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'How's Tom?' Julius asks, offhand, while he negotiates drinks with the waiter.
Malcolm, as always, hates the effortless efficiency with which Julius orders and then dispatches the waiter. (He's pleased and pissed of in equal measure that the world's shiniest ballsack has also ordered a drink for him. The right drink. The wine Malcolm particularly likes best.)
Malcolm can and does now get immediate grovelling service (and not just where he's recognised) but he had to learn. Julius, he thinks, acts like a balding fucking emperor who naturally assumes there's a flunky on each fucking elbow waiting to cater to his every whim.
'You'd know better than I would. I think the supreme leader's gonnae resign now he's not so fucking supreme- but it's a matter of timing. As you know, Julius, I tend to be in favour of the short sharp shock.' Malcolm's smile is not very kind. Tom is clearly yesterday's man - Julius can almost see him receding into the hindpart of Malcolm's brain, replaced by newer, more pressing schemes. 'I'd have heard if he topped himself so I think we can assume he's still with us, at least. Probably playing fucking choo choo trains with his kids. Or teaching them basic fuckin' mathematics. Which is about all he can manage.'
Julius frowns disapprovingly. 'And so to what do I owe the pleasure?' He gestures, long-fingered, around the restaurant. They're not in Westminster, nowhere they're likely to be seen and their table is in a discreet corner, with sightlines to the rest of the room and very little likelihood of being overheard. Julius has been here once before, to discuss matters of a certain delicacy. 'Not that it isn't always nice to get you out of Westminster.' He smiles, embarrassingly sincere. Malcolm inclines his head slightly in acknowledgment.
'There's to be talks-'
'So I heard. I must say it would be rather magnificent to be a fly on the wall-'
'No, Julius. Not just talks between Fascists R Us and the beardy humus-eating sandal army. Jesus wept. That'll never fucking work. The public, in their infinite fucking wisdom, have clearly signalled that they want a progressive coalition-'
Julius raises an exquisite eyebrow, but Malcolm glares him down. This is the line. Malcolm may not believe it, Julius may not believe it, Julius and Malcolm may know that neither believes it, but nevertheless, it is true.
'- so there'll be talks. Us and them. Now obviously I can't lead them - and not because of that fucking restraining order, which, Julius, was something Jamie and I fucking made up for a laugh.'
There has been a persistent rumour that that the Conservative Party has a restraining order that prevents Malcolm from approaching their ministers. An alternative, equally persistent, rumour has it that the terms of both Malcolm and Jamie's ASBOs stipulate that must stay at least 100m away from Conservative MPs at all times1.
'Actually, Malcolm, I think that's a rumour of which I am unaware. But these talks- you cannot surely believe we'll have any measure of success?'
'Never say die,' Malcolm grins, shark like. 'At the very least, we must have the talks.'
The waiter hovers at a discreet distance until they notice him and fall silent. He glides forward to take their orders, smiles and tactfully doesn't flatter them on their choice, but notes it with a minimum of fuss before floating smoothly away.
Malcolm steers the conversation onto other matters until after the first plates are set before them.
'The other two'll never get on. But if we had a fucking talented negotiator, someone really prestigious. Possibly someone who knew the sainted and fucking fragrant Nick when they were both in Brussels together-'
'Malcolm. Stop.' Julius takes a delicate sip of soup while Malcolm waits. Malcolm has his pleasant, friendly face on - the one that always makes Julius simultaneously blush and (because he's no fool) start checking exit routes. 'I'm flattered, of course, and whilst I appreciate the honour of being asked, I don't think I'm, ah, quite the right person. Malcolm, forgive me for being blunt, but I don't think the talks will achieve anything, and if that's the case I would prefer to focus on our ongoing strategy-'
'Who're you backing, then?' Malcolm says through a large mouthful of salad. Julius hides his wince badly. (He does so hate it when Malcolm is deliberately coarse - the man has beautiful manners when he's not deliberately being vulgar for effect).
'That is not what I meant, Malcolm, as well you know. There are, as yet, no candidates, because as yet there is no vacancy. When Tom does take the definite step of resigning, then the candidates will declare themselves and then, at that point, I may be moved to offer my public support to one of those who have put themselves forward, depending on their policy and the direction in which they wish to take the party.'
'So you're no' going to stand yourself, then?'
'Good god no,' Julius laughs, surprised into total undiplomatic honesty. 'You naughty bastard, Malcolm. I am perfectly aware I'm not leadership material-'
'- not for this fucking party, at any rate.'
'- nor,' Julius continues, ignoring Malcolm's dark muttering, '-would I wish for the position. Nor the publicity. And if l lead the negotiations, I don't- I think they'll work something out with the- Malcolm, please don't look at me like that. It's not blasphemy, one has to face reality.'
Malcolm pulls his face into cartoonish surprise. 'Reality? Fucking reality is it now? And where was this fuckin' admirable commitment to reality when you were suggesting we should invest in flying paperclips to deliver fucking memos, or give all the puir slum brats a copy of Shakespeare to defend them against their smackhead parents-'
'If you had read the outline of my proposal, Malcolm, you would know that my Empowerment through Literature: Shakespeare as route to social mobility programme was not intended to take the place of adequate social service provision for those children trapped in situations of abuse or neglect, but to act as a supplement-'
'Right, right. What the fuck ever. D'you like that?' Malcolm adds gleefully. 'I adapted it from some fucking BBC Three drama they made me watch. Got to keep up with the fucking times, you know?'
'Charming,' Julius mutters.
'And they might not work it out with the fucking Tories. It's chalk and cheese. Or more like semtex and the IRA. You know, they'll be best pals for a while but eventually it'll fucking backfire and someone will get hurt.'
'Maybe. I think there's a very real chance it might be more like... black pudding and crayfish. You would think, on first seeing those two disparate items married together on the menu, that nothing could be more distasteful or unappetising. But once one tries it, one finds that the rich darkness of the black pudding works in perfect harmony with the softness of the crayfish to create a uniquely pleasing and moreish mouthful.'
'That might be true. But why would you try wanky avante-fucking-garde nouvelle cuisine bollocks when you could stick crayfish with, say, lobster or a nice bit of salmon and a glass of Hermitage? Tried and tested excellence. Like going to ponce about at the Fat Duck - and probably give yourself fuckin' dysentry - when there are plenty of fucking excellent places here, with normal food.'
Julius nods approvingly and Malcolm finds himself smiling before he can stop himself. 'But my point, Malcolm, if you'll allow me to finish, is that perhaps- well. What if we're not, or are no longer, lobster and Hermitage, but... beer and pork pie or- or a ploughman's lunch? Not that there's anything wrong with a ploughman's platter - nice organic wholewheat loaf, a small wedge of duchy original cheddar and some homemade chutney, but...'
Malcolm's eyebrows climb towards his iron-grey hairline. 'We are not going back to beer and fucking sandwiches, Julius. I promise you. Only if the Neanderthal knuckle-dragging Union plant bastard gets any support. Which he won't because I will make personally fucking sure that everyone knows his history as a fucking picket-line-crossing scab. Or that he was sucking off aristos at port and paedophile evenings at Oxford. I forget which.'
Julius correctly takes this to mean I haven't decided which story I'm going to make up then leak.
'I see someone's made up his mind about who he's supporting, then.'
Malcolm smirks. 'Julius. Perish the thought. Mind open as a slapper's legs, me. I have a very select list of people I will fucking not be supporting, but outwith that very short list, I am open to persuasion.'
If there's even a hint of worry that they might not want his support, Malcolm is hiding it very well. Julius, more used to reading Malcolm than many, thinks he can detect a slight strain under the eyes. But then Malcolm's always stressed. Julius would like- but that's a dangerous thought.
'You'd have my full support during the negotiations, Julius. Whatever you wanted in the way of liaison or debriefings... Or staff - anything like that, I can sort it. I'm not completely toothless yet. Still the fucking Pharoah. Tom wants to ensure the smoothest possible transition-'
'With, no doubt, continuity of key figures-'
Blue eyes narrow in Malcolm's grey face. 'Exactly. Down but not out, Julius. If you think for one minute I'm letting those other fuckers ascend to power uncontested, unopposed- fucking ruining everything-'
'Malcolm. Malcolm,' Julius, at this display of passion from Malcolm, ventures to rest his hand on Malcolm's. 'I know. It's all right. I thought you left policy to other people,' he says lightly.
'Fuck the Tories isn't a policy, it's a motto,' Malcolm mutters, already somewhat ashamed. To Julius's surprise, he doesn't move his hand.
Julius thinks that, for Malcolm, its a credo, or at the very least a survival strategy. 'I'll lead the negotiating team, Malcolm. And I'll do my best.'
Malcolm shrugs, but his eyes warm for a second. Julius moves his hand before Malcolm notices how long they've been touching. 'It might be better, long term, if we didn't. New leader, rebuild ourselves while they fuck it all up and then a triumphant squeaky-clean sweep back into power.'
Julius watches, an uneasy fluttering in his chest, as Malcolm rubs at his eyes with long fingers. He suddenly looks exhausted.
'You should get some rest. You've been non-stop for the last, what is now, three months? It's not healthy, Malcolm.'
Malcolm's spine straightens and his eyes become steely. 'Fuck off baldy. You're not my fuckin' carer. I'll sleep sometime-' he pauses and checks they're definitely not being overheard. 'Sometime between your heroic negotiation efforts failing and the start of the leadership battle proper. That should give me a week at least.'
'My friend has a rather nice place-' Julius begins.
'I'm no' leaving London. Christ, Julius, are you trying to kill me? If you know a quiet hotel that might be fuckin' appreciated. Not one of those "hotels" that are actually rehab centres for the powder-nosed shiteratti, fuck you very much. Baron Cuntingdon, if you are fucking laughing at me-'
Julius smothers his smile. 'I'll make some recommendations. Meanwhile, perhaps we should reconvene to discuss the first stage of negotiations? Dinner? Tomorrow at the Connaught?'
'We can't fucking discuss anything there, Julius- You really are a fucking bald liability, you know that? Stupidest fucking ideas since Blofeld decided to tell Bond his entire fucking plan while stroking his stupid cat. Actually, he was a slaphead too, wasn't he? Perhaps it's linked.' Julius merely smiles. Bald jokes from Malcolm is practically flirting. 'But it can't be work all the time, eh? Connaught for dinner it is. We can construct the fuckin' battle plan later. Though I'm sure I could leave it safely in your manicured hands.'
It's possibly the nicest thing Malcolm's ever said to him; Julius can feel himself blushing. 'Oh, for fuck's sake, Julius. I never actually meant you were fucking incompetent. And you've got just the idealistic sort of face that'll make everyone believe we tried so hard with the negotiations and it's so unfortunate that those nasty, cruel Lib Dems had already decided and were merely toying with us.' Julius's brow wrinkles at Malcolm's attempt at an impersonation of him. 'Anyway,' Malcolm says grinning. 'Dinner tomorrow and then detailed strategy over coffee at mine. This is on expenses and I've got another meeting, so do you mind?' he gestures and Julius's gaze follows his hands like a cat with a mouse.
'Of course,' Julius murmurs, and signals the waiter as Malcolm rushes off, Blackberry already in his hand. Julius realises with a jolt that Malcolm must have had it on silent for their entire lunch. And hadn't checked it once. As he leaves the restaurant, he starts to wonder what exactly he'll wear tomorrow.
1 There is also a rumour that Jamie has to wear a muzzle or a choke chain when there's any chance of him interacting with members of the public. This is not a rumour Jamie and Malcolm started for a laugh, it is an actionable slander against one of New Labour's most talented press officers and anyone heard repeating it (especially with the corollary that Jamie himself, or anyone else gets any sort of pleasure from having Jamie on a lead) will receive a letter from "Jamie's" lawyers.2
2 Jamie does not have his own lawyer. Jamie is not really allowed to talk to lawyers.