house of cards 1

Chapter 4

Urquhart even managed a smile at Mrs. Bailey.This smile is like a mayfly, its life is short, and it ends before the beginning, but it is enough to achieve the purpose of repairing the relationship.He walked towards the door quickly, but when he was saying goodbye to the host, he was left behind by a gesture from the campaign agent.The agent was on the phone, scribbling hurried notes with the other hand.

"The final votes are being counted, Francis," she explained.

"I'm just wondering, shouldn't this be done an hour ago?" There was a joking expression on the corner of his mouth, but the smile disappeared completely before reaching the corner of his eyes.

"It's not as optimistic as last time," she said, blushing at the seemingly joking rebuke. "A lot of our supporters seem to be staying home and not going out to vote. The data is not that easy to analyze, but I suspect basically It’s a downward trend. It’s hard to say how much it’s going down.”

"Damn them. They should have had a good taste of a few years in power by the Opposition. Maybe they'll be able to move their asses off and go out and vote."

"Honey," his wife comforted in a soft voice, just like she had encountered countless similar situations before, "I'm really upset. With nearly 2 votes, we won the majority, so what if it slipped a little bit, yes Bar?"

"Mortima, I don't think this is the time to be big. I'm hot and tired, and I can't stand people blah blah blah blah blah. For God's sake, get me out of this place. "

He strode out the door, but she hurriedly turned around and waved her hand to express her thanks and goodbye to the crowded room, only to see the floor lamp fall to the ground with a "boom".

Gone was the air of measured intimidation that so often permeated an editorial office, replaced by a lingering sense of panic about to erupt at any moment.The first edition had already been printed, and the headline on the front page boldly read: "Sure to Win!" But it was six in the afternoon, four hours before voting closed. The editor-in-chief of the Daily Chronicle took a risk by predicting the outcome of the election in order to attract the most attention when the paper went public.If his prediction is correct, it would be a head start on the news.If unfortunately he guesses wrong, his situation will be like a pond flooded up to his neck, and surrounded by crocodiles.

It was Greville Preston's first election as editor-in-chief of the newspaper, and he was not feeling very well.His nervousness was evident in the ever-changing headlines, the constant urging of political journalists to give him updates and increasingly lurid lectures.He had only been in this position a few months ago, promoted by the new boss of the Daily Chronicle, who had given him the simplest but most unquestionable instruction, "Success."According to the signed contract, he has no room for failure and will never get a second chance.Of course, he did not show any sympathy or regret for the seniors who had worked here before but left because of failure.

Accountants require companies to reach a satisfactory financial level immediately.As a result, the relentless layoffs came in waves.Many high-level people have found themselves "reasonably dismissed".It was replaced by less experienced but much cheaper latecomers.This saved money, but morale in the company plummeted.The layoffs made the employees who were lucky enough to stay panicked, and the loyal readers were baffled, while Preston always felt that his "death" was coming soon.Faced with this dire situation, his boss made up his mind not to help.

Preston devised a strategy to increase circulation, which brought the newspaper downmarket.But the bountiful harvest promised by Preston will have to wait and see.When this short man first entered the newspaper office, he had the lofty pride of Napoleon's new emperor enthroned.But now his heavy workload has caused him to lose weight, belt his belt and drink a lot of coffee to stay awake.Countless beads of sweat often dripped from his hair to his eyebrows, causing the thick "bottom of the wine bottle" on the bridge of his nose to slide down continuously, and at the same time washed away his former elegance, calmness and decisiveness.In the past, he could come up with great ideas with just a snap of his fingers, but now his hands are always waving impatiently.The inner insecurities ate away at his carefully crafted external authority, and he no longer had the self-confidence to adapt to changes.He felt that he might not be able to handle any situation.He wasn't even in the mood to spend spring evenings with his secretary anymore.

Now he turned around, his back was facing the TV monitors that covered the entire wall of the office and was constantly broadcasting images, and he was facing an employee who gave him a headache just mentioning it. "How the hell did you know something was wrong?" he growled.

Mattie Stoling didn't flinch in the slightest. At the age of 28, she is the youngest reporter on the political page of the newspaper.The senior reporter she had replaced had offended the accountants by having a lavish lunch at the Savoy during his interviews.However, despite being relatively young and new, Mattie was pretty sure she was right that less capable people were usually more stubborn.She is used to being yelled at by her boss, and yelling back is also her usual skill.In any case, she was about the same height as Preston, "and about the same in looks!" she used to say of him with some sarcasm.Yes, he was staring at the twin peaks on her chest most of the time, but what did it matter?She got the job and occasionally got the upper hand in their arguments.She did not feel that Preston threatened her sexually.She knew his secretary very well, and knew about their affairs; and, since she had come to the south without hesitation, she had to pay the price, and endured a short man with a red belt on her.If she "survives" here, her career will be quite broad in the future.

She turned to face him, her hands tucked defensively in the pockets of her stylish puffy trousers.She began, calmly, hoping that her voice would not betray inner tension, "Gray, every government MP I've interviewed in the past two hours is downgrading their forecasts. Someone called and he said the polls looked like they were down 5.00%. It's hard to call a landslide like that. Something's wrong and you can feel it? The government is far from guaranteed, let alone safe. "

"so what?"

"So our reporting is too biased."

"Damn it. Every poll during the election period shows the government is winning! Why are you asking me to change the front page now? Just your woman's instincts?"

Mattie understood that all his angry words were nervous.All editors live on thin ice, and the secret to survival is not to show it.But Preston made the sentiment explicit.

"Well," he said aggressively, "the last election they had a majority of over a hundred seats. Tell me what your female intuition thinks the outcome will be tomorrow? The polls are predicting something like seven." Ten seats. What does our little Mattie Stoling think?"

She stood on tiptoes so she could look down at him. "You can trust the polls, Gray. But things aren't what they say in the streets. Government supporters aren't enthusiastic. They don't want to go out and vote." . This will hold the majority back.”

"Forget it, you," he said domineeringly, "how can it be delayed?"

She couldn't keep tiptoeing.So he shook his head slowly, emphasizing his vigilance on this matter.Blonde hair brushed her shoulders. "A week ago I might have said about fifty, and now, I guess it's less," she replied after a pause, "probably a lot less."

"God, no less. We've been rooting for those bastards. They've got to make it."

You have to succeed too.She said silently in her heart.They all knew the situation of the editor-in-chief. He was in Fleet Street. 】One of the largest "swamps".Preston had only one firm political point of view, and that was that his newspaper could not afford to back the losing side.But that view wasn't even his own, it was imposed on him by the paper's new boss, the London-toned Benjamin Landries.One of the few attractive qualities about this boss is that he never puts on airs, never hides his true thoughts, and speaks out openly and honestly about any problems.He often admonishes and reminds his already deeply insecure staff that, thanks to the government's competition policy, it's much easier to buy ten new editors than a newspaper, "so we can't support the damn opposition, So as not to annoy the government."

Landries is a man of his word.He succeeded in getting his ever-expanding "newspaper army" into the government's camp, and what he expected in return was to let the government give him a favorable election result.Of course, such demands were unreasonable, but Landris never felt that reasonable demands would bring out the best in his employees.

Preston turned back to staring at a wall of TV screens, hoping for better news.Mattie tried again to make her point.She sat in the corner of the huge editor-in-chief's desk, put aside the stack of polls that Preston blindly regarded as "universal truth", and continued to analyze her insights methodically. "Please, Gray, think about this! When Margaret Thatcher was forced to resign, they all desperately needed a change in the way they governed. They wanted a new feeling, no So simple and rude, not so domineering; they are fed up with the "judgment law" [medieval judicial law, the defendant is tested by jumping into fire with bare feet, soaking his hands in boiling water, etc., if he is not injured, he is acquitted.], I'm tired of being bossed around by a damn woman all day." You should know this best, she thought to herself as she spoke. “So they picked whoever they thought was right — Collingridge, nothing else, because he looked confident on TV, fit in with the little old ladies, and didn’t look like he was going to be controversial.” She shrugged disdainfully, "But their advantage is gone. Politics is so lukewarm and limp right now, with no energy or passion. The way he was at a canvassing campaign was like a dull Sunday school teacher." It doesn't make a difference. If you spend another week listening to him babble about clichés, I think even his wife will vote for the other side. Anything, anyone, they want something new."

Preston turned away from the TV wall again, stroking his chin repeatedly.He finally seemed to be paying attention to it.For the tenth time that night, Mattie wondered if he had used some kind of varnish to keep his carefully groomed hair perfect.She suspected that a circle of "Mediterranean" had begun to appear in it.Besides, he had trimmed his eyebrows with tweezers, she was sure of that.

He lashed out at her again, "Okay, let's stop talking nonsense and just look at the real numbers, shall we? What will happen to the majority party, will they come back to power?"

"It would be rash to say they won't," she replied.

"Then I don't have fucking time for recklessness, Mattie. A 'majority' is enough for me anyway. My God, just having a majority is quite an achievement, actually. It can be said to have made history. Four consecutive victories, never met before. So I will not modify the front page."

Preston picked up a bottle of champagne on the bookshelf, poured a glass, and quickly ended his lecture.Instead of buying her a drink, he issued an order to evict her by scribbling on a stack of paper.But Mattie was not so easy to pass.Her grandfather, a modern-day Viking, escaped Nazi-occupied Norway across the North Sea in a small, flooded fishing boat during the stormy months of early [-]. Joined the Royal Air Force.Mattie inherited not only a natural Scandinavian face from her grandfather, but also a stubborn personality.This often makes those men who are strong on the outside feel unbearable, but she doesn't care so much.

"You just stop for a moment and ask yourself, what do we expect if Collingridge is prime minister for another four years? Maybe he's too meek to be prime minister really. His campaign statements are really flimsy. , was drowned out by other voices in the first week of canvassing. He didn't make any new ideas, the only plan was to cross his fingers [In Western culture, crossing fingers means looking forward to good luck.], praying to the Russians or unions Don't make too much trouble. Do you think our country really wants such a leader?"

"Marty, you've always been so graceful," he said sarcastically, again condescendingly, "but you're wrong. Voters want unity and stability, not sudden change. They don't want Every time I take the baby for a walk, the toy is thrown out of the stroller." His nimble fingers waved in mid-air, like a conductor bringing a errant player back to the right notes. "So, a few more years of warm beer and cricket wouldn't be a bad thing. And it would be great to have our good friend Collingridge back in [-] Downing Street!"

"It's fucking killing people," she muttered, turning to leave.

(End of this chapter)