Accidental Prime Minister Lucy Wastell idly kicked the leg of her chair whilst resting a sulky chin in her hands, propped up by elbows on the enormous desk that dominated her private office. She was moping because her most senior Cabinet members and advisers were at that very moment holding a press conference, from which she was excluded. Apparently, her last performance to the press was not quite as proficient as it could have been and with the future of the country at stake, she had been confined to Number Ten. Lucy tried to explain that she had a heavy cold last time, but it was difficult to ignore the fact that her previous speech had resulted in the effective drugging of the whole of East Anglia, not to mention unintentionally killing off the star of 90’s TV show Campion, Peter Davidson.
Only Cabinet Secretary Sir Edd Evans-Morley had seemed keen for her to take the stage, but he was quickly shouted down by Wing Commander Tom, who was already riled at not being allowed to shoot anyone. Sir Edd was not usually of a disposition to sulk, but today he was moping like a trooper, locked in his own office just along the corridor from the Prime Minister’s.
Rather worryingly, this left the Cabinet without its usual guiding hand of reason and it would fall to Wing Commander Tom to suppress the more imaginative intentions that ministers deemed to be feasible in these circumstances. Not to mention the bombastic enthusiasm of Boris, King of Oxford, who had set himself up as the main spokesman for the Government – despite not being a member of the Cabinet, nor even on the same side as the Government, with whom his kingdom was still technically at war.
Lucy could’t help but feel somewhat miffed that this was considered the safer option, but given Boris’ experience of handling political calamities (and handling other things he shouldn’t), perhaps it really was best to leave it to him. In fairness, he and Nigel Farage had done a cracking job of exposing the scandal of the peace treaty – even if it had meant recreating the whole sorry episode in the presence of a photographer and semi-professional film crew. Nigel, in particular, had gone to great lengths to ensure that it was a production of some quality – even going as far as to order in specialist lighting and some attractive drapes, as well as finding the time to get himself a spray tan. Boris considered himself beyond physical improvement, but did put on his extra large crown for the occasion.
In fact, Nigel had been making himself incredibly useful just recently. His cinematic enthusiasms were one thing, but his fervour for the arrangements of the formalisation of the peace treaty were quite another. Lucy had noted with some concern that the event appeared to be turning into something akin to a royal wedding, with Nigel as the archetypal frenzied mother-of-the-bride – forever adding to his list of ‘essentials’ and each concept and demand becoming more opulent than the last. The whole thing was only supposed to distract from the fact that Tony Blair had been murdered in the kitchen of Number Ten, but Nigel had insisted that it had to look authentic. There was even talk that she and Boris might have co-ordinating outfits, designed by Mr Farage himself.
There was a knock at the door. Lucy sighed.
“Go away,” she called out.
The door opened anyway and Wing Commander Tom poked his head into the office.
“Are you still not speaking to me?” he asked, tentatively. Lucy sighed again.
“I’m talking to you again,” she huffed. She couldn’t stay angry at Tom. He was the most handsome man in Cambridge, after all.
Tom smiled and scooted through the door, although Lucy was troubled to see that he was carrying a gun. She raised her hands in surrender, just in case this was a coup of some sort. Tom furrowed his brow, before noticing his drawn weapon, seemingly for the first time.
“Oh, this? Don’t worry,” he said. “This is the gun the press found in the bushes. The conference was a complete success. The media is now agog at the revelation of the peace treaty and Boris has provided them with enough salacious particulars to trouble the front pages for some time yet.”
“Oh, that is… good news,” Lucy replied, with some uncertainty.
“Yes it is,” nodded Tom. “It means I can get on with my interrogations. Would you care to join me?”
Lucy considered this to be the perfect diversion.
“Certainly. Who’s up next?”
Despite his fedora covering his face almost entirely, it was possible to detect a wry smile from the Wing Commander.
“Our good friend, the Cabinet Secretary,” he purred. “I believe Sir Edd is in his office. Shall we?”