The Captain and the Prime Minister

by Catherine Curzon

  “Ta-da!” Tom produced a sheet of paper from Madeleine’s bag and handed it over. “They had to draw their families, so she’s done you in the House of Commons. She’s even got the green seats right, although she’s only given you three strands of hair.”

  “But what excellent strands they are.” Alex laughed, brushing his hand back through his rather more generous head of real hair. “But who’s the terrible threesome watching from the benches? Alastair’s hair’s looking rather bluer than I remember, but she’s got Gill’s curls right, and as for you… How is it that I look like a balding headteacher and you look like a film star?”

  With a deliberately camp flourish, Tom said, “Oh, just my fabulous good looks! I suppose I’m the minister of tidying up the toy box?”

  “A deserved gold star for Mads.” Alex beamed proudly. He took the picture and placed it on the fridge, where it joined a gallery of his children’s artistic efforts. “At least she drew it on paper, not on her brother’s face.”

  “And that’s why I suggested wipe-clean paint on the walls in this house!” Tom said. “You never know when a pen or a crayon’ll go rogue. Face, walls, clothing—if it’s a surface, it can and will be drawn on.”

  “The question is will Tom’s shepherd’s pie win a gold star of its own?” Alex peered at his reflection in the silver fridge door. “And will my hair survive the last year of its first Downing Street term?”

  “You’re not doing too badly. Not like some former PMs I can think of who start off with a full head of dark hair and end up with hair as white as Father Christmas.” Tom peered into the oven. “That smells good, doesn’t it? It’s bubbling like a lava flow.”

  “I don’t know what we’d do without you,” Alex admitted, swirling the wine in his glass. “Honestly, Tom, I really don’t.”

  Tom put on the crocodile oven gloves and brought the shepherd’s pie out of the oven. So many confused feelings swirled through him at that moment, clashing with the resolutely homely image of the pie in his hands. Because he wasn’t sure what he’d do without them either. Sometimes he had to remind himself that they weren’t his children, and when Maddy put him in her family drawings, it made it even harder.

  And that was before Tom addressed the fact that Alex was gorgeous. He shouldn’t have a crush on his boss, but he did. He hadn’t to begin with—Alex was handsome, yes, but he had been Gill’s husband. And after Gill’s death, Tom had seen him as the twins’ father.

  But something had changed.

  One day, for no reason that Tom could identify, he’d seen Alex in a different light, and he’d realized then that he’d developed a crush on him.

  Even though, in more ways than Tom could count, his crush was utterly hopeless.

  “I suppose you’d eat more takeaway without me!” Tom laughed.

  “That’d be the least of our worries.” Alex smiled, raising his glass to his lips. He leaned back against the worktop and closed his eyes, transformed into a picture of relaxation. Switching off was a skill, Tom had to admit, and one that Alex had done well to learn.

  ‘I don’t know what we’d do without you.’

  As Tom dished up, he tried his best to drive away the demon on his shoulder who wanted to read far more into Alex’s words than the man must’ve meant.

  He’s straight and he’s the prime minister. Dream on, Manny.

  Tom passed Alex his neatly laid-out tray and put the remains of the pie in a bowl for himself.

  “Dinner is served,” Tom announced.

  “Come on, soldier, suppertime.”

  They went through to the lounge, Tom angling his chair so he could still hear the occasional sigh and mutter over the baby monitor. Alex sank onto the sofa and settled the tray on his lap. He inhaled the steam rising from his plate and murmured, “God, I’m lucky to come home to this.”

  “My nan taught me how to make it. Never fails to hit the spot.” Tom spooned some into his mouth and closed his eyes.

  “A talented woman with a talented grandson,” was Alex’s verdict. “So, everything’s been okay today? What did I miss?”

  You missed watching BBC Parliament.

  “Well, we were photographed by tourists, that was fun. Not. Then I collected the twins, we had lunch, and they played with Alastair’s fire engine. The firefighters have moved into the dolls’ house, by the way. Teatime followed by bath, followed by bedtime, followed by you coming home.”

  “I think we need to get on top of this photographing thing.” Because nothing seemed to irritate the usually unflappable Alex more than his children being snapped by opportunistic passersby or tourists. “I don’t know what to do. It’s a tricky one because it isn’t the press, so… I just don’t like you and the twins being public property. You’re nothing to do with the public—they don’t have any right to be taking photos of you.”

  “As long as there’s no harm in it.” Tom shrugged. “But yeah, it’s not good for the kids. They’re not the PM, are they? Besides, imagine growing up thinking it’s normal to see a bank of photographers outside your front door, even if they’re not taking pics of you?”

  “So if you were me,” Alex lifted his glass halfway to his lips, “what would you do?”

  “Pass a law and chop off their heads!” Tom laughed. “Sorry—that’s not very helpful, is it? And I can’t grab their cameras or their phones off them because it’s not illegal to take photos if we’re in a public place.”

  “Well, they’re my children, so it’s not really legality that’s the issue. It’s invasive, Tom.” He took a sip of wine. “And they don’t know the twins, they know you, and that’s the press’s fault. You should be able to do your job without being photographed by God knows who just because you live here.”

  “You’d think they’d have more important stories to print than Who’s the PM’s Manny? wouldn’t you?” Tom sighed. “Do you remember that really stupid one in the Mail’s fashion section, with arrows stuck all over the photo analyzing what I was wearing? All I’d done was go out for a coffee with a friend and someone recognized me and took that stupid photo. And people lined up to complain because my trainers cost £100. Am I supposed to wear plastic bags on my feet?”

  Alex put his glass down and admitted, “I remember them all, because they’re all bloody annoying. I can’t help but think that if you were a woman, they just wouldn’t care. You’re a novelty—a good-looking man who’s also a nanny.”

  Good-looking?

  “It gets a bit embarrassing. Like when I’ve been out with my mates, and some random comes up and they recognize me but can’t remember why. They always think I’ve been in an advert or on a reality TV show.” Tom sipped his wine. “I can’t tell them what I do—the security issue bothers me, although it’s tempting to say, you know me! I’m the one who supervised potty training in Downing Street!”

  “You could make something new up every time somebody asks.” Alex laughed. “Get more and more outrageous every time until you’re telling them you play for Real Madrid or won an Oscar last year?”

  “It’s tempting! Someone thought I was in a shower gel ad once. They were convinced, so in the end I said, yeah, okay, that was me, and they took a photo with me and that was it.” Tom shook his head. “How bizarre is that? They were a bit drunk, though.”

  “Shower gel?” The prime minister blinked, then took a rather enthusiastic gulp of wine. “Did they ask you to take your shirt off and prove it?”

  “Fortunately not—they’d definitely have realized I wasn’t in a shower gel advert then!” Tom laughed, trying to distract himself from the recollection of the sight he sometimes saw first thing in the morning, of Alex, freshly dressed, his hair still damp from the shower.

  “I’m trying to imagine a world in which I could be mistaken for a shower gel model.” Alex sighed, making a pantomime of it. “I don’t think that world exists, sadly. Enjoy it while it’s yours, Tom!”

  “It was dark and they were drunk!” Tom coughed, embarrassed. “I mean, that s
ounds like the start of a questionable anecdote, doesn’t it! But, you know, this was at a nightclub where men in very small trunks dance in cages, so it was only my fashion spreads that made them come and talk to me. And even then they couldn’t properly remember who I was.”

  Alex was peering at him as though he were speaking another language, amusement and bemusement struggling to win control of his expression. After a second he commented, “It was dark, they were drunk, there were half-naked men in cages. I don’t remember any of this in your job application, Captain Southwell.”

  “But I wasn’t drunk or half-naked in a cage, although I was wearing my—Shock! Horror! Call a general election!—£100 trainers!” Tom laughed. The article had been the reason for a meeting with the press secretary after someone had claimed that Tom had knowingly participated in the ‘fashion spread’. He hadn’t, of course, and he wouldn’t have even if they’d paid him.

  “God, I remember those trainers. All that bloody fuss, people telling me to make sure I didn’t polish my own shoes too well because it ‘doesn’t look good after this’. Shoes! Not a mink bloody coat.” Alex was warming to his theme now, as he often did with the benefit of wine and a hearty meal. “When I was growing up, you polished your shoes. Is a hundred quid a lot for trainers? Probably not these days and— I can see from your face that I’m ranting.” He laughed. “I’ll stop.”

  “Oh, no, I like it!” Tom gestured to him to carry on. “Reminds me of you doing your thing at the despatch box.”

  Not that I watch you on BBC Parliament or anything.

  “Don’t get me ranting again.” Alex laughed. “What a bloody shower of lunatics they rolled out today! Did you see any of it?”

  “Erm…yeah.” Tom nonchalantly flopped his hair into his eyes. “I can’t see how anyone can attack a bill designed to make kids’ lives better.”

  He shrugged. “Welcome to British politics. I look at them sometimes—my own lot, not just the opposition—and I wonder, why are you even here? It’s like they exist purely to throw obstacles in the road!”

  “You don’t, though.” Tom leaned back in his chair, pillowing his arm behind his head. “You always talk sense.”

  “That’s nice to hear. It makes me angry and a little bit sad that fighting child poverty is enough to get some people riled up.” Alex paused, a spoonful of supper halfway to his mouth. “If you can’t get behind that, get out. Which apparently I shouldn’t have said either.”

  “You looked like you meant it. I wished you’d grabbed him by the collar and dragged him to the door!” Tom found his gaze drifting to Alex’s bare forearms. He had such lovely arms.

  He could drag me about any time he likes.

  Tom blinked.

  I really must stop thinking about him like that.

  “The press liked it,” he confided. “And so did Twitter, they tell me. Just the honorable member for Richmond who wasn’t keen.”

  “Honorable, my arse,” Tom remarked. “Sorry. Just as well the baby monitor isn’t two-way!”

  “Prime ministers aren’t allowed to say arse, Tom, it’d cause a constitutional crisis.”

  “Mannies shouldn’t either—it’d be mayhem at preschool!”

  Alex laughed. “And you in your hundred-quid trainers, leading the revolution.”

  “Oh, I didn’t tell you, did I?” Tom started to laugh. “A young Picasso who I won’t name has decided to decorate them. My famous trainers have been graffitied!”

  The smiled vanished from Alex’s face and he said, “I’m so sorry, Tom, when did—” And he swallowed, clearly catching the mirth that was glittering in his blue eyes. “I’ll pay to replace them, of course.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s a manny battle scar.” Tom winked at him.

  Winked? What am I doing?

  “Best sort of battle scar,” Tom added, not winking this time.

  And…was the prime minister of the United Kingdom blushing?

  “I’d like to make it up to you somehow.”

  “Honestly, Alex, it doesn’t matter.” Tom shook his head. “You’ve got enough on your plate without worrying about my bloody shoes.”

  “I’ll have a word with Al tomorrow,” he promised. “I’ll do my stern face.”

  “Threaten him with a cabinet reshuffle? Brrrr! That’ll scare him!” Tom said. “He’s being creative, bless him. I don’t mind. Customized trainers, I’m so street.”

  “He thinks the world of you, you know,” Alex told him. And Tom did know, because he adored them too. “We all do. I don’t know how you put up with us!”

  “Because you’re—” My family. But Tom wasn’t sure he could say so. Wouldn’t that overstep the mark? “You’re all great.”

  Alex leaned forward and put his tray on the coffee table, then settled back into the cushions. He extended one arm along the back of the sofa and sighed, “That was perfect, Tom, thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Tom got up and collected Alex’s tray. “I’m taking requests for dinner tomorrow, by the way—what would you like?”

  “You and I could be really lazy and phone out for pizza? It’s not quite new trainers, but it’s a start.” Alex waited for Tom’s reply, his head to one side.

  “I wouldn’t say no to pizza—thanks!” Tom took Alex’s tray into the kitchen and returned with the bottle of wine. “In case you wanted a top-up?”

  Alex tipped his head back and smiled up at Tom, a look of lazy contentment on his face. “PMQs always means a top-up.”

  Tom poured for him. It reminded him of going to the Officers’ Mess when he’d first left Sandhurst. All those confident, assured men, and Tom had to remember to call himself Captain Southwell, not Tom, if anyone asked his name. “You handle them so well. You’re such a statesman.”

  “But I’m arguing with grown men and women about why we need to make sure kids have food to eat and a roof over their heads and a chance to go to school or go to the park or whatever they want to do.” He drew in an exasperated breath and closed his eyes again. “Why is anyone arguing that that’s not a good thing? That we need to be careful or immigrants and layabouts will exploit it, and people will be popping out children left, right and center as a result. Am I just incredibly naive, Tom?”

  “If they were in power and they’d come up with it, they’d think it was the best thing ever. They’re doing it down because they know it’s popular, so they’re pressing people’s buttons to turn them against it.” Tom had sat back in his chair and hugged the cushion to him. He remembered going to the shop with Gill to buy it. She’d wanted to leave the flat at number 11 cozy for her family before she left them. “Not that you need me to tell you that!”

  “You know what they think in the House? They think I’m woolly. Give me my five years, I’ll bob along waving the flag against child poverty and then off I’ll trot, and they can all get back to the bear-pit politics and mud-slinging.” Alex took a long drink of wine. “But this administration is actually achieving things. Without the bear-pit and the cockfights, we’re making things better. Only in Westminster could that be thought of as a problem.”

  Tom watched him from over the cushion. He was so used to Alex as the -man -he -lived -in -a -flat -with, the man whose children he was helping to raise, that it was easy for him to forget the role he played.

  The statesman, the man who wanted to make a difference and was frustrated by the compromises and backstabbing that made up his daily work.

  “They’re callous, really, aren’t they?” Tom said. He curled his legs under him and, relaxed. “When you went to visit that school and there were those children who didn’t have coats in the middle of winter, and people claimed those shivering kids had been put up to it. Can’t they just accept that it’s the truth and someone needs to fix it? And obviously that would be you, because if you didn’t fix it, what’s the point?”

  “And of course somebody’s going to exploit it, I’m not stupid. But if one person takes advantage and a thousand children get the help they
need, I’m willing to write that one bad penny off.” He smiled and said, “After all, the odds of people being honest are still a lot better than they are in the Commons.”

  “You can say that again!” Tom laughed. “D’you know what I’d be good at? The Speaker. If they didn’t behave, I’d switch between my best parade ground bark, and my best no cartoons for you! finger wag. See, my unique skill set could come in handy.”

  “I wouldn’t wish it on a decent bloke like you.” Alex shifted in his seat and kicked his bare feet up to rest on the table. “We won’t be here forever, I promise, trapped in Downing Street, herding cats. I hope you know, Tom, that your job isn’t reliant on this job. You’re part of this family, wherever it goes.”

  Part of the family.

  Tom hugged the cushion more closely. “Thanks. That means a lot, Alex.”

  More than you’ll ever know.

  He glanced at Alex’s elegant bare feet. How many people got to see those several times a week?

  “You know, you might not always want me lurking about. When—if you found someone else, she might not like a manny around the place.”

  She might be like Stuart had turned out to be—jealous of two little children who had no mother.

  “Then that wouldn’t be the person for us.” Alex shrugged, as though it made perfect sense. “Maddie and Alastair adore you, and I…you’re part of our family. I know you won’t want to stay here forever and when you feel like the time’s right to move on, we’ll miss you terribly, but you’ve got a place here as long as you want to stay.”

  “I’d really, really miss you guys.” Tom rested his chin on the top of the cushion. “I’m not planning on leaving yet. Haven’t a clue what I’d do anyway!”

  “Well, we’d like to keep you for as long as we can, which is why I’m glad you didn’t hit the roof over those trainers!”

  “They’re only shoes.” Tom shrugged. “I remember sometimes how little he was when he was first born, and Madeleine too, and now he’s running about wrecking the joint. And I’m glad he is!”