LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘Yes, you were about to leave without kissing me goodbye and we can’t have that now, can we?’ she smiled at her husband, her eyes now wide and teasing.

      ‘How very careless of me,’ Charles joked as he walked over and promptly placed a brief kiss upon Elaine’s lips.

      ‘You know, I much prefer it when you don’t wear lipstick,’ he commented.

      ‘Yes, but the cameras don’t.’ Elaine replied sternly.

      ‘Any big plans for the day?’ Charles asked, quickly checking the watch sat upon his left wrist; another aspect of etiquette within his outfit. He would much prefer to wear his watch upon his right wrist, as he had done growing up. but formalities dictated that a gentleman must wear his watch upon his left wrist. Goddamn formalities.

      ‘I’m meeting with my book club today.’

      ‘And what will you ladies be discussing?’

      ‘Lolita, by Vladimir Nabokov.’

      ‘Oh, how very controversial,’ Charles joked.

      ‘Indeed. It wasn’t my choice, it was Miranda’s I swear the woman would have us reading Mills and Boon if we’d allow it! Talk about repressed desires!’

      ‘Not everyone has such a stud for a husband,’ Charles said winking.

      ‘She should do, she’s already been through four!’ Elaine scoffed in disapproval.

      ‘Anyway darling, I must dash, my car will be here,’ Charles said, glancing at his watch once more.

      ‘Alright, alright, duty calls I suppose,’ Elaine smiled as she dramatically rolled her eyes. ‘Remember that we have that gala dinner tonight for the Children’s Benefit Foundation.’

      ‘Oh yes, where would I be without you reminding me of all my engagements?’ He smiled fondly at his wife before dashing out of the door, down the stairs, quickly grabbing his coat and entering the crisp morning air. Charles walked over quickly to the awaiting black Bentley, noticing the look of quiet awe from his neighbours who were attending to their own early morning duties of walking their dogs or putting out the bins.

      ‘Good morning, sir,’ the driver greeted Charles as he settled himself in the back seat, powering up his Blackberry® in anticipation of the flurry of messages he would have received throughout the night.

      ‘Morning Henry.’

      ‘Traffic is bad this morning, sir. Might take us at least thirty minutes to get into town.’

      ‘Don’t worry Henry, just do your best.’

      ‘You can count on that, sir.’

      The Bentley slid away from Charles’ house and from suburbia, teleporting him away from normality and into his hectic, professional life. Charles attempted to gather his thoughts in the car as his Blackberry® beeped at him continuously, alerting him to urgent emails which required his attention. He loved his job, he did. But lately he felt like a fraud. All the posturing drove him mad. He knew what had changed in him; he’d not been the same since it had happened. Charles closed his eyes in frustration; he had sworn to himself that he would not think about it anymore. Yet here he was, performing the same dance with his mind that he did every morning. He rubbed his temple in desperation.

      ‘Headache sir? There are some ibuprofen in the cabinet back there,’ Henry said, glancing at his boss in his mirror.

      ‘Oh right, thanks.’ Charles leant forward and found the box of capsules and took two, knowing that they would be unable to alleviate the cause of his pain.

      Charles began to scroll through his Blackberry® whilst gazing out of the car window, watching London begin to rise up all around him. The city was bustling, even at this early hour.

      The Bentley weaved through the city streets, sharp and black like a bullet heading for its target. The traffic wasn’t as bad as Henry had anticipated and within twenty minutes they had paused at the black gates which were eagerly parting to grant the car and its important occupant passage.

      The car door opened and Charles stepped out, immediately greeted by another man in a suit who shook his hand eagerly.

      ‘Good morning Deputy,’ Simon Pruit smiled enthusiastically.

      Charles didn’t relish being addressed as Deputy. It made him sound like he belongedin an American sheriff’s office, rather than being the British Deputy Prime Minister. He was certain that Simon used the greeting just to get under his skin.

      ‘Morning, Simon,’ Charles smiled in response, finding the man, as always, irritatingly eager at such an ungodly hour. He envisioned Simon thrusting caffeine straight into his veins in an attempt to keep a permanently preppy demeanour. But Simon was loyal and hardworking, if overly hyper, which were qualities Charles valued highly in his Cabinet.

      ‘How was your commute this morning? I hear that the traffic was terrible. I suppose it’s the price you pay if you desire to live out of the city-centre,’ Simon rambled the words out quickly as they turned and passed through the most famous door in England; number 10 Downing Street. The door was as black as the Bentley which had bought Charles there and the suit he was wearing. The only dash of colour was the striking blue of his tie, a permanent symbol of his political allegiance.

      ‘You’ve got the meeting with the American Ambassador at ten,’ Simon began reeling off Charles’ itinerary for the day as the man walked further into the building, delivering brief ‘hellos’ and ‘good mornings’ as they went. It always surprised Charles how many people were present so early in the day, already hard at work. It almost made him feel guilty that he hadn’t dedicated as much time, but then he wasn’t willing to give up sleep altogether, as he assumed they must have.

      ‘Good morning sir.’ Faye Smith, Charles’ assistant, handed him a stack of pre-opened and date-stamped letters as he rounded a corner to his office. Simon instinctively ceased to walk with him, knowing that the next half hour was when Charles was alone in his office to catch up on correspondence.

      ‘See you at ten,’ Simon called after him as they parted ways.

      ‘Good morning, Faye,’ Charles smiled at his hardworking assistant, knowing in his heart that lately there was never a ‘good’ morning.

      Charles Lloyd’s office was the epitome of opulent grandeur. The furniture was made from the finest mahogany wood and his chair, and the couches which lined the other two walls, of the softest, most exquisite leather. It was the same office which had hosted Deputy Prime Ministers for decades before him and little had changed.

      Personally, Charles was not fond of his office. The décor was not to his taste but he knew better than to attempt to alter it or even vocalise his opinion. The office, and everything in it, was a part of British history; it was he who was interchangeable. The men in the chair came and went, none naïve enough to make the space their own.

      In the grand scheme of things, Charles spent very little time in his office; even less time over recent months and that suited him just fine. He found the room almost oppressive. It reminded him too much of his grandfather’s old study; all that was missing was the constant cloud of cigar smoke misting the air. Charles had never been fond of his grandfather, finding the old man far too judgemental of those he was supposed to love and cherish, and sitting each day in a room more befitting to his tastes than his own made him feel uncomfortable and out of place. The office symbolised everything in Charles which he tried to forget; the history, the tradition. He had been born into the elite, and studied at Eton College. From a young age he had shown leadership skills and therefore had been groomed for his current role for many years. His grandfather did not live to see his grandson’s triumph, not that it mattered – he had already done enough during his lifetime to orchestrate the event.

      The presence of Charles’ coffee, bagel and morning papers were a welcome distraction from the barrage of thoughts which had begun to penetrate his mind. They rarely stopped these days, with even sleep refusing to offer him the solace

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