I had an affair with Tracey Temple, my diary secretary. I accept full
responsibility. I’ve admitted it, apologised, and I won’t go into any
further personal details. I know the tabloids are still waiting to jump on
me, so if I say anything else about what did or did not happen, it will
start up all over again and cause more hurt for the people concerned,
especially those I have hurt more than enough already, for which I’m deeply
sorry.
I first heard that the Daily Mirror was on to it at the end of April 2006. I
got a call at the airport when I was leaving for Barcelona with my press
secretary, Alan Schofield. It was from a political journalist, Kevin
Maguire, who said they were going to run a story about my affair: had I any
comment? I said I had no comment. Which I know is the same thing as
admitting it, as far as the press is concerned, but I couldn’t believe they
had any proof.
Then he said they had Tracey’s diary, and began reading out bits to me. I
didn’t recognise some of it, and I couldn’t believe the Mirror would have
it. I guessed they were just fishing for confirmation. I still said: “No
comment”, hung up and got on the plane.
On board, I told Alan. It so happened that he knew Tracey very well. She had
rented a room in his flat at one time. Not as a couple, just as friends. She
had a boyfriend she was always falling out with and for a time she left him
and shared with Alan in central London.
Alan rang Tracey from the plane. He asked her if it was true that the Mirror
had a story and her diary. She admitted they had something, but it was
nothing to do with her. She thought her old boyfriend must have given the
diary to the paper.
She said stuff in the diary had been enhanced, just to make her boyfriend
jealous, knowing he would probably look for it and find it one day. She’d
never thought it would become public.
When we landed in Barcelona, I collected my bags, then caught the next plane
back to London. I went straight up to Hull. On the way, I confirmed to the
Mirror that the story was true.
I arrived late in the evening. Pauline had just washed her hair and was about
to go to bed, not expecting me home till the next day. She heard me on the
intercom, saw my car arriving and, of course, was very surprised, wondering
what on earth had brought me back so early.
I came in, looking ashen, she says, and told her to go upstairs. She giggled
for a moment, not knowing what was going on. We got up to the bedroom and I
sat her down and said straight away: “I’ve had an affair. It’s in the papers
in the morning.”
It was the most terrible thing I’ve had to tell her in my life, but I felt I
had to do it quickly, and prepare her. She asked how long it had been going
on. I said about 18 months to two years.
It took her a while to ask who it was. When I said it was Tracey, she was
devastated. Pauline and Tracey had gone to engagements together, had sat
together at public events when I had to be present. Pauline had looked upon
her as a personal friend. She’d got to know Tracey well – and liked her so
much.
I said: “We’ll have to leave. This place is going to be bedlam in the morning
with the press pack.” Pauline said she wasn’t leaving. She’d done nothing
wrong, so why should she? Anyway, we had painters coming in the morning, so
she’d have to be here to let them in and look after them.
I said I’d probably have to resign. I’d brought shame on myself, on her and
the family, the government, the party and everyone. A huge load of crap was
now going to fall on my head, so it would be better all round if I resigned
now. The press had me in a corner. They’d got rid of David Blunkett over
allegations surrounding his relationship with Kimberly Quinn, and now were
determined to get rid of me.
Pauline said: “No. It’s the coward’s way out. It’s going to happen to you
whether you resign now or not.” But I reckoned I’d cut the pain short by
getting out immediately.
We discussed it for some time. Yes, there were heated words. She could hardly
take it in and was stunned by what I had confessed, and so disappointed in
me. But still she would not leave. I said we should both go to Dorneywood,
my official country home, where there would be proper privacy and security.
In the end, she told me to go. So off I went, alone.
Next morning it was hellish for Pauline. Hundreds of press and TV people were
camped outside our house and the painters were on the scaffolding, wondering
where all these people had come from, and what was going on.
She wouldn’t speak to me for a while. Johnathan, our eldest son, was in
America but David, our other son, came straight up from London to be with
his mother. He acted as intermediary for a few days. The boys, of course,
were bitterly disappointed in me. Everywhere they went, people were talking
about it.
But I began to gather that Pauline and the boys thought I should carry on with
my job. Tony Blair was very supportive. He never for a moment suggested I
should go – no one did – and encouraged me to stick it out. His main concern
was for Pauline and the boys, what I had put them through. Gordon Brown was
equally supportive, worrying about Pauline, what I had done to her through
my own stupidity.
The shit did pour down and was far worse than I expected. The papers were
offering fortunes, tens of thousands of pounds, for any woman with a story
about me. And, of course, some came forward with unbelievable rubbish.
One paper had a story that at Blackpool, during a Labour party conference, I’d
taken this woman to a restaurant frequented by MPs and journalists and
disappeared upstairs with her. I’d come down later with a smile on my face
and the sheets on the bed had been ruffled.
I rang the paper and said this was utter nonsense; where had they got it from?
They said from a man who had been the manager. I said: “What’s his name and
where is he?” They said he was now in Spain and they couldn’t contact him. I
said: “Okay, then, when was this supposed to have happened?”
They eventually gave a date and I was able to prove that on that day and at
that time I was in the conference. I said: “There must be a guesthouse
register. See if you can find if I booked a room.” But, of course, they
didn’t even try.
After about a week, I went back home to Pauline, covered in guilt and shame,
hoping to try to get on with our life and rebuild our relationship. But the
story rumbled on.
The final event in the saga was the television drama documentary about a year
later, which started it all over again – this time adding a lot more
fiction. I never watched it. But I heard about the things that were
completely made up.
I never set Tracey up in a flat. I never made her cook a meal for Tony and
Gordon. She was once on official business in Admiralty House, where I had a
flat, when Gordon did visit me for a private meeting – but not with Tony.
She went out into Whitehall and bought us two pizzas. That’s what junior
civil servants often have to do: get food if ministers are working late.
Nothing unusual in that. But, of course, they worked it up into a big scene,
with her cooking this huge meal and serving it to the prime minister. The
viewers wouldn’t know it was pure fiction.
I told Pauline not to watch it – but she did. It was quite funny, I suppose.
Two of her close Hull friends, a couple we have known for years, Frank and
Janet Brown, came round to watch it with her, and she cooked up a meal for
them. But it was still a humiliating experience for her.
The papers tried to suggest I later got demoted because of the Tracey affair.
But that wasn’t true either. It had been agreed a long time before that I’d
give up my departmental positions and move into the Cabinet Office.
Life has now moved on. Pauline has forgiven me. Our relationship has got back
to normal. She says the only way things have changed is when we’re looking
in shop windows. When she sees a handbag she fancies, she goes: “Oh, no, not
at that price.” I say: “Go on, love, you buy it.” According to her, I would
never have said that before. And it’s probably true. Only now she goes
through the whole shop, doesn’t just buy one bag. (That bit’s a joke.)
Throughout the whole thing, Pauline showed much more maturity than I did. I
underestimated her good sense and wisdom. I owe my whole career to her, for
supporting me through thick and thin, going out to work when I was a
student, taking in lodgers, always believing in me when others didn’t. I
can’t apologise to her enough for what I did. It did teach me a terrible
lesson.
And it was all caused by my own stupidity. I let down Pauline, and the boys,
put them through so much. But I’m not going to say anything about Tracey.
She was an adult. I was an adult. Yes, I know she later sold her story, thanks
to Max Clifford. But I’m sure she had her share of grief as well.
I never blamed it on the life of an MP, being cut off from my wife and family
all week, stuck in London on my own, getting into temptations. I know some
MPs have used that excuse when they’ve been caught. I never did. It had
nothing to do with it. I was just stupid. I let myself down.
I didn’t deny it, once the story broke. I apologised to Pauline, and the boys,
and gave a public statement admitting it, then asked the media to respect
our privacy as we tried to rebuild our marriage.
I made an apology at the next Labour party conference.
Tony had spoken and then Gordon, making a few remarks about me, all nice ones.
I was going to bring it in at the end of my speech, but Alastair Campbell
said: “No, do it right away, at the beginning; don’t leave it to the end.”
I’ll always feel guilty and ashamed. I made a terrible mistake, but let’s
leave it at that. I know I can never make it up to Pauline. She has been a
rock and put up with a lot because of me. But she has always stood by me.
She says she can always take knocks from outside the family, people having a
go at me. What she can never bear are knocks inside the family. For example,
if I have arguments with the boys. That’s what upsets her, not the outside
world. She can take what the outside world says, and what they throw. Always
has done.
She is sensible, mature and grown-up, more than I was shown to be.
© John Prescott 2008
Prezza, My Story: Pulling No Punches by John Prescott is published by
Headline on May 29 at £18.99. Copies can be ordered for £17.09, including
postage, from The Sunday Times BooksFirst on 0870 165 8585
