Downing Street minus seven
Usual mad dash to get in before lunch, but enough time to see my Sun debate strategy was a game-changer! Long to tell B but he said he’s got lifesaving surgery first thing, so I’m not on any account to worry he’s met someone younger and stayed out all night.
Text my notes instead: “Wow. Hair best yet. Shirt very strong. Could hear room go silent when you came under pressure but stayed tucked in. Two things. ‘Loved one’ isn’t working. Tell Crosby it’s ‘life-partner’ (fiancee tests even better). And what is timetable for No 10/Chequers access, need floor plans asap. Hope lifesaving surgery OK.”
Nothing.
Someone gives me a picture of a dolphin. It’s probably a dolphin. It’s in some sort of blue sea, which is the main thing. Send B some house and paint emojis. Nothing. Then: “Bozzie, I do think you might reply when I am sharing professional expertise.” Nothing. So: “And don’t think I missed that new stain because you draped your pants over it.” Nothing. Try again: “So is Crosby washing your socks now, you entitled piece of shit?” Finally.
“Otter, don’t be cross, went into a tunnel, oh here comes another one, right under a massive mountain range, choo choo!”
Me: “You’re on a motorway in Norfolk, Boris.”
Boris: “Don’t I always say you’re the first woman who’s ever understood me, it’s like Tristan und maybe not, yes, like Orpheus and, who was it, yes, Ottolenghi, truly Otter I’m your slave, I can’t wait until we can be – wait, what’s that, a terrifying earthquake, cave everyone!”
Back to my tweet. What will make people sit up? My PR reflexes kick in. Big time. “Here is a picture of a dolphin” *dolphin emoji*. Dear old Saj and Whittingdale retweet instantly. So does Hancock, repeatedly, until I make him stop. Then all I can do is wait.
Exchange Age Challenge pictures with Nimco. Suddenly we look like hideous middle-aged women who’ve had about five children! What a scream! About to send mine to B when Nimco says, ‘are you mad?’
Take a deep breath and check twitter: over 1,000 RTs! Turns out the dolphin was a tuna! Surpassing expectations is what good PR is all about.
Celebrate serious conservation progress with coffees then some retail networking with Nimco. Dreadful how many plastic bags we see out and about. Just as I’m asking for my new dress and shoes, three pairs of novelty socks and a fresh tub of Vanish to be put straight in my rucksack, B calls.
“I have something to ask you Otter, please listen carefully.”
“You sound rather serious, Bozzie.”
“I have never been more serious.”
“What is it you wish to ask me, Bozzie darling?”
“Promise me Otter, whatever you do, you’ll never read the Spectator.”
“Why would I read the Spectator? I’m only 31 and three-quarters.”
“Christ. As much as that already? England’s Brigitte Macron! Wait Otter old thing – I see a despairing oppidan teetering upon a parapet overhead, don’t jump, my friend! No, he’s falling now, fardels everywhere, help, will no one find a defibrillator and save our lives, and Otter these may be my last words, forget I ever mentioned the periodical in question.”
In the Spectator someone called Petronella says she is famous for a long “tendresse” with Boris. When he was married, with children! The Hunt camp will stop at nothing but this is taking people for fools. Tell Nimco. But she says people actually were called Petronella before we were born. Wait until he’s home.
“Bozzie, tell me it’s not true.”
“The purest utter bilge and piffle, ouch, please put that plate down, of course you are the first, ow, didn’t I warn you there would be blood – that hurts! – stains, toil and tears? I have no choice, the populus love it when I deploy my insatiable shagging. That’s my brave Otter, think of Churchill, we won’t let Petronella pollute the broad sunlit uplands, will we Otter, just because the old girl needs to earn a crust?”
“Not now Bozzikins,” I reply. “Not ever.”
D-Day minus five
Late again! Some whispering but soon it won’t matter. And my tweet of a baby sea goat (spotted foraging on dry land) goes viral even without an emoji, after Gove RTs. Tell Crosby to give him Culture. Crosby claims it’s already Joanna Lumley’s, but I’m sure she wanted Defence.
Can’t check now: B is stuck in a US safe house interviewing replacement ambassadors, so I’m not on any account to imagine he’s hired a hot new 23-year-old who understands him and flown her off somewhere behind my back.
By seven I’m anxious. Stanley calls. “Dear girl, my son will explain all tomorrow, too hush-hush for words, now my dear Carrie, as a fellow conservationist this will interest you, there was the most wonderful scene at the bird feeder this morning when I was refilling it for my sins, this sparrow, well haha I think it was a sparr…” – I pretend the Deliveroo’s arrived.
Where is B? When do we move? Crosby doesn’t pick up. Williamson’s useless AF. Then: “Marina! I mean Otter! No, don’t be cross, something came up, can’t talk now, you won’t believe, Greece, sublime, antique homeland of the Lacedaemonii, I am Pelopidas, no less, delivering Thebes from the Spartans – ”
“Who are you with?”
“Er. Chap called Lebedev.”
“Liar, even you aren’t stupid enough to hang out with Lebedev. Who are you really with, you rancid old cheat?” This time I hang up.
Sometimes I wish it could always be Valentine’s Day 2018. When an unhappily married foreign secretary and his soulmate, an idealistic millennial communications director, defied the world to meet in the shadows at Rules and dream of a better future.
As told to Catherine Bennett
