We’ll speak to the opposition leader. Most of their side are amenable and business-orientated. I’m sure that we can override the influence of Miss Sheldrake. She’ll be isolated.”

“Even if isolated, she may remain dangerous,” I volunteered. “She is like a woman scorned.”

“Ah, Councillor Axtell,” Lord Smallbridge beamed at me. “We were only fleetingly introduced downstairs. I have been told that you are the main warhorse for taking through this scheme. We were all very impressed with your questions downstairs. Obviously the right man for the job. You were right, Councillor Kapacek, for recommending him. You think that he can contain the Sheldrake woman?”

“I’m sure he can,” said Emil, looking at me with a quizzical smile.

I was dumbfounded. Firstly, because I was being discussed like the prize bull in a stud farm and this was taking place between senior Council figures and an outside developer. It looked like there had been many discussions in quiet corners and collusion in high places of which I had been totally unaware. Obviously, I was seen as just a convenient chess piece in this game. Secondly, I was surely the last person to be able to influence that woman.

“You ignore the fact that she hates me,” I protested.

“That means you’re half way there, Peter,” he chuckled. “After all, what is hate but inverted love? She obviously feels a strong passion for you and you have to find the chemistry to change the nature of the passion.” The others chuckled at this nonsense home-spun philosophy. “Besides,” he winked knowingly, “You’re the ladies’ man on the Council.”

I was dumbfounded again. So much so that for once I could not say anything. Here was the Council Lothario imbuing me with his priapic disposition. I was stunned by the sheer hutzpah. Also I kept turning over in my mind as to what would be the best way of tackling Sheldrake’s destructive influence, especially with the media. Should she be won over? Or politically destroyed by ridicule? Or just isolated and marginalized? I could not think of any other options. What did Emil expect of me anyway? That I would get into bed with her? Perish the thought. I was not into bestiality.

As we walked back down to the ground floor portacabin, I turned to Emil. “These are high level stakes, Emil. Just what has been going on?”

“This is too big a project, for it to go wrong. Do what you’ve been doing and it will be fine.”

“By the way, Emil, did you spot Valentina and Ludmila? It’s surely not a coincidence.”

“Who??”

“The waitresses.”

“Yes, what about them?”

“Ludmila was the one that danced for you at “Pinks” on election night. Remember her face?”

“No. Be fair. I wouldn’t recognize her from that end, would I?”

  Our colleagues were still eating and socializing when we got into the ground floor level. The drink was flowing freely as was the conversation. Patricia Wallace was making a pass at one of the architects and Ludmila and Valentina were in their element cavorting with their drinks trays around the crowd of drunken notables. Valentina came over to me.

 “Hello, naughty English Councillor,” she winked at me.

 “How did you get the job here?” I asked her sharply.

She answered a question with a question. “You still have the card I gave you?” she asked.

I shrugged my shoulders. How could I remember?

“Please use it!” she hissed and then walked back to the assembled company.

 

 When I got back home I fumbled in the pocket of the jacket I had worn on election night. Her card was still there but a bit dog-eared, though I had not looked at it even once. Her card included only the name “Valentina Ivanovna Naryshkin, student of mathematics”, and a mobile number. That afternoon consumed by curiosity (and perhaps by a little more) I telephoned the number on her card. There was an answer phone message but it sounded quite innocent. “Hi there. This is the flat of Valentina and Ludmila. We are not in at present but please leave a message.” What was curious was that this innocent message was repeated in Russian. If she had a clientele, as I suspected, then it was obviously not just the London tourist trade.

 I attended my local Councillor surgery at St Edmunds School that evening and on my way back I dropped round at the Stevens’ house for a cup of tea and a bit of political gossip. Meena Chakravatty was also there. I told them about the day’s events and in particular the developers’ declared commitment to support Swinton Middle School.

 Fred Stevens showed me the latest London Evening Standard with a picture on page 5 of the demonstrators outside the sinister looking wire fence of the Pinkerton Plaza site with a large “Trespassers will be prosecuted” notice behind them. The headline read “Russian tycoon plans pleasure palace in Framden” and referred to city analyst gossip about the possibility of Russian oil money being invested in London property, and included some comments about Yakov Sheremovsky’s latest acquisitions of property in the Gulf states and the French Riviera. Melanie Sheldrake was quoted as saying that the secretive behaviour of Sheremovsky and his unwillingness to open up the site to the public, which included the barricading of an ancient public way, required firm opposition. She accused Framden Council of caving in to economic pressure and ignoring the interests of Framden’s inhabitants. She raised the threatened view from Daffodil Hill again. The final sentence in this report read. “No spokesman from Framden Council was available for comment.”

   I was speechless with anger. I rang Emil but he was not at home and he was not replying on his mobile. I rang our Council leader, Ted Grayson. He had already seen the story and had been frantically trying to contact Emil as well to prepare a proper reaction. I went over the day’s events with him.

“Will you be free to-morrow? It’s a Wednesday.”

I said “Yes”.

“You and I need to have a meeting. Along with Emil, Andy Trosser, the local ward Councillors for the Pinkerton site, Chris Finneston from Planning, the Chief Executive, and someone from the Press Office. We have to react.”

“I think, Ted, we should go further. We need to take the offensive. Hold a public meeting. Shame the opposition into supporting us. Perhaps bring the developers into it. Lord Smallbridge will be a very convincing front-man.”

“Good idea, Peter!” said Grayson. “We’ll decide that at the meeting. I’ll get the wheels in motion. 10 o’clock should be OK to catch the deadline for next day’s “Standard” and for the Framden Journal Friday edition.”

“You are so masterly,” Meena cooed at me as she watched me haranguing Grayson. It was almost embarrassing.

Just then my mobile rang. It was Valentina.

“Hello there, naughty English boy. We’re having a party!”

“Where are you? What’s the address?”

“I don’t know if I can tell you. Can we trust him, Ludmila?” There was a muffled giggle over the phone.

“Oh no! Definitely not”

“Valentina, don’t give me that crap. What’s the bloody address?” She was trying my patience.

Her telephone went dead. I was about to redial but stopped short as I noticed Meena and the Stevens looking at me somewhat alarmed.

“It’s a Council tenant. Having problem with a noisy neighbour. She’s afraid to give me her address, poor dear,” I explained to them.

“Ring her back,” said Meena. “Tell her we’ll go together.”

“It may get a bit rough,” I explained. “It’s the Stanhope Estate. I know the building anyway. I’ll drive there and ring again. Look guys, thanks for everything and don’t wait up for me.”

I got back to the car, drove to the end of the street, stopped and rang Valentina’s mobile number again. It was busy and then came the same message as before.

I swore, redialled and then swore again. Bitch!!

I drove slowly in the direction of my part of the Borough when the mobile phone rang again.

“Petya. You naughty English boy!”

“Christ! Valentina, tell me where you are?”

“Not if you swear at me again.”

“Swear? I didn’t swear.”

“You are such a liar, you naughty naughty boy. I cannot invite you to my party like this. You should get your botty spanked.”

“Cut the crap, will you. What’s the address?”

There was a moment’s discussion, and then Valentina came back on the line. “Drive to Eddington. You know, the big train station. Then call us again. But only if you are going to be well behaved.”

Twenty minutes later I was outside Eddington Main Line. I stopped the car and rang again. Valentina answered.

“What is the make of your car, big boy?”

“It’s a new red Ford Focus. Why?”

“Wait!”

I waited at least ten minutes. Suddenly, the passenger door opened. A large grim looking man, resembling a bouncer, opened the door. “Are you Peter?” he barked at me. It was strange and alarming but also, somehow, a familiar question.

I gulped and nodded. He promptly sat next to me in the passenger seat. “Drive car to the other side of station”, he ordered. I did as he asked, racked both by anxiety and curiosity. As I parked the car, he said, “OK. Out!”

I got out one side, he the other. “Please lock the car. Come with me.” He towered over me. I was the standard 5’11, but he must have been about 6’6 or more. To my alarm I remembered the big guy who had followed Sheremovsky out of the portacabin. It was the same man. His first question also reminded me with something more than a shock that I had indeed met him before. He had been at Pinks and had taken my money as he barred my access to Valentina.

Meekly now, I followed him but without even looking where I was going. I was very intrigued by my apparent adventure and this anaesthetised me from any sense of physical danger.

We passed from the railway approach road to a narrow short cul de sac with 3 of those small seedy hotels associated with backpackers and bed and breakfast dives, of the type the Council used to use for the homeless, but which was now used to house immigrants. We passed these and came to another nondescript terrace house but without any neon lights or signboards of any kind. Yet it looked like it had been a hotel at one time. The windows were covered by shutters on the inside but chinks of light could be seen through them.

The giant hammered on the door. “It’s Nikolai!”

The door opened and there on the welcoming mat, in front of a large staircase, stood Valentina. I was amazed to see that she was dressed in a red PVC suit and had a riding crop in her hand. “Come in you naughty English boy. Welcome to the House of Shame.”