Heaton wanted Georgia to call for an emergency session at the party conference scheduled that weekend. He wanted her to propose and implement an up-and-down referendum on leaving the European Union. They were in Georgia’s office at Number 10, once again locking horns. She was in as foul a mood as he could ever remember. She had grown to despise Heaton now. “Hate” was too weak a word. She could feel a flame in the back of her throat every time his name or even the thought of him arose. His cologne made her retch; his careless, classless cackle was like nails on a chalkboard; and his incessant demands had been taken to a new level in that they were now voiced openly as orders.
It had been a full week since she had addressed Parliament and accepted her party’s call to form a government. It had been one long, never-ending series of meetings, dinner parties, and conferences. It felt like it had been a year or more, not anywhere close to a mere seven days. She was tired but she was stronger. She had been off the drugs for almost two weeks and was already standing firmer, sleeping better, and even eating full meals again. She wanted to stand up to Heaton but wasn’t yet sure of just how to do it. She needed to keep him as close as she could until she could strategically end their affiliation.
“The time is right, Georgia. Now. Not later. The public is ready. They’ve experienced drastic change and it hasn’t been the end of the world. You’ve overseen a smooth transition, Roland is going to survive, and so is all of this.” He waved his arms around the finely crafted room with the ornate souvenirs.
“We are ready to move on and ready to reclaim what’s been lost. I’ll tell you there’s a majority of the Tories ready and waiting to anoint you with the mandate to do this, you’ve got all of the UKIP vote, and Andrew Bate-Hydely at party policy tells me that he thinks a good third to almost half of our party is ready to take the plunge. Even some of the damn libs are on board. The stars may never line up like this again.”
“I’m not sure. I don’t think it’s time. Not yet. I’m not saying to wait much longer, but Roland was very vocal and public on his not wanting a referendum, on choosing a series of protections and amendments. His white paper stands as record. The ink isn’t dry. I’ll be seen as a provocateur taking advantage of his misfortune.”
“You’ll be seen as a heroine, the woman that brought England to its senses! Every poll we have done tells us it’s more than feasible.”
She turned away. “I won’t do it. Not now. We’ve already done enough damage. I need to let the dust settle and run the government. We have other fish to fry here, David. It isn’t all about your grand scheme. I have an agenda to discern from this convention and I need to put together a team to put it in place. We have holy hell still brewing in the Middle East, a crime rate on the ladder up, and unemployment ticking high again for the first time in three years. Give the people a chance to catch their breath. Give me a damn chance to catch my breath. I’ll not be pushed this quick.”
There was a slight knock on the door. It opened quietly and Sir Melvin Burnlee entered. He reminded her of a tall gray distinguished spruce. Dapper, dignified, and perfectly elegant, Burnlee was a last link to another kind of Englishman. He had been in government or service his entire life; so had his brothers, his father, and his father’s brothers. There were very few families in Britain that had roots and rivers that ran as deep and as true as Burnlee’s did.
Georgia was shocked to see the home secretary there. He wasn’t one to come by unannounced. It wasn’t his way. He was a “by the books,” old-fashioned sort who would have meetings on preset attendance; even phone calls were scheduled and calendared.
“Are you with him on this then, Sir Melvin?”
“I am. Have been all along. Yes.” The wind left the room for Georgia. Heaton had often waved the idea of the “others” in the scheme, how deep the mine had been dug, the pedigree of his pals, but for some reason she never suspected the prim and proper Burnlee to be one to ride along with the strong scent of new-moneyed cologne that Sir David embodied, but apparently he did. He stood right next to Heaton, now firm and proud.
“It’s time to get on with it, Georgia. We’ve come a long way. There’s no turning back.”
This was a body blow. If Burnlee had come along, then there were surely others. The party was aboard as well. This had all been planned, consecrated, and anointed by a cabal with incredibly rooted ties. On one level she felt safer, not as alone, more sure-footed in terms of being able to ride along and complete any cover-up. On another, much broader and more profound plane, she felt thoroughly saddened for her country, for what they had done, for the trust they had squandered, obliterated. Yes, they had their patriotic reasons—they yearned for a true referendum above the reach of politics, to “let the people speak”—but they had done it in a way that was beyond sinister. It was malevolent and ultimately nothing shy of unfiltered evil. They must have all, on some level, known that and decided not to let it stop them.
Burnlee nodded to her. She had no response. He left the office. Heaton looked back once more to Georgia. He seemed to want to say more, maybe even to comfort her. He knew her well enough to know that now wasn’t the time. He kept his head low and made his exit.
She let Jack Early know that she needed a break. She went wordlessly up to her flat at 11, closed the door, and tried to stop herself from spinning. She went to the bottom of her drawer and pulled out a small Dopp kit. She fished out the bottle, backed over to the bed, tried to breathe as she sat down, and popped open the bottle. She didn’t even fight herself, knew that it was useless. She swallowed two of her little “candy” pills.