From the diary of Rishi Sunak, Britain’s most long-term view-taking prime minister
THE moment I heard, I picked up the phone to offer my congratulations. And the three hours since have simply flown by.
I was never a favourite of Rupert’s. He approved my promotion to chancellor, or course, otherwise it would never have been allowed, but he never took a shine to me. Or Liz. Or Boris. Or Theresa, or David. In fact he hasn’t liked any of us since Blair.
‘He doesn’t like anyone,’ says Akshata, breezing past. ‘He’s not even pleasant to my father. But you’re right, he didn’t like you especially.’
‘Why?’ I say, stung. ‘Surely not racism?’ ‘Ha,’ she replies, ‘as if. He leaves that to his editors. No, I think it’s the way you fail. It reminds him too much of his sons.’
‘45th in the queue now,’ I announce, letting the slight slide because I understand marriage is about listening to the heart not the words. ‘Anyway, what about my headlines this week?’
‘I’m certainly not chasing headlines or short-term popularity with my net zero policies, which are long-term decisions for a brighter future like it said on the podium,’ I continue assertively. ‘But did you see the headlines? And I hear the polls are good.’
‘Yes well old men like it when the world is ending,’ she snaps. ‘Makes them feel important. Worry about Lachlan now, not that he’s any good or he wouldn’t have been chosen. He’s shitting himself, the poor little lamb.’
‘You seem to know a lot about it,’ I say as the hold music – Mars, the Bringer of War from Holst’s Planets Suite – continues. ‘Mm,’ Akshata says, ‘I just got off the phone with him.’
