‘He’ll be the most handsome PM we’ve ever had,’ Oleander continues, but his green eyes are already darting over Richard’s shoulder, looking at who else he can talk to. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Dorothy Windage has just arrived.’
Dorothy Windage, a decrepit nonagenarian known for being the daughter of Britain’s most notorious wartime fascist and for having once been bounced on Hitler’s lap as a baby, is swathed in purplevelvet and being pushed in a wheelchair by a bored-looking young man. She scowls at the assembled crowd and swats Oleander’s hands away when he tries to embrace her.
‘So, Richard,’ Lord Cunningham is saying, breathing cigar fumes over his face. ‘Tell me, did you really never think of standing for the leadership yourself?’
Richard shakes his head with practised ease.
‘No, no, not at all. I’m not sure the party faithful would have liked it, given my, ah, very public peccadillo.’
Lord Cunningham emits a guffaw which turns rapidly into a wheezing cough.
‘Come now. We’ve all been there.’
‘Ha.’ Richard shifts on his feet, unsure where this is going. ‘Kind of you to say, but …’
‘I don’t mind telling you,’ Lord Cunningham says, his voice dropping as he leans closer, affording Richard a bird’s-eye view of his thinning hair and flaking, liver-spotted scalp. ‘The Conservatives need someone who’ll stand up for our old-fashioned values and get rid of those blasted small boats and ship ’em back to wherever they came from. I’m not sure your chap Ben Fitzmaurice quite has the balls to see it through.’
A waiter passes and Richard reaches for a ceramic spoon filled with an unidentified breadcrumbed sphere that might or might not be a Scotch egg. He shovels it into his mouth to avoid having to reply.
‘And this trans business is getting out of hand. Out of hand, I tell you. My wife says the Women’s Institute is being forced to allow in men who identify as female. The bloody WI! Clue’s in the name. It’s for women. One of the last bastions of Britishness. God created men and women differently for good reason, don’t you agree?’
Not so long ago, Richard would have given a non-committal ‘quite’ and moved the conversation on. But this evening, he finds he doesn’t agree, and then – even more strangely – he finds himself saying so.
‘I don’t, no.’
Lord Cunningham shrinks back, as if pulled by an invisible string.
‘Well,’ he splutters. ‘Well, if that’s what you think, there’s no hope for you.’ He stumbles backwards. ‘Good lord. You won’t get far if that’s your attitude, you mark my words.’
Smoke-scented spittle lands on Richard’s cheek. He wipes it off with the back of his hand as Lord Cunningham waddles away. Stupid old codger, Richard thinks. He scans the crowd, wondering where to place himself with just enough but not too much prominence. The garden is on two levels, adjoined by stone steps. The upper part is lined with mature magnolia trees and terracotta pots planted with satiny-petalled flowers. He recognises a Sunday newspaper editor, a film director he thought was dead and the shadow Pensions Secretary standing in a huddle underneath the biggest magnolia tree, but just as he is about to walk over, there is a shifting in the crowd. He turns to see Ben arriving, hand in hand with Serena, the two of them shining and glamorous and looking like they’ve walked straight off a photoshoot. He catches Ben’s eye. They nod briefly and then Ben gets waylaid by Oleander and Lord Cunningham sidles up to Serena, putting a grubby hand around her waist and Richard realises with startling clarity that he has always hated this party, full of its self-satisfied guests who trade in contempt.
Gary Brotherton had insisted he come, said it was ‘good for optics’ – an expression that always made Richard think of eye-wash. Gary is coming to the end of his contract and Richard won’t be renewing it. Now that he’s returning to frontline politics, it seems uncouth to have a PR person putting out feelers for the next series ofStrictly Come Dancing.
But he will miss him. He’s become accustomed to Gary’s off-colour humour and watermelon-scented vape, not to mention his obsessive fascination with whichLove Islandcontestant has best monetised their five minutes of fame. And, in truth, Gary has done a pretty good job. Richard’s TikTok account recently reached 1.1 million followers, which apparently was impressive for an MP. His most popular video featured him lip-syncing the words ‘very demure, very mindful’ as Terri filmed him awarding a gleaming marrow first prize at a constituency village fete. He’ll probably keep the TikTok going – employ someyoung person from Central Office who knows how to connect with their peer group. Every vote counts and all that.
On his way out, Richard passes Harriet Seeker, the former ITV political editor who now has her own interview show on Friday mornings. She is the only Black woman fronting a flagship daytime programme on any of the major channels. A recent study found she received 90 per cent of all racist abuse directed towards the UK’s television personalities, which Richard found both shocking and simultaneously unremarkable. Ever since Brexit, Britain has made less of an effort to keep its racism hidden.
He has always admired Harriet’s sangfroid in the face of such bile, so when Gary outlined the merits of doing one major campaign interview, Richard mentioned her name. Tomorrow, he is her main booking. She knows nothing yet of the scoop he’s about to give her.
Harriet glances at him from beneath a freshly blow-dried fringe.
‘Going home to prepare for the inquisition?’ she asks, with cut-glass enunciation.
‘Absolutely,’ Richard replies.
‘Great. See you in the morning.’
On the street, the same photographer from theMailis waiting.
‘Leaving so soon, Dick?’ he shouts. ‘Anything to tell me?’
Richard walks up to him. The snapper looks surprised.
‘Nothing to report this evening,’ Richard says, ‘but tell your editors I’ll have a lot to say tomorrow morning.’
‘OK, mate,’ the photographer says quietly. ‘Roger that.’
In the make-up chair the next day, a woman called Maisie with spearmint breath insists he needs more powder.
