With the summer recess behind us, Tenant’s office had been thrown into a maelstrom of work. She reshaped her shadow cabinet and, to my great pleasure, Libby Manning was appointed shadow for the Environment. My main tasks as deputy to Tony Riley (Chief of Staff) was to write speeches and act as a liaison between Sylvia’s office and the whips. Babs was still looking after admin at the constituency office but that required, happily, a great many visits to London where we had now rented a larger and very comfortable flat.

Libby Manning invited me for dinner. I accepted happily but, with work as it was, it took a while to organise. At last, I was tapping on the front door of her imposing townhouse. I was surprised that there was quite a throng there.

Libby kissed me and said, “Sorry, Sam. I had to invite a few others as you can see. It happens.”

She smiled a little wanly, kissed me again and led me through to the drawing room where the guests had congregated. I looked around at the array of influential people who were there. This was why I did what I did, to be at the centre of things, to taste the power and the magnitude of events.

I reminded myself who they were: two ambassadors, one European, one African, a high-ranking Arab, the Attorney General, the party chief whip, a press baron or two and a few others. 'Thank God,' I thought, 'that I had dressed appropriately;' although my main focus in getting ready had been to appeal to Libby’s love of feminine women. Her gently butch appearance (not so gentle when the mood took her), like Babs, always appealed to me.

I sat at dinner between the Arab and the editor of one of our more influential and, to be fair, sympathetic newspapers. The Arab was a perfect gentleman despite drinking industrial quantities of red wine. The editor was a woman of about fifty, very funny and great company. She was wearing a wonderful red dress, silk with a mandarin collar and little sleeves. Delphine was sitting across the table from me. Her dress was tight at her breasts and long-skirted. The pale blue highlighted the darkness of her skin.

It was over coffee that the work started.

Libby stood. “Ladies, gentlemen, Delphine will leave us now. It’s not that anything particularly secret will be discussed but she gets bored witless by anything political.”

“Except you,” said Delphine with a smile as she stood to leave. She discreetly blew a little kiss to me as she strolled out of the room. Libby talked briefly and, I thought, aimlessly which was very unlike her.

I was astonished when a few moments later Delphine opened the door again, nodded at Libby and stood aside as Sylvia Tenant came in. She was wearing a black suit and looked all business. The door closed behind her.

“Forgive the subterfuge, ladies and gentlemen but this is a meeting that has never happened. Are we all happy with that?” A general buzz of agreement followed. “Excellent. I’m here to tell you that I have been advised by the Prime Minister that he will be calling a general election and will announce it at the end of this week. Parliament will be dissolved and the campaign will begin.”

That caused quite a stir and I sat quietly, lost in the moment and knowing that this was the start of something momentous.

The meeting continued for some time and Sylvia held us spellbound as she laid out her plans for the campaign. It was about 2 in the morning when she finally left but not before she beckoned me.

“A word, please, Sam. You’d better get your coat. I need you to come with me to the office and we’re going to talk. Tony is already there and he knows of course.”

I followed her out of a side door into a large garage where a black Mercedes was waiting. We got in the back and the doors opened and the car whispered out into the night. Is it odd that my mind never once reflected until much, much later that Libby, Delphine and I might have had a fun night? At the office, Sylvia, Tony and I talked late into the night. We needed, and quickly, to sort out responsibilities, to ensure we knew who would be doing what.

“Can I bring Babs up?”

“Sorry, but no. I need her to run my re-election campaign and I don’t intend to lose because not enough is done to ensure I win. Babs is so reliable, I need her there.”

That made sense so I didn’t argue but was naturally disappointed. The campaign would be run from the offices we had used before and I’d have to make arrangements to ensure we’d swept for listening devices, sorted phones, agreed code words for people, sorted the physical security and on and on it went. I hit my bed at 4 am and was unable to sleep, so excited was I.

Election campaigns are gruelling. There was no question of time off and even before the Prime Minister announced the election we were hard at it, getting ourselves prepared. Constant meetings, writing, reviewing, re-writing, it went on and on. I hardly saw Babs.

I was in the office one Friday afternoon when Tenant came in.

“What are you doing?”

“I hardly know,” I grinned. “I don’t feel as though I have slept for a fortnight.”

“Go home.” I started to object but she said it again and clearly meant it. “Don’t come in until Monday. Promise me. You’re doing a great job, Sam and I need you alert and firing on all cylinders.”

I went home, stripped off and ran a bath. I ran it hot and deep and stepped in gingerly, allowing my skin to acclimatize to the heat. The bubbles almost flowed over the tub’s edge.

“Hey Sam, room for one more in there?”

I must have nodded off because there was Babs, naked and standing by the bath. She grinned her wolfish grin, kissed me and stepped in with me, facing me.

“Fuck, that’s hot.”

“So are you.”

“I’m under strict orders to make you sleep and sleep you shall.”

“Later.”

“Well, obviously!”

We got out of the bath but not before her toes and mine had explored a few intimate places. We kissed as we dried each other and Babs led me to the bedroom.

“Who’s been in here with you lately?”

“You’re having a laugh, right?”

“I thought not. No time, just like me, although Delphine asked me up last week. Said she was sick of Libby being either away or knackered. I told her I was the same as Libby so she went to that club in Soho apparently.” She meant the club that I occasionally went to when need overcame me.

That was the end of any coherent conversation. Tired as I was, I was also hungry for Babs. Just the sight of her flat, muscular stomach, her fine tits, her red trimmed patch made me wet and she pulled me down on top of her. We kissed for a long time and she wrapped her legs around me, pushing her mound up to mine. We ground against each other slowly as our tongues danced together. It was what Babs called a languid one. We were both too tired for athletic sex but too aroused to sleep. Too aroused, that is, until our orgasms arrived separated by a few minutes and then, still wrapped together, we slept.

*

British elections are always held on a Thursday. By the end of Wednesday, my work was done and I crawled gratefully into my cot and slept the sleep of the dead. Babs was going to have a long Thursday, cajoling voters, stirring up the staff and generally running around like a blue-arsed fly.

I drove down to the constituency with Sylvia very early on the Thursday morning. She went to her polling station and did that pose they all do as they vote for themselves. Why do the tv stations always show that? Beats me.

I helped out a bit at the constituency office but I wasn’t a lot of use. Babs had it all sorted and although she had to do a lot of running about and phoning and shouting and swearing, it all went smoothly.

Sylvia Tenant won.

She won in her constituency by a massive margin and she won the general election with a good majority. I was now working for the next Prime Minister. Champagne was already on ice at the constituency but Tenant and I had to go to Party HQ to join the great and the good in celebrating. Babs didn’t want to leave her troops. I didn’t realise then but that was the end of our relationship.

Victory is only briefly celebrated before the work begins. It’s hectic. Tenant had an audience with the Queen and was invited to form a government. We sat in varying groups to work out who would get what job in the Cabinet and in Ministries.

Henry Wayne called me. I wouldn’t have answered if I’d recognised his number. “Sammy, darling, Henry here.”

“Henry who?”

“Wayne of course. Surely you hadn’t forgotten me?” I’d tried to forget the pompous, arrogant, useless twat as quickly as possible but didn’t say so. “Marvellous campaign, Sam, really well done. I hoped you might put in a word for me with our new Fuhrer. What do you say?”

“Not sure what I can do, Henry, but I’ll always be grateful you gave me the chance so I’ll see what I can do. No promises though.”

“Absolutely understood, thanks so much. Always thought the world of her you know, you might tell her that.” Since he’d once said to me that she was the worst product of state schools and had the all the qualities of a hyena I knew he was lying through his teeth.

'Idiot!' Needless to say, I said nothing to Sylvia. She’d have thought I was insane.

I went home to see Babs one evening. She opened the door and smiled. It’s funny how you just know, isn’t it? She kissed me and I felt the lack, the absence but I didn’t want to believe it. She poured me a large gin and we sat together. I touched her hand but she pulled it away and I had to admit it then, even though nothing had been said.

“I’m going to America, Sam.” Just like that. “You’re right in at the thick of it and I’m down here and, well, I don’t see me going anywhere and I was offered a job.”

“What job?”

“A guy called Henderson. He’s running for Congress and he wants me. He’s like Tenant. A good chance he could go all the way. I’ve learned a lot from you and Sylvia and I think I could do well.”

“So do I. Actually, no, I know you’ll do really, really well. Congratulations.”

“You’re not mad?”

“I’m sad, not mad but sad, for me. I’m happy for you and I genuinely understand.”

She hooked her arm around my neck and pulled me to her. She ravaged my mouth. She leant back and looked into my eyes. We both knew ours was not a love match, it was a lust match, always had been. We had never claimed each other, expected exclusivity but we’d also known our sex was the best sex.

Her hand slid over my blouse and her fingers seemed to be making a record of them, their shape and weight.

“Sit still.”

It wasn’t rough, it wasn’t gentle. It was firm, urgent and delicious. Her tongue and lips moved all over my breast, my belly. She pushed my skirt up and spread my knees open. One glance up at me as her hand grabbed my knickers to pull them aside and she descended and her mouth opened around my lips, her tongue probing into me. Fingers entered me everywhere, reaching up to my mouth, down to curl into my cunt, back to find my arse. Her onslaught on me was relentless.

I lay back against the sofa and lifted my knees and she took me. I found myself kneeling, facing the sofa’s back, my knees apart, my skirt up over my backside and she left me like that for a few minutes. Looking over my shoulder I saw she’d slipped her feeldoe in. It stuck out of her tight black leather trousers like a purple beacon. With her hand gripping my skirt’s waist she entered me, drove into me and her free hand pulled her own blouse open before she lent, bending over me, her nipples hard against my back as so often before.

It got rough then, she fucked me. This was not lovemaking, this was fucking, pure and simple. She bit my neck, my earlobes, my shoulders. Her orgasm came in a sudden frenzy of thrusting into me. We sort of subsided onto the sofa, spooned, her dildo deep inside me, her arms around me, holding me to her. Her breath was loud in my ear until it calmed and she kissed that ear.

Later, in bed, I asked her when she was leaving.

“Next week, Sam, next week.” I nodded.

*

Next week came and, with it, so did Bab’s departure. I did shed a little tear as I waved her through to departures then I gave myself a mental shake and went back to my car. I sat in it, sobbing, tears flowing unchecked down my cheeks.

*

“I hear Babs has left?”

Libby Manning had just come out of a Cabinet Meeting. Despite her new status as a Minister, she made no effort to conform to the traditional senior female politico look. Her suit was a dark blue pinstripe, her tie was loose at her neck, her hair was short and black.

“How’s Delphine?”

She smiled. “Great thanks. I take it you’re in ‘get on with life’ mode, correct?”

“Correct.”

She patted my shoulder. “Good for you. Come round for a drink this evening?”

“I’d love to.” And I would have loved to but events overtook me. As a former PM once said when asked what he feared most, “Events.” It’s all very well having plans but some events just de-rail any plan you may have. In the circumstances, ‘de-rail’ was a bad choice of word.

Tenant was sitting in her private office. She had, rare for her, a glass of Scotch on the desk. As I entered she stood, poured one for me and pushed it across to me.

“This might be the last you have for a while, so make the most of it.” I didn’t say anything. I knew she’d get around to telling me whatever it was she wanted to. She wandered around the large office, holding her glass.

“An hour ago two trains collided on a bridge over a part of Birmingham. One train came off the bridge onto housing and workplaces below. The other is de-railed but still on the bridge. The death toll is rising.”

“Christ almighty.”

“The train on the bridge was hauling trucks of nuclear waste.”

I looked at her. This was one of those moments. How she dealt with this could define her reign as PM but she wasn’t in total control, nobody could be.

“Any radiation leaks?”

“None so far.”

“How many dead and injured?”

“It’s unclear. So far at least twenty dead and about one hundred injured. A load of people buried under and in the fallen train, nobody knows how many yet.”

“I’ll write for you as we go there. Can you get a helicopter to take us?”

“You think I should go?”

“No, I know you should. Think back at all the previous disasters, the PM in charge always suffers criticism for not being there. The people know you cant lift trains, they know you cant treat the injured but they also know you’re their top representative and if you’re there, on the ground, you’ll see first-hand what the emergency services are doing, what they need, how you can help.

“You’re right. OK. Get writing, Sam. Write as you never have. I want to be positive, supportive, speak from the heart and the head.”
 

“I know you, Prime Minister. I know what you want to say and need to say. Trust me.”

“If I didn’t, you wouldn’t be here.”

I’d never seen anything like it. It was the nearest I’d ever seen to a war zone. The police, fire, ambulance, military were all there. Their commanders on the ground looked haggard but efficient. Tenant’s arrival heartened them, fired them up, energised them. She wore a helmet and a high-vis jacket over a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. She wore wellington boots. She knelt beside stretchers. She held a victim's cigarette as someone gave her a cup of tea. She was, fantastic. She walked as close to the nuclear waste as she was allowed and discussed it with the experts. She looked like a leader. She was a leader. She was a leader who got her hands dirty, who was with her people. Fucking magnificent.

*

“There will be time for learning lessons, enquiring as to fault, apportioning blame but that time is not now. Nor is it a time for speculation. It is a time for action. Take care of the injured, rescue the buried, support the bereaved. People first. The nuclear material remains secure and it is a priority to get it away from the scene but that will not, will not delay the rescue.”

I never once wrote the ‘I’ word for her. I wanted that to be the subliminal message. This was government working and she was leading it. She totally got that. Even her detractors were impressed and if they weren’t, what could they say? She was there, on the ground, holding hands and doing something positive. It was a triumph and she made it so.

Libby, in her role as Minister for the Environment, was closely involved and she arrived by car not too long after we landed. Long enough to make the PM look good, not so long as to appear ineffective. She kissed my cheek. She was all business though and she spoke to the experts and laid her stamp on things too.

*

“Events’ come in many forms. It was a Thursday evening and dinner at Tenant’s private home that was the start of the next one. She had said she was inviting a few people around and there were ten of us. The Foreign Secretary, Home Secretary, Libby and I were among them. It was all talk, all business and I wasn’t sitting close to Libby although now and again we exchanged glances. Over coffee, she looked directly at me and nodded towards the garden. She stood and left. I waited a few moments and then followed her.

“How’s Delphine?” Her lover, the human rights lawyer, hadn’t been around much.

“Didn’t you know? She’s in the States. I understand she’s working for the same guy as your Babs – Delphine tells me they’ve become very close and that they intend to stay there, together.” There was no sign of emotion.

“How do you feel about that?”

“Fine, you?”
 

“Fine.”

Libby lit a cigarette. “You need to tell your girl something. It didn’t come from me, OK?”

“Of course.”

“Adrian Cavendish,” Foreign Secretary, “Is publishing an article in one of the broadsheets sometime soon and he’s going to say Tenant is all front, no substance. The Birmingham train was, he will say, typical. He’s going to say it’s time for policy and strategy not ‘populism.’ God, I hate that word.”

“How do you know?”

She looked at me as if I were a simpleton. “I don’t know when it’s going to be published but I know it’s soon, probably Sunday. Tell her after I leave. If you get away before 1, come round to my place. When you tell her, have your phone in your hand.” She stubbed out her cigarette and wandered back into the house. The phone was a good idea, Tenant would assume someone had called me.

Later, I asked Sylvia if I could have a word. When she heard my news she did what all class acts do when they hear bad news: nothing. She looked at me, didn’t ask how I knew or who had told me.

“What do you think – is it true?

“Cavendish is posh home, posh school, posh university and he hates that you’re number one. His background makes him feel entitled.”

“That’s a bit of inverted snobbery?”

“Maybe but it’s also true. He seethed when you won.”

“Of course he did, so did lots of others. Oh well, what do we do?”

I’d had time to think this through. “Let me leak that you’re thinking of a Cabinet reshuffle. You feel talented people in senior positions could perhaps be better placed in other departments that were in need of firmer management. None of this would be demotion but would recognise that talent needs to go where needed, not simply be rewarded with high office.”

Tenant grinned. “You’re getting more devious by the day.”

“I’m learning.”

Nodding, she poured us both a large whisky. “Suppose you ‘leak’ it to the wrong paper.

“I’m going to leak it to two.”

“Sometimes, Sam, I wish you were a man.” We both laughed.

The leak was a fabulous success, though I say so myself. There was no publication by Cavendish and the press covered the matter of spreading talent as if it was a great idea. Libby later told me she’d learned that the paper he’d chosen was the one that actually wrote, “People of real talent, like Adrian Cavendish, are sometimes wasted in posts like his. In their departments, the real work is done by junior ministers and officials. They tend to spend more of their time either helping or hindering their Prime Minister. In Cavendish’s case, it is the former and he would no doubt share her view that less glamorous departments need stronger leadership to fight their corner and maximise the government’s success.”

So, he’d obviously told the editor what line to take. Good.

Libby had revealed that snippet to me in bed. We’d just spent an evening in her flat. She had taken me about three minutes after we had finished a light supper of steamed Sea Bass with a gloriously crisp, white Rioja.

Libby had taken my hand and led me to her bedroom. She undressed me slowly, taking in every inch of me as she revealed it. Hands moved over me, unbuttoning, unzipping, unclipping until I was naked and she stood behind me as we faced a long mirror. Her mouth was at my neck, her right arm across my body, the hand between my legs. I could see her finger entering me. Her left hand was behind me, I couldn’t feel it but I could feel her finger joining the other in my cunt.

My head fell back onto her shoulder but she hissed, “Watch.”

And watch I did as she stroked inside me and kissed and bit my neck. I was close in no time so she stopped. I muttered, “Bitch,” and she grinned at me in the mirror and led me hastily to the bed.