From the diary of Carrie Johnson, Britain’s First Lady
I’M NOT naive. I’m perfectly aware that my husband has a history. But I thought the Mail story was the fevered sexual imaginings of a frustrated hack until he confirmed it.
‘Angela Rayner?’ he said. ‘Definitely. Red hair, red politics, all the other red flags? I wouldn’t turn that down. Incendiary in bed. Christ.’
‘I thought you called her a sour-faced lefty cow?’ I said. ‘Who looks at you like you’re dogshit on her shoe, even though she’s a council estate slag and you’re prime minister?’
‘Well yes, but both can be true simultaneously,’ he said. ‘Anyway if it was ever on it’s right off now thanks to the bloody Mail. They cock-block me more than Michael fucking Gove.’
It hadn’t been the conversation I’d been expecting. I know that passion can flourish across political divides. After all, I’m a progressive firebrand who ended up in bed with an Old Etonian.
That’s different, because I’m actually humanising his free-market instincts and helping shape Britain into a forward-thinking 21st century nation, not just some bit of stuff. But still… Rayner?
‘Was it you who compared her to Basic Instinct?’ I asked. ‘Never seen it,’ he replied, pouring himself a Chablis. ‘But it is deliberate.’
‘Really?’ I said. ‘Mmm, for sure. She knows what she’s doing. Flashing those common pins. Red rag to a bull. Ruins my concentration. She’s heard I like a bit of rough.’
‘And… do you?’ I asked. ‘Bloody hell yes. Other extreme from my usual, but that’s the thrill. And I tell you what. She would as well.’
‘Lovely,’ I said, walking away without a word. Still, makes a change from worrying I’ll walk in to find him banging away at Dorries.
