“I brought you coffee,” Nigel said, handing over the one thing that could make life sane again.
“Thanks mate, I’m sorry.” He took a large gulp, and felt his nerves soften into marshmallow balls. “Why can’t I have a plane like the President, my very own Air Force One? Then I could shove Steven as far away from me as possible and sleep all the way to Berlin.”
“I don’t think we could hide that on your expenses,” Nigel replied.
“I liked the old days of non-transparency, when no-one had to know what you bought and how much it was.”
“I think even then, you’d have a pretty hard time hiding a plane that size. Besides…” Nigel grinned as spoke, “…the trip will give you a chance to bond with the Chancellor.”
“I’d rather jump out mid-flight,” Andrew retorted.
“Well, I’m afraid you’re stuck with him my friend, you well know it was the only way the right agreed to support your challenge to be Prime Minister, and then your housing programme. Besides it reassures the public, who have yet to decide whether or not they approve of the benefit’s estates, if you have a Chancellor who’s hard on welfare.”
“I’ve never understood why the right wanted that post, the Minister for the Department of Work and Pensions, instead of Deputy Prime Minister. And they’re not benefits…oh never mind,” Andrew groaned, because of course, they were.
“I’ve heard they’re both going to push for the benefit’s cap to be brought forward, and they have a lot of support behind them, publically and privately,” Nigel said.
“No, not until I’ve seen comprehensive figures on how many families are going to be affected by it.”
“You may not have-”
“No way,” Andrew interrupted him, “it would be irresponsible to bring in the cap without having a full picture of the potential consequences.”
“Prime Minister, if I may, you may not have that option. The benefit’s cap is backed by the vast majority of cabinet, parliament and the populace. You risk looking isolated in the face of public demand, you’ve only just gotten away with increasing our public housing stock, because of the positive affect upon the economy, but that could change in an instant. You need to be backing the tough measures on welfare. You gave a nod to the People’s Party with the building schedule, now you need to satisfy your own party. Try as you may, you can’t appeal to everyone,” Nigel stated.
“The public like the new politics, they like that we’re agreeing more, that political parties and factions are pulling together at this difficult time,” Andrew said.
“Yes, they do,” Nigel agreed, “but we both know the difference between the reality of politics and that which we allow the public to see.”
“But I wanted it to be different…I still do,” Andrew said, his mood deflating.
“I know it my friend, and it’s a wonderful Utopia to aspire to, but more than one person has to strive for that dream in order to make it a reality.”
Andrew shook himself out of his stupor. “Yeah, and I know it, I’m just in a reflective mood I guess. Molly wants us to try for another child.”
“Another one, but you’ve got one,” Nigel said.
Andrew laughed at his friend’s reaction. “You are allowed more than one you know.”
“Can’t imagine why, my life would be so much easier if my parents had stopped at one. I wouldn’t have the Home Secretary constantly bleating on about my sister, the Human Rights lawyer, as if I have any control over what Ruby does. Anyway here we are,” Nigel remarked, as the car pulled up beside the plane.
Andrew got out of the car, said good morning to everyone, spoke to the pilot and cabin crew, climbed the steps and entered the plane. Steven Chase, Chancellor of the Exchequer, was already aboard. Andrew turned to Nigel, who was behind him and mouthed three words, Air Force One.
He turned back to face Steven and held out his hand. “Good morning Steven, how are you, ready for the fight later on today?”
“Good morning Prime Minister. I am of course well prepared and I can’t see any result other than one in our favour,” Steven stated, as if Andrew had just asked the most ridiculous question; it was that manner which the Prime Minister found unbearable. He was old school Republican Party, possessing the arrogance to believe his was right, every single time. He was intolerant of others and incapable of thinking outside the box. At only a few years older than Andrew, he could be taken for any age from forty to sixty; he was bald, with a permanent frown, his face set in the default position of seriously concerned; if his eyebrows chanced to move any further up then you knew you were in trouble.
“Yes,” Andrew nodded, Steven’s gravitas was infectious. “I think we should spend the next few hours going over our strategy.”
“Of course, if you feel it’s necessary,” Steven stated
Andrew felt his irritation rising, the Chancellor’s words implied that he was ready, but that the Prime Minister obviously was not. “Right,” Andrew said as he sat on the opposite side of the table to Steven. “Nigel, would you join us please?”
Andrew was satisfied to see the Chancellor’s left eyebrow twitch, Nigel was not a popular member of the inner sanctum. He held no cabinet office, he’d turned down every offer Andrew had made, and so a new position had been created. It was inconceivable to the Prime Minister that he would take the main job without his lifelong friend and advisor at his side, so Nigel was now personal consultant to the PM. The Unitary Party didn’t like it, nor did the opposition, they were suspicious of the rather fluid nature of Nigel’s job description; there didn’t seem to be any set guidelines nor indeed any limits upon where he could exert that influence. Andrew knew his friend was only barely tolerated, he simply hoped that, over time, everyone else would realise what a valuable resource he was.
“Would you like a drink Sir?” the in-house steward asked, no doubt trying to get in quick before the earnest discussion began and the appropriate moment to intervene was never quite apparent.
“I would love another coffee, thank you Carl, and perhaps a few rounds of toast,” Andrew replied. He liked Carl he was excellent at his job and possessed a very calm, professional manner; he seemed to naturally grasp the dynamics of any meeting and react accordingly, jugs of fresh orange were constantly refreshed, and headache tablets passed discretely over before Andrew had even formulated the request.
“I’ll have an espresso Carl, thanks,” Nigel said.
“A pot of tea, and marmalade for the toast,” Steven stated.
Andrew looked at the Steward. “Thank you.” He nodded as he spoke, laying greater emphasis upon his words than was strictly necessary; the way you say it when you held the door for someone and they walk straight past you without any acknowledgement. Mind you the Chancellor was arrogant enough not to pick up on any subtle chastisement of his manners. Why should he? He was a man of importance, Carl was not.
“Right, as this will be our first meeting with the new German Chancellor, perhaps it would be a good idea to go over a little background first. I asked Nigel to do some research, so if you wouldn’t mind,” Andrew said, directing his last comment to his friend.
“I’m up to speed with Chancellor Fernes, I’ve met her on numerous occasions when-”
“Still,” Andrew interrupted Steven, with terseness in his voice that only he managed to encourage, “I would like to hear what Nigel has to say.”
“Yes, of course Prime Minister, whatever you feel is necessary.”
Andrew saw his fist travelling over the table, straight into Steven’s smug features; it was a satisfying image, but he settled for, what he hoped was, a stony stare instead.
“Your coffee Sir,” Carl said, placing a cafeteria in front of Andrew, alongside a small jug of milk and another of cream. The men waited, as Carl brought the espresso, pot of tea and a large rack of toast.
“Thank you,” Andrew said, “and make sure you get something for yourself.”
Carl nodded and disappeared through a door into the
kitchen area.
“Right, allow me to start Gentlemen. The new Chancellor is Anna Fernes, she’s forty-eight, married to an investment banker and has three children aged eleven, eight and six. Her early career was unremarkable, but she has recently made a name for herself as a champion of the right, denouncing Germany’s fellow EU members for draining the country’s resources. She started…”
Andrew listened, it was a familiar story, repeating itself across Europe and America; people were increasingly turning toward the right-wing of politics to save them from economic collapse. It worried Andrew, there was a dangerous shift in the ground swell of opinion, that saw Europe as a cause of their problems, and not the solution. In Greece, Cyprus, Spain, Ireland, to name but a few, the populace accepted financial aid as their right, while resenting the austerity measures that came with it. While Andrew would never go as far as seeking to withdraw from the European Union, he couldn’t help but think the time was right to trim some of the fat, countries that contributed very little to the alliance, but happily drained the resources of the European Bank; if those states had been a company working in the UK, they would have long since gone into receivership and ceased trading. Why, he wondered should Greece, for example, be any different? Unfortunately Andrew’s views were not shared by the EU, nor indeed by most of his own Party, who would have preferred their own withdrawal instead. Only Nigel had been privy to Andrew’s personal thoughts, no doubt late at night after too much brandy, and he’d simply shook his head and said, never going to happen my friend, forget it.
“…I think that’s all the relevant facts, unless of course the Chancellor has anything to add,” Nigel said.
“I think you’ve covered the main points,” Steven replied. “What you haven’t indicated is whether or not you believe the German Chancellor will react favourably to our proposition.”
“The Chancellor has been given an outline of our proposals, it will be your job, Steven, to argue our side,” said Andrew.
Steven nodded, his expression akin to a weary grandfather, dragged away from his chair on a Sunday afternoon. Andrew wondered if their German counterparts picked up on the condescending nature of his Chancellor’s manner, he hoped not.
“It’s a good proposal and it makes sense,” Andrew said, and then started riffling through papers, he would not justify his, no his government’s decision, to Steven. The man seemed to forget that he’d agreed, albeit due to political expediency, to a similar plan at home. The UK’s position was simple, they would not go on blindly agreeing to ever increasing bail outs to failing economies, no, from now on those country’s would be required to produce a business proposal, to show how their economy would be tended back to health. Ireland, Portugal, Cyprus, they must look to their strengths, pin point where to invest and then the European bank would ring fence a certain amount of their loan specifically for that purpose. France had followed the UK’s lead and began to invest in social housing in order to stimulate growth, and they weren’t alone. When Andrew had first voiced his idea he’d been criticised both at home and abroad for spending millions at a time when families were financially hurting. But slowly, very slowly the UK economy had begun to show tentative, don’t look at it in case you scare it, signs that they would not be able to claim the historic and dubious achievement of a quadruple dip recession. It had been hard, Andrew shuddered to remember the mass rallies across the country against his benefit’s estates. The populace had looked and once more saw the benefit’s cheats as being rewarded for their idleness while those who strived were barely getting by. He’d been slammed in the press, they wanted to know where this great, ‘fairness,’ he talked about in society, had gone? The rich were getting wealthier, banks were awarding big bonuses once more, and the middle was being squeezed as the undeserved prospered. However as the signs of financial growth started to filter through, opinion had swayed ever so slightly, the popularity of the Unitary Party had begun stabilized, admittedly at a pretty disastrous level, but at least the decline had stopped. However Andrew’s popularity barely registered on the scale, he was seen as a liar and a hypocrite, he could only hope that within the next few years people would see he was right, he’d succeed in getting the economy moving; meanwhile he would continue to back the measures needed to sort out the welfare state. Andrew had grown thick skinned; it had been a steep learning curve. He hadn’t taken the top job expecting to be universally adored, but he’d blanched at been labelled the, ‘Worst Prime Minister Ever.’
So, it was vitally important that more countries in Europe adopt his approach, so he could turn back to his own voters and say, look it’s a good idea, everyone else is doing it too. He needed Europe to validate his role as Prime Minister, to show he was successful, a visionary in his approach, not a spineless vessel battered by the whims of Unitary Party investors who, it was claimed, were filling their coffers from the vast contracts on offer via his social housing programme.
“Prime Minister, can I refresh your coffee for you?”
“What…oh, sorry Carl, I was…anyway, yes, if you wouldn’t mind, thank you,” Andrew replied, and then he looked at his watch and stood up. “Excuse me gentlemen, I have an important call to make.”
He moved to the far end of the cabin, in order to get a little privacy. She answered on the fifth ring. “I’m sorry Mols, I was such an idiot…”
Chapter fifty
Andrew stifled a yawn, he’d arrived back in the country the previous day, had a restless night with Elaine, and was now sitting under the baking lights of a make-up artist. He always found it a faintly disturbing process, being that close to a fellow human being, so that you could smell their perfume or aftershave, and yet, beyond the superfluous, have no idea who they were. Plus, he was never quite sure of the protocol, trying to initiate some form of conversation just slowed the process down, and risked you knocking them out with your caffeine breath, but he worried that silence might be misinterpreted as arrogance. He knew the woman, who was trying to erase the worst of the shadows beneath his eyes, as Heather. He’d once asked her what Vanessa Redgrave was really like, as he knew she’d appeared on the Peter Ford Show the week before him, but she’d merely shrugged and said she seemed nice. Heather had given the same response over Steven, and Andrew had marvelled at her powers of discretion. It had also brought him reassurance, if they were to be afforded the privacy of professionalism than so must he.
Andrew had appeared several times on the Peter Ford Show as Chancellor, and lately as Prime Minister, so he knew him to be a shrewd interviewer. The first time he’d been introduced to him, he’d recounted all about that wonderful night when he’d gathered with party supporters to watch the live debate between Hudson and Blackthorn. He’d even laughingly credited him with being responsible for his and Molly’s first date. Ford had listened good naturedly, but even then, amidst the harmless banter, Andrew felt his keen intellect ticking by. Any politician who ventured onto his show had to do their homework, prepare and swot as if for an exam, and be extremely careful what sort of language they used, because if he found an opening, a tiny crack, he would tease it with his questioning until, if you weren’t very careful, you could be flung down into a chasm of your own making. Reputations, careers, had been made and lost on the Peter Ford Show.
Andrew intended to use the interview as a platform to reveal his latest ‘win,’ in Europe but he and Nigel had spent several hours going over any other possible areas for discussion, formulating Andrew’s stock answers and working out how to get in as much criticism of the People’s Party as possible. Even with all the prep work they had in place, Andrew was certainly not feeling smugly in control; complacency led to mistakes and he did not intend to make any. God knows he needed to reconnect to the public, and soon, a fact Nigel had kept reiterating all the way to the studio. They needed, or rather he personally needed, some good publicity. In fact Andrew would have gone as far as to say that Nigel seemed rather jittery, an emotion he would never have attributed to his friend, and wh
ich had travelled to his own stomach as if by osmosis. Andrew knew what was at stake, personally and for the future of the Unitary Party, but for once, he seemed surer of himself than Nigel. It was a bizarre turn of events, and one which Andrew was not altogether comfortable with, if he felt more confident than Nigel, then he was obviously not party to the whole picture.
“That’s you all done Prime Minister,” Heather said.
“Thank you Heather, I appreciate that,” Andrew replied.
Another young woman, this one with a clip board appeared in the doorway. “Could I ask you to follow me Prime Minister? Peter is just finishing up with the last section, so we need to get you seated and ready.”
“No problem…err?”
“Fran.”
“No problem Fran, thank you.”
Andrew followed her along the familiar corridor, go-faster strips of yellow and orange adorned the walls; he wondered if it was for the uninitiated to find their way – just follow the yellow wall strips…and he was letting his mind wander …focus.
“Right, I’ll just get the sound technician to fix your mic.”
Andrew merely nodded, time to block out the peripheral and concentrate on the important. His nerves went, he stood a little straighter and stared at nothing whatsoever. Mic sorted he took a seat, blocked out all noise, all movement in the studio and waited. The first serious interview he’d done on TV he’d been terrified, perspired wildly and his gaze hadn’t stayed in one place for more than a few seconds; in fact the only direction he hadn’t looked was toward the interviewer’s eyes. He considered himself an old hat now, at the game of being an interviewee; go in with the points you wish to convey, and make sure you make them, and answer all questions with statements already in the public domain.
An Ordinary Working Man Page 37
