Charm Offensive

William Thacker

Description

‘A strange book, but its strangeness is what keeps you turning the pages.’ Jennifer Johnston

‘I'm always a sucker for redemption stories but this one is really highly entertaining, life-affirming and - yes - charming. On this evidence, William Thacker is a name you will hear a lot more often.’ Matt Haig

On reflection, he should probably continue with the plan. The plan was to get away, wasn't it? What made him deviate from the plan? It was all the things that came in between. He just needs to keep going.

When retired politician Joe Street is named in a tabloid media slur, he carries out a last-ditch attempt to resurrect his marriage and undo the damage from the lie. With a cheap PR consultant in tow, Joe is reintroduced to a world of empty sound bites and media appearances - a world he would rather forget.

His PR campaign takes a turn for the worse and Joe sets out to rebuild a relationship with his estranged daughter. Together, they commit themselves to a challenge that will help right their wrongs.

In spite of his regeneration, Joe discovers that nothing is ever easy. With his fragile reputation on the line, his past continues to chase him. Joe finds himself on a journey of self-discovery, of redemption, but most importantly, of finding hope once more.

Sujets

• Political
• Literary
• Literature
• Politics
• Family Life
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Legend Press
• Date de parution: 01 mars 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781909878549
• Langue: English

Extrait

Charm Offensive
William Thacker
Legend Press Ltd, The Old Fire Station,
140 Tabernacle Street, London, EC2A 4SD
[e-mail]
www.legendpress.co.uk
Contents William Thacker 2014
The right of the above author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available.
Print ISBN 978-1-9098785-3-2
Ebook ISBN 978-1-9098785-4-9
Set in Times
Printed in the United Kingdom by TJ International
Cover design by Gudrun Jobst www.yotedesign.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
Author and Scriptwriter William Thacker was born in London in 1986. He is a graduate of Lancaster University (English Literature with Creative Writing BA) and the University of Manchester (Creative Writing MA).
Since 2009, William has written scripts in partnership with Manchester-based Honlodge Productions whilst working as a professional copywriter. In 2013 he co-wrote his first short film, Full Time, which has been screened at film festivals in the UK and internationally.
William is currently working on his second novel and is developing a feature film script. He lives in 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