From the diary of Carrie Johnson, Britain’s First Lady and Princess of Hearts
WOULD the letters of Romeo and Juliet be sent to a public inquiry? Cyrano and Roxane? Why are the WhatsApps of those lovers Boris and Carrie any different?
Does Baroness Hallett, the Covid enquiry’s heartless chair, not remember we weren’t even married then? So our tender missives of adoration, our coos and kisses, our secret midday fucks against the fireplace in the White Room are not liable to subpoena?
Because, among the flowerings of devotion between a man born to rule and his gentle, radical guiding star, there are more than a fucking few about the Chequers parties. And about 120-180 of my nudes. Lockdown was a difficult time.
‘Fucking Rishi’s lawyers shopped me to the pigs,’ says Boris, from the private jet. I asked whose it was and he had no idea. ‘I’m not losing my seat. I’m PM again after this.’
‘Whatever,’ I said. ‘What about my texts? You’re over the Atlantic, can you do a Vardy and lose them?’
‘Not that simple,’ he says, over the distinctive sound of single malt gurgling into crystal tumbler. ‘They’re on the official phone, you see. Backed up.’
‘So they know about-’ ‘Chequers,’ he confirms. ‘Which parties?’ ‘Easter, the ABBA one, Spring Break, Mardi Gras, Cinco de Mayo, the lot. With guest list, photos and booze orders.’
For a moment I drift back to that Chequers summer. With the nation locked down and Special Branch sworn to secrecy, we partied into the silent nights. ‘Taylor Swift was right. This is why we can’t have nice things,’ I mused.
‘Uh?’ he said. ‘Never mind. But can’t we be allowed to redact them? All my dewy, innocent protestations of love are on there. And my nudes.’
‘Not just yours,’ he says, just before the phone goes dead.
