Page 4 of The Unlikely Pair
Rupert smirks. “I think we can potentially anticipate the smell of the Labour chickens being roasted though.”
I manage to keep my face impassive, though it proves challenging.
Becoming the prime minister of the United Kingdom is what we Mathesons have been trying to achieve for three generations.
“How is our candidate list progressing?” I ask. Each political party puts together a list of candidates who will stand for election in various constituencies across the country. This list is crucial because the party’s success in the general election depends on winning more seats in the House of Commons than any other party. I won’t be the next prime minister unless my party secures a greater number of seats than we won at the last election, and a vital part of that is having good candidates.
“It’s shaping up nicely,” Amanda says.
“No concerns?”
“We’ve got an interesting one coming out of Kingswell and Norbridge. David Grantham. Fundamentalist Christian and a hardliner on immigration and law and order. He has a somewhattroubling record with statements he’s made on social issues, but he’s been campaigning vigorously and looks like he will secure the backing of the local party.”
“What precisely do you mean by a ‘troubling record’?” I ask.
“Just a few far-right leanings. He’s a bit of a populist and has been outspoken in the past about MPs not representing the common people.”
I glance down at my notes, keeping my voice businesslike. “Unfortunately, people crave simplistic solutions to complex problems. Populist leaders exploit that. Ensure he understands that if he becomes the candidate, he’ll be required to conform to the party line.”
Selecting candidates for our party list is a delicate balancing act. We need to appear in touch with the party’s grassroots while still finding candidates who adhere to our core principles.
In a general election, nothing is worse than a scandal distracting from our important messaging.
In my time in politics, I’ve seen it all. MPs caught plagiarizing sections of speeches from movies, MPs who utilized public funds to purchase life-sized cardboard cutouts of themselves, and even a hot-mic incident where an MP likened the host of an event to a constipated billy goat.
“We need to run a tight ship. No scandals. Nothing unexpected.” I ensure Rupert is included in my line of sight as I utter those words.
I’m so close to achieving my ultimate goal.
I’m determined nothing will distract me from becoming the next prime minister of the United Kingdom.
The next morning, I’m a world away from London’s hustle and bustle as I have breakfast with my wife in the conservatory of our manor house, Ashbury Hall.
Out the window, early autumn is staking its claim on the grounds. The leaves of the oak trees are just beginning to turn a burnished gold. The meticulously manicured lawns stretch like a lush green carpet, but a light mist hangs over the distant fields, a reminder that the seasons are changing.
Prunella and I dine in a companionable silence. I check my phone’s constant stream of messages while she readsThe Corporate Times.
I’ve dressed for the day ahead in an impeccably tailored charcoal-gray Savile Row suit, my silk tie impeccably knotted. My polished Oxford shoes gleam under the morning sun.
Prunella, in contrast, is in her oldest tatty dressing gown, her hair in disarray.
She glances up from the paper, arching a perfectly shaped eyebrow at me.
“So, according toThe Corporate Times, Toby Webley is also part of the delegation heading to Oslo for the climate change conference today.”
I almost choke on my piece of toast at his name.
“Yes, I am aware of that fact. He is the head of the Climate Change Task Force, after all. What about it?” I say once I’ve managed to recover from my coughing fit.
Prunella throws a smirk in my direction. “I’m just commenting, that’s all. I remember how you always get around him.”
“I don’t get any way around him,” I say stiffly.
“Yes, you do. You get all twitchy. Like now. Just mentioning his name makes you twitchier than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”
There is a chance a muscle under my eyelid is twitching right now at the mention of Toby Webley, but that is neither here nor there.
It’s not only the fact he’s a competent government MP, someone who stands in direct opposition to everything I believe in, that causes my blood pressure to rise every time I hear his name.
