The Captain and the Prime Minister Read online

  “You asked for this, Madeleine Hart,” Alex announced, tickling his daughter’s foot. “Blame your nanny and your twin brother!”

  Madeleine squealed with laughter and Tom went on tickling Alex’s foot, moving up to his ankle.

  It’s all innocent fun!

  Isn’t it?

  “Stop!” Alex howled, “I’m going to pass a law against tickling, I’m allowed to!”

  “Fighting talk from the honourable member!” Tom laughed. Then laughed even harder, silently, at his unfortunate choice of words. Honourable member? Really?

  “Are you about to mention mice again?” Alex succeeded in pulling his leg free of Tom’s grasp and went for an easy win, asking, “Who wants breakfast?”

  The twins cheered, the lure of food proving as irresistible as ever.

  “Breakfast, then.” Tom threw aside the duvet and sat up. He yawned as he ran his hand back through his untidy hair. And there against the pillows, blinking up at him, was the most powerful man in England. And probably the most ticklish. His eyes looked bluer than ever, though Tom reminded himself that he mustn’t think it.

  Better to think about breakfast instead.

  Billy the cat ran ahead of them as they went to the kitchen, and Tom gathered the cereal and toast, leaving the marshalling of the kids to Alex.

  “Tea or coffee?” Tom asked.

  With a child in either arm and pausing in the middle of a spirited discussion on Alastair’s toy duck, Alex decided on tea. He settled Madeleine on the cushion that allowed her to feel as grown up at the table as she believed she should, then placed Alastair carefully on his too. Phase one of breakfast was complete, at least.

  Tom timed everything so that the kettle and toaster were on while he poured juice for the twins. He left the milk and cereal on the table with the twins’ plastic bowls for Alex, knowing how much joy he took in looking after his children.

  “So, mini-Harts, what are you up to today?” Alex asked the children as he poured cereal into the bowls. “Not drawing on Tom’s shoes, I hope?”

  “We’re going to school,” Alastair told him with the air of a grown-up. It wasn’t the voice of someone who drew on other people’s trainers.

  “Only until lunchtime,” their father pointed out. “Plenty of time for mischief this afternoon.”

  Alastair grinned at Tom through a mouthful of cereal.

  “Although I know you and your sister want me to think that you’re never anything but angels”—Alex joined Tom at the worktop—“but I’m not so sure.”

  “I was an angel in the Christmas play,” Madeleine supplied.

  “And I was a shepherd,” Alastair added. “With a tea towel for a hat.”

  And they’d looked so cute that Tom had sat there with tears in his eyes.

  “Loose leaf or tea bag?” Tom asked as the kettle reached its boil.

  “Loose leaf, just don’t tell the Mail.” Alex leaned back against the worktop, watching his children. “When I was at school, I was—”

  “The innkeeper,” the twins chorused as one, having heard the story before. Alex sighed theatrically and looked at Tom.

  “I bet you were Joseph?” He narrowed his eyes. “What do you think, kids? Joseph?”

  “A sheep,” was Alastair’s considered opinion.

  “Mary,” Madeleine replied.

  Tom opened a cupboard door and stuck his head inside, trying to hide his laughter.

  Once he had composed himself, Tom emerged and said, “I was a king. Then a shepherd. Then—because they got in a young, trendy teacher—I was a devil from Pandora’s Box. Because what says Christmas better than a gang of seven-year-olds in red leotards?”

  “Blame whoever was prime minister at the time.” Alex grinned. “That usually works—because I can be sure that it wasn’t me!”

  Tom made the tea and brought the toast and butter to the table. “What’s lined up for you today, Alex?”

  “Well, Tom, you are going to wish you were me, because I have a meeting this morning with Gregory-not-Greg, who feels that my harebrained happy-clappy save the children scheme, as he charmingly put it in an email, is deliberately designed to tank his budget.” Alex picked up his cup of tea. “How jealous are you of me right now?”

  “More jealous than you can know!” Tom laughed. “It really comes to something when your own chancellor isn’t behind you. Would he like to reinstate workhouses and oakum picking?”

  “It’d be just like his schooldays.” Alex laughed. “He’d love it!”

  “Gregory doesn’t like Billy,” Madeleine told them. “He shouted at her.”

  Billy at that moment was on her hind legs, stretching up to Madeleine for a fuss. Tom swooped in and collected up the cat.

  “I bet Billy didn’t care,” Alex assured them. He reached out and scratched the cat behind her ears. “She told him to catch his own mice from now on!”

  “If he opens up his briefcase on Budget Day and finds a mouse staring back at him, it’s his own fault!” Tom stuck his front teeth out over his lower lip and squeaked for the benefit of the children and Billy swiped him across the nose.

  “Good!” Alastair nodded, satisfied with that possible outcome. “He’s a grump.”

  Alex gave Tom a look that seemed to say, yes he is, but he told his son, “Happily, you’ll be having a good time at school, so you won’t have to see him. And Billy’ll be waiting for her treat when you get home.”

  Madeleine laid down her spoon and asked, “When are we seeing Nana and Grandpa?”

  “Tomorrow,” Alex told them. “Sleepover weekend for mini-Harts. And Tom will probably go to bed and stay there until Sunday afternoon!”

  The thought of staying in bed all weekend was a welcome one, but Tom wished his mind wouldn’t show him the image of Alex, with tousled hair and freshly awake, that he’d seen that morning.

  You can’t have a crush on your straight boss, idiot.

  “I’m going to draw lots and lots of pictures for them,” Madeleine announced.

  “I’ll pack your crayons,” Tom said as he put Billy down on the floor.

  “For trainers?” Alastair asked, as mischievous as his father could be when the mood took him.

  “No drawing on anything that isn’t your drawing book this weekend,” Alex instructed. “And Nana’s going to fill you with chocolate, don’t think I don’t know!”

  The twins giggled as if sharing a hilarious personal secret.

  “I wish Nana and Grandpa lived here too,” Madeleine said.

  “It might be a squeeze!” Tom started to round up the twins’ school bags.

  “They can sleep in your bed,” Alastair suggested. “And you can sleep in Daddy’s.”

  “And where would Daddy sleep?” asked Alex.

  Madeleine rolled her eyes as if the answer was all too obvious. “In your bed, silly—with Tom.”

  Tom dropped one of the satchels and crouched on the floor, trying to gather its scattered contents. Madeleine was only little, she was thinking of friends having sleepovers, not—not—

  Get a grip, Tom. And get a bloody boyfriend.

  “Poor old Tom.” Alex laughed, a faint flush of embarrassment coloring his cheeks. “Come on, let’s get you two dressed and ready for school so I can get dressed and off to work.”

  Tom put the spilled notebooks on the table and sorted them between the two satchels. “Do you want to get off to work, Alex? I’ll get the twins sorted if you like.”

  “It won’t kill number 10 to wait,” was the answer as Alex shepherded the children from the kitchen, his bare feet padding onto the hallway carpet. Tom wondered if he was right to sense a certain wind prevailing as the last year of Alex’s term rolled round, but perhaps it was just what every prime minister went through. There was no way he wouldn’t run again, no matter how frustrated he claimed to be with some of the more arcane bits of the job. And if he ran, he’d win, and they’d all be here for five more years, above the shop, as his employer termed it.

 
Next to the shop, really, but that’s not as catchy.

  Billy was miaowing to be let out, so Tom went to the front door and opened it. He could hear movement elsewhere in the building—the staff who came in early were already working. So was Tom.

  Billy looked up at him, plainly changing her mind, but just as he began to close the door, she darted out.

  Moments later, somewhere in the building, he heard the frustrated tones of Gregory-not-Greg.

  “That bloody cat! If I end up with hair on another of my suits, I’ll personally turn that fleabag into a hat!”

  We live above somebody else’s shop.

  From the bedroom that the twins shared, Tom could hear the voices of the Hart family, where Alastair had joined his sister’s call to arms for a change in the sleeping arrangements. At this point it sounded as though an elaborate system of tents was being brought into play to suit all the grandparents and even Tom’s mum and dad, but central to it was the point that ‘you and Tom have the big bed’.

  If only.

  Tom got himself ready, then prepared the twins’ snack boxes and water bottles for their morning of school. He still remembered them as babies—still remembered being introduced to them as two blurred shapes on a prenatal scan. And now they were little people, heading off into the world.

  “Right, Captain, two mini-Harts all shipshape.” Alex herded the children into the kitchen, fussing with Madeleine’s ponytail ribbon even as she tried to do it herself. “Five minutes for me to jump in shower and throw on a suit and I’ll come down with you, if that’s okay?”

  Down the stairs and through the connecting door that the twins were still convinced led to Narnia, even if number 10 was all that lay beyond it. Narnia’s a better choice.

  Chapter Three

  Tom was in the middle of the ironing when his phone rang. He guessed who it was before the name on the screen confirmed it.

  Stuart.

  Who he didn’t really want to talk to. But he couldn’t ignore an old friend, so he answered the call.

  “Erm…Stuart? I’m just doing the ironing.” Scintillating information.

  There was a long silence, then Stuart said, “God, I’ve missed that voice. You’ve got no idea how much.”

  Tom stared down at the half-ironed school gymslip in front of him. He wasn’t sure what to say to that, because he couldn’t respond in kind.

  “My voice?” Tom laughed awkwardly. “So you didn’t save that voicemail of me asking if I’d left my spotty socks at yours?”

  “I’ve been thinking about you a lot, Tom. I knew I had to call as soon as I got back to London. So here I am. Calling.”

  “What were you thinking?” Tom hadn’t thought about him for ages. “Is he still polishing the PM’s shoes?”

  Stuart laughed too and admitted, “I saw him on TV yesterday. Still jealous of the old bugger for stealing you!” And his laughter went on, but it sounded like a hell of an effort.

  “Steal me?” I wish. “Alex Hart is very, very straight. Handsome—but very, very straight. He really gave the opposition what for yesterday, didn’t he? He’s such an excellent PM.”

  “So…has he let you have a boyfriend?” Stuart asked, as though he hadn’t been the one to dump Tom. By text. From the airport as he waited for a plane to Barcelona. “Still got you chained to the kitchen sink?”

  Tom had seen someone after Stuart had dumped him, but it had barely lasted a fortnight. There’d been the odd date here and there, the odd kiss and brief liaison, but Stuart was the longest relationship Tom had ever had.

  “I’m not a Victorian servant, Stuart. Alex isn’t, like, I simply won’t have a maid who has a follower! I can have boyfriends if I want to, just as anyone else can.”

  And you dumped me. You dumped me as I was trying to deal with the death of my employer and friend, who had left two infant children and a grieving widower behind.

  “When we split up… Look, dude, I’m not proud of how it all went tits, you know, but it wasn’t all— I’ve changed a lot in Barcelona.” Stuart chuckled. “And I don’t just mean my tan and the amount I’m benching!”

  Tom wondered if Stuart could hear him roll his eyes. “Well, it’s nice to hear from you. Glad you’re okay.”

  “You don’t want to know my gym regime, I get it,” Stuart assured him. “I was wondering though… I’ve done a lot of thinking since I got into yoga. I teach now, you know, got a studio up west, client list from here to Notting Hill, you should see some of the gu— Yoga’s given me a center, T-bird. And it’s made me realize what’s important. And yeah, I can bench three hundred, but does that matter? No. What matters is what my spirit can bench, and my spirit’s pulling with some serious Zen shit now. And I want to make us right, you and me.”

  “Okay…” Tom drummed his fingers on the ironing board as he thought over Stuart’s words. Their failed relationship had always felt like unfinished business, and maybe it would be healthy for them to meet. Maybe, if Stuart really had changed—maybe they could date. And maybe then Tom could get over his hopeless crush on Alex. “We could meet up. You know where I live. Soho’s good, or Southbank.”

  “Sweet, nice one,” Stuart said. There was a moment of silence and an echoing voice as though he had cupped his hand over the microphone, then he spoke again. “I’m just getting settled into my new place and I’ll bell you, yeah? Old soldiers gotta stick together. Maybe make it this weekend?”

  Something squeezed inside Tom’s chest. A warning, was it? A soldier’s instinct? Should he just say no? But it was too late now. And he could walk away—after all, hadn’t Stuart?

  “Yeah, this weekend’s good. Give me a ring.”

  “Got it, throw the PM a how do from me, yeah? Catch you this weekend, Captain!”

  “Will do!” Tom wasn’t sure Alex would be impressed to know that Stuart had reappeared, bearing in mind the choice words he’d aired after Stuart had left. But what if he’d changed? People could. Tom always hoped that people could. “See you soon. Bye!”

  Tom ended the call.

  What the hell have I just done?

  Chapter Four

  Tom had never done yoga, so perhaps it really could work wonders for Stuart, a man who never seemed to take a moment to breathe. He was all about the experience, about being one of the men in shorts dancing in cages, about being pumped and wild and ready for anything. It wasn’t his fault, he wasn’t wrong—he just lived life in a different lane from Tom. And making room for grieving families and grizzling babies hadn’t been something Stuart was ready for, so he’d left.

  And now he was back.

  And Zen, apparently.

  Barcelona must be quite a place.

  Stuart was in Tom’s thoughts as he was ferried to the twins’ school to collect them. He wondered what they’d think of having an Uncle Stuart, if Stuart’s newfound Zen would allow him to accept the twins in his life when he hadn’t been able to before.

  Give the bloke a chance, Tom decided.

  After lunch at home, the twins had a nap, then they were up again, re-energized from their exhausting morning with cartoons on the television while they ran between the lounge, the kitchen and the playroom. What a contrast to Alex’s turgid meeting with Gregory about the speech that afternoon, which would see Alex visit an East End school to discuss the policies that were so dear to his heart. Meetings with Gregory were always long, Tom knew, and they could suck the enthusiasm out of even the most cheery man, yet Alex was more than a match for his colleague. And tonight there would be no chancellor, just Alex and Tom shutting out the world to share a pizza.

  Then his phone buzzed. This time, though, it wasn’t Stuart with a bench-press update or a report on his current Zen-like state—it was Alex.

  Speech a hit AND have cupcakes for us all. Home by 6.30, told them no exceptions.

  Tom smiled as he typed his reply.

  Then you truly are the best boss ever!

  Two minutes later his phone buzzed again.

  I migh
t even let you have two cupcakes for that.

  Tom replied, And can I lick yours? But he deleted that before he sent it.

  How would the world have changed if he had sent that? Well, he’d probably be in for an awkward night and a swift job hunt, for one.

  See, Tom typed, you *are* the best boss ever!

  “Tom.” Alastair was at his side. “Can we get the paints out?”

  Tom put the phone in the back pocket of his jeans. “Yes, of course! On the table or on the floor?”

  “Table or floor?” he bellowed to his sister. “Paints!”

  “Paints!” Madeleine came charging in as if she had been fired from a cannon, arms wide, hair wild, one slipper on, the other who knew where. “Floor!” she yelled, holding the word for as long as she could until she ran out of puff.

  Then she flung herself down onto the floor, in case anyone had misheard.

  “Floor!” her brother announced, dropping down beside her. “A picture for Nana and Grandpa!”

  Tom hurried to get the plastic sheeting out and the old rolls of wallpaper that the twins drew and painted on. He managed to get them into their aprons and poured them out a palette of paint each.

  “There you go!” Tom sat cross-legged beside them as they set to work. How proud Gill would be to see them, happy and filled with life and joy. And in a way, she was still here, each birthday bringing a new card for the children she had left behind, and teary smiles from the twins in return.

  Even though they had different paintbrushes and paints, they were working on the same picture—Billy the cat, standing in vivid green grass. They rolled the paper out farther and added people now. A man with a red face, who Madeleine pointed out was Gregory, glared at the cat, who was three times bigger than him. Alastair dabbed a small mouse that sat on top of the cat’s head, holding a splodge of yellow cheese, its whiskers given a flamboyant curl.

  Very avant-garde.

  Tom topped up the paint and wiped their faces when things got too messy, but there was something very calming about watching them work with so much focus and concentration. And it didn’t hurt knowing that Alex would be home soon. Not as early as his boss liked to be home, perhaps, but still early. He felt giddy as a man with a date.