The Ex-Prime Minister - Chapter One by Andrew Crofts

 

Chapter One

 

“My God, what is that stink?”

Puppy merely nodded in the direction of the figure slumped in his favourite armchair, allowing a reverberation from deep in the feather cushions to answer for him.

“Oh,” Ding said, “him. It smells like he’s rotting from the inside.”

“Was it not always thus?” Puppy asked, forcing open the nearest sash window, allowing the traffic sounds from the Square into the stuffy room.

“Has he been drinking?” Ding gestured to the half full glass precariously gripped in Teddy’s huge fist.

“Wouldn’t you? It’s been a hell of a few days.”

Ding sank into a tall sofa, the sides of which were held up with what looked like the dressing gown cords of giants, and Puppy gave their slumbering friend a vicious kick on the shins.

“Wake up Teddy! Ding’s here.”

“Yarooooh”, the newly defenestrated prime minister protested as he was jerked back to consciousness, rubbing his ankle ruefully, and slopping the remains of the scotch onto the faded upholstery of the chair. “That hurt, you beast!”

“Ding’s here,” Puppy repeated. “He’s come to save your bacon.”

“Oh,” Teddy squinted hard across the gloom of the library, his dense, matted, black wig slightly askew, giving the impression of a mildly crestfallen cockatoo. “Hello, old boy, didn’t see you lurking there. How are things with you? Looking smooth and sharp as a newly stropped razor, as always.”

“Definitely better than you,” Ding replied, fanning the air beneath his offended nostrils.

“I dare say,” Teddy held up his glass for a refill, but Puppy ignored the gesture, sinking into the sofa next to Ding. It was a relief to finally have another potential ally in the room.

“Have you been sleeping in that suit?” Ding asked.

“Um,” Teddy looked down at himself as if trying to remember who and where he was. “Rather think I have.”

“Ding’s got some ideas,” Puppy said.” I think you should listen.”

“Excellent!” Teddy sucked loudly as he attempted to drain a few more drops from the bottom of the heavy crystal glass, which had grown clouded from the sweat of his fist and drool of his lips. “That’s what we need. A bit of sky-blue thinking.”

“Blue sky?” Ding suggested.

“That’s it, exactly!” Teddy pumped the air enthusiastically. “Out of the box in one mighty bound, what?”

Teddy chose to ignore the knowing looks the other two exchanged. He was well used to having to be the one who kept up the spirits of his team mates, and to suppressing any suspicions that they might be mocking him surreptitiously.

“What’s the priority here?” Ding asked, raising one immaculately plucked and sculpted eyebrow.

“Earn some bloody wonga,” Teddy barked, attempting to raise a twinkle in at least one of his rheumy eyes, wanting to suggest he might be being ironic. “And get back into Number Ten as soon as possible, of course. Pretty brassic at the moment, to be honest. Not even the fabled pot for pissing in. Having to temporarily scrounge a bed off old Puppy here.”

“You’ve still got your salary as an MP, haven’t you?” Ding asked, although he could already guess at the answer. “And don’t ex-PMs get some sort of stipend for life?”

“Apparently that is all going in child support or some such. Dear old Pippo has some absolutely terrifying lawyers. Led by the great Felicity.”

“What about the family house?”

“Lodgers in both of them.”

“So, you have the rental income?”

“Phillipa has that too,” Puppy interrupted. “The houses are in her name.”

“Why?”

“Oh, tax,” Puppy said, vaguely, “and expenses. It’s complicated. You know how it is.”

“You been advising him on all this stuff, Pup?” Ding grinned mischievously.

“You bet he has,” Teddy let out another loud fart. “I don’t know what I’d have done without good old Pup, here.” He gave his glass another hopeful waggle in the air.

“A cash injection is certainly needed,” Puppy took over talking, “and quickly, in order to buy us some time to regroup and rebuild our base supporters. We have a few irons in the fire with chums in the city, but no bites as of yet … we are going to need something in the interim.”

“A bit of cashflow,” Teddy added.

“Toxic,” Ding pronounced, “Your brand is completely toxic. You shat on your own doorstep, mate, and I can smell the results from here.”

“That’s a bit bloody harsh!” Teddy protested. “So, what would you suggest?”

“Show the little people that, despite the crates of brandy and cigars, you are one of them. Life and soul of the party. They used to love you for it and they will again. Make them laugh and they’ll soon forget those rather nauseating images in the Portakabin.”

“Been putting out feelers about getting those taken down,” Puppy said, “but no luck so far. The internet is pretty much the Wild West as far as that sort of thing goes. Once the genii’s out of the bottle …”

“Mobile home,” Teddy muttered.

“What?”

“It was a mobile home, not a Portakabin. It was a beach holiday, not a bloody building site.”

“Bit of a subtle distinction there for most people,” Ding said. “Portkabin has more of a comedy ring to it, I’m afraid. It’s all about the optics”

“You’re the expert,” Teddy shrugged, his interest in the subject already having waned. “Someone needs to have a sharp word with these internet johnnies, let them know that if they keep circulating this sort of stuff, they’re going to get their knuckles severely rapped.”

“Teddy rather favours sending a few lads out to Silicon Valley to bang some heads together,” Puppy explained.

“Well, it’s worked often enough for us in Fleet Street!” Teddy grumbled.

“Fleet Street is the past, Teddy,” Puppy snapped, “as is the era when a few thugs could instill the fear of God into journalists who got above themselves.”

“I dare say,” Teddy said, although he obviously wasn’t convinced.

“I need to talk to my people,” Ding turned to Puppy as if Teddy was no longer in the room. “They’ll draw up a list of programs which they think we should go for in order to win back public sympathy. They’re young and they understand the subtleties of all this. Personally, I haven’t watched any television since Brideshead.”

“Really?” Puppy was genuinely surprised. “I thought reality television was your thing.”

“It’s a job, not a hobby. I have more interesting ways to spend my evenings.”

“Hanging around nightclubs with people half your age?” Puppy asked.

Ding continued as if he hadn’t heard. “That’s why I have a team of bright young things to keep me abreast of which programs have credibility and which ones don’t. No good getting Old Teds here onto Love Island, or whatever, if it’s just going to make him look like even more of a sad old sack of shit.”

“He definitely needs to keep his trousers on at all times,” Puppy agreed. “We’ve had more than enough pantomime farce to last us to Christmas. How quickly can you get back to us?”

“Won’t take long,” Ding said, already on his way towards the door and fresher air.

“Fantastic!” Teddy shouted after him. “You are a magician indeed, Old Love!”

 

As Ding left his friends to go in search of his chauffeur, another driver, in a shiny black Mercedes, dropped Felicity at the gates of Downing Street.

“I have an appointment,” she announced, without breaking her stride, and the policeman swung open the gate to let her through, inclining his head in a gesture somewhere between recognition and subservience. Felicity didn’t notice, she was used to commanding respect wherever she went. Even the bravest of the press and television hacks, huddled along the side of the road, knew better than to shout out the insolent sort of questions they enjoyed lobbing at any politicians or heads of state who might bustle past, usually with their heads down, all of them trying to avoid catching the attention of the bored on-lookers, and igniting a feeding frenzy.

The Prime Minister was waiting in the kitchen of the flat and hugged her with what looked to everyone else in the room like genuine affection.

“Right,” Phillipa announced to the room, “I need to have a confidential lawyer talk with Felicity, so the rest of you can piss off now and find something useful to do.”

Once the room was clear Phillipa poured them each a glass of wine and they curled up on the sofa together.

“It has been so long since we have been able to do anything like this,” Felicity said, raising her glass. “Whenever I’ve seen you recently that ridiculous lap dog has been panting around your ankles.”

“I know. But he’s gone now. Served his purpose, shot his bolt and self-imploded.”

“Thank God!” Felicity laughed. “If I live to be a hundred, I will never understand why you did it.”

“Married him? Well, I wanted the baby to have a father …”

“Even one as inadequate as that?”

“They’re all inadequate, Darling, you know that. It’s just a question of plumping for the one in the crowd who will be most useful.”

“But why did you go to bed with him in the first place? That’s what none of us get. I mean, you could have whoever you wanted.”

“And have done.”

“So why him, when you could have had that royal chap? Or the consultant? Or the cricketer?”

Phillipa thought for a moment. “Good question. I suppose he just wore down my resistance. He was so persistent, and always right there to hand. You know what it’s like when you forget to feed a dog and they follow you around making those little begging noises, their tongues lolling out and their eyes all moist and tragic? Eventually you give in and chuck them some morsel or other. I just wanted him to stop going on about it. The whole thing was over in a flash anyway. Like being dry-humped by an asthmatic bulldog.”

“So now you have the most beautiful baby in the world and the top job in the country.”

“And paid about a tenth of what you earn.”

“I know. But think how much you’ll be able to charge once you finish here.”

“I know. Does the partnership offer still stand?”

“Of course, provided you don’t completely cock things up here. We would make the greatest team ever. ‘Thelma and Louise of the legal world’.”

“But anyway. First things first. I need a fast divorce and I want as much as possible to go into trust for the baby, protected from anything Teddy might do in the future. If he wants to spend the rest of his life squandering money on bookmakers, barmen and blowjobs, that’s his business, but I want the baby’s capital to be protected. It’s got to be a completely clean break.”

“How much are you willing to give him?”

“As little as possible.”

“You don’t want to appear vengeful or vindictive,” Felicity warned. “The public doesn’t like that.”

“Teddy will be fine. He’ll bounce back like he always does. I’m not going to bad mouth him in public, or in court. He can marry some heiresses, write a few thrillers or take on international statesman roles. Whatever. It is of no interest to me. The other wives made the mistake of allowing him to stay in control of their children’s inheritances. Not me. He’s a liability and we should treat him as such.”

“I believe he and Puppy have been talking to Jonathan Piper about a career as a television celebrity …”

“Ding? Really? That is a bit interesting. Teddy was madly infatuated with Ding when he was at school, you know. Ding was incredibly beautiful. A bit of a trophy boyfriend. I think that’s how he got his nickname.”

“Ding? What does it mean?”

“I have no idea. They all give each other these ridiculous names. I mean, ‘Puppy’, for Christ’s sake!”

“It’s like some secret society from an ancient, long-lost culture.”

“They had their day,” the Prime Minister laughed, clinking her glass against Felicity’s, “and now it’s our turn. Let’s get Nanny to bring the baby in to meet its godmother.”