‘Sorry, mate, didn’t quite catch—’
‘No. I don’t want to go on a stuffy old political podcast. I need to be reaching new audiences. Younger voters. Gen Z-ers and TikTokers, you know the kind of thing. That young bloke who wears a polo neck and a fedora. Can I get on his podcast?’
There’s a short pause on the other end of the line.
‘Mickey Minton? The YouTuber?’
‘Yes, that’s the one.’
‘Okaaaaay. I’ll, um, target some of the more youth-skewed podcasts.’
‘If you could.’
‘Then we’ve got the normal media stuff –Question Time,Any Questions?,Question and Answer,Questions on a Sunday– they’ve all asked you on as a panellist. But I’m sensing maybe that’s a no, too …’
‘Boring. No.’
There’s a loud, sucking inhale that sounds very much as if Gary is vaping.
‘OK, gotcha. Well, this one is a fantastic opportunity. It’s a TV show. Amazing ratings. It’ll have real cut-through and get you out of the Westminster elite and in front of a whole new audience.’
‘That’s more like it.’
‘Shit happens.’
‘Very true, Gary, very true. And I know that better than most, but what’s the offer?’
‘No, that’s it. That’s what the show’s called:Shit Happens!’
Richard swivels on his stool.
‘I mean, they asterisk out the H and the I because it’s primetime but, yeah, it’s calledShit Happens!and it’s actually a really powerful premise: celebrities become sewage workers and the cameras follow you as you clean up other people’s waste. Every night, one of the contestants is voted out by the public. They’re offering you an up-front fee, which will be a nice chunk of moolah, and if you make it through to the final, you’re guaranteed a shedload of profile and brand partnerships. The girl who won last year got an ad campaign with Pretty Little Thing and has over a million followers on Instagram. More importantly for our purposes, she’s become a national sweetheart. She really showed her authentic self. And her not-so-authentic tits.’
Gary laughs so hard at his own joke it turns into a rattling smoker’s cough. Richard blinks. The room recedes briefly into fuzziness then snaps back into focus. It would be nice, wouldn’t it, not to be ridiculed on the street by strangers or shouted at by cab drivers? It would be refreshing to be loved by a public who could see him for who he really was: a decent, hardworking man driven by duty and a belief in making society better. Someone who doesn’t stand on ceremony. A man of the people, unlike all those public-school-educated toffs atthe top. A man who doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty with other people’s mess.
‘How much?’ he asks.
‘Three hundred,’ Gary says.
‘That’s pathetic! Do they know I get paid sixty grand plus a year as an MP? I’m insulted, to be frank.’
‘Nah, nah, nah. You don’t get it. Three hundred grand.’
Richard gulps.
‘Ah. Well in that case …’
‘It’s a yes?’
‘Mm-hmm.’
‘Great. Leave it with me. The Dick Take fightback starts here!’
For the first time since everything happened, Richard feels a jolt of optimism. Maybe he can salvage his reputation, after all. He’s got a primetime TV slot and an invitation to the inner sanctum of the Fitzmaurice family. All bases covered. He starts to text his wife the news. Then he remembers he doesn’t have a wife anymore. He deletes the text and locks the memory of it away in the box.
There. All done.
IV.
