When she couldn't put it off any longer, Nicola entered the PFI building and made the slow ascent to her office via the staircase in the atrium of the building. Today was going to be a nightmare. Her stomach churned.

She didn't know how things could have gone so wrong so suddenly during the BBC filming last night. Why did she stumble on the cabbie's name at the end, when she'd done fine with it throughout? Why did she have to add "just a cabbie" to her carefully scripted and practised wrap up? Jesus, why?

And the cabbie totally overreacted. In hindsight, she almost felt as if he came in with an agenda and looked for an opportunity to move it forward. And how could she have known there was such an issue with the license renewal process? That wasn't DoSAC work, that was Transpo's fuckup.

Sure enough, Malcolm was waiting in her office, texting on his Blackberry. She braced herself for the explosion. He looked up at her as he set down his Blackberry, but didn't say anything. Finally, Nicola crossed to her desk, stowing her handbag and hanging her coat on the back of her chair.

"Just go ahead and say it, Malcolm!"

Malcolm stifled a cough. "No, I want to hear you say it, Nicola."

"Okay, fine! I fucked up. But I only fucked up a little. It isn't my fault Tom isn't getting the job done in Transpo. That cabbie was just looking for a way to get that out there. The union probably put him up to it. What was I supposed to do?"

"First of all, stick to the script. What did I tell you when you first became a minister? Know the lines. Stick to the lines. Do not stray from the fucking lines."

Malcolm rubbed his eyes. Nicola noticed how tired he looked. In fact, he looked a mess, like he'd been up all night, or maybe was coming down with something. Maybe that's why this bollocking wasn't as loud as she expected. Good. Maybe he has flu and will be out a while, she fantasized.

"Yesterday, I asked you if you were prepared and you said yes. You said you'd been working with Ollie and you knew the fucking lines."

"And that's true, I did."

"Then why did you go off script?"

Nicola had no answer.

"How did this happen?"

Nicola didn't have an answer to that, either. Malcolm stared at her, expectantly. Nicola felt her throat constrict and her eyes start to well up. No, she commanded herself, You will not cry in front of this bastard. Her chin wobbled a little, but she was able to master herself before responding.

"I don't know what to tell you, Malcolm. I am human. I slipped up. Things were going well, and maybe I lost my focus. It won't happen again."

Malcolm stood. "Let's hope not. You're in a hole now, Nicola, right in the middle of Reshuffle, and I don't know if we can dig you out."

"So, what happens next? How do we dig me out?" Nicola felt relieved that the bollocking was over and they were moving on to the solution part.

"I'm going to get with Reeder now. He's going to see his fucking life pass before his eyes. Then, he and I are going to draft your apology. Jamie's managed to get you air time with George tomorrow on the BBC. He's working with Coverly on your schedule."

Malcolm headed for the door, but grasped the doorframe and turned before heading out. Nicola's stomach dropped when she saw the depth of his disappointment in her. As much as she hated the bastard, she still wanted his respect more than almost anything.

"You got lucky, Nicola. The big issue is with Transpo, and that's where the press will focus. You can't count on that happening again. From now on, with the exception of this apology, I am restricting your press appearances to time delay only. No live broadcasts. We can't risk it. Check with Coverly on your broadcast time. Ollie will work with you once we've drafted your apology."

Malcolm left her office and Nicola leaned back in her chair, suddenly aware of how tense she was. She took a few deep breaths to compose herself before picking up the phone to call Terri in to find out more about the arrangements.

A car horn honked, warning him out of the road. Malcolm stepped back to the curb, pulling his eyes away from his Blackberry, on which he was having a text exchange with Jamie.

He was making his way back to Number Ten from the PFI building, having just finished up with Ollie, who barely survived the bollocking he so richly deserved, and who managed to suck it up and work with Malcolm to craft a reasonably elegant apology for Nicola.

Malcolm decided that texting and walking was a mite too hazardous, found a bench, and plopped down to finish the exchange. Reconsidering, he dialed Jamie, who, as usual, picked up right away.

"I was about to call you," Jamie said.

"Texting is easier when I'm riding back to Number Ten in a car from the service." Malcolm coughed and cleared his throat before continuing. "So, What do you have for me on Ray Hartford?"

"A draft of his address for the Doctors without Borders thing."

"How is it?"

"Pretty bland. Can't say I see anything useful in it." Malcolm grinned. He and Jamie seemed to enjoy a low-key psychic connection. The beautiful thing about Jamie was that he didn't need things spelled out for him.

"Go ahead and send it over. Could be we can spice it up a little. Wouldn't want him putting his audience to sleep, given what they're paying to attend."

"It's on its way. The event is day after tomorrow. If you can get me your revisions first thing tomorrow, I will see that they get into the final version."

"Thanks, Jamie. Now, what's the latest on Mr. Kazys and the sodding LTDA?"

"They want a public apology from Nicola,"

"Apology is drafted and Reeder is working with Murray."

"BBC airtime is 16:00 tomorrow. Will she be ready?"

"I'll have Sam schedule Nicola and her team for some practise time with me. I can't leave this up to Ollie."

"How did it go with Tom last night?"

Malcolm coughed a little more and cleared his throat again. He felt like he would kill for a coffee or tea right now. "Rough. He's not buttoned up at all. Nowhere near solving the renewal delays. I worked with him to write a statement last night and handed him off to Nick to get ready. The press conference is in two hours."

"Do you want me there?"

Malcolm found himself suddenly choked up. His eyes burned. Shit, he was tired.

"Could you? I'd go, but I'm meeting with the PM at 14:00. This whole transpo thing really threw a spanner in. And cabinet is tomorrow. I need to be ready with a few things – it's the last one before reshuffle."

"Consider Transpo off your plate, Malc, you've got enough to get on with. And try to get some rest somehow. You sound like shit."

"Nothing a giant coffee won't help. Thanks, Jamie. Talk later." Malcolm disconnected. He had to work to gather the energy to lever himself up from the bench and walk back to Number Ten.

Sam saw Malcolm enter his office from the back hallway, working busily on his Blackberry. She knew he had a meeting with the PM in ten minutes and would bet this week's wages Malcolm had not had lunch. Prepared for that eventuality, she entered his office bearing a nice ham and cheese croissant, sliced into four pieces for easy and quick consumption.

He stood at his desk, pawing through a file folder, likely reviewing his notes to prep for his meeting. He did not look up when Sam entered, but gave her a distracted smile and peck on the cheek.

"Thanks, Luv."

"Do you need anything before your meeting, Malc?"

"Could you set up a meeting with Nicola Murray for first thing tomorrow, here? And invite Terri Coverly, Oliver Reeder and Glen Cullen."

"Meeting subject?" Sam asked.

"Prepare for BBC."

"Got it – thanks."

"Is there any coffee?"

"No, but I'll fix some. You look shattered, Malc. Do you think you'll make it home tonight?"

Malcolm surpressed a cough into his sleeve. Sam couldn't help but notice he sounded more congested than yesterday.

"I hope to, Sam, but I might need to stay late again getting ready for the cabinet meeting."

Sam went to make coffee. Malcolm met her at the door as he headed out for his meeting, folder under one arm. She gave him his coffee and he thanked her again as he headed for the PM's office.

When she popped into Malcolm's office a little later to put the mail on his desk, she saw he'd had two bites of his sandwich. She wrapped it and put it in the fridge.

18:00

SAM: Jamie, I'm heading out. Are you still here?

JAMIE: I'm leaving Transpo, OTW to #10.

SAM: M is with PM. Not sure when they WB done. Could you bring M takeaway?

JAMIE: Sure. What should I get?

SAM: Not sandwich. Maybe Indian?

JAMIE: Cinnamon Club!

SAM: Thx!

Jamie disconnected his call with The Cinnamon Club with a powerful appetite for curry and headed to Number Ten on foot from Transpo. Though he'd planned on catching the tube home, Sam's text seemed a little dire. He worried that Malcolm was letting himself go in the heat of reshuffle and the Transpo/DoSAC debacle.

It was also possible that over dinner Malcolm might share information about reshuffle. While Jamie was as curious as anyone on the communications team, he was more interested in Malcolm's role in the process. The surly bastard was the best strategic thinker Jamie had ever known, and perhaps the best communications director there ever was. Over the past few years, Jamie strove to make himself an unofficial apprentice to the bastard and had come to think of Malcolm as a mentor or even a father figure.

Thus, it pained him to see Malcolm push himself so hard. Jamie hoped bringing takeaway from Malcolm's favourite Indian restaurant would be a bright spot in his day. Jamie couldn't stay long – he had to get home at a reasonable hour for his wife and kids, but at least he could check in and see how things were going.

The timing couldn't have worked out better. The delivery had just arrived and Jamie was arranging the bags on Malcolm's side table when the man himself bustled in, folders under one arm and balancing his laptop in one hand and a Fanta in the other.

The older man set his laptop on the desk and locked the folders in a drawer, scenting the air.

"You didn't!"

"I did. Happy birthday a day late, by the way."

"Cinnamon Club?"

"Yes indeed. Come over here and eat, you look like you're wasting away, Malc."

And he did, Jamie thought. His clothes were hanging on him. Of course, no one looks good after an all-nighter followed by another very long day.

"Did Sam put you up to this?"

"She texted me when she headed out about an hour ago. Seems she was worried about your ability to feed yourself."

"Mother hen. I'm useless without her."

Together they sorted through the bags and containers, assembling their plates. Malcolm loved spicy food, especially Cinnamon Club's curry.

"I've been with the PM so haven't heard any news. How did it go with Tom's statement?" Malcolm asked, sitting across from Jamie at the boardroom-style table at the back of Malcolm's office where they had their morning comms meetings.

"Fairly well, considering he basically said there is no news and he is monitoring the situation with the renewal delays. A little shaky on the delivery, but stuck to the script. I had to reel him in a little on the Q and A."

"Good work. Thanks again for covering it."

"Happy to help. How did it go with Nicola this morning?"

"Fuck if I know. She's convinced it was all a cabbie's union conspiracy to wrong-foot her. Ollie got a talking to. Irresponsible prat. He did okay on the apology statement though. The whole DoSAC team is coming here tomorrow to practise."

"Do you think she'll make it through reshuffle?" Malcolm coughed and cast his eyes down briefly. Jamie surmised he was either preparing to lie or preparing to tell him he couldn't talk about reshuffle.

"It's just too soon. She's only been in office for six months. How's it going to look if she's binned this early? Sometimes, you've got to prop up the weak ones and eventually they will either sink or swim. Yes?" Malcolm coughed again and cleared his throat, taking a sip of Fanta.

"Curry getting to you?" Jamie asked.

"No, DoSAC is getting to me. Let's talk about something else." Malcolm stirred his food around, but seemed to be done eating for the moment.

Jamie left for home half an hour later, still worried about his boss.

Having an advance copy of Ray Hartford's speech was a value-add. Malcolm mentally thanked Jamie again. He inserted a few subtle phrases lifted directly from the man's comments in earlier communications that would reinforce the perception that Hartford was out of step with the international community and unfit for the Minister of International Affairs role. It wasn't too hard a stretch, really. Malcolm did not invent any words; the additions were straight from the horse's mouth, so to speak.

Hartford had demonstrated time and again that he truly wasn't the right person to advance the UK's interests. It's just that no one was really paying attention at the time except for Malcolm. With more focus on personal gain than in the longer-range goals on the Labour party, Hartford had to go. When Malcolm was through, he hoped that Ray would be more than happy to take a seat on the back bench, or perhaps retire.

Dan Miller, on the other hand, was a man whose time was fast approaching. Young and not yet jaded by the attraction of power and prestige, Miller's humble and straightforward approach to politics stood to build stronger ties with England's allies and developing nations. Over the past three years, Malcolm had implemented a covert succession plan for Miller and a handful of other up and coming plebes in the party. Thanks to Malcolm's behind-the-scenes manipulations, Miller had already gained experience in civil and municipal domestic affairs, treasury, defense and now was ready to get foreign affairs under his belt. This careful grooming would hopefully result in a well-rounded PM candidate for the next election.

Malcolm spent most of the night revising the PM's update to the press about the reshuffle and working on his spreadsheet and preparing for the cabinet meeting. The three things really went hand-in hand, and he found himself batting back and forth between the PM's press update and the spreadsheet while planning his approach to shake a few ministerial trees during cabinet.

The tricky part was the timing. The PM was set to give his address at 10 in the morning, and cabinet was at noon. Malcolm sincerely hoped that his approach in the cabinet meeting would put the nail in the coffin on the idea of Ray Hartford continuing as International Affairs Minister and add credibility to Dan Miller.

Malcolm didn't want to risk the appearance of the PM saying one thing in his update and then back-pedaling later due to the upheavals in cabinet. That meant the address needed to be vague and somewhat monotone lest the analysts dissect it after the broadcast and determine the PM's personal leanings. This work took precision and a sharp mind, and Malcolm was having difficulty summoning either of those things. Fuck, he was tired.

On top of it all, he was definitely sick. Not just a little sick, either. He felt like Fat Pat was sitting on his chest. Every time he coughed it felt like knives were stabbing him in the ribs. Once he started coughing he couldn't stop. He'd used up his inhaler trying to clear things up and he still had to work hard to breathe. Everything hurt – his throat, his head, all of his joints. He'd ransacked Sam's desk but didn't find any paracetamol. She was going to be pissed in the morning – because he made a mess of her desk, but also because he'd gone and gotten sick.

At 5 AM He sent the final version of the PM's press update to Julius. He considered lying down for an hour but was worried that he wouldn't be able to get back up, or would be so out of it that he'd be useless. He just needed to make it through the Nicola meeting and then the cabinet meeting at noon. He'd be done with what he needed to do at cabinet by 14:00 at the latest and could step out early to go home and collapse. He just had to power through a few more hours.