‘Not Home Sec?’ Ben asked.
Richard imagined protracted disputes with the Metropolitan Police and the slow handclap of a Women’s Institute. He thinks of flights to Rwanda containing asylum-seekers and eggs thrown by street protestors. You truly didn’t know how much an egg could hurt until you’d had one hurled at your forehead.
‘No.’
‘Foreign?’
There was a certain gravitas to this idea. He lost himself in a brief but distinct reverie of photo opportunities with military personnel,and handshakes with dignitaries at important international conferences. Plus, of course, the chance to bring peace to a conflict-scarred part of the world, riven by war for many decades until Richard Take came on the scene to mastermind a seemingly impossible truce …
‘You’ve promised foreign to Gilly,’ Jarvis’s voice cut through.
‘Ah yes, of course. OK then, chancellor it is.’
And that was that.
The three of them had decided to announce Ben’s leadership bid at the V&A charity gala. It had gone down very well with the assembled crowd, who’d greeted the idea of Ben Fitzmaurice as their future prime minister with warm applause. There had been no mention of Richard as chancellor, of course. That wasn’t the done thing. But Richard knew and he held on to this knowledge like a child protecting a delicious secret.
Back in the Battersea flat, Mickey Minton’s eyelids are stuttering. Richard brings his political spiel to a close as swiftly as he is able without seeming like a lightweight. He feels a pressure against his ankle and then the snuffle of a small dog and a warm, seeping moisture leaking into his sock. The unmistakable tang of canine urine drifts upwards.
Richard tries to ignore it.
‘I wanna talk to you about your childhood …’ Mickey says.
‘My parents are wonderful people …’
‘But first a word from our sponsors.’
Mickey turns over a page in his notebook and reads tonelessly from a script.
‘I work out five days a week because physical health is part of my mental health.’
Unconsciously, Richard rests a hand on his stomach, stretching the black merino into a gentle undulation. He really should get back to the gym.
‘But I need to get my body prepped for the gym,’ Mickey recites. ‘So that’s why I drink PRO-TEN, an easy-to-make shake containing all your protein and ten thousand key nutrients, minerals, vitamins and probiotics to ensure your muscles get the fuel they need and your gut getsthe healthy diet it deserves. Listeners ofTalking the Mickeyget twenty per cent off their first order of PRO-TEN by using the code TTM at checkout …’
By the time they walk out of Battersea Power Station, Richard is drained and his sock is still wet. The recording took four hours, which Josh 1 assured them would be cut down to ninety minutes.
‘Which part do you think they’ll cut?’ Richard asks Gary.
‘Probably the political bit.’
‘Oh.’
Gary gives a phlegmy cough.
‘That sounds nasty,’ Richard says.
Gary waves his concern away, then continues to cough for a few more seconds before bending over to spit a viscous beige-green substance onto the pavement.
‘Nah, it’s normal,’ he says, straightening back up. ‘You back to the office then?’
Richard nods. He’s got a Zoom call with an organic soil lobbying group and then drinks in the Strangers’ Bar with the chair of the 1922 Committee. They walk to the tube together, stopped only once by a young mother pushing a pram for a selfie. At the top of the escalator, Gary turns to Richard.
‘Did you ever think of running for the leadership yourself?’
‘No,’ he replies, startled.
He says it instinctively, without having to think. It has never once crossed Richard’s mind.
