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"Lord Nicholson, can I just ask you one more question?"
Julius nods, mouth full of Duchy Original shortbread, peering down at his desk clock. Lunch-time nearly over, he thinks to himself with dissatisfaction, barely enough time for a quick nibble down at the Old Shades.
"What's your opinion on the outcome of the Malcolm Tucker trial?"
He chokes, splutters as he reaches for his cup of tea, anything to stop the cloying dryness of the shortbread stuck to his epiglottis. He should've known better, it's a Guardian journalist and they've been ever so keen to follow every last crumb of Tucker's demise. "I couldn't possibly comment on an ongoing case--"
"The ruling has been delivered." The journalist cuts in with a sharp smile, tapping her foot against the desk.
"Oh, I see."
--
If the past thirty years of his life have been a rough fucking ride through the lower wastelands of Hell, the past eight months have been an intimate tour of the Devil's own arsehole. He can list on one fucking finger the number of times he has ever let Fate screw him over but this gets the gold fucking medal for downright poetry. First the fucking shambles of his arrest and indictment, so much for fucking dignity. Then this fucking rigmarole of a trial, he's just so tired. He'll readily admit, even he's surprised he's wormed his way out of this one, the plain suit laid out on the bed upstairs is testament to that.
However, Malcolm is not a man without contingency plans. If he'd gone all the way down with this leaky, mimsy bastard ship, he'd have fucking make sure he took Dan Miller with him. Thankfully that envelope is still in the corner drawer of his desk, tightly sealed and pushed underneath boring insurance paperwork. He liked a lot of things about his job: the power to mold, the perennial fuck ups to fix, the shock and awe that followed him like the plague. But for all the profiles and cartoons, he's never enjoyed that aspect of his job. He used to leave that to Jamie until Jamie couldn't be trusted any more; he's not seen that fucker for a good two years or so (he'll still send a bottle of whiskey at Christmas, he's not heartless). He doesn't see a lot of people any more. The Blackberry might as well have been at the bottom of the English fucking Channel for all the use it was getting. The world was moving on, cutting its ties to him faster than he'd cut Piers Morgan's ties to a ventilator.
But somehow, he's still here. He's down a good sum, job prospects looking a little slim but he's here. That's a damn sight better than he was expecting.
The radio is running down his latest list of achievements, chief among them being Nicola's downfall. He wouldn't take back many things but crowing about it would be one of them. Besides, it's only half of the story. He convinced her to run for leader in a moment of manipulation so fucking brilliant arias should be written about it. It was the stuff of operas, of heroic ballads and folk songs down the pub. It was cruel and pointed but it worked. Until it desperately fucking didn't, for both the party and for him. The unquantifiable thing about Nicola was the fact that she actually gave a shit. Malcolm's worked with them all, bent himself over backward and bloody for conniving arseholes who want as much power as they can steal. Nicola Murray just wanted to make a difference. She believed in things, in the democratic process, believed in a way he'd forgotten minsters ever did. And he hated her for it. Working with Nicola was like having constant fucking tinnitus if the ringing in your ears was the sound of your own bile and disgust.
Against all his better judgement he liked the woman. She may be a political equivalent of the Bermuda Triangle, but he liked her.
Contrary to suggestions made in the gutter press, they never slept together, not then. She was still married to that fucking colostomy bag of a husband and his wife well, that's its own vicious saga. Malcolm may not believe in a lot of things but you don't touch a woman with a ring. He won't lie and say he's never thought about it. Of course he has. It's been years since anyone's ever given as good as they've got and Nicola is the closest that's ever come to it. She may be the biggest fucking political pushover but when it comes to him, she's always had a stubborn streak. He remembers a particular fight before her first conference as leader, some fucking stupid initiative to do with pets for the elderly or some other social equality bollocks. He remembers that she was nervous, that she shouted at him, that she was wearing a dress with probably a bit too much cleavage. He remembers being close enough to push her against the sink if he turned the right way, remembers thinking about slotting his leg between her thighs.
He remembers a lot of things about Nicola.
---
labour party conference 2011
"We are not fucking running with this. D'you understand?"
Nicola rolls her eyes and tries to push past him into the ensuite; she's sure her lashes are stuck on properly but one of them feels a little droopy. Malcolm doesn't move, only braces a hand on the doorjamb. "Malcolm I think we both know the time when you could just shout at me and get your way is over. Can you move? I've got to check something."
"Oh, over my dead fucking husk you mean?" he laughs, the sound of it harsh in the small suite as he follows her into the bathroom, leaning his hip against the countertop by the sink. "Of course that's what you meant, because this initiative? Is about as appealing as a cocking explosion in a sewage disposal centre. This shit spray of a policy will get you laughed out of leadership, never mind Government."
At that she whirls round, eyelashes be damned because right now at this instant she has had just about enough. "So what the fuck am I doing here Malcolm? If all my ideas are so catastrophically shit, why the fuck did you convince me to take this job?"
Malcolm rolls his eyes, fingers gripping the counter behind him. For once she looks good. "Because between you and that conniving arsewipe Miller, you are the lesser of two controllable evils. The party wouldn't cope with the Cabal Coup."
"Well fuck you very much Malcolm, cheers for that, that's really fucking charming."
"Ease up on the swearing love--"
"Oh don't you tell me to fucking ease up on anything! This whole sodding disaster is your fault! And maybe I'm not as creative as you are but if I'm going to swear then you are the last fucking person in the world to tell me to stop."
He laughs again, but this time he moves in just ever so little and his voice drops, "Would you believe me if I said I thought there might be the slightest chance you might be good at it?" He shifts and Nicola realises how close he is; the length of him suddenly all too near. She takes a deep breath.
"No."
"Suit yourself. But ditch the policy love, it's doing you no favours."
And with that he sweeps out, the door swinging wide after him.
--
The kids are with James' parents this weekend, an attempt to foster some sort of loyalty she supposes. Quite frankly at this point she's past caring. It took just about everything she had to leave that bellend, let him try and suck up to the kids now. Let him see how much fucking good that ever did her. The television is on in the background, Fiona Bruce burbling away about current affairs as she sticks a curry for one in the microwave. It's only when she looks up from squinting at the packaging (god she really needs to wear her glasses) that she spots the rolling headline: TUCKER TRIAL AT AN END. Frantically, she looks for the remote control, eventually locating it between the sofa cushions and turning up the volume.
"Three years’ probation and a fine? How in fuck did he do that?" she asks aloud to nobody but the glass of sauvignon blanc waiting on the table. She made herself promise to make amends and all that bollocks at New Years and much though she's been very good at ignoring those promises, they all start to scream at her in the guise of Fiona Bruce's reportage.
She did call for the inquiry. He may have engineered it but she made it possible. Nicola is in some way responsible. Oh shit.
In all honesty, Nicola isn't really sure how she knows where Malcolm lives. Probably best she doesn't examine that fact all too much. God, it had better be the right house, she thinks, no sane member of the voting public wants to see the spectre of opposition past on their doorstep at ten o'clock at night on a Wednesday.
She knocks on the door, pulling her coat tighter around her and hoping to God or whatever host is up there that it's the right place. The heavy door swings open, "Nic'la?"
She gulps. "Malcolm."
He looks at her quizzically, like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop as he starts to ask "What are you--"
"I wanted to say sorry," Nicola barrels in, wind blowing her now longer, neater hair straight into her mouth. She stares at him.
"D'you want a cup of tea?"
She remembers what he was like last time, all that kinetic fury turned into eerie calm. He has that look about him now, only without that god-awful fleece. It's oddly comforting to know he's not given up. She may despise him (and she does despise him she really does) but Nicola doesn't think she could take it, watching the fire extinguish.
He is still offering her tea though and she still feels like a rabbit caught in the headlights.
She follows him into the kitchen, heels clacking on the waxed floorboards. It's lovely and bright, even in this late winter gloom; she suddenly remembers how he made breakfast for Tom, how he never revived the tradition for her, how she's never been anywhere close to his home before. The thought makes her seize up, standing awkwardly by the table. Malcolm is quiet as he fills the kettle and sets it on the stove, reaching into a cupboard on his left for two mugs. His sleeves are rolled up, his tie askew. Idly she thinks this might be the best he's ever looked, the most himself. Whatever that means. She coughs.
"I've not got any of that lemony crap you like but I've got mint if you'd rather?" he asks, looking up at her briefly from his search through the cupboard.
"No, no, normal tea is fine."
"You can sit down you know," he says gesturing to the chair she's stood by and she awkwardly slides herself into it. Fuck, her coat's still on but it'd be awkward to take it off now. Presumptuous. Nicola tries to distract herself by surveying the room as Malcolm leans against the countertop. "I heard about, you know," he starts, gesturing towards her in what she can only assume is an attempt at delicacy.
"Oh the divorce. That might just have been the only good thing I've done this year."
"Did he, or, you..." he tails off, distracted by the quiet hum of the kettle beginning to boil.
"I did. I think I finally got fed up of being treated like a bloody doormat by every man in my life."
Malcolm smiles, "Good on you."
He has manipulated her over and over again, dangling the idea of Foreign Secretary, pushing her into party leadership only as someone to control, to use in the interim whilst he gathered his psychotic ducks in a row. She should never have trusted him, not with a smile like that, not after that miserable excuse for a start. He's always been the Wolf and she's been the sodding little Red Riding Fuckup the whole time. God she's tired. Nicola looks up and there he is, setting the mug of tea next to her, too close and too warm and too together. She wraps her hand in his tie, pulls him down a little and kisses him softly. "I really am sorry you know."
"Alright love," he says, before moving to kiss her again. This time it's hard and urgent, fingers pressing into the nape of her neck as he pulls her closer. "Me to--"
"Oh sod off," she laughs, leaning her forehead against his collarbone.
The tea goes cold on the table.