Tom didn’t want to go back to the flat once the children had run through the gates and joined their playmates, so he busied himself shopping, carrying out his familiar duties with a new weight in his heart. He didn’t even notice he had a text until he was on the way home, his little car filled with groceries and the radio turned up loud. But Alex was in Cabinet— it wouldn’t be from him. It could wait until later.
Tom tidied away the shopping and decided to have a good rummage through the cupboards and make them as tidy as possible. He could sort the kitchen out easily, even if his life was more difficult.
Just as he was about to leave to collect the twins, Tom looked at his phone. And there it was, the text he’d left. It was from Stuart.
fancy coming out? X
Tom nearly threw down his phone but decided to reply. Short and to the point.
No thanks. T
A moment later the reply landed.
What about the boss,,, Whens HE coming out?
Did he really think Alex would be booking a yoga lesson with him? Was he as deluded as all that? Even if Alex didn’t know a fraction of what Stuart had been up to, getting into Lycra and bending into unfeasible positions was about as far from his style as it was possible to get.
Not his thing. T
He didn’t want Stuart to reply, but a second later he did.
Yea well we’ll c x
Tom stared at his phone. He wasn’t going to reply again. In fact, he was tempted to block Stuart’s number completely. Stuart didn’t deserve another moment of his time, not when Madeleine and Alastair were waiting for him. They mattered, StuDo didn’t. Not anymore.
Once the twins were home again, Tom felt better. This was his job—and today it meant feeding lunch to children who were more interested in a plastic toy that had come with their cornflakes than eating sandwiches. Once they got down from the table, Tom’s mobile rang. He had half a mind to ignore it, because if it was Stuart he might explode, but instead a different name flashed up on the screen. Mandy, the party’s director of communications.
Tom answered. “Hi, Mandy, have you got the wrong number?”
“Not if this is Tom,” she barked in her Guide Leader’s tones. “And this is Tom, yes?”
“The very same.” Why had she rung? The non-story based on the photo of Tom and Alex getting into a car on Friday—which seemed a long time ago now—had dropped like a stone. “Erm…my footwear isn’t causing grief again, is it?”
“Not this time! Look, I know you keep out of party and political business, but a little bird whispered the word burlesque in my ear this weekend. Fancy a coffee later, Tom?”
“Yeah, if you like. Do you want to pop round? The twins are playing and they’ve got cartoons on—can’t really leave but…” Burlesque? Jesus, was someone going to make a big deal about a man spinning pasties?
“Good stuff, Tom,” she replied. She was apparently terrifying in full hairdryer mode, but even being friendly there was something about Mandy that said, Don’t cross me. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Christ, I’m glad I tidied the cupboards.
Even so, Tom dashed through the already immaculate flat, straightening duvets, closing wardrobe doors and lobbing toys into toy boxes. Then, as he wiped the twins’ faces with a warm flannel, he heard a knock at the door.
“Right, Mandy’s here.” Tom grabbed the remote control and turned the volume of the television up just a little. Then he opened the door.
He knew Mandy Barker, of course—everyone did. And she was reputed to know everything about everyone who even came close to the government. Not that Alex made use of her supposed dark arts,—that wasn’t his style—but her press contacts were second to none and they were more important than any outdated spin doctoring could ever be. She had once teased Alex for being ‘too honest for two terms’. It would be a sad indictment if she was right.
“Hello, Tom.” She extended one perfectly manicured hand, the subtle silver tennis bracelet on her wrist glinting in the light. Mandy was a towering figure, from the pointed tips of her shoes to her glossy chignon, and Tom always wondered if there was a girl’s school somewhere missing its headmistress. Or a women’s prison missing its governor. “Sorry to call round when Alex is on the road, but needs must. How’re you? How’re the little ones? All good?”
“Yeah, we’re all fine,” Tom said lightly. Fine—just messing up my life and everyone else’s.
Tom gestured toward the twins then pointed toward the kitchen.
“Shall we? Little ears might waggle,” he whispered. Mandy nodded. She followed him past the sitting room where the children were happily completing a jigsaw with their Madastair and into the kitchen. There she sat at the table, her hands knitted before her, trying and failing to look like this was a social call.
“Tea or coffee?” Tom asked, clinging to the hope that this wasn’t bad news. But what else could it be?
“Just hot water,” she told him. “Don’t look so frightened, Tom, I’m not here to attach electrodes to your extremities. I just want to get a feel for things in general since your name came across my desk this week. I know Alex doesn’t like to mix domestic with business, but when it hits my blotter, it becomes business.”
Visions of Tom’s controversial trainers swam before his eyes. “Right…well…” Tom started to make Mandy her drink. “So you said on the phone this has something to do with burlesque?”
She nodded. “I’ve had a chat with Alex and he assured me it was nothing but a bit of a boys’ night out. Is that right?”
Tom’s mouth went dry. He was on the spot. “Yeah—we went to a cabaret in Soho. Had dinner. They have singers, performers. One of the acts was boylesque—stripped off his suit jacket and his shirt, and he had pasties underneath and he was twirling them and— We just fancied a night out, that’s all.”
“I’ve seen the show. So have a lot of journalists. Some of them were there on Friday night and I know you tried your best to keep a profile as low as a team on the arse end of league two, but these hacks know a government car when they see it. And they know the PM and his manny too, especially when they suddenly pop up out of nowhere and head for their tax-funded Uber.” Mandy accepted the mug of hot water from Tom and took a sip.
The knowledge that she’d seen the show lifted Tom’s anxiety, because at least she wouldn’t have any visions of seedy joints and dirty raincoats. Instead she’d know it was as glossy as entertainment got, from its high-kicking chorus to the singers and specialty numbers. There was a reason every single London guide said that Colette’s cabaret night was the hottest ticket in town.
“Nobody knows Alex as well as you, Tom,” Mandy went on. “So was this a one-off or am I going to have to keep a lid on him heading off down the social every Friday night to watch oiled-up lads whipping their tops off? Mind you, not sure what social that’d be, but it’d make a killing in Westminster.”
“Oiled-up lads? He’s not going on a hen night.” Tom picked at the cuffs of his hoodie. He was an idiot to have ever thought he and Alex could have had a relationship that ran deeper than what they’d shared for years. An image intruded on his thoughts of a garish headline—PM BEDS MANNY. It wasn’t fair. “Look—he’s so busy at the moment, I hardly think going on the razz is going to become a weekly thing for him. I hoped that if he socialized a bit, it might help him find a new partner.”
And he had—for a couple of days, at least.
“A girlfriend? With election year looming?” She grimaced as if he’d just passed her a raw kipper. Then she laughed. “Not on my watch. You know how the public are—I’m not running an election with one hand and trying to delete pictures of some lass in a bikini with the other. When the election’s done and he’s got his second term, then…maybe we can think about his sex life. Until then I want him pushing his kids on the swings and eating carvery on a Sunday. Last thing we want is our blue-eyed boy losing the girls and gays because he’s hooked up with a lass better-looking than they are.
No offense with the gay stuff, Tom, you know I speak as I find.”
Tom folded his arms. “Well, at least a lonely prime minister will win the pity vote.” Poor bastard. “And I suppose you want me and my trainers to do our best to keep out of the media?”
“Look, the kids love you and so does Alex.” She took another sip. “But next time he has one of these brainiac schemes, suggest more family pub and less Moulin Rouge? And run it past me first, all right? He didn’t put it on expenses, did he?”
“Of course not.” Tom clenched his teeth. No, because Alex isn’t a morally bankrupt arse. “We’ll take the twins down the Beefeater next time he has a space in his diary. Or maybe a Greggs café. Not much chance of a topless man there.”
“Don’t give me that face,” Mandy warned. “And don’t let anybody hear your talking Greggs down, it’s stuff like that that gets people thinking, Oh, that Alex, he thinks he’s above a festive bake and a cheap cappuccino. Greggs voters pay your salary and keep you in hundred-quid trainers.”
“They do sell pasties, though.” Tom shrugged. “Heaven forbid Alex goes in there and buys some, but I bet there’ll be a reporter who tries to claim the pasties are of the tasseled rather than the Cornish variety.”
She sat impassive then said, “Picture this then, splashed across every website, every paper, every sneering gob in every pub that hasn’t closed down—Prime Minister watches male stripper. But it’s art, I’ll tell them. His kids were with their gramps, it’s burlesque. Bollocks.” She motioned with her hands as though knocking a nail in with a hammer. “Prime. Minister. Watches. Stripper. That’s what they’ll write on his coffin nails when they kick him out of Downing Street. Nobody wants that on their Wikipedia page. He’s whiter than white, even the littlest stain’s going to jump out. I can sell shit to shit shovelers, but the merry widower and the male stripper? All those lasses who go daft at his blue eyes aren’t putting a cross in that box.”
Tom rolled his eyes. “Alex was talking about moving into a monastery for the duration. And I’ve volunteered to go about barefoot. The kids have also promised faithfully to keep their toys tidy and to be as average as possible at preschool.”
“Jesus, son, are you not getting it? The kids excel but they do it quietly, and you and Alex, you get no credit. You’re Milli Vanilli, if you weren’t too young to get the reference. The kids excel because this government’s education policies are the second coming, and that’s the message we ram up the opposition’s pucker every time the twins come home with a gold star.” She put her empty cup down on the tabletop. “While you live here, you don’t get any credit, you don’t get holidays that Mr. Average in Rotherham can’t afford, and you don’t watch strippers in cocktail bars. All of that helps me to help you, and keeps every rag from the Sun to the Guardian bashing Alex’s metaphorical tambourine. And that means at least five more years.”
Tom sighed. “It’s a bloody boring way to have to live for another five years, though, isn’t it?”
All Tom could see was his bed, and only himself in it. And Alex sleeping alone, torturing himself for his perfectly natural desires because of what complete strangers may or may not think of him.
“It’s not boring, it’s power. It’s the game.” Mandy rose to her feet. “Once he’s safely got another five years, I’ll have a think about a girlfriend. See if we know anyone who won’t get the public’s back up. Home baking and a nice little job rather than some Insta bint pulling her bikini out of her arse in Dubai. We can ease her in gently, get them used to her. People liked Gill, she was go-getting, plucky, never fazed even when she knew her card was marked. We’ve had Evita, now we want Delia Smith. She’s a cook, Tom, before your time.”
“Should this mythical girlfriend also be a big fan of Norwich City, though?” Tom raised an eyebrow. “Well, maybe after the election I’ll hand round some fliers at the twins’ preschool—I’m sure the yummy mummies will know the ideal woman. Like Nigella, but not as sexy?”
“Nothing like Nigella. We don’t want rich dads, bad break-ups or any of that.” As she crossed the kitchen she added with a grin, “And wash your fucking mouth out. Norwich City are dead to me. I’m relying on you, Tom. Keep our blue-eyed boy’s eyes on the prize. Get the election called, get it won, and see where we go from there.”
Tom went to the hallway and opened the front door for Mandy. “Yeah, he doesn’t really need a girlfriend or a wife, does he, seeing as he’s got me knocking about at number 11?”
She smiled again. “Now you’re getting it. Give the kids a hug from me.”
“Will do.” And I’ll hug Alex, too, if he’ll let me.
* * * *
That evening, at the twins’ request, Tom read a story about an astronaut on a long journey far from home. It took a while for them to drop off, but Tom promised them they’d see their daddy in the morning, and that seemed to soothe them.
Tom pottered around the flat until he felt tired, Mandy’s visit uppermost in his mind. Any romantic relationship with Alex was going to be impossible. He knew that, and he busied himself with pointless tasks, trying to quiet the racket in his mind.
He read in bed until he fell asleep, then at some point in the night, he was aware of his bedroom door opening.
Small feet padded over the carpet toward him.
“Tom, we’re awake,” Madeleine informed him.
Tom sat up and rubbed his eyes. There beside the bed were Madeleine and Alastair, one with her ragdoll, the other with his toy duck, and tucked into the pocket of the little boy’s pajama top was the Madastair.
“When’s Daddy coming home?” Alastair asked, rubbing his eyes with his little fists. “Soon?”
Tom pushed himself up and switched on his bedside lamp. It was just after midnight on his alarm clock.
“He said he’d be late back. You’ll see him in the morning.” Tom turned back his duvet. “Come on, let’s get you back to bed.”
“There’s monsters under the bed,” Madeleine told him. “The Madastair said so.”
Alastair nodded. “He says he’ll keep them away but then he’ll be too tired to play, so can we sleep in your bed tonight?”
“Well…” Tom knew that if he tried to get them to sleep in their own beds, none of them would get much sleep. Even if he did his best parade-ground bark at the monsters—because that only made the children laugh, and demand repeat performances. “Come on, then.”
Tom lifted them into the bed and let the twins curl up on either side of him. “Mini-Harts in position? Ready for me to turn off the light?”
The twins pecked Tom on the cheek, a clear sign that they were happy. Just in case there was any doubt, Alastair informed them, “The Madastair says yes as well.”
“Good! One, two, three—” And as the children joined Tom pretending they were blowing out an enormous birthday cake candle, Tom turned off the light.
Chapter Eighteen
Tom woke up to see the Madastair dancing a jig on his chest, operated by a small hand.
“Morning,” Tom said, his mouth limp with sleep. When he tried to sit up, he was aware of a weight at the foot of the bed. Warm affection washed through Tom when he realized that there, lying across the bottom of the bed, was Alex. He was cuddled beneath Tom’s duvet, his eyes closed and his expression serene. On the table beside the bed was the familiar vintage watch that Alex always wore, resting atop Tom’s book.
“Shhh.” Alastair pressed his finger to Tom’s lips and whispered, “Daddy’s asleep.”
“Daddy!” Madeleine said excitedly, then clamped her hand over her mouth.
Tom glanced at the clock. It was time to get up. And who knew what time Alex had arrived home.
In a whisper, he said, “Let’s go and have breakfast, as quiet as mice!”
“And the Madastair can stay here and look after daddy.” Alastair put the little toy next to Alex’s watch. “Breakfast time.”
Tom brushed his fingertip over the watch’s face, then herded the children to breakfast
.
Once in the kitchen, Madeleine wanted to go back to Tom’s room, keen to find out if the Madastair was looking after her father well enough.
Tom lifted her back onto her chair. “No disturbing Daddy—he’ll be up soon.”
The twins seemed to understand that quiet was the order of the day and their cheery conversations were in whispers, every dip of a spoon into a bowl of cereal done with exaggerated care and precision. When Billy wandered in and greeted the gathering with a gentle miaow, even she was shushed for her troubles. Not that it bothered her, of course, and she repeated her greeting before going to her bowl.
Amid the silence, as the children were spooning the last dregs of cereal from their bowls, Tom heard bare feet in the hallway. Despite himself, despite Mandy, his heart leaped in the moment before Alex ambled into the kitchen, bleary-eyed in his T-shirt and pajama trousers.
I wish I could hold you.
Tom smiled at him. “Morning. You look like you could do with a cuppa!”
“Daddy!” In her haste, Madeleine couldn’t manage to get down from her chair, her legs apparently in a tangle. Luckily her father swept in, kissing her cheek before pecking at Alastair’s too. He put the little figure on the table in front of them.
“Madastair told me it was breakfast time.” Alex smiled. Then he lifted his gaze to Tom. “Sorry for crashing your bed last night. You all looked too snuggly, I didn’t want to slope off on my own.”
“It doesn’t matter—I gatecrashed yours too, after all.” And what would Mandy make of that? Tom grinned. “I’ll get you your breakfast—take a seat. What time did you get in last night?”
Alex shook his head and admitted, “I stopped checking the time when it got to two. And PMQs today, just what you need after a late night!”
“I’ll make your tea strong.” Tom patted Alex’s arm. Half his biceps was visible under the short sleeve of his T-shirt. Not that Tom was looking, of course.
The Captain and the Prime Minister Page 15
