The Captain and the Prime Minister

by Catherine Curzon

  And he did have a date—sort of. With Stuart. A vague plan. Even though he was in two minds about it, because what if it got serious and Tom had to decide between living in and moving out with Stuart? No, he was thinking too far ahead. Instead, it was painting with the twins this afternoon, then pizza with their dad later.

  And Stuart hasn’t even come up with a firm plan, just maybe something for the weekend. It’s hardly a date!

  “Is the picture for Daddy?” Tom asked. He’d spotted a blob of red paint on the wall and had no idea how it had got there. But Alex wouldn’t mind.

  “For Nana and Grandpa,” Alastair reminded him. Then he whispered to his sister, apparently confiding a great secret. She whispered something in return and he said, “It’s for Daddy now.”

  “We can make lots of paintings. Like a factory,” Madeleine assured them. She’d seen plenty of footage of her father visiting factories, a borrowed hard hat and hi-vis vest at odds with his suit.

  “You need more green paint there, Als.” Tom squeezed it out of the bottle for him. “You’re doing well with that grass!”

  Alastair smiled up at him then dabbed his brush in the paint and went back to his work. As he did he said idly, “Why didn’t you kiss Daddy night night? We all kissed night night, but you and Daddy must’ve forgot to.”

  A lump settled in Tom’s throat. “Yes, we must’ve forgotten.”

  “Never mind.” Alastair patted Tom’s hand, then held out the paintbrush, signaling that he should take his turn.

  Madeleine looked up from the paper.

  Tom took the brush. “What would you like me to paint, Als? Mads?”

  “Daddy on the telly?” Madeleine suggested. Her brother nodded and rested his chin on his hand with great ceremony and care, waiting for Tom to make his mark.

  So Tom set to work, drawing a large rectangle on the paper and filling it with Alex’s head and shoulders. He colored in Alex’s blue eyes then struggled to capture his dark-blond hair. The smile was easy, though, and for a laugh, he added a furious Gregory over Alex’s shoulder.

  The twins loved it and clapped their hands with unmistakable glee. Of course, this one might be too big to pin on the fridge.

  But he knew that Alex would love it anyway.

  Tom took his phone from his pocket and knelt up. “Right, you two—let’s take a photo for Daddy!”

  Well used to this routine, the twins held up one end of the length of wallpaper each, angling it just as Tom had shown them so the paint wouldn’t run but the camera would capture the picture. Then they grinned, their faces filled with pride at their work.

  “Say cheese!”

  “Cheese!” they replied, and Tom sent the photo to Alex. For ten minutes there was no reply and they began to tidy, ready for dinner. The paints were away and hands were being washed when Tom’s phone buzzed into life.

  A video call from Alex.

  Tom balanced his phone on the table against Alastair’s fire engine and gathered the children in front of it.

  Madeleine waved. “Daddy!”

  “Family!” Alex waved back, an incongruous cheery figure in front of the heavy-paneled walls of his House of Commons office. “That’s probably my favorite picture so far out of all of them. A team effort?”

  Madeleine nodded enthusiastically. “Tom painted you. We did the cat. Come home, Daddy—you can see the painting here!”

  “Darling—” Alex began. He couldn’t come home, of course—being prime minister didn’t work like that, even if Tom knew that Alex desperately wished it did.

  “Come home!” Alastair agreed, chanting this new mantra, “Come home! Come home!”

  Tom saw Alex steal a look at the red box on the desk beside him, then glance at the large face of his watch. Six-thirty was a couple of hours away, and from where Alex was sitting, it must’ve seemed further still. But he had a country to run, so—

  “I’ll be there in half an hour, how’s that?”

  “Yay!”

  Madeleine leaned toward the phone, pouting to kiss it. Tom rescued it in time. “Are you sure, Alex? It’s early, and we’ve got a lot of paint!”

  “I missed their dinner and bedtime last night, I don’t want to miss it again,” Alex admitted. “And I can find an extra hour over the weekend if I need to while you’re enjoying your weekend off!”

  “Well, if the country can spare you.” Tom smiled at him. If only his own parents had been like Alex and Gill. And as for his weekend off… Work didn’t feel like work anyway. It was a far cry from his army days.

  “I’m sure it can look after itself for the sake of an hour.” Alex peered over the top of his computer at the sound of a knock on the door. “Still on for pizza?”

  “Oh, yes!”

  “Pizza?” Madeleine stared wide-eyed at the phone.

  “Pasta for you and Al, I think?” Alex asked as the knock sounded again. “Are you going to help Tom make it?”

  “Yes, I like cooking!” Madeleine replied.

  “Pasta machine?” Tom suggested to the excited twins. He heard Gregory’s muffled voice on the video call and winced on Alex’s behalf. A day of being chased by the iron chancellor, the most ill-humored man in Westminster. And he had some serious competition for that title.

  “I’d better go,” Alex told them, gesturing his unseen visitor to sit down. “I’ll be home in half an hour, even if it means Gregory has to come over with me. Family dinner, Gregory, or I’d invite you.” Then he waved down the camera lens again. “Bye, family Hart, love you!”

  “Love you,” Alastair shouted. “Don’t forget Tom’s kiss tonight!”

  What on earth will Gregory think?

  Tom didn’t have time to be awkward—he rescued the phone from Madeleine, who was trying to kiss the screen again.

  “Daddy will be back soon.” Tom pointed to the kitchen clock. “When the big hand is on the twelve. See you soon, Alex!”

  “Bye!” Alex waved again, looking a little perplexed by talk of Tom’s kiss. He’d explain when Alex got home, of course, and they’d have a good laugh about it over a glass of something nice.

  Tom set up the pasta machine and it occupied the twins for a while as they gasped at the magic of the tagliatelle dropping out of its silver jaws. Pizza had nothing on this or on the fun to be had from creating floury clouds in each other’s faces as though they were casting spells.

  Tom cut up the vegetables and let the twins shred basil leaves into the saucepan. Or the caldron, as he called it. The twins peered over his shoulder from the chairs they were standing on, watching him stir the sauce.

  “A magical dinner with a special sleeping draught so you’ll be bright and breezy for school tomorrow.”

  Tom heard the front door close in that particular way that suggested the rest of Alex’s day had not been quite as successful as his school visit. A morning with Gregory, then an impromptu late meeting with Gregory in the office. No wonder the door shut with just a little bit of a bang. Hopefully Gregory wouldn’t be joining them for yet another meeting over supper!

  “Half an hour on the dot!” Alex called from the hallway. “I ran in from the car, nearly sent poor old Gregory flying when I bolted for the door. Heaven knows what the press will make of it!”

  “I’m sure they’ll conjure up a horrible pun or two!” Tom replied. “You’re just in time for magic pasta.”

  Tom’s two assistants had already rushed off. Their excited shouts of “Daddy!” coming from the hallway made Tom smile.

  Moments later the prime minister appeared, his children carried in his arms. He paused on the threshold to declare, “Not just any old pasta!”

  Madeleine took her thumb out of her mouth to say, “It really is magic—Tom said so!”

  “So Tom must be…” Alex’s face took on a surprised expression and he lowered his voice to a whisper, “A wizard?”

  Both children nodded earnestly, and Madeleine whispered in a tone that was no quieter than her usual voice, “He says it will make us sle
ep!”

  “It’s true!” Tom laughed. He watched as Alex carried the children across the kitchen toward the stove where the pan quietly simmered, then stopped to sniff the sauce, his eyes closed as he savored the aroma.

  “It’s tasty,” Alastair informed his father. “A magic tea.”

  “And it’s nearly ready.” Tom tapped the side of the saucepan with a spoon. “Aprons on!”

  “Should I be apron monitor?” Alex asked, still juggling his two children. “Would you mind doing the serving honors, Tom?”

  “Of course!” Tom was glad Alex was there to keep the children busy while he dished up. There was enough left for two small portions for himself and Alex, and he laid out the table for the four of them.

  As he did, Alex got the children into their brightly patterned aprons then threw his jacket and tie over the sofa. Tom was as comforted as ever by the familiar routine as the cufflinks followed, laid safely on the coffee table before Alex rolled his sleeves to the elbow.

  “A People’s PM,” as an approving headline had once noted. Yet Tom knew Alex well enough to know it wasn’t a PR maneuver—it was just how the prime minister was when work was done for the day. Once the door to the outside world had closed, he was a friend and father. Business stayed next door.

  And Tom really shouldn’t look so admiringly at those bare forearms. The man was relaxing at home, and he certainly wouldn’t be waiting to be pounced on by his manny.

  I really need to find a boyfriend.

  “I’ll just…grate some parmesan,” Tom said, dragging his gaze away.

  But Alex got there before him, his fingers nimbly unfastening a couple of his shirt buttons just to complete the picture of the at-home -dad. And, of course, a third followed. A third always followed. “I’ll do that, you’ve done everything else. My tiny contribution, some grated cheese.”

  “And running the country,” Tom added, trying not to be too obvious as the triangle of chest visible through the unbuttoned shirt caught his attention. He turned away and marshalled the twins. “Table!”

  “And spending not one, not two, but three hours trying to convince Gregory-not-Greg that taking action on child poverty isn’t simply my way of making his life really difficult.” Tom could hear the exasperation in his voice. “He’s got this idea about my legacy.”

  Legacy. That was a word that had taken on new meaning since they’d arrived in Downing Street. When a PM started talking legacy, it meant only one thing—that he was readying himself to leave. But Alex had never alluded to it himself, even if Gregory was convinced that was the case. Wishful thinking on Gregory’s part, of course, for who was better placed and prepared to step into the top job than the chancellor when the next inevitable landslide came?

  “He’s sure I’m going at the election next summer, you know. I think he’s probably got money on it!” Alex brought the bowl of grated parmesan to the table and put it down in the middle. The twins both reached for it, stealing little pinches of cheese between their fingers and thumbs. “My legacy, according to Gregory, is to leave him with unbalanced books and, worst of all, my social conscience floating around making him feel bad.”

  “I hope he does feel bad,” Tom remarked. “I hope he’s haunted by shivering kids like Scrooge.”

  Tom wondered if he should’ve said that, but the twins were too busy making whooshing noises at their dinner to have heard.

  “Beneath that gentle exterior beats a warrior’s heart.” Alex laughed, patting Tom’s shoulder. “That’s why we all love you!”

  When Alex took his hand away, Tom could still feel its warmth on his skin. He swallowed a mouthful of pasta, telling himself again that he had to stop feeling like that about Alex. He was like a teenager.

  Yet sitting here at the table together, it was hard to remember that Alex was his employer as well as his friend, and certainly no more than that. The closeness they shared was inevitable—it was the camaraderie of two men who had come through the worst of times and survived, thanks to the children they both adored. Any nanny would’ve been the same, Tom was sure, having cared for two infants as their mother battled the cancer that would eventually claim her life, but plenty of other nannies wouldn’t have let that camaraderie turn into anything more. It was a hopeless, silly crush, and he had to get it out of his system.

  But how could he ever hope to? Alex was perfect—caring, fun, a man with a conscience who tried so hard to do the right thing. And he was handsome. And lonely.

  And very straight.

  “I thought I might put your latest masterpiece on the wall of the office,” Alex told the children. He smiled toward Tom and added, “I’d really like to hang it in number 10 just so Gregory could see it, but I’d better not!”

  “I’m sure the children would paint Gregory’s portrait if he asked nicely.” Tom gave Alex a wink.

  “Am I sleeping now?” Madeleine asked. She folded her hands against her cheek and pretended to snore. “Has the magic pasta worked?”

  Alastair knelt up on his chair and put his lips to his dad’s ear. Then he whispered loudly, “Can I have Mad’s pudding?”

  “Nooo!” Madeleine pouted. “I’m awake, I am!”

  “Well, I am the prime minister, so maybe I should get all the pudding! And it’s cupcakes,” Alex announced imperiously. “What do you think, Tom? All the pudding for me?”

  “Yes, as a reward for having to work with you know who!”

  Madeleine folded her arms. “But I went to school today and I did counting and wrote M for Mads.”

  “I wrote A,” Alastair pointed out. “And T for Tom!”

  “Well, I don’t know.” Alex made a show of considering their claims. “Who’s earned it the most today? I think it’s probably Tom, and he hasn’t asked for any pudding yet!”

  “I’m leaving room in my tum for later.” Tom patted his stomach. What he hadn’t bargained for was Madeleine joining in and slapping his stomach through his T-shirt like a drum. Tom grabbed her hands and directed them back to her bowl of pasta. “Erm…thanks, Maddy. Time to stop.”

  “Sorry,” Alex said through his laughter. “I’m not laughing.”

  “Fibber!” Tom teased. In reply Alex composed a very sensible expression, but his lips still twitched with the same mirth that sparkled in his blue eyes. He shook his head as though innocent, then stuck his tongue out at Tom.

  “Daddy!” Alastair exclaimed, shocked.

  “Naughty Daddy!” Madeleine stared at him, tight-lipped, her expression identical to one that Gill used to use on her husband. Of course, Madeleine could have had no memory of that—it was so strange what people could inherit from their parents.

  “Oh, I’m terrible.” Alex pouted. “The worst daddy ever! But I did bring you cupcakes.”

  Not that the children minded—they gurgled with laughter, and Tom joined in. If Alex had a legacy, this was it, Tom knew. He was dedicated to his country, but these children were his whole life.

  After pudding—and Maddy didn’t share hers with anyone—it was bath time.

  Tom had got the routine down to a fine art, whether Alex was on hand to help or not. It was like clockwork these days, from bath to bed and usually sleep before he’d even finished their bedtime story. It was the childhood Tom had never had, and it made him so happy than he could play a part in it now.

  Tom perched on the edge of Madeleine’s car-shaped bed and tucked her in. The room was nice and cool even though it was a warm spring, but the children would kick their covers off before morning anyway.

  “Night night, you two.” He kissed Madeleine’s forehead then leaned over Alastair’s boat-shaped bed to kiss him.

  “Night night, Tom!” Alastair smiled, lifting his head to receive his kiss. As he did, Alex was whispering a gentle goodnight to his daughter, who was busy dabbing her ragdoll against his cheek, as though she was giving some kisses of her own.

  Tom headed back to the kitchen, leaving Alex uninterrupted with his children. Tonight, for no reason that he coul
d fathom, he felt a lingering melancholy at the thought that it should have been Gill there with Alex, saying goodnight to their children together.

  He shook his head. No one could bring her back—as Gill had said, they had to be happy for the time she’d had. And Tom had promised her he’d do his best to look after her children.

  ‘You and Alex need to look after each other,’ she’d told him one night toward the end. ‘And for God’s sake, no tears!’

  There had been lots of tears, of course, and he knew that sometimes, for Alex, there still were. He’d never let anyone see the sadness that lingered, but now and then, when one anniversary or another approached, Tom would hear the prime minister stifling a sob on the baby monitor as he sat at the bedside of his sleeping children, or see him dab at his eyes with his pristine handkerchief as they watched an evening film in companionable silence.

  But they looked after each other, just as Gill had said they should.

  Tom unpinned the pizza menu from the corkboard and wondered what toppings to choose. And cheesy garlic bread sounded pretty good. What about a cheeky bottle of pop as well, just to remind him of weekends at the barracks?

  He switched on the baby monitor and the night camera. There was Alex, saying goodnight to the twins. Tom hoped they’d sleep well tonight.

  “Are you going back to work?” Alastair asked through a yawn and Alex shook his head, gently smoothing down his son’s hair.

  “Not a chance,” he whispered. “I’ll be watching safely here with Tom, listening out for you.”

  “And you’ll come back if we’re scared?” Madeleine asked.

  “I promise. Quick story then off to sleep?”

  “Yes, please, Daddy.”

  Tom heard the sound of bedclothes rustling as the twins settled. He leaned back against the worktop, ready to enjoy the warmth and playfulness of Alex’s storytelling voice. And tonight, at Madeleine’s request, was Rapunzel, but the version she and her brother had modified to remove any hint of blindness and to replace it with Rapunzel cutting off her own hair because its weight kept her from riding her bike. It was a better version of the story in some respects, and one that Alex always handled with considerable aplomb, lending the characters his own, little-heard natural West Country burr. He always gave them the most flamboyant, hootingly Cornish witch that Tom had ever heard, and the children loved it.