From the diary of Carrie Johnson, Britain’s former First Lady and the Home Counties’ Margot Robbie
I’M leafing through. And leafing through. And looking for the bit of his memoir where the flowers of romance blossom between a roguish politician and his gorge PR.
But instead there’s page after page of Gove, of his brilliant Brexit deal, of him calling Theresa ‘Old Grumpy Knickers’ because HarperCollins advised against the C-word. Where am I?
‘Well it’s a political memoir darling,’ he says, pouring himself a lunchtime Rioja. ‘Not really about us, is it? Anyway there were cuts. And not for length.’
‘For example,’ he continues as I blush winsomely, ‘remember how we met? That story’s not getting near Robert Peston. I can hear his three-part question now, ending with “on the balcony?”’
He has a point. Our attraction was immediate and physical in a way only Boris Becker could really relate to. ‘But once we were together,’ I say, ‘surely there’s room for our love? To get the reader through the dull bits?’
‘Exactly my thinking,’ he says, ‘which is why I laced it with raunch sauce. For every budget meeting a bang. Problematic though. First because of the whole adultery thing, then Partygate, then all the Chequers shags in lockdown. When it’s not pornographic I’m committing perjury.’
‘Mmm,’ I reply, the consummate PR professional, seeing the value of saving the full blooming of our love for when he’s after a safe seat to replace Jenrick. ‘Same reason they cut out old Acuri and a couple of others. Too hot to handle, eh?’ he chuckles.
‘Mmm,’ I reply again, remembering the first thing I did when I got a copy of his book: flicked to the index to search for ‘Owen, Charlotte’, finding not a f**king mention.
