INSIDE WESTMINSTER: TALES OF HUBRIS AND BETRAYAL
3
DANGEROUS LIAISONS
'We'll become stale news and fade from the headlines,' said Mandy in a post-coital spliff-scented fug.
At least Potty's noxious farts were masked, though forever she'd associate sex with the musky, pheromone scent of weed.
'I've always worked on the opposite; stay in the headlines at all cost. I mean look at Trump. Love him or hate him, he'll win by a landslide in 2020.'
'Oh well, politics is such a fickle mistress,' Mandy purred, not really having a clue about anything at all. But what was new?
General knowledge had never been her speciality, this, in a household whose favourite programme was University Challenge. Angelica had had such high hopes for her girls: the right schools had ensured a suitably august circle of friends, first the Camillas and Clemmies (no Traceys or Sharons allowed) for tea, then the Byrons and Hectors partnering the girls at local tennis tournaments (yes, the expensive tennis coaching would come in handy she had assured Geoffrey); the research into which unis had the least number of females on their daughters' chosen courses (history of art for big sister and politics for Mandy); internships secured through Geoffrey's contacts putting the girls in the way of eligible-hopefully wealthy-city types. And then, bingo, showy weddings, honeymoons in the Maldives and endless bragging to her circle of friends. Angelica's mind had raced.
But no longer. She couldn't venture out for fear of the paparazzi and, worse than that, her supposed friends who now spoke only in a 'dear Mandy, is everything alright?' sort of way.
Boy, Angelica felt they were all crowing at her discomfiture and wished beyond anything else that this boot were soundly planted on someone else's foot. She cringed at how she had gossiped with Celia about Henrietta's divorce.
'Well, she was partly to blame,' was everyone's joint conclusion. 'After all, she'd chosen to let herself go, so who could blame James if he had found a younger, tidier version. No one considered the fact that her daughter had been born with significant 'issues'.
Life was biting back, and hard.
'I've got to make some punchy speeches, show 'em who's not scared of those European bureacrats. I know, attacking the immigration issue always grabs headlines,' Potty pondered.
Potty decided subtlety was not going to wash at this late stage and had always associated all Muslim women with that black stealth bomber gear.
'I know. I'll gently prod the public into thinking long and hard about having all those crow-like women-who could be men out to plant a bomb-flapping about our cities and towns.'
His speech was written in haste and with little care for sophistication as he had to write his newspaper columns too-bills were piling up and a politician's salary just didn't cut it.
Anyway, he'd promised to treat Mandy as she'd been such a brick during this difficult time. Would it look too bad if he and Mandy jetted off somewhere? He could give his security the slip and they could go separately so no one would be any the wiser.
He just couldn't get enough of Mandy and she certainly never refused his advances. Indeed, she had a unique way of urging him on, getting him to perform the most extraordinary feats. He felt quite proud of himself.
Surely he could be called 'bear' or 'lion' and not the 'skunk' that some of the press had taken to calling him.
'Life's just not fair.' Potty felt that he was sorely misunderstood; none of this was his fault. Ever the optimist, he started typing his next speech.
'…looking like a weird mix of letter-boxes and crows…' his English master would have been so proud of his use of metaphor-or was it simile?