She took in the decor. Industrial lighting, Bauhaus prints on the walls, cold gray tiling on the floor. As a trade minister, many years ago, Margaret had been on the odd trip to Communist East Germany. Who would have thought that the sort of aesthetic she’d found there would now be in a place that sold lemon-flavored chocolate bars for eleven pounds?
She ordered herself a cup of tea and a “cardamom and custard Danish,” telling herself she deserved it after the day’s dramatic events. Dear God, it did taste good. She wiped her mouth, looking around to see if anyone had noticed the size of her greedy first bite. Would she have another tea when the others arrived? That seemed a bit much, a tough assignment for the bladder. What if the others had cakes too? It would be hard to watch them eat theirs knowing that her fun was over.
Margaret was an early person, always had been. If you were early, you were on time; if you were on time, you were late; and if you were late, you were rude. She’d been almost militant about punctuality in her day, but was a lot more forgiving now.
Margaret had lived life at a rapid pace, fueled by febrile ambition, and then, suddenly, twenty-five years ago, that was all brought to an abrupt end. To be prime minister had been the goal. These days her mind was focused on tea intake and pastry pricing.
Now that she looked back, she wasn’t even sure if she’d wanted to actuallydothe job. Prime minister! What an awful, awful life. Decisions, constant decisions, every one of them hard and every one of them guaranteed to enrage millions. Theresponsibility.As prime minister there was only one certainty: that you would atsome point have to make a choice that would lead to someone’s death. Denying funding for a vital medicine or approving one that went wrong. Ordering a military operation that directly killed someone, or not ordering one that meant somebody, in some far-flung field, or perhaps—if you really cocked up—in your own country, would die. Every single person who managed to become prime minister had had to face the truth that their actions had ended people’s lives. Except Liz Truss, who hadn’t quite had the time.
Margaret had just wanted the achievement of getting the job. Tick! Do that and perhaps she could have told herself that her father, the man who had sent her off to boarding school at seven only to cruelly die when she was eight, would have been proud of her.
Margaret had once sat at the cabinet table in Downing Street, on a sweaty day in June, amid one crisis or another, after listening to each of her peers read out their (carefully tailored to achieve maximum personal advancement) contribution and thought: Every one of us is a deeply damaged person.
But that moment of clarity was brief, and she had gone straight back to Britain’s greasiest pole. Home secretary was the highest she rose. Not bad. Not quite top dog but one of the “great offices of state.”
It had all come crashing down on an episode ofThis Morning. They were awful things, these friendly appearances on daytime television programs. You’d prepare for a news interview like your career depended on it. Read and reread the brief, load up all your little tricks, all your “let me be clears” and “I think what the public are interested ins…” The rules were understood by all. Theirgoal was to get you to answer a question; yours was to not answer that question.
ButThis Morning, that was a shit show waiting to happen. You had to do it, to reach all those normal people who didn’t watch the news, but the trouble was that there was no way of knowing what you’d be asked. “What’s the price of a pint of milk?” That was the standard question, so you’d learn the answer to that. Ask any politician, and they know the price of a pint of milk better than anyone. But anything could slip you up. Say the wrong thing about a TV soap, and a nation would declare you “out of touch” because you’d chosen to go to a state dinner with the German chancellor instead of watchingEmmerdale. For a politician,This Morningwas like Vietnam—the goal was to get out alive.
Margaret didn’t.
The St. Cuthbert’s School Choir was singing some turgid cover for a charity Christmas single. That week Margaret had been dealing with a prison riot in Leeds, the police union had been getting greedy and were refusing a pay settlement, and she’d just received a report that some kind of sex maniac had been accidentally released and was last seen headed in the direction of Alton Towers. And here she had to sit and smile at the palest bunch of children she’d ever seen while they sang “Frosty the Snowman.”
Still, she was nearly out of there. She’d got through her interview unscathed, and now that the song was blessedly over, all she had to do was applaud like she meant it.
But then the host said, “Actually, before we go to a break, I think Gavin has a question for you, Margaret.”
The boy was chubby, ginger, and in a wheelchair. He spoke with a lisp. “Why have you cut funding from Silly Sausages?”
What? Margaret fixed her grin. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t—”
“Silly Sausages. It’s my local youth club. You’ve cut funding from it, and now they don’t have enough money to build a ramp for me.”
Margaret had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. It was almost certain that this had nothing to do with her or the government.
“I’m really sorry to hear that—was it Gavin? Yes, well, as I say, I’m really very sorry to hear that. This government has prioritized youth services because it’s very important to us—”
The host chipped in. “Obviously not enough to fund a ramp at Silly Sausages.”
Seriously, what on earth was Silly Sausages? “As I say, funding is not always something that’s set by central government, but I can certainly look into that for you. It sounds like a wonderful place.”
A tear rolled down Gavin’s pale and freckled face. “Itusedto be.”
“I’m afraid we’ll have to go for a break there. Thank you very much to the home secretary for joining us.”
The host disappeared, and Hugh, Margaret’s aide, came over to get her out of there.
“Fat little shit,” mumbled Margaret. “Honestly, I’m having a hard enough week as it is without getting interrogated by ginger Tiny fucking Tim. There was a time when an ungrateful little bastard like that would be locked in a district hospital and forgotten about.”
“Could I just grab your mic off you, please?”
It was the soundman.
Margaret’s heart fell out of her chest and landed in her arse. “Was this…was this on?”
“Oh, I don’t know. We’re off-air.”
Margaret spotted a floor manager with headphones on, staring at her. And then a producer. And then the director. They’d all heard it.
