From the diary of Carrie Johnson, Britain’s First Lady:
DEAD MAN WALKING, the headlines said. He wasn’t a dead man back here. More like a man given a punishment-free year.
He rolled in pissed Monday night, so much so that he only got through Tuesday’s cabinet by finishing my Prosecco at 8am. By that afternoon he was in a fantastic mood.
‘It’s a free pass,’ he said. ‘Anything they catch me for over the next year, whether it’s the cost of your wallpaper or grabbing Penny’s arse, it’s priced in. I’ve got a licence to do whatever I bloody well like.’
‘I don’t think that’s how they see it,’ I said. ‘And? Who’s the prime minister? Who’s the fucking daddy? Who can’t have another vote of no confidence against him until June 5th, 2023?
‘By which time it’ll be too late to kick me out. I just got given carte blanche for the rest of this parliament. I can do whatever I fucking want and I’m starting right now.’
I nod, while trying to think of where he’s operated with restraint so far and coming up blank. It’s not like he wants to take political risks. He couldn’t give a fuck about politics.
‘Does that mean we don’t have to holiday in shitty Cornwall?’ I asked, hope rising. ‘Can we fuck off the press and go to Mustique again?’
‘Exactly, darling,’ he said, ‘now you’re getting it. They can bleat all they like. Lobbying, hanging out with fascists, big wedges of oligarch cash. There won’t be a rule of politics I don’t break. They’ll talk about this bender for years.’
‘You won’t break your marriage vows though,’ I said. ‘That’s behind you, you said. That was only because your wife didn’t understand you.’
‘Oh absolutely,’ he said, but with a pensive look, like something had just occurred to him.
