Mr. Prime Minister

by Jessica Ashe

  “How are you getting on?” I ask. It’s a boring question, but it sounds like one a boss should ask his employees. That’s what I am, when you look past all the fancy titles.

  “Good, thank you.”

  “Do anything exciting at the weekend?”

  Like a boyfriend, perhaps?

  “Not really. I hung out with a girlfriend on Sunday, but that’s about it.”

  “Hopefully this job won’t mess up your private life too much. I’ll try and make it nine-to-five as much as possible. I don’t want any angry boyfriends trying to barge through security.”

  That was subtle. Right? I think it was subtle.

  “There’s not much of a private life to mess up right now, sir.”

  Not a definitive answer, but it will do.

  “Have you been to the Houses of Parliament before?” I ask.

  “No, sir.”

  I don’t usually like people calling me ‘sir’—it makes me feel old—but when it comes from her soft, sensual lips, the word is suggestive and arousing.

  “You won’t be able to sit with me on the front bench. There’s a viewing gallery where you can watch, or if you like you can just stay in the car. I’m afraid it’s not all that exciting.”

  “I’d love to watch you in action.”

  I need to stop twisting her words into something else. I’m hearing every sentence as a double entendre. It’s been way too fucking long since I’ve got laid.

  “Prime Minister’s Questions can be rather childish at times. Lots of old men booing or cheering, depending on which side of the aisle they sit.”

  “I think it’s good that politicians get to ask you questions,” Janie says. “And you always come across well when you reply.”

  “Except when I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

  “I’ve never noticed.”

  “Trust me, if you knew the amount of times I’ve completely bullshitted my way through a topic I’m clueless on, you’d be horrified.”

  Janie doesn’t look horrified. Instead, she smiles. It’s warm and reassuring, just what I need before I go in there and face a couple of hundred MPs who hate me.

  “We all fake things occasionally,” she says.

  “You know, guys really don’t like to hear about women faking things. It makes us paranoid.”

  “I’m sure you don’t have to worry about that. I meant things like pretending to know all about Game of Thrones to impress someone.”

  “You don’t need to lie to impress anyone.” Anyone who hates Game of Thrones loses a point, but that still leaves Janie on eleven out of ten.

  “I didn’t lie,” Janie says. “My last boyfriend lied to me. He pretended it was his favorite show, but he clearly knew nothing about it.”

  “I hope you showed him the door.”

  I can’t blame the guy. I’d pretend to like Coronation Street to get closer to Janie, even though I’m an Eastenders guy all the way.

  “Of course. Anyway, what guy wouldn’t like Game of Thrones? Even if you don’t like the story, there’s loads of sex, fully nude women, and violence.”

  “Not all men are obsessed with sex,” I reply. “Or so I hear.”

  Says the guy who’s been fantasizing about fucking his secretary ever since he met her.

  “The guys I meet are only after one thing.”

  “You need to meet some better guys.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  The car comes to a stop before I can make any blatant hints about the types of guys she should be dating. Namely, world leaders, people with fancy titles, and reluctant cat owners.

  We walk into the House of Commons surrounded by security guys who are nearly big enough to intimidate me. That’s really saying something. Janie goes up to the viewing gallery, and suddenly I feel a touch nervous. I’ve never minded talking to an audience, either in person or to cameras for live broadcast, but now I have someone to impress. Knowing my luck, today will be the day I fuck up.

  There’s the usual round of childish nonsense when I stand up and give a short speech at the start. I honestly have no idea how half of these people got elected, and I’m including members of my own party in that. What happened to rational thought? I could announce I’ve cured cancer, and the other side would boo because I’m in a different party to them.

  The first person to ask a question should be the Leader of the Opposition, but she sits there quietly while her party members take their turns. She hasn’t been leader of her party for long, and she’s still nervous. And she likes me. And I like her. Mutual respect between the Prime Minister and the Leader of the Opposition—it’s almost unheard of.

  I should be relieved, but she’s not giving me an easy ride because she agrees with all my policies. She’s doing it because she thinks she owes me one. I can’t let her avoid asking the tough questions just because I helped her out once. I only did what any decent human being would do; I don’t need her to be grateful.

  The rest of her party doesn’t share her respect for me.

  “The Right Honorable Richard Preston,” the Speaker says, offering a question to an opposition backbencher.

  “Thank you, Mr. Speaker. Like many people, I had reservations about such an inexperienced politician taking on such an important role, but I’m prepared to give you a chance, Mr. Prime Minister. However, you make that difficult by not taking the job seriously. You’ve shown up today for Prime Minister’s Questions not even wearing a tie. Tell me, Mr. Prime Minister, how are we supposed to take you seriously, when you don’t take your job seriously?”

  I stand up to a chorus of cheers from the opposition, and dismissive laughs from my own party.

  “I appreciate the question from the Right Honorable Gentleman. I must say, if jobs were awarded based on fashion, then I’d want you in my Cabinet.” There’s laughter from the people behind me, even though it wasn’t that funny. “I can assure you, not wearing a tie doesn’t impact in any way on my ability to do the job.” I can’t see Janie in the viewing gallery, but I know she’s up there listening. Wouldn’t do any harm to put a few thoughts in her head. “Perhaps the Right Honorable Gentleman would also be interested to know that I’m not wearing any underwear today.”

  I sit down to more booing and laughter.

  The Speaker of the House gives another question to the opposition party.

  “Mr. Prime Minister, during the election, you promised to raise taxes on the rich. Since you took office, there have been multiple reports of rich people leaving the country which will, of course, have a knock-on effect on the entire economy. What do you say to concerns that you’ve created a more hostile environment for job creators?”

  “We will announce our tax plans more fully in the next budget,” I reply. “I must admit I’m surprised the Right Honorable Lady has those concerns. You campaigned on a promise to reduce net immigration. I would’ve thought you’d be pleased to see people leaving the country.”

  She wants to ask a follow-up question but the Speaker moves on to someone else.

  “There are allegations in today’s newspaper that you picked your Cabinet members to fulfill diversity criteria instead of picking people on the merits. With all due respect to your Cabinet, what do you have to say to those allegations?”

  The opposition doesn’t give a shit about the diversity of my Cabinet. That question was fed to him by a member of my own party. Presumably, one who’s pissed off about not getting a Cabinet position. I have to admit, my front bench does look a lot like a brochure for a university, with a mixture of races, sexes, and sexualities all on display. I suppose it’s not a complete coincidence. My Cabinet members had all been overlooked previously but felt passionate about my manifesto. My manifesto focuses on equality, so that explains the diversity. However, the most powerful man in the country—me—is still a white male. That keeps the racists happy.

  “I picked my Cabinet based on the merits,” I reply. “I’m not dignifying the question with any further response.”
>
  I sneak a quick look at my watch and realize only eight minutes have passed. I have to do this for an hour every week. Sometimes I really hate my job.

  Another question. “What does the Prime Minister have to say about allegations that his liberal agenda makes him look weak?”

  “Do I look weak to you?” I ask in reply. My party erupts in laughter again, and the Right Honorable Gentleman sits down looking red-faced. I know what he meant, but it was a badly worded question, especially when I’m built like a personal trainer who does weightlifting in his spare time.

  I stay standing at the dispatch box. I’m milking it a bit, but what the hell, I’m entitled to have fun once in a while. The Leader of the Opposition is desperately trying to suppress a smile. She has a thick file of materials in front of her, so there must be questions she wants to ask. No doubt her party is encouraging her to attack me, but she doesn’t want to do it. We can’t have that. Democracy needs a bit of to and fro occasionally.

  “Talking about strength,” I continue, “can I just say how pleased I am that the UK currently has three strong political parties. It’s important for our system of government that we challenge each other on issues we disagree with, even while we do our best to find points of agreement to move the country forward.”

  I catch Charlene’s eye, and she takes the hint. As soon as I sit down, Charlene Brewer stands up to ask a question.

  “The Leader of the Opposition,” the Speaker announces to loud cheers from her party.

  “Mr. Prime Minister, let me go on record as stating that I don’t care what you wear while you’re in the House of Commons. Your lack of a tie doesn’t bother me in the slightest, although I do ask that you make sure your flies are done up after you use the toilet. You’ll catch a cold.”

  She pauses briefly to soak up the laughter, mine included.

  “However,” she continues, “I am concerned with promises you made during the election, especially those concerning military spending. You promised increased funding to NHS trusts by slashing military spending, and yet in your short time in office, all you’ve done is allocate additional money to the military. Do you care to offer any explanation for this discrepancy?”

  Bollocks. Be careful what you wish for.

  Chapter Eleven

  Janie

  “Morning, Janie.”

  “Morning, Lionel.” I pass my open bag to Lionel for inspection. My bag gets checked on the way in and the way out, but no one ever looks at my phone. Stephanie’s right—I should be able to take photographs of anything incriminating. I’ll have to find something incriminating first.

  “Why did the banana go to the doctor?” Lionel asks.

  “I don’t know,” I reply. “Where do you get these jokes from?”

  “Christmas crackers, mainly. Come on, this is an easy one.”

  It does sound familiar, but I’ve never had a great memory. “Because it was… looking yellow?”

  “I guess that’s technically true, but it wouldn’t be funny, would it?”

  “None of your jokes are funny, Lionel.”

  “Nonsense. Try again. And think of a play on words.”

  Lionel waits patiently while I try to think up a pun like a tabloid journalist. I don’t have a clue, but the other security guard standing behind Lionel is gesturing as if he’s peeling an imaginary banana.

  Peeling. Peeling rhymes with….

  “He wasn’t peeling well?” I say uncertainly.

  “Bingo. Holy crap, you got one. I wasn’t expecting that.”

  “Does this mean I finally get to walk in through the front entrance?”

  I went in through the front door after coming back from the Houses of Parliament with the Prime Minister, but I don’t tell Lionel. That would spoil his fun, and besides, it all happened so quickly I didn’t have time to let it soak in.

  “I guess it’s finally time,” Lionel says. “Terry, hold the fort for a bit will you?”

  Lionel and I walk slowly up Downing Street until we arrive at the all-important front door. There’s already a crowd of journalists outside, although I have no idea what they’re here for. A lot of them start taking photographs, even though there’s no one famous here.

  “They’re taking photos of you,” Lionel whispers in my ear.

  “Why?”

  “You’re being escorted to the front door of 10 Downing Street. They assume you’re important. Which you are, of course.”

  “This feels weird.”

  “Fun though, right?”

  “A bit, yeah,” I admit. I keep my head down, but as we reach the door, I think ‘fuck it,’ and turn back to the cameras and wave. Every photographer takes my picture at least one hundred times, judging by all the clicking noises filling the air. They’ll figure out I’m just a secretary, but what the hell. It’s not every day you get paparazzi snapping your picture.

  “Here you are,” Lionel says. He doesn’t knock on the door, and there doesn’t appear to be a handle either.

  “How do we get in?” I ask, just as someone opens the door.

  “The door can only be opened from the inside,” Lionel says, gesturing for me to walk in.

  “Thanks.”

  “Think nothing of it. If I had my way, you’d walk in like this every morning. Have a nice day, Janie.”

  That did feel quite cool. I walk up the steps to my desk with a big grin on my face. Work’s not all that bad sometimes. I work for a good-looking boss who happens to be leader of the United Kingdom, and photographers take my picture on the way in to the office.

  Except it’s not my real job. I’m a journalist, or at least I want to be. I’m supposed to be here for a story—a story that could change the world, if Stephanie’s theory is correct. If Wade Chambers really got elected while hiding a huge secret from the public, that would be huge, with a capital H, followed by a capital U, a capital G, and a capital E for good measure.

  Every day I show up to work determined to remember why I’m here, and every day I forget as soon as I lay eyes on the Prime Minister.

  “Morning, sir,” I say cheerfully, as I walk into his office with a cup of tea.

  “Morning. You’re looking happy today. Did you have a date last night or something?”

  “No,” I reply quickly. I’m sure he thinks I’m going out with someone, and I’m determined to dispel that notion without looking single and desperate. It’s not like anything’s going to happen, but sometimes it’s fun to think there’s a chance.

  “Lionel let me walk in through the front door today,” I continue. “I think the photographers thought I was someone special.”

  “You are someone special. I mean, you’re my secretary. That’s important.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I must admit, that door is cool. I still get goosebumps walking through.”

  “It’s heavy,” I reply. “I noticed the security guard straining to keep it open.”

  “It’s bulletproof, bombproof, and God-knows-what-else-proof. Not idiot-proof, apparently, judging by some of the people who’ve been in here. Did you notice the wonky ‘zero’?”

  “Wonky zero?”

  “The zero next to the one in the number ‘10’ isn’t straight. It’s not actually a zero either; it’s the letter ‘O.’ It’s some historical thing that they refuse to change. It drives me fucking crazy.”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “Neither did I the first time I walked in, but as soon as someone mentions it, you can’t help but see it.”

  “Now I’m going to notice it.”

  “Oh yeah. Sorry.”

  “That’s okay. I don’t think I’ll get to walk in that way too often. I’m no good at guessing Lionel’s jokes?”

  “Those are jokes? He tries them on me. I’ve had better jokes from Christmas crackers.”

  “I suppose there are worse ways to start the morning.”

  “Definitely. Speaking of which, I have another Cabinet meeting today, don’t I?”


  “Yes, sir, in an hour. This is one of the regularly scheduled meetings. Is there anything special you need to prepare?”

  “No, I have it all up here.” He taps the side of his head. “A few members of my Cabinet need to be taken down a peg or two. Might actually have some fun at this one.”

  The Cabinet meetings are a big deal. Everyone in charge of running the country is there, and that amount of effort ensures the meeting will last at least thirty minutes. That’s thirty minutes I have free to dig through the Prime Minister’s office and look for the key to his locked drawer.

  My assignment is rapidly starting to feel like a no-win scenario. If I get the story, then I’ll have a career as an investigative journalist under the tutelage of one of the world’s greatest reporters. But Wade’s career will be over and I’ll have betrayed him. That’s going to hurt both of us, no matter the potential reward for me.

  I’m still convinced Wade is hiding something, but now I suspect he might have good reason. Wade isn’t a bad man; if he’s keeping something secret, then there’s probably a reason for it. Maybe some secrets are better left as that. Secrets.

  Chapter Twelve

  Wade

  I usually hate Cabinet meetings, but this one should be fun. I’m going to piss some people off, but no one I particularly like. Best of all, I get to demote Carl. That’s going to be a highlight, especially if he gets angry.

  Serves him right for yelling at Janie.

  I have her sit in the meeting next to me to make it doubly clear that she is under my protection and not to be fucked with by a cowardly Cabinet member.

  “Should I type up the notes afterward?” Janie asks.

  “No, just keep them for a few weeks in case I need to refer back to them. To be honest, you’re mainly here as a friendly face. I’m about to make some enemies.”

  “Sounds exciting.”

  “I guess it is.”

  “I thought you liked your Cabinet members.”

  “I do,” I admit. “Most of them. However, there are a few I appointed because I had no choice. Take Sam over there. Do you know who he is?”