VIII. Richard
VIII.
Richard
MICKEY MINTON LIVES IN ONE of the new apartments in the Battersea Power Station complex. To access it, Richard and Gary have to give their names to the security guard at the Boiler House entrance who is watching a football match on his phone. He motions them to the lift.
‘Eighth floor,’ the guard says, without looking up from the game.
‘Thanks very much,’ Richard replies. He is disappointed the guard doesn’t recognise him.
Headlines from last night’s charity gala are on the front page of every newspaper and have led the morning’s news bulletins.
The Telegraph hailed it as ‘The Fitzmaurice Fightback’, with a picture of Ben beaming on stage at the V not too much to risk total disintegration. A bit like the Tory party, Richard thinks.
An hour after the leadership announcement, Mickey Minton’s team had mysteriously got back in touch after weeks of ignoring Gary’s email pitches.
They’d asked if Richard was free the next morning, which seemed precipitate and suggested they’d probably had a guest drop out at the last minute.
But Richard had said yes immediately and asked Terri to clear his diary.
Mickey, a YouTuber with over two million subscribers, is very much where Richard wants to position himself.
His podcast is called Talking the Mickey and has been top of the charts for three months straight.
The logo features Mickey in a ripped white T-shirt and a black fedora, rakishly tipped so that it casts a shadow over one eye.
The overall effect is that of a camp detective who has decided to become a 1980s pop star.
‘Why does he wear a fedora?’ Richard asks, as the lift doors ping open.
‘Branding,’ Gary says, as if it were obvious.
Mickey’s flat is at the end of the corridor. When they press the buzzer, a man who introduces himself as Josh opens the door, also wearing a ripped white T-shirt.
‘Hey. Come on in.’
‘Hey,’ Richard says, trying not to feel self-conscious about the fact he’s just said ‘hey’.
He enters a spacious drawing room. Huge windows overlook an expanse of the Thames.
The walls are hung with framed photographic blow-ups of pieces of silver machinery: an aeroplane wing; a racing-car bonnet; a hub-cap.
The room is dominated by a lacquered black circular table which seems to leak towards the perimeter like a pool of blood.
On either side of the table are two microphones and two white bouclé chairs.
A bank of cameras and sophisticated recording equipment has been set up along the kitchen island.
There are at least twelve people fiddling with knobs and setting up lights and sound booms.
‘Goodness,’ Richard says to no one in particular. ‘I hadn’t realised it was such a production!’
‘Yeah, Mickey takes it really seriously,’ says another young man, also wearing a white T-shirt. ‘Hey, I’m Josh.’
‘You’re Josh?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Oh, sorry, I thought he was Josh.’ Richard points to the man who opened the door, who is now pressing buttons on an espresso machine.
‘We’re both Josh.’
‘Got it.’
Next to him, Gary is looking intently at his phone. Richard glances at the screen and sees that Gary is ordering a hair regrowth product on . Richard nudges him.
‘Anything you want to brief me on?’
‘Nah, mate. You know what you’re doing.’
Josh 1 offers them a coffee. Josh 2 says Mickey will be along in just a moment.
There is a skittering sound from around Richard’s feet and when he looks down, he sees a French bulldog frantically running in circles across the parquet.
The dog comes to a halt next to one of the bouclé armchairs, then raises a leg and urinates.
A yellow stain seeps into the upholstery.
‘Ronaldo!’ They hear Mickey’s voice before they see him. ‘Stop that, you naughty boy.’
Josh 2 rushes to clean up the piss with a wad of kitchen roll.
The dog dashes towards its owner who, at this precise moment, is walking down a chrome spiral staircase from a mezzanine floor.
Mickey stoops to pick up the dog. The trademark fedora wobbles precariously, then falls to the floor, revealing a bald spot at the centre of Mickey Minton’s scalp.
Mickey drops the dog in favour of the hat, which he places back on his head at just the right tilt.
‘Alright, bro?’ Mickey says, a slight flush to his cheeks.
It takes Richard a moment to realise he is being addressed.
‘Oh, yes, very much so. Thanks so much … um … dude.’
‘Sweet, sweet.’
Mickey speaks with a transatlantic twang despite the fact that Richard knows he grew up in Milton Keynes.
He doesn’t shake Richard’s hand but instead accepts an espresso from Josh 1, served in a shot glass, then takes his seat on one side of the black table.
A leather-bound notebook sits in front of him.
He moves it one millimetre to the left with the tip of his finger.
A woman with make-up brushes appears and starts putting powder on Mickey’s face.
‘Right then, party people, let’s get started, yeah?’ he says once she’s finished. The room bubbles with a haywire kind of energy.
‘Richard, you’re going to sit here. Do you prefer Richard or Dick, by the way?’
‘Er, Richard. Definitely.’
‘Cool, cool. No stress.’
The armchair is less comfortable than it looks, and Richard is aware of the smell of dog urine still lingering.
He wonders if his face is shiny and if he could ask for the make-up artist but she is nowhere to be seen, so he surreptitiously pats his cheeks with his sleeve.
The room lights dim without warning and then, after a series of clicking noises and some activity from the Joshes behind the kitchen island, a spotlight is fired up, casting a strong beam over the table.
Richard blinks. His stomach gurgles. He skipped breakfast.
‘It’s beginning to feel like an interrogation, ha ha.’
Mickey looks up from the still unopened notebook.
‘What’s that, mate?’
‘An interrogation. Like the Gestapo.’
‘The Gest … say what now?’
‘The Nazi secret police.’
Mickey looks confused.
‘VE HAVE VAYS OF MAKING YOU TALK,’ Richard says in his comedy German accent. He’s nervous and thinks a bit of communal laughter might loosen him up. He is just about to do a mock salute when, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Gary making a slicing motion across his neck.
Josh 1 comes to tweak Richard’s microphone and fiddle with the pop shield.
‘Right, you good to go?’ Mickey asks.
Richard finds himself nodding as Mickey finally opens his notebook. There is a loose-leaf page of densely typed text inside. Richard, very hot now, tries to mop his face again, but it’s too late because Mickey has already launched into his preamble.
‘Welcome to Talking the Mickey, the podcast where we get to have deep conversations with deep people existing in a shallow society. This podcast ain’t about private jets or dollar bills.
It ain’t about what you put on social media or the bling you wear around your neck.
It’s about the real stuff, yeah? It’s about what’s in your heart. ’
Mickey taps his chest with his hand. His dog-tag necklace rattles. There is a dramatic pause, then:
‘You’re probably not listening,’ Mickey adds, leaning into the mic. ‘But if you are, we’re talking to you.’
Richard has ingested much of Talking the Mickey’s back catalogue and has heard this tagline several times. It has never made any sense.
‘My guest today, party people, is Richard Take. He’s a politician, but don’t turn off just because of that, cos he’s also become a biiiiiiiig TikTok star, innit.’
Mickey grins. Richard is aware he’s being patronised, but it’s a feeling he’s used to and it’s become second nature to ignore it.
‘My first question, Dick, seems a simple one, but it’s actually really fucking profound when you think about it …’
Richard’s leg is jiggling. He places one hand on his lap to stop it.
‘How are you today? How are you …’ Mickey leaves a significant pause. ‘… really?’
‘I’m terrific, thanks Mickey.’
Mickey squints, clearly unhappy with this. He leaves an even longer pause before he says, ‘I don’t think that’s true, is it, Dick? You’re being disingenuine.’
Not a word, Richard thinks.