“Mrs. May has told theMailshe hopes the Commons will sign off on her Brexit deal on Tuesday so she can enjoy her goose and a glass of red wine this Christmas,” Adam told Marr on TV. “She warns that failing to sign off on her deal could see Jeremy Corbyn in Number Ten, or even no Brexit at all.”
“But with hardline Brexiteers already vowing to vote against her withdrawal agreement,” Marr said, “will it be Mrs. May’s goose who’s cooked?” He turned to the camera. “To his critics, he’s the man whose blithe, airy promises have landed us in a Brexit nightmare, and a thoroughly embarrassing foreign secretary. To his admirers, he’s one of the very few truly rousing Tory politicians of theage and a shoo-in, surely, as the party’s next leader. He is, of course, Boris Johnson.”
On-screen, Boris Johnson smiled. “Good morning.”
Coralie snorted. “Good morning, you fat twat.”
She glanced back down to the kitchen. Fortunately, Zora was watching her iPad with headphones on. The problem wasn’t theTword, but theFone. Coralie was absolutely ruthless about not engaging in what the experts called “body talk” in front of the girls. No staring into the mirror, smoothing her thighs with a disgusted face. No “I feel bloated,” no “I earned this treat,” no gossip about people’s appearances, none of it. Years ago, she’d spent ages carefully live-editing Roald Dahl while reading aloud to Zora, and soon she’d do the same for Flo. So why couldn’t she help herself when she saw Boris Johnson?
Little footsteps approached. “Where’s Dada?” Florence’s face crumpled. She’d brought him the peanut butter from the breakfast table.
“Oh, Wrennie, you’re so clever! He’s not on the screen anymore. Here, let me take a photo for Daddy. Show me the jar?”
She sent the photo to Adam.Flo thought you wanted this.She added a heart emoji and fourCYKs.
He replied instantly with five heart emojis.Beautiful girl. How was I? Any feedy-b?
By “feedy-b,” he meant feedback, and it was Coralie’s job to pass it along.
Attention of all kinds had significantly increased since he’d been offered a staff job onThe Times, a sprawling, high-profile role involving some parliamentary sketch pieces, helming its gossipy daily email, and setting up a chatty new podcast. At a time when politicswas life and death, he would be paid to try to be funny. He’d tweeted the announcement with a self-effacingSome personal news.The resulting storm of mentions was the “best day” of his life. (“On Twitter!” he’d quickly clarified to a horrified Coralie. “The best day of my life onthe platform.”)
A WhatsApp arrived from Sabine, a Cotters’ Yard nursery mum:Jonas wants to know if Adam’s jumper is from Cos?
Coralie forwarded it to Adam.It’s from Folk!he wrote back.Anything else?
She searched Twitter for “Adam Whiteman.” In the most recent tweet, someone had called him agroan-worthy remoaner chubster.
That wasn’t suitable. She searched “Adam Marr.”
The top result:Dreamboat Adam’s back on Marr #yesplease.It had been liked four times. With a sigh, Coralie shared it.
Now we’re talking!Adam was delighted.
Was it awkward with Boris in the greenroom?(Three years on, Adam’s biography remained unacknowledged publicly by its subject.)
No!Adam replied.A polite hello. But I can’t really be sure he knew I was ME. Breakfast will be the test.
The breakfasts after the Marr show were the stuff of legend. Or maybe Adam only said that to get out of childcare for hours.
Marr’s voice broke through to her from the TV. “Can you give me an absolute categorical promise here and now,” the journalist said, “that you will not stand against Theresa May?”
“I’ll give you an absolute categorical promise,” Johnson craftily replied, “that I’ll continue to advocate what I think is the most sensible plan.”
“Horrible man.” Coralie pointed the remote like a gun and shot him.
•••
Upstairs,she tried to lie Florence down on her back but was not surprised when she stiffened, struggled, and firmly announced, “Stand up.” Coralie gave her the cheap plastic calculator they kept by the changing table as a distraction. With a comedy frown on her perfect face, Florence raised it to her ear. “Hello? Phone?”
“Are you being Daddy, funny bunny?” Coralie unpopped the top popper on her sleepsuit and ripped open the rest in one go. Florence wriggled and jumped, delighted.“Brr!”Coralie blew kisses into her neck, chest, and belly. Florence shrieked and laughed.
Zora looked up from her copy ofThe Week Junior(Touchdown! Scientists Celebrate the Successful Landing of a New Spacecraft on Mars). “What if she was just learning proper maths on that calculator and you disturbed her?”
“We can’t have two genius girls in the family,” Coralie said. “I won’t be able to cope.” Zora smiled and went back to reading. “Flo-Flo. Do you want to sit on the potty?”
“No,” Flo said, disgusted.
“Do you want to wear a nappy?”
