Overexposed

by Maureen Kishtaini

maureen.alkishtaini@btopenworld.com

The Big Issue seller was standing right in her path and without thinking she muttered, “No thanks,” under her breath and moved on. She could almost feel the hostile stare bore into her back and the mumbled profanities that followed. But Laura Bridgewater was a tough operator as well as a busy woman, and nothing could disturb her quest for a new outfit. And without official hangers-on, she could melt into the crowd, just another middle-aged woman on a shopping spree.

In the dress shop under the cloak of anonymity, she approached the manageress, eager for her advice.

“I need something smart – a working suit that I can liven up for dressy evening receptions."

Mentally earmarking trouser suits in grey and navy she added in a discreet whisper, “I don't mind paying if the quality is right."

Guessing she was serving someone of significance, the manageress, all glossy fingernails and hair straight-jacketed into place, muttered to an assistant, "Bring down the latest arrivals from upstairs."

There was something about Laura's confident demeanour which attracted attention and as she slipped on trousers and zipped up skirts, preening and posing in the mirror, a customer nearby tentatively offered her opinion.

"You look as if you really mean business in that suit," she said, sensing that she was conversing with someone “important”. With that recommendation, Laura muttered a thank-you and bought the outfit without a glance at the price tag.

Outside, dreary skies and an invisible curtain of drizzle hung in the air. Yet despite the weather, she felt relaxed as she clutched her purchases and made her way to the car park. Off guard and enjoying a momentary flush of achievement, she didn't notice the Big Issue seller standing in the same place as before. Only as she passed was she aware of an arm outstretched towards her and the voice with a quiet but almost accusatory tone.

"Big Issue, madam?" She shook her head and walked on. But the voice followed.

"Haven't I seen your face on TV? Aren't you that MP, Laura summat or other? Not even got the decency to give one pound fifty to help the homeless?" Laura stopped in her tracks. Shoppers turned, curious to hear what the man was saying. She could hear murmurs of disapproval. Fumbling in her purse, she took out several pound coins.

"Here," she mumbled, putting the money in his hand. “Keep the magazine." The young man viewed her with distaste.

"It wouldn't hurt the likes of you to know a bit more about us and how some people have to live. Do you know what it's like, sleeping rough and scrounging for supermarket leftovers?" His words were surprisingly articulate.

A burly unshaven man in the crowd pushed forward. "Yeah, not everyone gets a nice fat salary for sitting on their arse. Or claiming expenses for bath plugs and dirty videos!" The coarse voice broke into laughter.

But Laura's fragile exterior belied an inner strength. If she could cope with angry debates in the House and journalists' ruthless interrogations, she could cope with the comments of a few disgruntled bystanders. She gave an icy smile to the group now staring with hostility.

"Not guilty on the bathplug front! But I was a bit hasty just now," she confessed, her voice softening. “I’ll take the magazine, I'm sure it's very informative." As she reached to take it, she heard a faint click. A bright light flashed in her face and she heard a voice murmur, "That'll sort the snotty bitch!"

Back at her constituency base, she flopped into a chair, regretting one of the worst mistakes of her career. She looked with longing at the photos on the desk, husband Phil and daughter Zoey, loneliness pressing down upon her. Reaching for her phone she started to send a text, then stopped. A gut feeling told her there would be little sympathy from Phil. And misgivings surfaced like a cloud of noxious fumes.

The next morning and still in bed, the telephone rang.

“Have you seen the papers?" Her husband's voice spelt nervous anger.

“Of course not. I'm not even up yet. I was having a bit of a lie-in, for a change."

"Well, darling," he drawled with faint sarcasm, "you've really landed yourself in the soup this time. Shall I give you a flavour? 'Local MP snubs homeless—', 'No interest in the homeless— MP turns her back', 'Too busy or too mean? MP cold-shoulders Big Issue seller', 'I was only trying to earn an honest penny', claims Big Issue seller'. And that's only the beginning!"

Laura swore quietly. "They've got it all wrong. I did buy a copy. Oh, you know what the tabloids are!"

Brian, her agent, was next on the phone.

"Stay where you are, Laura. I'm coming over. We've got to work something out before the press are baying at your door. By the look of the papers, they're ready to lynch you."

A knot of panic twisted at the pit of her stomach and she made herself a pot of strong coffee, ready for the worst.

"Nobody said politics was going to be an easy ride,” she said to Brian an hour later. "And you know as well as anyone that I really do want to make a difference. But yesterday I was just your average woman, out for a day's shopping. Do I have to be pilloried for that?" Brian looked at her long and hard before he spoke.

"What you need is a bit of positive publicity for a change." His tone was uncompromising. "Show that you really do want to make a difference. Why not work as a volunteer at the shelter for a few weeks? It won't be easy, what with druggies, losers, wife beaters, but it'll give your detractors in Opposition something to think about." He looked at her expensive haircut, her manicured nails. A sacrificial lamb no doubt, but definitely the Party's gain.

Whatever gain Brian had envisaged was not immediately apparent. For Laura insisted on complete anonymity as she worked out her duties with Pete, the warden of Lawrence House. On two days a week and for a couple of hours, she was to help with the literacy and numeracy sessions. From the beginning she was warned.

"Don't be sucked into the men's lives." Pete took her aside. "Some of them can mesmerize you with their bad-luck stories. Be fair but leave your emotions at home."

She'd bristled at the suggestion. There was little likelihood of that. Practical assistance would be as far as she'd go.

The first few weeks went well. To most of the men, she became a much-needed support, someone to bolster their self-esteem and help with basic skills. Almost all of them valued her help.

Wayne was different. Scrawny and with short reddish hair, he had the physique of an ageing light-weight boxer and the antagonism that accompanied unremitting failure. His negative manner and indifference shouted hostility and he was known for his savage bursts of aggression. Pete had warned her to tread carefully. With two spells of prison for aggravated assault, and on the record for knocking around several of his women, Laura was always wary.

But that day she was off guard, reassured by his quiet acquiescence as she helped him complete the application form for a job of warehouse operator. Pete thought he might stand a chance with a bit of luck. "He's got the strength of an ox and more to the point, a forklift truck certificate. It's worth a try."

"What about going on the computer? It might be easier." Laura looked down at his uneven childish writing as he attempted to complete the form. Wayne stared hard, resenting her implied criticism. The tone of her voice was Miss School Teacher all over again. He felt as if he had been slapped in the face with a wet flannel.

“Not good enough, eh?" He grasped her wrists and breathed into her face so that she smelt the stale odour of his breath. "Just like every fucking woman I've known."

A sudden excruciating pain filled her as his hand smashed across her face and she fell to the floor. There'd been no time to call out but by a stroke of luck, Pete was doing his rounds just as Wayne slipped out of the room.

"That's the last time I'll ever trust him!" For once Pete's calm equilibrium deserted him. “I should never have let you near him. I'll get a taxi," he said, examining her face as he pulled her onto her feet. "Better get a doctor to look at you too. Probably only a superficial cut but you'd better make sure." He paused, mentally adding up the consequences. "I'll understand if you want to press charges."

She shook her head. "No, leave things as they are. Probably do more harm than good – for us both."

As Pete helped her into a taxi, Laura heard the familiar whirl and click of a camera. Would they never leave her alone? Someone must have got wind of her regular trips to the more challenging parts of the city. She smiled to herself despite the pain and wondered with amazement how the media had managed to ferret out the minutiae of her life. Well, let them!

At home after a hot shower, she lay down on her bed and listened to the almost non-stop ringing of the telephone. But nothing was going to disturb her for a day. Even her mobile was switched off. Brian could certainly wait and as Phil didn't seem bothered anyway – husband, agent, public – they could all go to hell.

A good night's sleep did wonders and Laura felt ready to face the new day despite the indignity of a bruised face. Somehow as the coffee brewed and filled the kitchen with comforting aromas, she felt revived. Whatever life had thrown at her the last few weeks, she could face with confidence. The telephone rang. Phil's voice came over hoarse with anxiety on the answer phone.

"Why haven't you rung me, darling? I'm sick with worry. I get up to find a photo of you on the front page of the dailies – bruised and bloodied! Ring me back ASAP or I'm coming up today."

As the recording ended, a faint smile lit her face and she muttered, “At least he's worried."

The phone rang again. She let it ring for some time and then worn down by the persistent sound, picked up the phone. It was Brian.

"Well, things have really turned around." His voice exuded smug surprise. "Have you read the papers yet? You're front page and this time it's all good! 'MP attacked while on good works' mission', ' MP faces unprovoked attack at Shelter', 'Homeless scum attacks local MP'. And so on. Get that face patched up, Laura, and you'll be ready to face the world." His voice changed key. “Better still, leave it. Let them see what's happened to you. Let them see what physical abuse their MP has had, that politics isn't just fat salaries and expense accounts." There was a pause as Laura took in what he was saying.

"Have you finished your rant?" she said jokingly. "Look, Brian I'm not really up to it today. I need to collect my thoughts. And I've paper work to catch up with. Wait till tomorrow, please." And she put the phone down.

Was it worth carrying on, she wondered. Could the occasional achievements outweigh the mundane constituency work and generally hostile press and public? Why not go back to Housing? Whatever difficulties she'd experienced there at least she'd had a quiet life.

She sat down at her desk under the window and glanced at some of her post. Brian usually answered them but she always read through them beforehand. Most were requests or complaints. It’s a disgrace that my Alice hasn't got a place at her local primary…’ ‘Could you tell me why the Emergency Services took twenty minutes to reach my dad's home after his heart attack?' 'When are you going to do something about the children's playground in Foster Street ?'

But in amongst the hastily written, the badly spelt and the downright aggressive lay several others. 'I'm writing to thank you…' 'What you did for our Gran…' ' It was only because of your letter that a man from Housing came…' And so on. She was still exhausted and her face still sore to the touch but as she felt the warm sun on her arms and listened to the blackbird belting out his familiar song, Laura felt that she could face anything the world threw at her.

The strident ring of the telephone disturbed her reverie.

“Laura, I've just had some news – terrible news. There's been an accident at Lawrence House." Brian's voice was grave. "Apparently Wayne went berserk last night and attacked Pete with a hammer. He may not live. Even worse, there's some talk of your visits unsettling him. Imagine! I'm coming round as soon as I can so we can prepare a statement. Just thought I'd warn you."

Laura's hand began to tremble as she reached for the last of her coffee. With the events of the last few days piling upon her, she sensed her career was in the balance. There would be difficult questions to answer. It would be so easy to resign and take the easy way out. And yet…

Almost in tears for one of the most decent men she had ever met, she went upstairs to get changed. Selecting her new grey suit, she took her time dressing, finally opting for a soft low-key look. She applied a little blusher to her pallid cheeks and smoothed Morning Beige onto her lips. At least to the outside world, she would put on a good face.

©2009 Maureen Kishtaini

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