Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Harry
I leave the Commons Chamber surrounded by other Tory MPs, conversing about the legislation that, despite our valiant efforts, the Labour government passed with ease.
“Only seven months to go, and then we’ll get the chance to change it back,” Arabella Stanhope, the shadow secretary of state for culture, media and sport, says.
It’s the common refrain within the Conservative Party these days. The countdown is on to the next general election, held every five years.
As we go through the Members’ Lobby, my gaze momentarily lingers upon the statues of Margaret Thatcher and Winston Churchill, the feet of which some MPs rub for luck before a speech. It’s always worth reminding Labour MPs that the two leaders immortalized here were Conservatives.
However, I’m resolutely not dwelling on Labour MPs right now. Especially not the Labour MP with dark curly hair, bright hazel eyes, and a sharp tongue who seems to take inordinate pleasure in vexing me.
Walking through the hallowed halls of the House of Parliament, it is impossible to ignore the history that permeates every stone and sculpture.
This history has a personal edge. My ancestors were hereditary members of the House of Lords for over four centuries. When the Peerage Act was passed in 1963, my grandfather renounced his title as the Earl of Ashbury, making him eligible to stand for election for the House of Commons.
He won the election easily and was an MP for thirty years before he retired, and my father took over.
Some families have businesses or valuable antiques they pass down through generations. Our family passes down the electorate of Brambleshire.
We’re a country where the weight of history carries significance, despite how much Toby Webley and the Labour government like to pretend otherwise.
Trailed by my aides still deliberating the legislation just passed, I slip into my office to retrieve my notes for my upcoming meeting.
My destination is the Carlton Club, a prestigious establishment that has long served as a haven for Tory politicians. As I step outside and make my way towards the waiting car, Paul, my ever-vigilant bodyguard, takes his place beside me.
“What do you have for me today, Paul?” I ask.
“Knock knock,” Paul replies.
“Who’s there?”
“Broken pencil.”
“Broken pencil, who?”
“Never mind, it’s pointless.”
I let out an amused huff, and Paul grins triumphantly. Paul has been one of my bodyguards since I became leader of the opposition, and he seems to delight in ambushing me with knock-knock jokes. It provides a brief moment of levity in my day.
“I’m hoping this meeting won’t be too protracted, and then we’ll make a break for Brambleshire,” I say to him.
I’m acutely aware of how my schedule impacts Paul and the other members of my protection squad.
I try to dash back to my home electorate of Brambleshire when I get the chance, but London traffic means the short distance to my country estate in the rural heartland of England can sometimes turn into an interminable journey.
“Of course, sir,” Paul says.
The car pulls up outside the Carlton Club, a grand old building that, as the former Conservative Party headquarters, has witnessed its fair share of political intrigue over the years.
Inside, the club is a masterclass in understated luxury. I navigate the labyrinth of lounges and dining rooms to the conference room.
“Ladies, gentlemen,” I say as I sit at the long mahogany table.
Rupert Grange, my deputy leader, tilts his head in acknowledgment.
“Good work in the House today,” he says to me. “Unfortunately, Toby Webley’s characterization of the Conservative Party as crumbling and out-of-date is what appears to be doing the rounds on social media rather than any of the salient points you raised.”
I can always count on Rupert to highlight any weaknesses in my performance. The adage “Keep your friends close but your enemies closer” certainly applies to Rupert.
For years, I was perplexed as to why he seemed so familiar when I first met him. It wasn’t until I ventured into a seldom-used room in my manor house and noticed the taxidermized weasel that I realized what creature Rupert reminded me of.
“We can overturn the legislation once we’re in government,” Amanda, our party chairperson, says.
“What are our polling numbers?” I ask.
Amanda’s mouth curves into a self-satisfied smile. “We’re steadily increasing our lead. If I were a betting woman, I’d wager my lifetime savings on the fact that after May 5th next year, I’ll be addressing you as Prime Minister Matheson.”
It is fair to say that the Labour government has faltered since Oliver Hartwell stepped down as prime minister, having been plagued by a series of scandals and setbacks.
It is my duty, as leader of the opposition, to highlight the government’s shortcomings. And, as the polling data indicates, we’re successfully persuading the population that we’ll do a better job running the country.
“The election is still more than six months away,” I say. “That’s a considerable amount of time in politics. Let’s not count our chickens before they hatch.”
Rupert smirks. “I think we can potentially anticipate the smell of the Labour chickens being roasted though.”
I manage to keep my face impassive, though it proves challenging.
Becoming the prime minister of the United Kingdom is what we Mathesons have been trying to achieve for three generations.
“How is our candidate list progressing?” I ask.
Each political party puts together a list of candidates who will stand for election in various constituencies across the country.
This list is crucial because the party’s success in the general election depends on winning more seats in the House of Commons than any other party.
I won’t be the next prime minister unless my party secures a greater number of seats than we won at the last election, and a vital part of that is having good candidates.
“It’s shaping up nicely,” Amanda says.
“No concerns?”
“We’ve got an interesting one coming out of Kingswell and Norbridge.
David Grantham. Fundamentalist Christian and a hardliner on immigration and law and order.
He has a somewhat troubling record with statements he’s made on social issues, but he’s been campaigning vigorously and looks like he will secure the backing of the local party. ”
“What precisely do you mean by a ‘troubling record’?” I ask.
“Just a few far-right leanings. He’s a bit of a populist and has been outspoken in the past about MPs not representing the common people.”
I glance down at my notes, keeping my voice businesslike. “Unfortunately, people crave simplistic solutions to complex problems. Populist leaders exploit that. Ensure he understands that if he becomes the candidate, he’ll be required to conform to the party line.”
Selecting candidates for our party list is a delicate balancing act. We need to appear in touch with the party’s grassroots while still finding candidates who adhere to our core principles.
In a general election, nothing is worse than a scandal distracting from our important messaging.
In my time in politics, I’ve seen it all. MPs caught plagiarizing sections of speeches from movies, MPs who utilized public funds to purchase life-sized cardboard cutouts of themselves, and even a hot-mic incident where an MP likened the host of an event to a constipated billy goat.
“We need to run a tight ship. No scandals. Nothing unexpected.” I ensure Rupert is included in my line of sight as I utter those words.
I’m so close to achieving my ultimate goal.
I’m determined nothing will distract me from becoming the next prime minister of the United Kingdom.
The next morning, I’m a world away from London’s hustle and bustle as I have breakfast with my wife in the conservatory of our manor house, Ashbury Hall.
Out the window, early autumn is staking its claim on the grounds. The leaves of the oak trees are just beginning to turn a burnished gold. The meticulously manicured lawns stretch like a lush green carpet, but a light mist hangs over the distant fields, a reminder that the seasons are changing.
Prunella and I dine in a companionable silence. I check my phone’s constant stream of messages while she reads The Corporate Times.
I’ve dressed for the day ahead in an impeccably tailored charcoal-gray Savile Row suit, my silk tie impeccably knotted. My polished Oxford shoes gleam under the morning sun.
Prunella, in contrast, is in her oldest tatty dressing gown, her hair in disarray.
She glances up from the paper, arching a perfectly shaped eyebrow at me.
“So, according to The Corporate Times, Toby Webley is also part of the delegation heading to Oslo for the climate change conference today.”
I almost choke on my piece of toast at his name.
“Yes, I am aware of that fact. He is the head of the Climate Change Task Force, after all. What about it?” I say once I’ve managed to recover from my coughing fit.
Prunella throws a smirk in my direction. “I’m just commenting, that’s all. I remember how you always get around him.”
“I don’t get any way around him,” I say stiffly.
“Yes, you do. You get all twitchy. Like now. Just mentioning his name makes you twitchier than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”
There is a chance a muscle under my eyelid is twitching right now at the mention of Toby Webley, but that is neither here nor there.
It’s not only the fact he’s a competent government MP, someone who stands in direct opposition to everything I believe in, that causes my blood pressure to rise every time I hear his name.
I’ve known Toby since we worked in the City as young professionals, before either of us was anywhere near Westminster. Our relationship could never be described as anything resembling cordial.
“Thank you for that astute piece of political insight,” I say.
“I’m known for my political insightfulness,” she says. “It’s why you married me. That, and the fact I’m so great in bed.”
I manage a snort. “Yes, you being so great in bed was definitely the deciding factor.”