by Jessica Ashe
“You’d better get a move on,” I tell Wade.
“They won’t start the meeting without me. I need to talk to you.”
“Sounds serious. What about?”
“The story is going to drop today. This afternoon apparently.”
“Oh. Stephanie said tomorrow.”
“Her editor was worried it would leak, so they’re moving it up. There is still time to add your name to the byline if you like.”
“That can’t happen,” I reply. For a few hours, maybe even days, the press would be consumed with the corruption allegations against Gwen, but eventually they’d notice the name of the Prime Minister’s secretary on the byline.
“I can keep you out of prison,” Wade insists. “I’m Prime Minister; there must be a way. Maybe I can do pardons like your President. It doesn’t matter, I’ll think of something. You deserve the credit for getting this story, even if you did approach it in a slightly dubious manner.”
“You mean by lying about my past and betraying you.”
Wade smiles. “Yeah, that. It would be one hell of a story.”
I still can’t be linked to the story. It isn’t just my life I’m worried about. “You can’t be linked to this either.”
“No one’s going to come after me. DefenceTech will be bust within a year and the CEO and President will be in prison.”
“You don’t know that for sure. And besides, the scandal will be enough to doom your political career.”
“I’m not sure I want a political career anymore.”
“Tough, you have a job to do.”
I’m about to pull Wade up out of his seat—or at least tug on his arm until he decides to stand up—when my eyes drift over to the locked drawers in his desk. I’d forgotten all about them. I don’t need to know what’s in them, but I can’t deny being a little curious.
“You don’t have to tell me,” I say slowly, “but what’s in these drawers.”
Wade shrugs. “I don’t know. Pens and crap, I think. I sometimes shove files in there if I haven’t finished reading them when I have to go to a meeting. Otherwise you and Terrell dump new things on top and I lose track.”
“Wait, so there’s nothing important in there?”
“Most of what I do is important, darling. Did I tell you I was Prime Minister?”
I roll my eyes. “I mean, nothing top secret that you don’t want me to see?”
“No, probably not.”
“Then why are these the only drawers that are locked?”
“They’re not locked.”
“Yes, they are.”
Wade opens both drawers, although he has to pull hard on both. “They get stuck sometimes, that’s all.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Wade looks at me curiously. “What’s all this about?”
I shake my head. “Doesn’t matter.”
I’m about to get Wade out of the chair when he grabs hold of my arm and pulls me down on top of his lap. “You know… we have to go public soon.”
“I’m ready.”
“You know what that means?”
I nod. “Mr. Prime Minister, I regret to inform you that I will be leaving my post with immediate effect. It’s been a pleasure working with you.”
“I accept your resignation. I love you, Janie.”
“I love you too, Mr. Prime Minister.”
Wade kisses me softly, but it quickly gets aggressive, his hand squeezing my thigh and moving gradually closer to my sex. I grab his hand when he’s less than an inch away from the sweet spot.
“Meeting, remember.”
Wade groans. “You’re not my secretary anymore.”
“No, but I am your girlfriend. Either way, I get to boss you around.”
“Fine. Be upstairs in bed after the meeting. Otherwise you’ll be punished.”
“I should probably be punished anyway.” I pick up a pen from his desk and drop it on the floor. “I’ve been very naughty.”
“You’re not making it easy,” Wade says, kissing me on the neck and getting frisky with his hands again.
I push him away and stand up. “Go. Sooner you get there, the sooner it’s over.”
Wade grumbles, but heads to the door. When he’s halfway out, he turns and looks back at me. “You’re still going to make the cups of tea, right?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Wade
Boy, I’m popular today.
Every photographer and journalist with a press pass is standing outside 10 Downing Street when I step out for my speech. The story about Gwen leaked yesterday, and Stephanie did such a good job with the writing that the police immediately recognized the need to take action. The public outcry probably helped. The CEO and President at DefenceTech have both been arrested, but that’s a mere sideshow for the real event.
This morning the police approached 11 Downing Street and arrested the Chancellor of the Exchequer. My right hand woman, and the individual responsible for the public purse. I’ve been known to accuse the media of overreacting, but on this occasion they’re allowed to get a little carried away. Hell, I’m going to encourage it.
My public relations people prepared a speech. It’s good. Boring, but good. It has the usual nonsense where I say nice words to Gwen and her family, while at the same time stopping short of offering her my unconditional backing.
Terrell and Janie both approved of the speech, but only with grudging nods. They both think it’s too nice, but they also know how politics works. I can’t just stand in front of the press and say what I think. Mind you, that was how I got elected.
The podium feels intimidating today. I usually feel powerful standing here, but now I feel guilty. Guilty for the lies and half-truths I’m about to tell the press, and by default the British people.
The teleprompter lights up with the introductory remarks.
“Ladies and gentleman,” I begin. “Thank you for coming out today and braving the weather. It’s so cold, even I’m wearing a suit jacket.” There’s a quiet round of stifled laughter.
The teleprompter scrolls up. “As I’m sure you all know, my Chancellor of the Exchequer, and close…” I trail off and the teleprompter freezes with the word ‘friend’ at the top. “My Chancellor of the Exchequer, and close…” No. Some lies are too big.
There’s a physical version of the script on the podium, so I fold that up and put it in my pocket. It’s just for show; I want the press and those watching at home to know I’m going off script. If I go down, I don’t want to take my scriptwriters with me.
“There are two reasons why I’m here today,” I say. “One good, one bad. I’ll start with the good, if that’s okay with you. During the election, I faced a lot of questions about my love life. Or lack of one. I promised that when I started a new relationship, I would tell the public when the time was right. Well, that time is now.”
Flashbulbs start firing incessantly as if a photo can capture what I’m about to say. I look to the back of the crowd to avoid being blinded.
“I am currently seeing a woman named Janie Tucker, and we’re very happy together. She’s American, so perhaps I should say we are ‘dating.’ Actually, scratch that. I hate that word. Whatever, we’re an item. She used to be my secretary and personal assistant, but she quit to avoid a conflict of interest.”
Reporters are chomping at the bit to ask questions, and the moment I pause for breath at the end of the sentence, the questions start coming out. They’re all talking at once, so I can’t hear them anyway.
I hold my hands up for silence and eventually get some. “I’m not going to answer questions on this. You don’t get to know when we had our first date, when we first slept together, or when I’m meeting her family. She might share that information with you at a later date. That’s her decision.”
Much to my surprise, the reporters stay relatively quiet. It won’t be so easy to stave off questions on the next topic.
“On to the bad news,” I continue. “Gwen Y
ates was arrested this morning in connection with the story on arms trafficking published in The Independent Times.”
Stephanie will appreciate me name dropping the publication; I owe her one for keeping me updated and letting me read a copy before it went live.
“There is an ongoing police investigation, so please don’t expect me to comment on the specifics of the case. What I can tell you is that Ms. Yates has resigned from her post as Chancellor and as a Member of Parliament.”
It’s obvious I pushed her out, so I leave that unsaid.
“I’m as concerned as you are about the issues raised in that report. Should Gwen seek to return to her position, she will be required to explain her actions in those emails, with particular regard to the leaking of classified information and breaches of campaign finance laws.”
I want to hang Gwen out to dry as much as possible, but I don’t want to jeopardize the case and let her get off on a technicality.
“Before you all ask your questions, I will explain my part in all this.” I probably should have rehearsed this bit. The only time I’ve told the story from beginning to end was to Janie, so it’s not clear in my head. “One year ago, I was serving in Iraq as a member of the Special Air Services. The SAS.” This gets the cameras firing again, and the reporters can’t keep their questions in any longer.
This speech is going to take forever.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Wade - Four Months Later
Our armored car zips through the Chicago streets thanks to all the closed roads and a police escort. I get more security in America than I do in the UK. The crowds are bigger as well.
“Are they yelling for me or against me?” I ask Janie.
“For you.”
“Why?”
“It could be because you’re a liberal icon who has spoken regularly about the need for the UK and the US to work together and do what it can to end suffering at home and abroad. Or it could be because you’re smoking hot. Judging by the number of women in the crowd, I’m going to go with the latter.”
“Compared to your President, Winston Churchill was smoking hot.”
“You’re a breath of fresh air.”
At least tomorrow’s speech will have a decent crowd. I’d been worried no one would show up. When we arranged the diplomatic trip to Chicago, I made it clear from the beginning that I had no intention of meeting the US President while in the US. That counts as a big snub, and immediately turned half the country against me. Fortunately, the other half seems to support me and a lot of them live in Chicago. I’ll take that as a win.
I don’t generally care who likes me, but it’s nice to have Janie’s home town backing me. It would be brutal if she became a pariah in her own city because of her relationship with me. Chicago is on my side; now I just need to worry about her mother.
“Is your mum going to hate me?” I ask. “You haven’t been home in over a year. I’m sure she blames me for that.”
“Of course she doesn’t hate you. You’re the Prime Minister. She understands that you can’t just pop over to Chicago whenever you feel like it, and she knows I’m busy trying to get my business off the ground.”
You’d think it would be easy to start a business when you’re the Prime Minister’s girlfriend. After all, you’re never going to struggle for free publicity. Terrell ‘accidentally’ leaked Janie’s plans to set up her own yoga studio, and within minutes she had all the publicity a small business owner could ever need.
There’s one drawback though. No one can get close to Janie without passing a security clearance. Turns out intensive security checks and yoga are not a great combination. The screening puts a lot of people off, but she has a decent bunch of regulars now and can hold sessions twice a day without ever having an empty space.
Our car eventually gets out of the city and heads into the suburbs. Some of the police cars drop off, but we still have a huge security presence which is bound to piss off the locals. I’ll say nice things about them in my speech. That should help.
Janie starts staring intently out the window, so I know we’re getting close to her childhood home. Sure enough, the car slows down a few minutes later and eventually comes to a stop outside a small detached house that actually has a white picket fence. And a stoop. I’m definitely in America now.
There’s a slight weakness to my legs when I step out the car, and I realize I’m nervous. That’s not happened in a while, and never with a civilian.
Note to self: Don’t refer to Janie’s mum as a ‘civilian.’
Janie runs up to the front door before my security detail beats her to it. Lionel hangs back and walks up the path with me.
“Nervous?” he asks.
“Strangely, yes.”
“Lighten the mood with a joke. I know plenty.”
“Uh, thanks, but I know all about your jokes. I’ll pass.”
“Alright, you're the boss.”
By the time I get to the door, Janie is already inside the house hugging her mum and chatting enthusiastically. The second her mum lays eyes on me, she turns serious and goes stiff.
“Mom, this is Wade. Wade this is Mom.”
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Tucker.”
I hold out my hand and Mrs. Tucker shakes it nervously.
“Hello, Mr. Prime Minister.”
When we let go she bends her knees awkwardly and it takes me a moment to realize what she’s doing.
“Oh my God, Mom, do not curtsy. He’s not the King. And just call him Wade. I do.”
“Not always,” I reply, with a smile that turns Janie red-faced. There’s still plenty of ‘yes, my Prime Minister,’ and ‘harder, Mr. Prime Minister,’ when Janie is in the mood. Which is often.
“And you must call me Monica. Mrs. Tucker makes me feel old.”
The three of us move through to the living room. Lionel waits in the house, but everyone else stays outside. Not that they are out of sight. They’re all paranoid about visibility through the windows in case this quiet suburb has a sniper with a grudge waiting to take a shot. My guards all line up outside the window to keep me safe. I hate it, but don’t complain. They’re putting their lives on the line for me; the last thing they need is grief for it. Besides, they’re keeping Janie safe too. That’s more than worth it.
Janie and her mum have one obvious point in common—they both hate a silence.
“You must be tired after your flight,” Monica says. “How long was it?”
“Six hours,” Janie replies. “But it wasn’t that bad on his plane.”
“Oh yeah. No cramped economy seats for you two.”
“I managed to do some yoga during the flight,” Janie adds.
“You did yoga on a plane? How big is that thing?”
“Huge.”
“Wow. I hear my daughter’s got you into yoga as well, Wade.”
“I’m her guinea pig,” I reply. “She tries out her new routines on me first.”
“I’m sure you’re her favorite student.”
“He’s not,” Janie replies quickly. “He still kicks up a fuss every time I make him do it, even though he knows it’s good for him and he sleeps better afterward.”
“Falling asleep in the office is not good in my line of work, darling.”
“I have no idea how you deal with the stress,” Monica says. “You could start a war with the slip of the tongue.”
“Don’t remind me. Janie can too.”
“It’s true,” Janie adds. “I got stressed with business stuff the other week and was feeling a little short-tempered—”
“A little?”
“A little. Anyway, my students picked up on my mood and one of them leaked to the press that we were fighting. The stock market dropped 300 points.”
Janie’s mum asks to see pictures of Downing Street, so Janie shows her the usual media photos we don’t mind sharing, together with a few personal ones of the residence.
“It’s smaller than I thought it would be,” Monica says. “
Are there more bedrooms? You know, in case there are additions to the family.”
“Subtle, Mom. Wait, do you mean kids, or are you hinting that you want to come and live with us?”
“Kids, dear. I’m quite happy here. My house is bigger for one thing.”
I’m used to living in cramped conditions, so the size of 10 Downing Street never bothered me. I get why Tony Blair moved to 11 Downing Street now, though. Add a couple of kids into the mix and the residence would feel suffocating.
“Kids are not on the table,” Janie says firmly. We put them on the table long enough to decide we didn’t want any while I was still in office, and then took them off again.
“Are you going to run for re-election, Wade?” Monica asks, as if she already knows what’s preventing her from being a grandmother.
“We haven’t decided yet,” I reply. “I don’t want to step down until there’s someone competent to take the reins. That’s not the case right now.”
I’ve tried converting Charlene to the other side, but I’ve had more success hitting on lesbians. She’s socially liberal, but fiscally conservative, and thinks my party spends recklessly. She’d make a great PM if I could convince her to loosen the purse strings a bit.
There are a few Cabinet members I have my eye on, but it’s too early to tell if they can run the country. The country voted for a naïve young idiot—me—once, but there’s no telling if they’ll do it twice.
“Well whenever you’re not busy running the country, you’re welcome to stay here.”
“I thought you were going to convert my bedroom to a gym?”
“I was, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I’ve left your room exactly as it was.”
“Exactly?” Janie asks.
“Exactly.”
“Oh, crap.”