Cuckoo in the Chocolate

by Chris Longden

  “Eeeuuw!” said Lydia “Mum, look what Toby just did! He just puked all down his front!”

  There was a scramble as the four men, each of them eager to please the PM’s wife, tried to take their jackets off, but gangly man was the first off the mark. He sprinted up the stairs and hesitated for a second – uncertain as to whether he should fumble with a scantily-clad woman whom he had never met before. But he draped his mac around my shoulders and I thanked him through my clamped teeth. The coat was wonderfully warm and was scented with menthol cigarettes. I clutched at it, and my cold fingers attempted to clumsily button it up. Then, still seemingly wavering as to what to do next in order to help, the man gave me a little pat on my shoulder. Reassurance for the phantom female flasher. He called down to his colleagues;

  “Guys, guys – buzz the intercom. Flat six.”

  “We are doing,” said Albino-boy. “No answer.”

  “Right then,” he replied. “I’ll call him. Emergency line, I think. Definitely an emergency.”

  He winked at me and smiled. Meanwhile, the PM’s wife was sounding even more stressed-out. She was shrieking;

  “Wipes! Wipes! Can someone get some wipes, please? Can you not see what just happened? Honestly. Men! What's the matter with you all?”

  Her husband now leapt into action, thrashing his arm about in the bottom of the pushchair’s storage area. I wondered if Jane was as highly strung as she was appearing to be, or whether she was doing her best to distract attention away from me. Either way, I was grateful for it. My new male friend winked at me again as he held his phone to his ear;

  “Don’t worry. Michael's got a special landline. Emergency government stuff for if the mobile networks go down. He'll pick up. And if he doesn’t pick up, the PM’ll sack him.” He gave me a cheeky grin, setting in motion the crow’s feet around his eyes. Closer up, I could see that he was a lot older than I had originally taken him to be. And then the landline must have been answered, because he glanced away from me and spoke into the phone;

  “Mike. It’s Marv. Open the door, won’t you?”

  Five seconds later, the door was yanked open and Michael’s eyes were blank buttons.

  “Rachael! What on earth have you…?”

  I made a dash for the bedroom, ripped the nightie off, threw my clothes on and then huddled myself into a small human ball on the edge of the bed as I tried to thaw out. My cold arse had lost all sense of feeling by now. But this was the least of my worries.

  Oh shit, I thought. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

  Voices drifted from the sitting room. The odd chuckle. No way on God’s earth could I ever face any of them again. As I began to contemplate climbing out of the window and down the fire escape, the bedroom door opened. Michael entered; a peculiar look on his face as he pushed a mug of coffee towards me. He was sucking his bottom lip and wouldn’t look me in the eye at first. But when he finally did, it was with that ever-so-slightly boss-eyed expression. The one that I found so very endearing when I had first noticed him doing it at Miss Simpson’s flat. It was the very same squint that Matthew did when he was conjugating a big silly fib for Mummy as to whether he had been trying to spit through the letterbox again.

  Michael motioned towards the drink. As I took it, his lips twisted. He was unsuccessfully trying to hide his real reaction.

  “If you’re laughing at me, Michael – I will never speak to you again!”

  “Not… laughing.”

  “Because this happens to be the most embarrassing moment of my life.”

  His shoulders were shaking, but he managed to regain his composure.

  “Drink up. I thought that you could do with something nice and hot. After… after…” He erupted into full-blown laughter. I glared at him. He stopped and wiped his mouth.

  “Look. I imagine that this has probably upset you, Rachael. But believe me - having the PM and his posse catching you in your undies… Well. It’s hardly a tragedy. In fact, you’ve probably just made the chap’s day. He’s let it slip on a number of occasions just how little sex he’s been getting since Toby came along.”

  I was about to bark back at him something along the lines of I couldn’t care less about whether the Prime Minister was getting any or not. And that also - perhaps his wife wouldn’t have been too pleased to know that her husband was sharing the details of his lack of love life with senior cabinet colleagues. But then I glimpsed my reflection in the bedroom mirror. Shoulders hunched and fat bottom lip. Ms Wounded Pride about to embark on a hissy fit; whilst Michael – once again – was showing his magnanimous side.

  So instead, I said;

  “Right, so… you’re not… not a bit pissed off with what just happened?”

  “Of course not.” He sat next to me on the bed. A hand reached to stroke my neck.

  “You really do need to get to know me better if you think that something like that would upset me. And anyway. You looked stunning in the nightdress thing. I’m quite glad that they saw you! You should be too.”

  I gave him the laser beams don’t-mess-with-me-I’m-a-militant-feminist look.

  “Stop it. Stop trying to make me feel better. You’re digging yourself into a hole. And you’re sounding like a total perv. Whilst I’m sitting here, feeling like a prize tit.”

  He kissed me on the nose and added;

  “Well. I think that lucky old Marv was the only one close-up enough to be tempted to have a feel of Rachael’s Prize Tits. But come on. Let’s forget about it. Pop your head around the door and say a quick hello.”

  “No way! I couldn’t, Michael. Not after…”

  “Don’t be silly,” he nuzzled my hair. “Rise above it all. Just like a certain part of me seems to be doing right now. Yet again.”

  “Hey, stop that. Enough.” I pushed him away. “Go and have your meeting.” He laughed as I shooed him out of the bedroom. I was grateful for his concern, but all too aware that I didn’t have too much choice in the matter. I mean, I could hardly sit in the bedroom simmering away with an adolescent pout on my face, whilst the UK’s biggest VIP was sitting only yards away.

  So, what the hell, I thought. I would never have to see this bunch again.

  I turned the door handle and plastered a brave smile onto my face. I’d become a bit of a master at this kind of thing, since Adam died. Eyes flipped up from various bleeping phones and I stuck my hands into the pockets of my jeans. All casual, like. I shrugged.

  “Sorry about that folks. Bit embarrassing to say the least.”

  Michael had been leaning over Marvin, peering at some message or other on the other man’s phone. He grinned at me. And Marv winked again. The Prime Minister was sitting near to the window; a bodyguard standing behind his chair, scouting the street outside for random Scud missiles, or something. He leaned forward in his chair and swayed his big, bear-like head at me.

  “No, not at all. We’re the ones who should be apologising - for having to wait for my wife to tell us to cover you up. She’s already given us a bit of an ear-bending about that. Hasn’t she, lads?”

  Nods all round. Apart from the near-albino bloke who shook his locks instead. Perhaps in disgust at me. Or at The Wife. The PM carried on;

  “And Michael should also be apologising to you too, for not looking after you and your daughter. I certainly wouldn’t be employing him as a babysitter, any time soon. And he should also be ashamed of himself for yacking away on his mobile - like a girl – for so damned long – so that we couldn't get through to him. And for being a cheapskate and not paying to have his bloody intercom repaired!”

  I smiled, grateful for the empathy. And I managed to overlook the patriarchal, sexist comments.

  “Oh, you’re good at making excuses,” I told him. “I can see why you got to be the Prime Minister.”

  Everyone laughed, except for the same bloke, who seemed to possess some sort of humour bypass and who was much more interested in fiddling with his phone. The PM noticed this and commented;

  “Phones
down, Alex. Meeting about to start.”

  Ah. So, this would be Alex the Twat then. A fella who I had taken an instant audio-dislike to, when Michael had told me about his 'Merry Widow,' dig. Yeah, this Alex - whom I had heard so much about, in terms of his influence in all-things PR and PM - was proving to be as annoying in person as he was in the third person narrative. I caught a momentary flicker of irritation in his eyes at his boss’s order. But then I suddenly realised;

  “Where’s Lydia?” I turned to look at Michael. He shrugged;

  “Gosh. I… er. In the study, maybe?”

  He jogged over to the relevant door. Then to various others.

  “How odd. I've really no idea where...”

  Brilliant. Things were going from bad to worse. First of all - whilst I had been pandering to Michael’s underwear whims - he hadn’t even noticed Lydia sneaking out of the flat. And then - after yours truly had gotten herself locked out and had holed herself up in the bedroom in humiliation - the kid had gone AWOL again. Of course, I knew that Michael prided himself on not being interested in children, but he could at least have tried to pretend to be keeping an eye out for her.

  Bloody good job that I hadn’t brought Matthew with us after all, I thought. My youngest would have burned down the Houses of Parliament by now if Michael had had anything to do with it. I was about to say something along these lines to him but then remembered that we weren’t on Rachael’s stomping ground. The usual; ‘I tell it like it is - ‘cause I’m from Stalybridge’ perhaps wouldn’t cut the diplomatic mustard in Michael’s Ministerial circles. And besides, I noticed that Alex the Twat was staring at me through lemon-lashed, narrowed eyes. Radar a-beeping for discord in Michael’s love life, no doubt.

  But at least the PM helped us out;

  “See what I mean? Michael would make Fred West look like Babysitter of the Year. Seriously, man, I can’t believe that you ever held such high rank in the forces. You’re a thoroughly irresponsible adult. But anyway, I,” the PM continued, now addressing me and smiling; “at least know where your daughter is. She wanted to tag along with Jane and the baby for a walk around Bloomsbury Square. Jane said that they’d be back here for half past. And that she’ll… Well. She’ll be none too pleased if this meeting isn’t over by then… So. Let's crack on, eh chaps?”

  For the first time since encountering him, I noticed a chip in the confidence of the PM. He glanced at the other men, checking out their reactions. They all seemed to be deliberately donning emotionless faces. Apart from Alex - the only one who seemed unable to mask his take on things. He sucked in his cheeks ever so slightly. Yeah. Behind every successful man was a nagging, fishwife-y old bag of a woman. That’s what The Twat was thinking.

  But I had more important things on my mind than whether Jane had an excessively grumpy side to the otherwise smiles-and -simpers public persona. I mean, I have never been precious about who I can palm my kids off onto; I have never felt the need to run a Disclosure and Barring Check on Bob the Postie for example, but the attitude of this particular group of men to child-care and kiddie-oversight, was just a tad bit too blasé for my liking. Still, I pondered, their political precedents were hardly any more impressive. David Cameron had forgotten his own child and left it in a pub, after all.

  So, I bit my tongue and replied slowly.

  “Right. That’s fine. So long as your wife can cope with her. I’ll leave you to your meeting. Nice to have met you all.”

  But as I closed the bedroom door, I heard a voice saying;

  “Becoming a bit of a habit, the last few weeks, isn't it? Seeing her without her clothes on.”

  And then Michael’s voice came right back at him.

  “Yeah, well, Alex. If it wasn’t for her and the ‘trivial distractions’ of my romantic life in the tabloids as you happened to refer to it the other day, this government would have had a hell of a lot more negative publicity over what we're trying to square off in the Middle East. So maybe you should be thanking her, rather than making snide remarks.”

  Then the PM’s voice.

  “Now, now ladies. Settle down.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Back in Michael’s bedroom, I flicked on the TV and distracted myself with watching a Sunday afternoon current affairs programme. Twenty minutes later, I heard the buzz of the front door, followed by the sounds of my daughter rampaging up the stairs. Pre-empting a Lydia-moment, I moved back to the lounge. Sure enough, the girl had already cornered the nation’s Numero Uno. She was presenting him with an acorn;

  “... Which I picked out from the dirt in the park all by myself. It's a Peter Pan thingy.”

  The Prime Minister looked rather disconcerted. Perhaps a long time since he had read any J. M. Barrie. Lydia prattled on;

  “But don't be thinking that I want to kiss you or anything. I'm not a girly-girl like that Wendy. And don’t be letting Toby eat it, will you? Or he’ll get diarrhoea. Or even worse - maybe die. Which would be awful, wouldn't it? As he’s ever so lovely.”

  Perhaps it wasn’t the most delightful statement that Lydia had ever come out with but it also didn’t warrant Alex wincing and murmuring “Nice kid, eh?” to one of the other aides. Either way, Lydia - who had already identified him as a twat (not in so many words – as she wasn’t quite familiar with that particular noun just yet) - was subsequently given licence to ramp up the West Yorkie accent, turning towards him.

  “D'yer know what? The colour of your hair makes you look like someone tipped a bowl of rubbery, old custard right on top of it. I bet yer were right bullied at school, weren’t yer? About yer hair… And yer eyes are a well-weirdy too…”

  Michael made a conversational rugby tackle before I managed to bellow my objections. He gave a curt;

  “Right. Thank you very much, Lydia.” But I noticed that he had a bit of a twinkle in his eye as the men trundled out of the flat and down the stairs to a toe-tapping Jane and a lactation-obsessed Toby. Alex cast a glance back at me however. He was whistling a tune under his breath. And it wasn’t until ten minutes later that I realised what the melody was: The Merry Widow Waltz.

  Twat.

  Marv stayed for a few more minutes, so I thanked him for trying to save the last remaining scraps of my dignity, and Michael chipped in with;

  “Oh, Rachael. You might also want to express gratitude for the other week. Marv’s my very own PR guru. It was he who sorted out those nice little positive stories about me, to counteract the News of The Nation mush.”

  “Bloody hell, yes.” I said. “Cheers, Marv. Seeing that photograph of us… Talk about wanting to crap myself!”

  Marv’s mouth curved upwards and, now that the stifling air that had surrounded the PM and his cronies had evaporated, I launched myself forward, giving him a bear hug and a smacker on the cheek. Perhaps he was too used to London air-kissing – was unfamiliar with northern manhandling - because his gangly, goofy persona suddenly reared its head again, along with the hint of a speech impediment that had probably laid dormant since his public-school days.

  “Oh – n-no probs. That’s m-my, part of the j-job.” But he quickly managed to flip himself back into politico mode. “And in terms of the photo that they used - I must say that you’re much more attractive from the front, than from the behind. Oh. Oh sorry. Sh-shit. That didn’t come out the way that I meant it to…”

  Michael sniggered.

  Lydia said, “Hey, Marvy. Why’s your face gone all purple?”

  Half an hour later and we were in the car, being ferried to Paddington station by Trevor. Michael sat in the back with me this time, informing Lydia that he had decided to;

  “Grant you the very unusual privilege of being able to ride upfront with Trevor,” although he then whispered to me “Don’t be thinking that I’m doing this to pander to her constant need for entertainment and attention. I just wanted one last chance to fondle you…”

  Lydia, however, was oblivious to this and was on top form, wittering away to Trevor;

  “It
's funny how black people like you are much better looking than everyone else. Mind you, the brown ones are prettier too. White people look like pigs, I think. Especially my mum when she's not got her make-up on.”

  Trevor laughed.

  “Yes,” she carried on. “And oh – the not-white babies are just adorable, aren't they? Although Toby is very sweet. I’m glad that he looks more like his mum though. His dad’s no oil painting. That’s what my grandad would say. And also – that Toby – he’s way nicer than my own little brother, Matthew. Matthew stinks of the infant school’s boys toilets. And he steals everything. Especially my collections. Like my badge collection, that I’m now starting. I’m going to just love collecting badges. I gave Toby one of them actually, as it seems to me that Toby’s quite a grateful little chap…”

  Michael snapped the screen between ourselves and the front seats, shutting out Lydia’s monologue.

  “Good God, Rachael. I don’t know how you cope with it,” he muttered “the child talks utter…”

  I frowned.

  “You were going to say ‘utter tosh,’ or ‘utter crap,’ weren’t you? Well, maybe you should be encouraging her to go into politics then.”

  But before he could disagree with me, we arrived at the station and there was only time for a quick hug and a semi-formal farewell. As Liddy was watching us.

  The train journey back to Reading was quieter. No Scottish football fans this time. Lydia seemed tired and - unusually for her - contented herself with looking at her comics and drawing pictures. Back at my in-laws, they told me that Matthew had been “... beautifully behaved all weekend.” But Julia then back-tracked slightly;

  “Well. Most of the time. There was just one little incident… when he had a tiny tantrum in church. Bit silly really, looking back. I thought that he might like to help with the collection plate. But Matthew wasn’t happy with handing the money over to the vicar. It took me and both of the sidesmen to calm him down. And I don’t think that the Brownie leader was too impressed that he managed to bite through their flag.”