The Ex-Prime Minister Chapter Two by Andrew Crofts

The opening chapter of "The Ex-Prime Minister" appeared in this space a month ago. Our hero's adventures continue.

Chapter Two.

 

“Quite a surprising reaction really,” Ding reported by phone the next day. “It seems the producers think there is still an appetite amongst the great unwashed to see more of Ted’s antics. They actually seem to want to know what he will do next. He’s a one-man comedy soap opera.”

“Really?” Puppy felt a glimmer of optimism light up somewhere deep inside his chest. Maybe his glittering career as a political advisor hanging onto Teddy’s flapping coat tails wasn’t an entirely dead duck after all. He looked across at Teddy, who seemed oblivious to anything else in the room, hunched over the dining room table, chewing noisily on his tongue and drooling gently as he concentrated on filling in his diary, which he hoped was soon going to elicit a decent sized advance from one of the many publishers who had already expressed an interest.

“Are any of them willing to talk actual figures?” Puppy asked.

“We’re working on that. I’m going to assign one of my best girls to be Teddy’s carer throughout this whole business. She’ll handle all the bookings and make sure he gets to wherever he’s meant to be.”

“No,” Puppy moved out of the room into the hall, not wanting to risk Teddy overhearing any more of the phone call. “It has to be you. If you put one of your young girls onto it, he’s bound to fall in love and get too handsy and we’ll end up with another bloody court case. You’re the only one who can do this.”

“He’s been known to get pretty handsy with me too, you know,” Ding laughed.

“Everyone got handsy with you Ding, but that was when you were young and lovely, now you’re just another old roué like the rest of us. You are perfectly capable of smacking his wrists. It’s non-negotiable, Mate. It has to be a personal service if you want the business.”

“That will make it more expensive,” Ding warned.

“Once a tart, always a tart,” Puppy laughed. “Good lad. Just add five per cent to whatever your normal commission rates are.”

“And a box at the opera,” Ding added, “and Centre Court tickets.”

“Yeah, yeah, all that. Just send me an email and do the bloody job.”

Ding grunted his agreement, although he had no intention of putting anything in writing that might be used as evidence against him later. His clients might be tied to him by contracts as long as a foreigner’s novel, but personally he liked to remain as light on his feet and legally unshackled as possible.

“They are about to start filming a charity episode of the Great British Bake Off,” he said. “I suggest we start there. They’ve already cast it, but they’re willing to bump one of the daytime television girls off to make room for Teddy.”

“Sounds promising. Is the television girl likely to make a fuss?”

“She’s one of ours. We can find something to sweeten the deal for her.”

“Do it.”

“Ok. But get the old fucker cleaned up a bit before we take him anywhere.”

“Becky’s taking him in hand this afternoon, her hairdresser’s coming to the house and she’s ordered a few new suits.”

“I’ll never understand how you managed to persuade that goddess to marry a useless tosser like you.”

Puppy had already hung up and returned to the dining room.

“How’s it going?” he asked.

“It’s a bit tricky, to be honest,” Teddy tipped back the Chippendale chair that had been in Puppy’s family for countless generations, all his considerable weight channeling down onto two delicate antique legs.

“I’m going to get you a more robust kitchen chair, Teddy.”

Once the Chippendale had been successfully saved for another generation, Puppy squinted at the pages of scrawled handwriting where Teddy was attempting to make his visit to the Palace to hand in his resignation amusing.

“Are you allowed to report what the old girl said to you?”

“That’s the tricky bit. I mean, anything she says is good box office, isn’t it? But I don’t want to end up with my head on a spike in the Tower.”

“What did she say exactly?”

“It’s all a bit of a blur, to be honest. I’d had a couple of snifters for Dutch courage. I thought I might make something up. I mean it’s just her word against mine, isn’t it? Unless she had the room bugged of course.”

“You really think that’s likely?”

“Well not her personally, obviously, but some of those chaps around the Palace can be pretty tricksy. A bit creepy, if you know what I mean.”

“But what was her mood generally? Sad to see you go? Pleased to finally be shot of you?”

“It was a bit like that time Mama caught you and me wanking in the tack room over Pa’s hidden stash of magazines.” Teddy gave a nostalgic grin. “Remember that little incident, Pups?”

“Crikey, yes. Not likely to forget it. She was a formidable force, your Mama.”

“Well, it was all a bit like that.”

“Maybe you should ask Ding’s opinion, he seems to have his finger on the pulse, vis a vis public sensitivity on issues like royal leaks. Controversy is always good for getting media coverage, but we don’t want to go alienating your core market, do we? Speaking of which, Ding has lined up a cracking bit of reality tv for you. How are your cooking skills?”

“Pretty dismal, to be honest, old boy.”

“Not to worry. Ding’s got everything in hand. You get on with a bit more writing till the barber gets here.”

“Right ho.”

Teddy happily returned to blotting his ink and chewing his tongue.

 

By the time Teddy and Ding arrived at the Bake-Off tent for the recording of the one-off charity episode, Teddy’s new suit already looked like he had galloped through a ditch in it. Everyone seemed surprisingly happy to see him, one or two of them even cheering, a little bit self-consciously, as he came into the tent, and laughing at his bemused expression and merry banter, as if they genuinely found them funny, or perhaps were paying homage to a comedic talent from another era.

Ding felt they could both safely relax into the day. In the world of celebrity, an ex-prime minister who retains the affection of even a small part of the population, has very high currency value indeed. Plus, a charity event is always something of a safe space politically. No one wants to be seen detracting from the worthy cause – Ding couldn’t quite remember if it was cancer, hungry children or homeless hordes on the move - just in order to score a political point. Most of the other contestants would have been hard pushed to name any other politicians, or even any other prime ministers, but they all knew who Teddy was because, like them, he played a starring role in the national pantomime. Even the youngest of them had read about his antics on their phones, and were pleased to now find themselves almost on an equal footing with him, if only for a few hours. Teddy happily acquiesced to any requests for selfies, basking in a warm bath of peer-group approval once more. During some recent, restless nights, he had found himself waking up, drenched in sweat, worrying that Phillipa would make it her goal to ensure that no one ever liked him again. It seemed he could put that worry to one side, at least in the short term, and who could hope for more than surviving the short-term in the volatile world of politics?

He suspected he had met many of these celebrity tent dwellers before, although he couldn’t remember exactly who they were and relied on Ding to whisper their names into his ear as soon as they looked like they were approaching. He was then able to boom out their first names, opening his arms wide as if threatening an embrace, giving them the impression that he both remembered and liked them. Some of them, he noticed, were extremely pleasing to the eye.

All of them knew who Ding was because their professional worlds were redolent with mythical stories about the size of the pay-days the Jonathon Piper Agency had managed to negotiate for various clients. Few of them had ever actually met the man in person and all of them were keen to make good impressions, even if they were relatively happy with the agents they were already signed to.

“Have you had much experience in the kitchen, Mr. Bear?” someone asked.

“Kitchen?” Noticing for the first time a counter top covered with entirely unfamiliar baking implements and ingredients, Teddy struggled to dredge up a single memory that might lead to a pithy anecdote. “Kitchen?” He wrestled with the concept of domesticity for a few moments longer, squinting hard at the scene laid out before him, hoping at least one tiny snippet of something anyone might ever have taught him about baking might appear through the dimness of his aching brain. A low, spluttering moan, like the last gasps of a dying car battery, vibrated his pouting lips before he surrendered entirely to his ignorance. “Do you know, I’m an absolute baking virgin!” That was enough to elicit happy smiles and even a few claps from the surrounding celebrities. Wonderful, he thought. This was a friendly crowd indeed. They wanted to like him. He was back in the game.

“This will be great fun!” He barked at the room, gleefully rubbing his sweating palms together.

“My God, Ding,” he muttered, “I’m going to need some assistance here.”

“No chance, Mate. You’re on your own. I suggest you start channeling something between the spirits of Mr. Pastry and Paddington Bear. Everyone loves Paddington, let’s play to the good old ‘Teddy Bear’ image. If you end up covered in flour you should be able to get on the front page of every newspaper. We need material that can be turned into memes and gifs!”

“What?”

“Bake!” Somebody famous shouted.

“Don’t let me down!” Ding hissed, before heading back to London, safe in the knowledge that his charge would not be allowed out of the tent for many hours.

With his sleeves rolled up and his tie tucked into his shirt, Teddy set to work to showcase the cuddly side of his personality.

“Prime Minister,” one of the celebrity hosts said as she viewed the growing carnage on the work surface and oven shelves half an hour later, “Do you have a plan?”

“You’re very kind,” Teddy blustered and twinkled through the mask of flour covering all but his reddened eyes and lips, “but it’s ‘ex-Prime Minister’ now, I’m afraid. It’s possible you have confused me with my dear wife!”

“Has your wife ever made a kitchen look quite like this?” She seemed to be genuinely puzzled by the level of chaos on display.

“Do you know,” Teddy tried hard to remember ever seeing his wife doing anything remotely domestic, “I very much doubt she has. Like most women, Pippo is infinitely more competent than me at virtually everything.”

The ripple of laughter that passed around the tent, and even seemed to touch the normally inscrutable expression of the nearest cameraman, was most encouraging.