From the diaries of Carrie Johnson, on maternity leave from being Britain’s First Lady
I REMEMBER Charlotte Owen, or do I? Interchangeable Home Counties blonde? Now mysteriously a peer for life aged 30 or possibly 29? ‘Explain,’ I say.
‘It’s not what you think,’ he says, which is interesting given that in this particular case I’m not entirely sure what I think. With Big Dog it’s usually the one thing, but apparently this might be not that but its consequences three decades on.
‘She’s a very capable special adviser,’ he says, still in his jogging outfit but eyeing the chilled rosé, ‘and nothing more. I certainly haven’t been alone with her and wouldn’t be,’ he says indignantly.
Marriage to Boris involves challenges. For example here am I, hugely pregnant, baffled as to whether this fucking girl’s his daughter or he’s using the rumour to distract from a much more traditional relationship. All the years of our love and I still can’t tell.
This is on top of him being jobless, Dorries on the phone all hours slurring ‘Take my seat, please, it’s all I ever wanted,’ and Lady Bamford, disappointed not to be Dame Lady Bamford, hinting at eviction.
‘So you didn’t?’ I say. ‘Definitely not and never would,’ he says, opening a pre-mixed gin. ‘Oh. Thought this was my energy drink.’ ‘So she’s your daughter?’ ‘Certainly not.’
‘Because if she’s not your daughter, then–’ ‘Good-looking girl though,’ he pivots. ‘Wanted a piece of the Big Dog. But the Dog wasn’t hungry thanks to you darling, so it’s fine.’
‘Then why in fuck is she the youngest life peer in British history?’ I say, knowing there’s a lie here but unable to find the exact angle. ‘She asked,’ he said, draining the can.
