“Nothing to see here. Yes, ah no. Look, the Minister enjoys the full confidence of her cabinet colleagues. Pardon? No that is ridiculous! Expert advice is directing the roadmap, …”
My phone vibrates. I looked across at the PM, lifting the phone to my ear. I purposely turn, and walk through the doors, into the building. Steady, don’t run! I turn left, along the corridor and into the loos. I choose the furthest cubicle and sit. Do not start to cry! Stop it. Control!
That bloody bastard. He just threw me under a whole shitload of buses. That fucking … I feel my lower lip start to tremble. Stop it!
A click, someone enters the room. “Come on girl. Jesus, come on. Your not the first, and your not going to be the last! Suck it up. You knew this was likely. Why did you flee the presser?”
There was a quiet chuckle “You should have seen the look on the PM’s face as you turned, and left! Mmm I suppose you will, on this evening’s bulletin. He’s gonna want your guts for garters!”
“Just piss off and leave me alone” I yell at the Whip. There is a hesitation, but heals scrunch and depart.
White hot steam continues to surge! Jesus, how could he? Twelve loyal years, family sacrifices, late nights, the boozy meetings, the sleazy inuendo, travel! That’s it. Bugger em! Jesus, how could he?
I call Comcar and quietly leave the building, picking up vodka enroute to Manuka. The phone rings incessantly, unanswered. I turn it off!
Ice tinkles as I sit, staring blankly, reviewing the last few hours! I keep coming back to his “… she enjoys the full confidence…” the bloody, fucking, prick, slimeball, snake – wriggling out from under, again!
I check the bottom draw of my desk. The folder is still there, thirty odd pages of colour-coded spreadsheets. Just another slosh, tonic, ice. Mmm. Shit, they will be here shortly. Better get photocopying!
Thrring. Two guys in grey shiny suits at the door, asking for the folder. What, oh, er, yes. I go over to the desk, withdrawing the manilla envelope. The shorter guy undoes the strings, flicks through the document. They leave, advising that the PM instructs me to join his next presser at 9.30 tomorrow morning!
I still cannot really believe what’s happening. My political career kaput, just like that! My God, the calculated treachery! How long has it been in play? Who else is involved? I betcha that baldy-headed, close-eyed potato is at the table, Moshi too!
Senior cabinet portfolio gone! Crossbenches here I come but first, I better call Michelle. “Yer, just wondering if you have a moment to pop over this evening, yep, quietly. That’s it, great. See ya then.”
I take a leaf out of Julie’s playbook and wear my stunningly blue shoes, the Armani stilettos. Moshi stands between me and the PM. Probyn fires first. PM-obfuscation. Gratton’s question, delivered quietly, skewered the bastard! My face remains inscrutable.