Chapter 6:Jungle Telegraph
Shireen was sitting through an interminable briefing meeting. Notebook open and pen poised, she was actually far away in her own little world, decorating the nursery and choosing bootees in John Lewis. Did babies still wear bootees? It was a long time since she’d been close enough to one to notice. This high pressure aide malarkey didn’t give one much time to spend with one’s family and friends, and children were conspicuous by their absence in this world. The PM might have a brood of six, but they were kept well away from the workings of government, unless a spot of simpering for the press was called for. She was just doodling flowers around her favourite girl’s name (Maia) when the thunderclap of heavy doors banging open brought her back to the meeting room.
“Newchurch, you bastard! I know what you did!”
Shireen and the whole roomful of officials turned as one to see a petite, exquisitely well-dressed woman - who must have been in her sixties at least - reach down to her feet and pull off a tiny, black patent-leather shoe (Shireen had a keen eye for footwear) and hurl it with surprising speed and accuracy across their heads. Scott ducked, actually ducked, up there on the podium, but his reflexes were decidedly un-George Bush like, and he was struck in the middle of the forehead by a kitten heel and went down like a boxer taking a killer blow. The briefing erupted with screams, shouting and a lot of unnecessary fuss, if you asked Shireen. For God’s sake, you’d think Osama Bin Laden had just strolled in sporting an Uzi, not an elderly lady in a well-cut grey suit with some rather lovely accessories (was that necklace real jade?).
“She’s an old woman! Put her down!” she shouted, jumping to her feet as the shoe-thrower was hoisted into the air by two fat-necked security men who had appeared, genie-like, within seconds.
“Old? I’m sixty-two!” cried the woman, defiantly aiming her remaining patent-leather kitten heel at an officer’s gut, “I’m in my prime, and –“ she struggled for breath, twisting out from under a meaty restraining arm and pointing at Scott, now having his brow mopped by a curvaceous information officer, “- that cretinous fool has taken my life away from me!”
“Alright, get her out of here,” the policemen pushed open the doors and bundled her out, still screaming at the top of her voice. Shireen looked down and spotted the second shoe; picking it up, she dashed after them, waving it half-heartedly at their retreating backs and then, somewhat at a loss as to what to do with the thing, popped it into her handbag, shrugged and went to lunch. Scott was receiving plenty of attention, civil servants were surging around him and the clamour of phone calls being made to various offices meant she was able to slip away unnoticed for a little light browsing in Oxford Street. After all, as her boss had often smugly observed of his predecessor; when the sideshow becomes the main attraction, it really is time to leave the stage. As she walked out of the building, flashing her security pass at a distracted receptionist, and along a bustling Whitehall, she flipped open her mobile and made a call.
“Stells,” she said, “It’s me. You’ll never believe what’s just happened to my boss. Oh, and I’ve got other news as well. See you in the John Lewis café.” She stepped boldly off the kerb and flagged down a black cab. Sod the expenses watchdog.