When his car pulls up in front of the campaign headquarters in the spot Jasmine coned off that morning – even though the act was of dubious legality – Jasmine, Pamela, and Ben are waiting. Both of the women are nervous, Jasmine because she knows what is at stake and Pamela because Jasmine is. In the many years she has known Jasmine, ever since Jasmine started working for Richard, the older woman has always been impressed with Jasmine’s unflappable confidence. Some might call it arrogance and entitlement, but Pamela knows it is backed up with talent and competence.
Jasmine is familiar with the DoC’s face from video calls and Labour propaganda photos. Since the surprising email asking her to step in to prepare the ground for the by-election in Hayburn, she has been in regular, although intermittent, contact with the DoC. His reputation as a rottweiler is well-known, but so far she has avoided a mauling. She has used the same tactic here as she used previously – take a temporary job and make yourself indispensable. Still, it could change at any moment.
When the DoC walks into the office, Jasmine is surprised. He is tiny, shorter than her and nearly half her width. She feels like a great lumpen ox beside him. His voice, though, makes up for his size. She is sure it is deliberate as he booms, “Great spot here. Almost better than a high street. Imagine the traffic that goes past every day. And every one of them sees your face.” He nods at Ben. “I take it the location’s your work?” He swivels to Jasmine and at her nod, says, “Thought so. Good girl.”
Finding a campaign headquarters was always troublesome. You don’t want to spend any of your budget because it is limited by election law and needed for other things. Using the current constituency office is prohibited. Jasmine knows of campaigns that have been run out of a garage or a living room. They are seldom successful. When she managed to talk the landlord into letting them use the empty shop for a few weeks on the promise they would repaint the black walls the previous occupant had installed and no other charge, she had practically skipped home. One day with a large roller, a couple of ten-litre tubs of obliterating matt, and a few old sheets had transformed the shop from a vampire’s den to a workable space. The old storeroom at the back was transformed into an office for the candidate that Jasmine purloined whenever he was out. A meeting room doubled as a dumping ground for leaflets and supplies and a larger space for desks for volunteers to man phonelines, send emails, and complete paperwork. But more than any of that was the double shop front, on a main arterial road. Jasmine has filled the window with giant posters of Ben and campaign slogans. They change these regularly. It cuts down on daylight inside the space, but is worth it for the exposure it gets.
Jasmine can practically feel Ben stiffen at her side as he bristles at the blatantly patronising comment from the DoC. She prays he holds his tongue. This is not his battle to fight and now is not the time to make an enemy of the DoC. Mercifully, the man is on a tight schedule.
“I’ve been looking at the numbers,” he launches straight into it after Ben shows him into his small office, “and I’m impressed. We thought we’d take a nosedive what with all the tabloids piling in, but it’s not been the bloodbath we expected. We’ve even seen a tiny uptick in the last day or so. Too early to say if it’s a trend or an aberration, but …” He turns to Ben, “I’ve looked over Jasmine’s plan and I have to say I think it is sound. Do whatever she tells you to do and you won’t go far wrong.”
Ben nods, like he never tried to get Jasmine removed from the campaign. They talk over some of the issues they have found on the doorstep talking to residents and what Ben may and may not be able to promise in the future. Then the DoC glances at his phone and stands.
“Anything you need from us, you’ve got. Anyone gives you any trouble, you send them to me. I’m a rule bender by nature but no breaking election rules, here. The entire country is watching this one. And we need the win. This is probably the last by-election before the General Election. Let’s go in riding the wave of success.” He turns to go.
“And Jasmine,” he says, looking directly at her. “I meant what I said and I’m a man who keeps his promises.”
As the DoC whirls out, Jasmine takes a few minutes to breathe. She sneaks into the little kitchen and stands with the tea caddy in her hands but doesn’t switch on the kettle. She just needs to rebalance. Unfortunately, her time out is interrupted.
Ben walks into the kitchen, a face like thunder. “What did he mean by that?”
Jasmine ponders acting coy for a moment but then sighs. “It’s nothing sinister and it really is none of your business.” She puts the tea caddy down and turns to go, but Ben’s hand lands on her upper arm. Her heartbeat picks up and memories of his touch flash in her mind. She is close to losing it.
“I think it is. What promise?” Ben demands.
“A job!” she cries, exasperated. “When all this is over. And only if we win. What did you think it was?”
“Oh?” Ben’s brow furrows. “I thought …” He stops.
“You thought, what? That I’d work for you?” She stares him directly in the eye. “No, thanks.” A future watching him climb the career ladder with her stuck in his parliamentary office? A future watching him fall in love with the woman he makes his wife? Neither appeals.
“Even if Richard were still alive, I was planning to move on. But now I’m tainted by his death and the suspicion I knew about Irina Petrova. No one would touch me. But if we win…” Jasmine leaves it up to him to understand what it would mean for her career.
“And if we lose?” he asks.
“Then we’ll both be looking for another job. The difference is, you’ll get another chance and I’ll be stacking shelves in the supermarket.”
She moves past him but stops in the doorway. “Promise me one thing, though? Promise me that Pamela will head up your constituency office. If you win, of course.” Jasmine may want more, but Pamela’s whole life is here in Hayburn.
“I’m not an idiot, Jasmine. I can see what an asset she is. And I understand older folk might find it easier to confide in her than me. I will win here. I’d have thought you’d have more faith in us than that.”
Faith in us. Jasmine wants to laugh. Bitterly. She’d had faith in them once before and look how that had turned out. She turns and stalks away.
That afternoon, she and Ben are visiting a local factory making heavy machinery. It was a relic of the old days when steel works and coal mines abounded and it made sense to be close by. Nowadays, the furnaces and mines are gone, but it remains, importing the steel and parts it needs. It continues to be one of the biggest employers in the neighbourhood. Privately owned by a local family who were supporters of Richard, the family want to sound out the new young whippersnapper for themselves. A tour of the factory, a chance to speak to the workers and the union representatives, and a meeting with the board has been arranged. Jasmine has practically mortgaged her soul to set up the visit, understanding the opportunities for photos showcasing Ben already at work in the local economy and the chance to convince one or two donors.
It starts well enough. The tour is great and the meeting with the board goes well. Jasmine has pre-primed Ben with the issues the company faces trading in post-Brexit Britain, the rising costs of energy and raw materials especially with global competition. For all his youth, Ben has an amazing ability to grasp complex situations and to work through to the core issues. The meeting with the workers, though, is a disaster.
Early on, a union representative, mid-fifties, beefy, red-faced, asks Ben, “Have you ever done a day’s manual labour in your life?”
Like a practised politician, Ben sidesteps the question.
And Jasmine groans internally. These are stereotypical, working-class, northern men. Blunt, unpretentious, honest. It is the worst thing he could do. In that one moment, he loses his audience. The questions become increasingly hostile and Ben seems increasingly uncomfortable. Beleaguered is not a good look, not a look voters want.
Jasmine gets him out of the meeting as soon as she can.
When they are both sitting in in his car, he puts his head back. “That was bad, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” she says. She will have to pick him up, but first she needs him to learn. “Sidestepping the question was a mistake.”
