Hannah had packed her bags the same night. She came home from work early, something she had never before seen fit to do, not even when their whippet had died the previous year.
‘I can explain, Hannah,’ he had said, addressing her back as she removed swathes of black from their wardrobe – black dresses, black jackets, black trousers, each one as formless as the last.
‘No need,’ she had replied. There were no histrionics – that wasn’t her style – but there seemed to be no emotion either. Not even anger, which surprised him.
‘It was a moment of weakness, a lapse in judgement.’
‘Please. Save your resignation speech clichés.’
‘I didn’t mean it … I …’
She stopped then, turning to look at him while holding a pair of black shoes in one hand. It had been raining and her hair had become frizzy at the roots. A vertical frown line ran deep between her eyes. She was getting a double chin. And yet he felt hopelessly in love with her still. He was about to tell her so, when—
‘I’m not in love with you, Richard.’
‘I don’t think—’
‘I haven’t been for a while. I don’t mean to upset you, but I’m not sure we ever really were. In love, I mean.’
His insides folded.
‘It was convenient and … nice for a while,’ Hannah said, zipping up the matching cases, lifting them off the bed with one strong arm and tipping them neatly onto their wheels. ‘But I think we both know it wasn’t going anywhere.’
She would get a colleague to deal with the divorce, she said, going to the bathroom and making an efficient sweep of her toiletries and toothbrush. She even remembered to take her disposable razor, left on the side of the bath.
Within the hour, she had marched decisively out of their Pimlico house and into a waiting taxi (of course she had a cab waiting, and he would mull over this detail for days – had it been booked with premeditation or ordered on her phone while they’d been talking?). All that was left of her were the framed photos, a half-eaten jar of crunchy peanut butter and an imprinted grey wave of leg stubble ringing the bath. He had turned the photos to face away from him. It seemed silly, now, how much he had believed in their false advertising.
On thePolitical Chatterpodcast, the former Prisons Minister is now talking about his new book: ‘… it details the terrible situation our democracy finds itself in and posits some possible solutions. You can pre-order it now and you’ll automatically be entered into a competition to win aPolitical Chattermindfulness journal.’ He stops listening in disgust. Fucking mindfulness, he thinks. A well-dressedelderly woman looks at him in horror and he realises he’s muttered it out loud.
‘You’re Richard Take,’ she says in a plummy voice.
‘I am. I – gosh – I’m so sorry …’
She looks at his crotch with rheumy blue eyes.
‘Why couldn’t you keep it in your trousers?’
For a moment he thinks she might be about to spit at him, but then she turns on her heel and stalks off. He sighs.
The neo-Gothic stalactites of the Houses of Parliament rise before him. Big Ben, shiny and spruced up after a refurbishment that had cost many millions of taxpayers’ money, smugly informed him it was ten minutes to three. His colleagues have, like Hannah, deserted him in their droves, with a few notable exceptions. The MP for Ashton-under-Lyne, Claire Killarney, who organised the yearly parliamentary ski trip, had called him. Ben had sent a nice text. A couple of Lib Dems had reached out, but everybody knew Lib Dems didn’t count.
Richard presses his way through a group of tourists in overpadded anoraks and in Caffè Nero orders his regular one-shot cappuccino. The barista does a double take (theMirrorhad run with ‘Double Take: Is That Who You Think It Is?’). Her cheeks redden and he has to fight the urge to shout ‘I’m not a monster!’ but he opts for retaining the last filament of his dignity and stays silent until his coffee is ready, whereupon he takes a sip immediately and burns his tongue.
His jacket pocket vibrates. He flails around trying to retrieve his phone and in so doing, spills milky froth down his jacket. He presses to answer, and only then realises he is still wearing his AirPods.
‘Yes, hello?’
‘Richard.’
‘Oh, hi Terri.’
‘I was expecting you back by now.’
Terri is terrifying. Nominative determinism at its finest. He must insist she goes back to the constituency as soon as possible.
‘Moments away, Terri.’
‘Right.’ He can hear her gel nail extensions clicking on the keyboard. ‘We’ve got a fair bit to get through, so, you know, chop chop.’
