‘I made an error of judgement and I paid the price. But who among us hasn’t done something they regret in the heat of the moment? And what I’ve really tried to do over the last few months is to try and rebuild the trust of the British public. I’ve gone out there and—’
‘So is that why you went on a reality TV show?’
Richard nods, fully in his stride now.
‘Yeah, exactly. Look …’ He fans out his hands to push the point home. ‘Politics and politicians are increasingly disconnected from real life. I wanted to get out of the metropolitan Westminster media bubble and get my message across directly to the people who count, you know? People like you, Mickey. People like your listeners. The ones who might not engage with politicians because they feel we don’t listen, we don’t care, or whatever.’ His hands now make puppet shapes, as if to denote the boring blah-blah-blah of the Houses of Parliament. Richard is pleased with the effectiveness. Well done, hands! he thinks. ‘TV is a great way of doing that. As is your podcast, Mickey. It’s why I so admire what you do.’
Richard laughs softly in a way he hopes is suitably ingratiating. In truth, he hated every second of filmingShit Happens!The producers had set up a series of games in which participants could win tokens to exchange for food. Night after night, Richard had been voted by the public to do the challenges. He had to clean the wastewater filters and patch up the walls of an ancient septic tank, all while scrabbling on the stinking ground for plastic stars that would mean he and his cast-mates could eat one extra tin of baked beans that evening. His fellow contestants had watched him struggle, holding their noses against the faecal stench and whooping with laughter.
After filming ended, it had taken days to rid himself of the smell of sewage. It still lingered sometimes in his nostrils, assailing him when he least expected it. He’d be waiting for the microwave to ping with his beef stroganoff and – wham! – he’d gag on a sudden sensory memory of a swollen turd stuck in a section of uninspected piping underneath a pensioner’s bathroom in Shadwell.
Still, it had been worth it in the end. He’d emerged as the runner-up ofShit Happens!and after three long weeks on their TV screens, he’d become so familiar to the viewing public that their attitude shifted. He now had over 700,000 followers on TikTok, several offers for other TV shows and people on the street no longer shouted abuse at him. Instead, they asked for selfies.
‘And now you’ve given your backing for Ben Fitzmaurice’s leadership bid,’ Mickey is saying, reading directly from the document in his notebook that has clearly been prepared for him by one of the Joshes. ‘Why are you doing that?’
Richard gives the usual spiel: he’s backing Ben Fitzmaurice because of his vision for the country and because he believes Ben is the only man who can deliver for Britain and so on. He watches as Mickey glazes over and wonders what it would be like if he told the truth, which is that he was so unbelievably grateful to Ben for reinvigorating his political career that it was like asking someone suffering a cardiac attack why they were backing the use of defibrillator pads. He had been stunned when Ben requested to speak to him privately at the funeral, taking him into his study after the service and pouring him a whisky, before laying out his plans.
‘I think we’d have good synergy,’ Ben had said, leaning on the mantelpiece which, Richard couldn’t help but notice, had the Fitzmaurice coat of arms carved into the stone. ‘I can provide the continuity, the bridge to Edward’s team but also the vision for the future. And I have a certain appeal with the old buffers, as you know.’
It was true. Although he’d voted to remain part of the European Union, Ben had somehow managed to stay onside with the core blue-rinse brigade: the battle-axes who organised village fairs and theretired colonels who disliked foreigners. He also had a substantial following among middle-aged finance types who resented having to pay too much tax but who liked to be liberal-minded when it served them. These lot were pro-gay marriage but anti-woke. They accepted global warming as scientific fact but still wanted to take long-haul flights without being made to feel bad about it. They were obsessed with bin-collection schedules, stamp duty and inheritance tax. They loved Ben, but he lacked traction with the younger generation – and he knew it.
‘So that’s where you come in, Richard. I confess, I was suspicious of your going on that TV show, but I can see now that it was a stroke of genius.’
A puff of pride settled snugly under Richard’s solar plexus.
‘My kids loved it. You’ve got a following now. And I think the pair of us together, with you as my number two, could be dynamite. What do you say?’
Yes, was what he’d said, with an immediacy that, on reflection, was somewhat unbecoming. He couldn’t help it. Richard was ecstatic. Weeks before, he had feared his political life was over. Hannah had left him. His ego had been crushed like an empty Coke can in the fist of the nation. But now, this! Rising from the ashes of that humiliation! The chance to scale political heights! To write his name in the history books! It was all he’d ever wanted. (That, and children of his own, but the children didn’t seem as important now.)
Everything had moved with great speed. The campaign funds, he was told, would largely be provided by Ben’s old school friend turned finance guy, Andrew Jarvis.
‘He’s my mate from way back,’ Ben said when they met a week later in his Soho private members’ club. ‘We can trust him.’
‘Yes, I met him at Felicity’s funeral, I believe. He was quite difficult to read, if I’m honest. Rather a fey character. Glasses, fair hair.’
Ben looked confused.
‘Oh, ha! No, that was Martin. Martin Gilmour. That’s … we were close but … it’s a long story.’
Ben twisted the cap off a bottle of sparkling water, unleashing a slow fizzing sound.
‘You don’t need to worry about Martin. He’s onside.’
It was a strange thing to say, given that Richard hadn’t been worried about Martin being offside. He pushed the thought away.
When Richard met Jarvis, he encountered a man who reminded him of all the school bullies who’d ever crossed his path. Jarvis regarded Richard with minimal interest and directed all his comments to Ben. Richard wasn’t surprised to learn that, at school, Ben had been head boy and Jarvis his deputy. They had a brief discussion about how the campaign would be strategised and then, just as Ben was bringing the meeting to a close, Richard asked – as mildly as he could – what role there would be for him in any future Fitzmaurice cabinet. Ben and Jarvis exchanged glances.
‘Bit premature, don’t you think?’ Jarvis said.
Richard smiled inoffensively.
‘No, I don’t think so.’ He made a point of holding Jarvis’s gaze. He knew that this was the moment when he held the most bargaining power. Richard prided himself on being a decent bloke, but that didn’t mean he was a fool.
‘What would you like?’ Ben asked, one eyebrow cocked.
‘Chancellor.’
Jarvis actually laughed. Rude, Richard thought. Ben leaned back in his chair.
