“If we could review your schedule,” Lucy said.
Jeff closed the fridge. “Sure.”
Lucy had spread her flexscreen over the coffee table. Dark blue script was flowing across it. Jeff sat on the couch and clasped his hands behind his head as she checked her watch.
“We have three interviews this afternoon, all of them audio,” she said.
“Ah, radio. That’s different.”
She looked up, slightly flustered. “Um, yes, I think the companies have direct satellite broadcast capability as well.”
“Of course.”
“These are intended as profile pieces. There will be minimum focus on the superconductor research. If you do say anything on that, try and keep it at pop-science level. The target demographic today is fourteen to twenty-five. They’ll only be interested in what it’s like coming back to their age again. What shows you like, Sir Mitch and Stephanie, sports, that kind of thing. Oh, and just be careful with Mike Bashley—that’s the second interview—he enjoys trying to put one over on his guests. He can be very charming, then he’ll slip in questions about which soap starlet you fancy and where you stand on legalizing desktop production of synth8.”
“I’ll watch for it.”
“Good. I’ve got a car booked to take you around the studios; we’re doing it live and physical. That makes everybody concerned think it’s an important event.”
“Everybody all of the time,” he muttered.
The script flowed quickly across the spin doctor’s flexscreen as she told it to move on. “We’ll be back here for half past four. That gives you ninety minutes to get ready for tonight. The car will pick you up at six. Even if the traffic’s slow, we should be at the Weston Castle Hotel by quarter past.”
“Jolly good.”
“I’ve got your new dinner jacket.” She pointed to the plastic-wrapped outfit draped over the back of the couch next to her. “And the shirt is in your suitcase.”
“Yes,” Jeff said hurriedly when she glanced expectantly at him. It was like being back at prep school, being quizzed by his dorm matron about washing behind his ears.
“You’ll be on the high table, with the prime minister on your left, and the chair of the joint sciences council on your right. He’s been told Mrs. Baker isn’t coming.”
“Right.” He was frustrated that Sue wasn’t here, but she needed to sort out her mother’s transfer now that they’d found a place in a nursing home. The annual pure and industrial science council dinner wasn’t exactly Sue’s idea of a fun night out, but then he wasn’t exactly looking forward to it himself. At least having her at his side would have made it bearable.
“I’ve issued copies of your speech to the media already, so please don’t stray from the text; it ties in quite neatly with the other two speakers.”
“Right. So no botanist and the butterfly joke, then?”
“No. And we’ve been invited to an after-dinner party at the Brunel Club; the senior council members and the prime minister’s deputy chief of staff will be going.”
“Fine.” He wanted to say something like, Why don’t you just morph me in for the news streams? Everything was so predetermined and regulated there was barely any need for him to be there at all. But Ms. Duke lacked any known sense of humor. She’d just give him another tolerant, slightly irritated smile, and carry on with the briefing.
“Any questions?”
“I think it’s been organized perfectly,” he said.
“Thank you.” She rolled up her flexscreen and put it into her embossed black leather Yamin shoulder bag, checked her watch again. “Could we access a news stream, please?”
“Sure. Which one?”
“English Newsweb.”
The big wall screen came alive as he instructed the flat’s domestic computer. Red Live from Downing Street streamers ran across the top and bottom of the image, almost covering the advertising banners. Lucy sat up straight, staring eagerly at the screen.
Rob Lacey was standing behind the podium in the press room, wearing a pale blue shirt with a slim red tie, his breast pocket bearing a circle of gold EU stars stitched across it. The prime minister was looking professionally relaxed, grinning at the assembled reporters in his best matey style. “I believe that my candidacy is the only one able to offer the inclusiveness which our continent so desperately needs. We all know there are alienation problems in every region; if elected I would devote my presidency to bringing these people back into the family that is a Unified Europe. Only together can we be strong and prosperous. The way to do that is through liberalization. We must reform our institutions so that business and communities are no longer burdened with excessive regulation and tax; we must modernize the civil service and yes, even the European Parliament, so that elected officials can regain the trust of those who elect us.”
Rob Lacey fell silent for a moment. Bedlam erupted among the reporters as they all shouted their questions at him. Was he resigning as prime minister to run his presidential campaign? Did he favor referendums for countries to withdraw from the EU? Would he order the EuroArmy into the Indian-Pakistan security zone to enforce the peace? How was he going to tackle the Russian illegal immigration problem? Were the last whites in South Africa to be evacuated to Europe? Would there be more rejuvenations? What did his wife think about him standing? How would he tackle the radiation leakage from the Ukrainian reactors? Would he ask Stephanie and Sir Mitch to endorse him? What was his economic policy?
Rob Lacey held up both hands, still smiling benevolently. “My campaign pledges will be published online at one o’clock this afternoon. That will set out clearly and unequivocally where I stand on all major items of policy.”
“He’s done it,” Lucy Duke whispered. “He’s declared.” She sounded delighted.
Jeff gave her a sideways glance. She was still staring up at the screen, back held rigid, an expression of unswerving admiration on her face. He’d often wondered what it would take to get her aroused. “You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you?” he asked.
“I was briefed that it was a possibility, yes.”
“Right down to the possible timing.”
His gaze left the screen as Rob Lacey raised both hands above his head and gave the air a victory punch. His wife had joined him at the podium, clinging adoringly to his side. Jeff’s instant impression was of Lady Macbeth.
“Is that a problem?” Lucy Duke asked.
“If I turn up and sit next to him at the dinner tonight it will appear as though I’m providing a direct endorsement.”
“Not at all. Everybody knows this dinner was arranged weeks ago.”
Jeff indicated the screen. “Whereas this was purely spontaneous.”
“Tonight is not an endorsement. You will have total public access. If you wanted to denounce Mr. Lacey and his policies, this would be your perfect opportunity.”
“He has policies?”
“It was the prime minister who pressed very hard for you to be the first to receive rejuvenation. That was his policy.”
“Policy or advantage?”
“If you feel so strongly, you can pull out. We can announce you have a cold.”
“I’m not going to give anybody that big a snub, especially someone who’s probably going to be president. All I’m saying is, when you have your early briefings, you might have the courtesy to include me in future. Understand?”
She nodded. “Yes. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“So does he stand a chance?”
“Yes. A very good one. Brèque won’t get in again; no serving president has ever been reelected, not even the good ones, and he’s given us bad inflation, increased terrorist attacks, and his foreign policy is a catastrophe. The German chancellor is suffering badly from his party’s cash-for-aircraft scandal. The Italian prime minister is damaged goods after that last clash with the Vatican. The only person who could mount a viable challenge is Cherie Beamon.”