The Ex-Prime Minister - Chapter 3 by Andrew Crofts

 The third monthly installment of  our hero's adventures as he dances through the minefields of life and politics.

“Mixed bag of responses,” Puppy said as he scrolled through the pollsters’ findings on his phone the day after the program was broadcast. “Almost exactly fifty-fifty.”

“Fifty-fifty what?” Teddy dragged his tired eyes up from the blank diary page he had been working on, or at least thinking about.

“Well, fifty per cent of the people who watched you on Bake-off thought you were hilarious, and believe you should be allowed to bring your own peculiar brand of gaiety back to Number Ten.”

“And the other fifty?”

“The other fifty can’t believe the British public ever allowed such a clown to get into Number Ten in the first place.”

“Bloody photographers!” Teddy grumbled. “I’m sure they airbrushed that photo to make me look like Coco the Clown.”

“Not sure they had to, Mate,” Puppy sighed. “You pretty much did your own flour-based make-up in there. The one thing almost everyone seems to be agreed on, however, is that it took some balls to put yourself out in a public place like that so soon after such a high-profile public disgrace. But then again, quite a few are asking why you aren’t at home, concentrating on trying to patch up your marriage. There’s a lot of sympathy for Phillipa, which we need to snuff out as soon as possible.”

“Didn’t get the impression she wanted me anywhere near her, last time we spoke,” Teddy mused. “Plus, the poor woman is going to be busy for a while. People don’t realise what a big job being PM is. And no one could ever accuse Pippo of not taking her work seriously.”

“Rather than clowning about in a pretend kitchen, you mean?”

“It was Ding’s idea to channel Paddington Bear!”

“Ah, that reminds me,” Puppy returned to his emails. “You’ve had an offer.”

“From who?”

“A toy company in Cornwall. They want permission to make a soft toy in your image. A ‘Teddy Corn Doll’.”

“Cheeky buggers. Can we send someone heavy round to have a word?”

“You can’t have everyone you don’t like beaten up. There are just too many of them. We’re not at uni now, you know.”

“More’s the pity. Things were a lot simpler back then.”

“I’m pretty sure they will make these things whether you approve it or not,” Puppy continued as if he hadn’t heard. “So, you might as well get a fee out of them, or a royalty or something. I’ll put Ding onto it.”

“Good old Ding,” Teddy’s watery eyes misted over for a moment. “What would we do without him? Where is he, by the way?”

“Having his tan re-sprayed, I think. He said he would meet us for lunch at the club.”

“Excellent plan.”

Refreshed by the impending prospect of a sound meal, Teddy started scrawling down his memories of the day in the baking tent for posterity. Now that he was looking back on them from the comfort of Puppy’s dining room, gazing out over the trees of Berkeley Square, they were taking on a rather rosy, nostalgic glow. A very jolly atmosphere had sprung up amongst the competitors and he prided himself that this was in no small part due to his own splendid display of good-natured incompetence. When the presenters realized that he truly had not the least idea how to turn the oven on, let alone concoct anything edible, they had offered a few helpful hints. His competitors, who had surprised him with their ability to create cakes and biscuits that were a pretty good facsimile of the real things, had not seemed to resent him receiving this extra help. When he mentioned this fact to Ding, who had returned to the tent in time to ferry him back into London that evening, Ding’s response had given him cause for reflection.

“It’s like when we were at school,” Ding reminded him. “You always got away with cheating because everyone knew you were still going to come last in every exam, however much help you had. You were never a threat to the swots. It’s probably the total secret of your success.”

Touched by his friend’s words, Teddy gave Ding’s thigh a friendly, nostalgic squeeze.

“Fuck off, Ted, for God’s sake,” Ding responded.

“Right ho,” Teddy replied, deciding that it would be a good moment to catch forty winks as they ground their way back to Berkeley Square through the evening traffic, allowing his mind to re-imagine the events of the day in preparation for the following day’s diary work. Ding had selected a McClaren from his extensive collection for the day’s runs in and out of London, and the roar of its aircraft sized engine was attracting a number of curious looks from passers-by, many of them tinged with more than a hint of distaste. 

--*--

As lunchtime approached, the staff guarding the door to Drones waved Teddy and Puppy straight through and away from the curious eyes of Dover Street pedestrians. None of them reprimanded Teddy on the disarray of his attire; they were used to him, just as they had been used to his father and his grandfather before him. Some of the older staff had been working at the club since Teddy was a small boy, brought in for lunch by the senior men in his family and running feral in the kitchens whenever he grew bored of the boasting and political gossiping around the dining table. This ancient familiarity had made many of the staff more forgiving of Teddy and his friends when they grew old enough to become members themselves and, on several occasions, trashed the restaurant after becoming overly stimulated while playing revered university drinking games. Teddy had never failed to return the following day, filled with charming contrition and brandishing a cheque to cover repairs, which on some occasions escalated into full-scale refurbishments at the expense of the Bear family coffers.  

Ding was already waiting for them at the table, nursing a drink.

“What’s that?” Teddy asked, licking his lips and eyeing the glass suspiciously.

“A dirty Martini,” Ding informed him.

“A bit American for lunch time, isn’t it? What’s wrong with a pint of Best, or a bottle of Bordeaux?”

“Or both,” Puppy added.

“Quite.” Teddy sat down with a thump as he addressed the waiter. “Never mind. Got to keep an open mind. I’ll try one of those.” 

Once the important matter of choosing food and drink was out of the way, Puppy and Ding got back to talking business, allowing Teddy’s mind to follow his eyes as they wandered around the tables in search of anyone of interest.

“What are your thoughts on merchandising?” Puppy asked. “Some Cornish toy firm wants to make a soft toy of Teddy.”   

“Really?” Ding wrinkled his nose up in a characteristic gesture from his childhood, which had often come back to haunt Teddy in his dreams. “That’s interesting. Maybe we should put out some feelers to the big boys.”

“Disney?”

“Don’t see why not. They’ve done a pretty good job on monetizing Pooh.”

“Do they own Paddington too?”

“No, that’s StudioCanal.”

“Who are they?” Teddy’s attention had drifted back to the conversation.

“A big French media company,” Ding replied.

“French? The French own Paddington? That’s outrageous. We should mount a campaign to bring him home. Bet that would be a vote winner!” The waiter placed the Martini in front of Teddy and he swallowed it in one. “Actually, not that bad,” he pronounced. “Get me another would you?”

 

Felicity was catching up on the Bake-off episode on her phone, so that Phillipa didn’t have to. Teddy’s obvious incompetence in the tent might prove helpful in keeping custody of the baby out of his hands. Not that his lawyers had managed to convince her that he was showing the least bit of interest in gaining any custody, or even any access. She even wondered if he had forgotten the wretched thing had been born at all. She knew, however, that every possible bargaining chip should be collected, hoarded and jealously guarded.

“It wouldn’t be a bad idea for you to take the baby into Prime Minister’s Questions,” she had suggested to Phillipa when they had been brainstorming over quiche and Chardonnay in the Downing Street kitchen a few nights earlier.  “It’ll show what a dedicated mother you are and how hard it is for women to bring up children on their own. Lots of positive messages.”

“What if it cries?” Phillipa asked.

“Get Nanny to dose it up with Calpol before you get it strapped on.”

“You might be right. Didn’t Jacinda do something similar in New Zealand?”

“Indeed. Took a three-month-old into a UN meeting. And look how popular she is.”  

“Could be helpful in the party,” the Prime Minister mused, “there are still a lot of them who don’t like having a woman in the job again. Quite a few of them are looking for ways to get Teddy back. We could make motherhood seem like an asset in the job rather than a liability.”

“And make Teddy look like a useless absent father, incapable of baking a biscuit, partying in a Portakabin while you are taking care of his child.”

“Ergo, if he’s a totally useless husband and father, how can he possibly be a good PM?”

“Exactly.”