The Cinderella Plan Read online

  Therese ran both hands down over her belly. She really needed to get some exercise or she would never revert to her pre-pregnancy weight. She had managed with each of the other two children; somehow things seemed so much harder third time around. Then she noticed her nails, short and stubby; a manicure would be nice. But there was no point yet, that was what Neil had said, not while she was busy digging in their makeshift sandpit each afternoon – well, when the weather was dry, that was. Plenty of time for beauty treatments once things had settled down a bit.

  Ruby’s complaint became a cry, progressively increasing in volume. Therese glanced over at her daughter and blinked heavily. She looked down at her wrist, remembering too late that she had discarded her watch the previous day because she had been repeatedly checking it at shorter and shorter intervals and it had become overwhelming.

  Therese stood by the glass doors, with Ruby’s wailing drowning out most other noises. She watched the pouring rain rebounding off an upturned spoon she had missed and wondered what she could offer up to a long-neglected deity, in return for a clear sky when she had to collect the other two from school later on.

  4

  TOBY BARNES was alone in his flat, a pair of noise-cancelling headphones over his ears. He was sitting on the floor, leaning back against his sofa with a games console in both hands, rocking from side to side, muttering under his breath.

  To his left lay a pizza box with a few remaining scraps of Hawaiian Special stuck fast. ‘You have to have pineapple on a pizza or it’s just not pizza,’ he would tell anyone who was prepared to listen. Next to it was an empty bottle of Corona and a second, half-full.

  He detached his right hand from the console for a moment in order to scratch his head and push his glasses further up his nose. His tongue was firmly trapped between his teeth, his shoulders hunched, his brow knitted, as he focused on the game.

  He knew everyone else was playing Fortnite, but he still loved good old GTA. He preferred the real-life scenarios, street scenes, recognisable goodies and baddies and, of course, lots of cars to steal. It didn’t matter that all the characters had American accents and were caricatures. That was part of the attraction; it was real life but not his real life. Anyone who said that playing these games normalised violence had clearly never played. Hours of Fortnite had not encouraged him to shoot anyone and GTA had not, at least so far, elicited from him a desire to hotwire anyone’s car, either.

  That said, he had to admit that, from time to time, when he was bored at work, and alone, he did find himself re-living some of the game’s better moments and mumbling ‘die motherfucker,’ under his breath. But this was much more a reflection of immersing himself in youth culture generally, he reflected, than of his time spent playing video games.

  MISSION COMPLETED! The message flashed in capital letters across the screen.

  Toby raised his right hand in a silent salute, then pulled off the headphones, stood up stiffly and bowed to the TV screen, turned around and bowed to the kitchen, then he seized his beer and his phone, sank back down on to the sofa and checked his messages. Finally, he dialled a number and held his phone to his ear. When it rang through to voicemail he quickly hung up. He had been trying his father for two days now, just to catch up, but Barnes senior was hard to locate.

  Returning to his phone menu, he selected ‘videos’ and opened up the recent film of James addressing the House of Commons. Toby joined in where he could remember, copying James’ mannerisms, chanting ‘Eradicate the negatives. Embrace the positives’ over and over. Then he laughed uproariously and threw his phone face down onto the cushion.

  He lifted the corner of the pizza box, but the remaining soggy slice, coated in congealed cheese, was distinctly unappealing. He wiped his fingers on his jeans. Then he pulled the headphones over his ears a second time, slipped back down onto the floor, grabbed the games console and loaded his next mission.

  5

  JAMES SALISBURY sat at the head of the shiny, mahogany table in the largest meeting room at his Essex headquarters. A Mont Blanc pen languished by his right hand; only for show, as he preferred to use his iPad these days to make his notes. And although the table behind him was groaning with finger food to cater to every taste, he had chosen only an expresso and a piece of peanut brittle to sustain him.

  The room was spacious enough, the table seated ten comfortably and there were only four men present, positioned at regular intervals. James had planned it that way, subtle touches to discourage the attendees from taking certain places; a strategically placed bottle of water, an imperfectly closed blind and the saucer-like speaker phone deliberately hijacking another potential pew.

  ‘I am grateful to you for calling this meeting, James, especially as I know you’ve just returned from a week overseas, although it’s hard to find you in the country these days,’ Peter Mears began. ‘Perhaps SEDA runs itself now, just like its cars.’

  James said nothing. He had learned he usually achieved the best results by letting Peter have his say, and he always pretended to appreciate Peter’s attempts at humour, even where others, less discerning than himself, might have viewed them as sarcasm.

  ‘Thank you. It seemed sensible to take stock of where we are,’ James replied, ‘post the select committee meeting.’

  Peter was silent for once and awaited James’ introduction.

  ‘We have an agenda,’ James continued. ‘Does everyone have it to hand? If not it’s in the Cinderella dropbox, first item.’

  Peter wiped his mouth and fingers on a paper napkin, scrunching it into a tight ball and depositing it on the edge of his still-groaning plate, indicating that he had finished eating. James winced. He abhorred food waste of any kind. Imogen, his former business partner, had said you could learn a lot from a man by the way he eats. Peter wouldn’t have impressed her, James reflected, although few people had.

  Peter’s eyes circled the room, falling on each of the men for just long enough to make them feel under scrutiny. Then he shoved his plate away so roughly that the napkin rolled off and dropped through the hole in the centre of the table.

  ‘I have some things I need to say,’ Peter began, ‘on behalf of Alan, which don’t feature on the agenda and they won’t wait till “any other business”. They came up at the meeting, mostly in our closed session. Shall I kick off?’

  ‘Of course,’ James replied, although his relaxed comment belied his anxiety. He preferred to stick to his agenda. That was the whole point of producing one, and the implication of Peter’s words was clear; Alan Tillinghurst, the irascible minister, had more hoops for them to jump through.

  ‘Thank you, James. You two?’ Peter poured himself a cup of coffee and waited for a response from the room’s other inhabitants.

  Will Maddox, a tall, skinny man sporting a ponytail, shrugged his agreement. In his day job he was a college lecturer in psychology, but he was present today in his capacity of chairman of UK Cyclists, a group with a burgeoning membership recently topping 1.2 million. The last man, Jeremy Fry, much shorter, at around five-foot six, grunted out what sounded like a ‘yes’. He could usually be called upon by James as an ally, canny and protective of his members’ interests, which often aligned with those of SEDA. An actuary by profession, he now led the Institute of Automobile Insurers, its three hundred UK members keen to be kept involved in the process of conversion to autonomous driving.

  ‘So,’ Peter continued, ‘the government has invested £2 billion in autonomous vehicles over the last five years. MPs have participated in focus groups, parliamentary commissions and there has already been twenty-two hours of formal debate on the matter, and hundreds of hours of discussion at various other levels, including in the select committee you attended last week.’

  ‘Yes. And it’s much appreciated, I can assure you,’ James responded, wondering how many more times he would have to sit through similar opening remarks from Peter.

/>   ‘We didn’t do any of this for you, James. We did it to save lives, to improve lives, for the good of the people of the United Kingdom.’

  ‘Absolutely. You know I’m in total agreement,’ James said. ‘That’s how I see it too.’

  ‘And to bring business to the UK,’ Will butted in.

  ‘All right. We don’t disagree with that addendum,’ Peter said, ‘and we don’t see any difficulty with it either, as long as there’s no conflict between those two objectives. Now for the things we need to get straight.’ Peter shuffled back in his chair. ‘Jeremy, if the statistics are to be believed, within five years your insurer members will be paying out billions less in claims than they are now. You will almost certainly be making “bumper profits”. No pun intended.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean we roll over on every point,’ Jeremy replied, clearly cross that he was being singled-out for Peter’s treatment. He aimed a swift glance at James, who returned it with a reassuring inclination of the head.

  ‘I’ve talked to Alan about your proposed list of “exclusions”, which your members are refusing to cover when the autonomous cars come in, and it won’t wash,’ Peter said, ignoring Jeremy’s petulant comeback. He picked at his front teeth with his fingernail, then curled his tongue over the surface to loosen some mashed-up food, lodged in his prominent gap.

  ‘Your first request, for the government to pick up the tab for accidents involving the first autonomous vehicles, isn’t acceptable,’ Peter droned on. ‘Individual car owners will need to retain their own personal insurance for when they drive in manual mode. And once cars are fully autonomous, it will cease to have any relevance. All insurance will be linked to the vehicle instead, which, naturally, your members will cover.’

  ‘But accidents involving these vehicles will most likely be complex, much more so than now,’ Jeremy complained. ‘We don’t have the resources to investigate them. We’ll end up paying out without a clue what really happened.’

  ‘Isn’t that what happens now, anyway?’ Will mumbled. ‘Most of the time, when there’s anything tricky you give “knock for knock”, as far as I can see.’

  Peter held up his hand.

  ‘I put all your points to Alan and the rest of the committee, and there is no way they will change their minds. The government is not going to pay, even at the beginning.’

  ‘My members won’t be happy.’ Jeremy peeled an apple, paring the skin back, sliver by sliver, the blade of his knife all the time pointing provocatively in Peter’s direction.

  ‘I see that. But, given the safety statistics James has provided, accidents will be incredibly rare, even at this interim stage of deployment, so, unpalatable as this may seem to you in principle, this should make little real difference to insurers’ profits.’

  Jeremy sliced a large section off his apple and put it in his mouth. When he had finished chewing, he laid the knife down across his plate.

  ‘Thank you, Peter,’ he said. ‘Just making sure I’ve understood you, then. To sum up, the government has rejected our members’ reasonable and considered request for help during this transitional period. Instead, you’re insisting we keep on insuring drivers of manual cars in the conventional way. For the new cars, you demand that we insure the vehicle and that we pay up, without investigation, regardless of who is to blame for any accident. This debate appears to be all one-way traffic so far,’ he said. ‘Excuse my pun.’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ Peter replied, ‘and you know it. It’s up to you how you choose to investigate, like Will says. And Alan wanted to impose a cap on premiums. Naturally, they should fall dramatically with the reduced risk of accident. But I managed to persuade him to put this off for the foreseeable future. That is likely to be worth more to your members than anything they will pay out in claims. There is one further area, though, where we might be prepared to accommodate you.’

  Peter paused and waited for the full attention of everyone around the table before continuing.

  ‘We’ve previously discussed the importance of keeping the software in these vehicles up to date. Alan can see that it is crucial, especially in the early days, that vehicle owners update their software regularly. In terms of a proposal to your members, Jeremy, it goes like this.

  ‘If the software is not properly maintained by the vehicle owner, we will agree to pay for any resulting losses, at least over the first two years; we’ll create a fund to meet any liabilities. It will be strict liability, though. If you haven’t updated your software, your insurance will be automatically vitiated. Alan would appreciate some advice on a quick and easy mechanism for checking if the software is up to date. Subject to that box being ticked, the Department is prepared to support and help the insurance industry in the way I have proposed, if the other provisions can be agreed now.’

  Jeremy poured himself a glass of orange juice and proceeded to drink it down in one gulp.

  ‘You’re not saying anything?’ Peter said.

  ‘What would you like me to say?’

  ‘“Thank you” might be in order.’

  ‘It seems a fair compromise to me,’ Will mumbled, clearing the last mini quiche off his plate and turning around to see what further tasty treats remained. ‘You couldn’t seriously have expected them to pick up the cost of the other stuff, could you? I mean, that’s what insurance is for.’

  Jeremy opened his mouth and then closed it again.

  ‘I have a feeling you have more demands to communicate, Peter,’ James said. ‘Why don’t we hear everything and then maybe we can comment on the whole package?’

  ‘I think “demands” is a little strong, and I am merely the mouthpiece. All right,’ Peter said. ‘To move on – Will. You continue to support us and the autonomous car bill, without making any waves, including agreeing to two TV appearances per week at the relevant time, and there’ll be a guaranteed additional £5 million per year invested in cycle superhighways.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Your choice. You send me your ideas for the most needed places and, while I won’t promise it will be exactly as you want, you will be consulted at every step.’

  ‘What about lorries in central London?’

  ‘By 2025 they won’t be allowed in at all, except between 10pm and 6am.’

  Will rose again and combed the food table for anything interesting he had not yet sampled. He selected a satsuma and a bunch of grapes.

  ‘Even autonomous ones?’ he asked, popping a grape into his mouth.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh no!’ James protested. ‘Why ban autonomous lorries? They won’t be able to hit cyclists. It’s not in their DNA. It’s unnecessary, just pandering to public hysteria.’

  ‘DNA!’ Will feigned choking on his fruit haul. ‘How many cyclists have to be crushed before you understand that we can’t share the road with these lumbering vehicles any more and we shouldn’t have to?’

  ‘So you’re in, then?’ Peter asked.

  Will sat down heavily. ‘What’s the catch?’ he said.

  ‘No catch. Alan simply expects your continued support.’

  ‘I’ll wait to hear what else you have to say to the others, like James said.’

  Peter turned towards James.

  ‘All right. The last piece of the puzzle. We had some discussion last time about manufacturers working together so that their vehicles can communicate effectively. I know your IT man spoke subsequently to our IT team. Clearly that is crucial, but not without enormous difficulties in terms of data protection and susceptibility to hacking.’

  ‘I’ve told you, it’s all in hand,’ James said. ‘I’ve been to the sessions you set up on communication and cyber security. Now it’s a simple matter of cooperation and, given that it will be to everyone’s benefit, it’s a total non-issue. The critical first step is the government’s publication of the list of approved manufacturers, which will accompany
the Bill. Then we will all know where we stand. No one will put his head above the parapet and agree to get into bed with another manufacturer unless he knows who is government-approved. It’s simple. Five years, Peter. The Minister, in various incarnations, has been prevaricating for five years!’

  ‘The time hasn’t been wasted. Your vehicles are far safer as a result.’

  ‘But we can’t go on like this. None of us, not just SEDA. I need to sell my cars in this country. If I can’t sell them soon, I’ll have to consider closing the factory and shifting my focus overseas. If that is what you want, then you should make it clear and we’ll move on. Tell Alan when the list comes out, there’ll be no “homegrown” vehicles on it.’

  ‘If it were my decision alone, you know things would be different,’ Peter said. ‘Be patient. We have so many different groups to keep on side, you know that, including the anti-terrorist lobby. Immediately after you presented to the Committee, Dr Fielding gave his views. Did you hear him?’

  ‘He’s an old woman and you shouldn’t have invited him.’

  ‘He is well-respected and, I accept, cautious, but the committee wanted to hear from a wide range of people, and they listened to the warnings he gave on a number of issues.’

  ‘The sooner you publish the list and SEDA can sell its cars in the UK, the sooner we can all work together and this “hacking” theory can be consigned to the dustbin.’ James picked up his pen and rolled it around in his fingers.

  Peter took a deep breath. He knew his next request was likely to be incendiary.

  ‘Alan feels strongly that, in order to allay any fears of hacking or other data breaches, we should have immediate access to information about the security of your systems and that of the other autonomous car manufacturers who want to sell in the UK. Without it, how can we comply with our national security agenda?’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Access to information about the security of your systems.’