Scene 1: No 10. Cherie, Tony and Alastair Campbell are flicking through proof copies of Alastair’s Downing Street memoirs, Machiavelli, Eat Yer Heart Out.
Tony: Let's take it in turns to read out a funny bit.
Cherie: Me first. [She flips to the index.] "Brown, Gordon. Psychological flaws of: pages 3, 6, 23-28, 31, 47, 58-60, 89 . . ." etc, etc.
Everyone laughs. The door opens. Gordon pokes his head in. Silence falls.
Gordon: Something funny?
Tony [hiding the book]: Er, hi Gordon. We were just reading the first draft of a, er, new nuclear proliferation treaty. Britain's not in it. See? Irony. That's why we're all . . . er, chuckling away to each . . . other.
Gordon crosses to his chair and fishes the book out from under a cushion.
Gordon: Alastair's memoirs?
Tony: Oh, yes, and we had a peek at that too. Very dull stuff. Sorry, Ali.
Gordon: No, I'm sure it's all highly amusing. [Flipping to the index]: "Blair, Tony. All-round genius of". Impartial as ever, Alastair. When's it out?
Alastair: As soon as Tony is.
Gordon: Ooh, dearie me. What bad luck. Just in time to be covered by my new green supertax.
Alastair: What?
Gordon: A pound a page. Can't have these thumping great books destroying our forests. Especially if no one reads them.
Tony: You're taxing all books?
Gordon: Just political memoirs. Set an example from the top down, don't you think?
Alastair: But a hundred thousand copies have already been printed!
Gordon: Right, and when they've been pulped they'll make a marvellous contribution to the biofuels industry. Well done, Alastair.
He exits.
Tony: Devious sod. No one's going to pay hundreds of pounds for a load of out-of-date tittle-tattle.
Alastair: You just said it was a masterpiece.
Tony: It is. A masterpiece of out-of-date tittle-tattle.
Cherie: Darling, does this mean you'll have to pay back my advance - I mean your advance?
Tony: Sounds like it. [Beat] Oh, you haven't . . .
Cherie: Only a teeny-weeny bit.
Tony: How much?
Cherie: Fifty grand.
Tony: What on?
Cherie: Essentials, darling. Family stuff. A Marc Jacobs sari. A Chanel leotard for when I'm doing my exercises. A few pairs of Manolo Blahnik flip-flops. And a Junior Armani spacesuit for Leo.
Tony: You'll have to take it all back. We're 18 months behind on our mortgage.
Scene 2: That night. Tony's office. Tony is writing to his mortgage provider asking to defer payments for a further three months. Gordon passes.
Gordon: Ah, hammering out the old memoirs, eh, Tony? Are you writing it yourself or getting a ghost to - Oh, I forgot. Same difference. Ha!
Tony [sighing]: What's got into you, Gordon? We had an agreement. I've pushed through the Trident vote a year early and I'm taking all the flak for it in return for a general truce. So what's happened?
Gordon: I'll tell you what's happened. Now that the vote's tied into the parliamentary schedule I've ripped up the deal and I'm dancing all over the pieces. I've never enjoyed myself more.
Tony: You're a liar and a cheat.
Gordon: I learned at the feet of a master.
Tony: Listen to me, Gordon. Please don't tax my memoirs. I'm in real trouble. I may have to sell the house in Connaught Square. And when I leave Downing Street I'll be homeless!
Gordon: Rubbish. You'll always have a roof over your head.
Tony: Where?
Gordon starts whistling "YMCA". Exits.
Scene 3: Connaught Square. Tony and Cherie are saying farewell to their large Georgian town house.
Tony: Lovely old place. We never got round to giving it a name.
Cherie: What about "Trident"?
Tony: Trident?
Cherie: It cost us a fortune and we never used it. [She takes out her phone and makes a call.] Marc Jacobs, please. It's Cherie. [Beat] OK, I'll hold.
Tony: The buyer's due any minute.
Cherie: Probably some American hedge-fund tosser.
Tony: English, apparently. Property tycoon.
Cherie: Well, if it's the Duke of Westminster, I'm not selling. No way. Stuck-up over-privileged prat sponging off - Oh hi, Marc, I just lurrv the sari but I'm not sure I can afford . . . Oh really? Oh, darling, you're an angel. Mwah! Ciao! [Ends the call.] Another six grand saved.
The doorbell rings.
Tony: Here he is.
He opens the door. Michael Meacher walks in.
Tony: Michael, what are you doing here?
Meacher: Buying your house.
Tony: Of course. Property tycoon. Well, do you like it?
Meacher: Perfect, yes. This'll be the nerve centre of my leadership campaign as soon as . . . What's funny?
Tony [stifling a laugh]: Oh, nothing. Best of luck.
Meacher: I'll have to start installing telephone lines straight away.
Tony: No need for that.
Meacher: Got 30 here already, have you?
Tony: Just the one, mate. That should be plenty.
