– Which living person do you most admire and why? My mum. Came from Naples to the UK in 1968 with two pounds and worked three jobs after our dad left us.
– What is the trait you most deplore in yourself? Impatience. Queues, microwaves, online orders, everything could happen faster.
– What is the trait you most deplore in others? Lying by omission. (I spend a lot of my life around politicians.)
– What makes you unhappy? Single socks.
– What did you want to be when you were growing up? A Premier League footballer.
– Who or what is the greatest love of your life? RB.
– What does love feel like? Home.
– If you could bring something extinct back to life, what would you choose? Pink Panther bars. Happy memories of spending my pocket money.
– What would your super-power be? Redistribution of wealth.
– What was your most embarrassing moment? Stroking a stationary Maserati without noticing both the (slightly terrified) owners were sat in it.
– What makes you cry? Ikea.
– What do you most dislike about your appearance? My eyes are too close together.
– Who would play you in the film of your life? Someone boss-eyed.
– What do you consider your greatest achievement? Getting Ruthie to say yes.
– To whom would you like to say sorry and why? My first wife. I was a crap husband.
– How often do you have sex? Not often enough.
– What single thing would improve the quality of your life? A dog.
– What’s your favourite smell? My wife.
– How do you relax? I like to cook.
– What lesson has life taught you? We’re all faking it.
– Tell us a secret about you? I’m really just a big softy.
– Tell us a joke. What do you call a sheep with no legs? A cloud. (Sorry, my daughter told it to me.)
Matthew’s eyes are not too close together – they’re intelligent and warm and perfectly proportioned. I’m delighted to discover that he likes to cook – I’ve already talked to someone from Celebrity Masterchef. And he’s a dog-lover, so I’m planning to partner him with Dogs Trust. Nothing like a segment on The One Show of a grown man playing with abandoned puppies to melt hearts …
Then there’s the Maserati story, so he’s obviously a petrol-head. And maybe we could do some sort of comedy segment called ‘The Man Who Learnt to Love Ikea’ …
Most of Matthew’s profiles lazily trot out the same facts – mum an Italian cleaning lady; dad an electrician, who deserted the family when Matthew was a baby; ferociously intelligent even as a child; won a scholarship to Oxford; got a double-first in PPE, blah-dee-blah. An ill-judged, short-lived early marriage to a posho addict, followed by high-profile wedding to Ruthie.
There are two tones to the interviews: either breathless and giddy (the journalist was invariably female) or a sense that the writer admired him but felt he could do with lightening up. He fails the Howard Hunter Pint Test. (‘Would I want to go for a pint with this man? The answer is no.’)
Until recently all his coverage was uncontroversial – loves his wife and kids, lives and breathes politics and is zero-tolerant of double-dealing. If he’s guilty of anything, it’s a slight lack of a sense of humour. That, coupled with rumours of infidelity, does not play well.
Cheating + sense of humour = Lovable Rogue.
Cheating – sense of humour = Sleazy McSleaze.
He needs warming up and any excess pomposity excised so that he’d effortlessly pass the Howard Hunter Pint Test – every man in the country should want to go for a pint with him. And every woman should fancy him, while also being certain that he still loves Ruthie – What the hell?
It’s hard to believe but Richie has just sent another email, this time a screenshot of the actual invitation and underneath, ‘Think of the poor blind children.’ His behaviour is so pushy that I’m confused – surely he can’t seriously think he’s being persuasive.
‘Alastair, come and look at this.’
He reads it. ‘He’s gone insane,’ he says. ‘No other explanation. Now go home. Plans for the weekend?’
‘Tomorrow Steevie’s having a brunch and I know it’s going to be a Why Can’t They Keep Their Lads in Their Pants special.’
‘Sounds fun.’
‘She means well, but she’ll want me to get drunk and bitch about Hugh and I don’t want to.’
‘No?’
‘I wish none of this was happening, but if he comes back and wants to make everything right, I don’t want to be full of hate and resentment.’
‘It takes all sorts, I suppose. How’s Derry? Still riding?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Tell her I say hey.’
‘I won’t.’
At Mum and Pop’s all the talk is of Mum’s vlogging debut and spirits are very high.
‘They’d seen it at work,’ Joe says. ‘Everyone says she’s a hoot, talking about checking her privilege.’
It’s already the most-watched vlog Neeve has ever done.
‘Can we do another one?’ Mum asks Neeve. ‘Can you sort me out with new hair? I was thinking I’d like to go blonde.’
Neeve swallows. ‘Um, sure. Probably. Leave it with me.’
‘Now, don’t shout at me,’ Mum says, ‘because this is my moment. But where exactly is it?’
‘Where’s what?’
‘The internet? Where do they keep all the stuff? Like the shoes you got for me and the picky-up thing for Pop. And now my videos. Is it in a big warehouse? Like, out beyond the M50?’
Poor Neeve. It’s almost visible how she shoves down her rage. ‘Granny, it’s not in a place. It hangs in the air, like, like electricity. Or God!’
Mum gives Neeve a look. ‘God is dead.’
‘Is he?’ Pop says. ‘Well, he had a good innings.’
54
Saturday, 22 October, day forty
Steevie comes to her front door, towel-drying her hair. She looks startled and well she might: I’m twenty minutes early. ‘Amy! What time is it?’
‘You’re okay, it’s only twenty to.’ I step into the hall and pass over a bottle. ‘Listen, Steevie, before the others arrive, can I ask a favour?’
‘Course.’
‘Today, do you mind if we don’t have any toasts to bad things happening to Hugh?’
‘Like what?’
I’m striving for a jokey tone. ‘Well, like him getting the clap and his dick going green and dropping off.’
Her face falls. ‘Why not?’
She was meant to laugh. Laugh and agree to go along with my wishes. I take a second to gather my resolve. ‘Because I don’t feel that way.’
‘But you should! The nerve of him, taking off for six months, leaving you here to face the humiliation. It’s a disgrace what he’s done and he’s a total fucker! I hope his dick does go green and drop off!’
‘See, I don’t think Hugh’s a total fucker.’ I keep my tone mild.
‘But he is. He is a total fucker.’
She’s confused – and hurt. Not only has she gone to the trouble of having a brunch for me, of getting up early and making her famous vegetarian moussaka, then doing her chocolate pavlova, then going to Donnybrook Fair and buying four different types of salad and a selection of expensive cheese but I have the outrageous cheek to throw it all back in her face by not thinking my husband is a total fucker.
My spirits slide: this is going to be a long brunch.
‘Have some wine,’ Steevie says. ‘And don’t worry about Hugh. He’ll eventually get what’s coming to him.’
And here comes Jana ‘Loose Lips Sink Ships’ Shanahan, in some ditsy-looking dress, her hair in a falling-down updo. Her juvenile look has always charmed me, but I think I might be going off it.
I’m still wondering what the fallout from Casserole-gate is going to be. It’s a weird thing, being bound by middle-class mores, where even if someone uses a casserole as a pretext for shameless rubbernecking, you’re obliged to pretend that their intentions were noble. For a moment I wonder what would happen if I stopped with the fakery and calmly said, ‘Genevieve Payne is a bitch.’
God, no. I’m not brave enough.