A Westminster Romance

A Tale from Tufton Street

It was at that moment he recognised the young lady who was asking a question about exiting the ECHR: It was Ava Gravesend. Suddenly his mind entertained the idea not only of an evening of political gossip and intellectual discussion, but of wooing as well. Rare enough was flirtation with an attractive right-wing girl his thought turned to little else. Upon the end of the question-and-answer session, he set about catching the scent of this Eurosceptic. Playing it cool, while, reality being he had missed where she had gone, he engaged in a little conversation with Nristian Kiemietz. ‘You must be pleased with Labour’s planning agenda’, ‘Yeah, it looks alright’ he said in a Germanic tone of partial disappointment as memories of false dawns of radical overhauls overcame him.

Aware his time was running out, he made for the doors and looked both ways down the street. To his content; there she was. A besuited beauty in pearls looking at her phone and clearly lost. A better circumstance could not have presented itself, there was his damsel in distress. He made his way up to her: ‘Hello, my name’s Christopher, I enjoyed your question about the ECHR’ offering his hand. ‘Ava’ she said with a slight smile. ‘Are you going to the MoG?’, ‘No, I’m looking for the Institute’ returning her glance to her phone. ‘Oh, I’m going there too; I’ll walk you there if you like?’ She agreed and so he walked his delightfully cheery stroller up Lord North Street into the Institute of Economic Affairs. ‘What’s your political ideology?’ being the obvious question to ask of a politico in a Carnegie inspired train of conversation.

Aware there was no way he could compete with the allure of men with letters after their name, he left the lovely lady to her mixing in this Westminster waltz of sorts. Many years older than her, Christopher had grown weary of his youthful admiration of politicians, instead, the thought of politicians, even so-called libertarian politicians, filled him with utter contempt. He enjoyed the company of thinkers, and, in this case, think tank thinkers, who he conversed with throughout the evening. Appreciating the free beverages, he mused with fellow guests on housing regulations, anarcho-capitalism, and, how the issue of immigration was dividing the liberal movement (as he still insisted upon calling it in a hopeless longing for its meaning of Victorian days past). Into the balmy yellowish night which only a big city can provide though his thoughts swayed onto what to do about Ava. How could he get her into a position to make his move?

Fortunately for him, the opportunity simply presented itself as a group of young people made their way to The Speaker. Keeping his cool and aware he needed to manoeuvre away a young man with a slightly camp voice, he made his move. ‘Ava, could I buy you a drink’, ‘Yes, a pink lemonade please, thank you’, ‘I can get you an alcoholic drink if you’d like’, ‘No a pink lemonade is fine’. Aware he had his ‘in’ and the girl was interested in at least the prospect of a little flirtation, he made his way to the bar. Alas, the drinks were not allowed outside however, so, he made his way out to the side of the pub empty handed, but drinks ordered and inside. While she was discussing the forthcoming Tory leadership contest, he decided a little contact was needed. He simply leaned into her posture ever so slightly; she didn’t flinch, but instead applied the slightest reciprocal gradient to her pose. Their eyes had rarely met, but there was already a certain chemistry in the air.

‘Why don’t you run for local office Ava?’, he asked, setting off a suitable conversation where she could explicate on her thoughts and he could impress her by saying he had already been in local government. ‘Shall we go and get my drink then’ she said to end the three-way conversation, looking into Christopher’s eyes with a minor smirk. He got her the drink from the bar, and, to his great surprise, she pulled up a stool and basically presented herself to him, as if to say, “I’m solely yours for a few moments should you want to take advantage of the prospect’. And take advantage of it he did: ‘Let’s move over here, it’s less conspicuous’, surely, if not totally overtly, making his intentions clear, if they weren’t already. The content of the conversation ranged from their shared education at Oxford, current affairs, political philosophy and her entry into politics. Following the 60:40 rule, he made sure to make her do most of the talking. He was happy enough to hear her polished voice, and, for once, he felt little need nor want to argue.

The finer details of their conversation need not bore the reader, yet, the physicality of it should not be lost on them. Their legs no longer sensed the great need to not touch, and, their faces closed to a less than a normal distance apart. At one point he stopped and held his gaze to make his real intentions clear, she smiled uncontrollably, giggled and broke the gaze by shyly looking down and moving her hair out of her face. Aware all good things must come to an end, Christopher took the initiative and introduced Ava to Bill, a good chap, and, fortunately for him, with a long-term girlfriend. A safe pair of hands. Bill listened to them speak about the law and her possibility of studying it. He thought of his line to leave the evening, as, alas, he needed to catch the last train.

‘Ava, I’ve really enjoyed your company this evening, could I take you out to dinner tomorrow?’ After a little prevarication, and, no doubt the thought on her part of never having met this man before, she agreed to go out with him. For his part, Christopher was pleased; he’d managed to smooth his way into a date with a beautiful girl, and, not just that, the rarity that is a beautiful girl that is right wing too. Yet for this man of the libertarian right, and, despite her initial interest, Ava never did go out with Christopher. He was used to his solitary path; ‘Her loss’ he thought. Slightly miffed; he soon moved on, and, instead, simply reflected on the warm memory of that summer night. Romantic pastures anew beckoned him; but he would never forget that fine foray.

All characters in this story are fictitious