Scene 1: Downing Street. Tony is posing for his official photograph. Gordon enters.
Tony: Ah! My political soulmate. Hello!
Gordon: Hello there, old ally. You're looking very distinguished today.
Tony: Thank you. And what a typically good-natured remark.
Gordon: Well, it comes from the heart, treasured friend and colleague. Now, I'll have to decide whereabouts on the stairs to place this photograph of yours.
Tony: Ooh, between Churchill and Thatcher will do very nicely.
Gordon: Possibly, my friend, possibly. Or between Anthony Eden and Lloyd George.
Tony: Sorry, dear chum?
Gordon: In honour of a Middle East catastrophe and a peerage scandal.
Tony: I see. And when your portrait's taken it'll hang between Douglas-Home and Callaghan - in honour of government paralysis followed by electoral meltdown.
Gordon: Really, old friend?
Tony: Yes, indeed, dear buddy.
Gordon bunches his fists and moves in on Tony.
Photographer: Hold still!
Scene 2: Next door. Sarah and Cherie are having tea. The atmosphere is tensely cordial.
Sarah: Oh, Cherie, isn't it lovely now that Gordon and Tony have made up. We can all be friends.
Cherie: Oh, I agree, Sarah. And your skin's looking lovely today.
Sarah: Thank you . . . Doesn't it always look lovely?
Cherie: Of course. That's what I meant. And such a gorgeous dress.
Sarah: Ooh, I know! Gordon says it makes me look sexy.
Cherie: Ha ha! Really? I can't imagine Gordon saying "sexy".
Sarah: Why shouldn't he say it? I am sexy.
Cherie: Well, yes, I just . . . oh, never mind. Give us a twirl, go on.
Sarah [twirls]: Ta-da!
Cherie: Amazing . . . Primark?
Sarah [coolly]: Hennes, actually. And where's that beautiful skirt from? It covers your legs very well, doesn't it?
Cherie: This? I bought it, of course.
Cherie: Selfridges. During normal shopping hours. I've got the receipt.
Sarah: Oh, I wasn't implying, you know, you cadged it or anything. Heaven forbid. I'm sure you paid the full price.
Cherie: Yes, I did, actually.
Sarah: Right. Good.
Cherie: Mmm. So . . .
Sarah: Er, bet you'll be relieved when you finally leave Downing Street.
Cherie: Sad, I think, more than relieved.
Sarah: Has Tony got something planned for you in his lavender list - I mean resignation honours?
Cherie: Oh I don't think titles are for me. But if he insists I couldn't really refuse.
Sarah: I suppose not. Although a true socialist probably would refuse.
Cherie: It would depend what a true socialist had contributed. If I'd just hid behind Tony like an obedient little slave I wouldn't have been a true socialist would I . . .
Sarah: Are you implying something?
Cherie: Implying what?
Sarah: That I hide behind Gordon.
Cherie: Well, since you ask, Sarah, yes, I think you do. Whereas I've spoken out. And I've taken the flak. And as a result I've got a voice.
Sarah: No, Cherie. You've got a mouth. There's a difference. And in your case it's a bloody big one.
Cherie [rises]: Right. That's it. I've tried being gracious to you, Sarah. I've complimented that tat you're wearing. I've praised your skin, which quite frankly looks like a Picasso, and I've refrained from pointing out that high heels and black tights on a woman your size make you look like Miss Whiplash.
Cherie: I've been a model of politeness and all you've done is insult me.
Sarah: Insult you? You just called me Miss Whiplash! [She bursts into tears] Get out. I hate you.
Cherie: Oh, Christ. Sarah, please don't cry, I went too far. I'm sorry.
Sarah: You're not sorry.
Cherie: I didn't want - I just meant, er, your clothes are a bit . . . Please forgive me.
Cherie: I'm truly sorry. I mean it. Come on. Dry those tears.
Sarah [sniffing]: Well, all right.
Cherie: Good. And we'll pop that nasty old dress on to eBay this afternoon and split the proceeds, 60-40. All right?
Sarah: All right.
Cherie: We've got to enjoy our last few days here.
Sarah: Right, then. A truce.
Cherie: Better than a truce! We're going to be friends for ever, so it's peace.
Sarah: Truce, peace. Whatever you want. Do you always have to have the final word?
Cherie: All right, a truce.
Sarah: No, have it your way. Peace!
Cherie: A truce. I insist!
Sarah: Listen, you whingeing freeloader, you wanted peace, so peace it is.
Cherie: Freeloader? You stuck-up tub of blubber. It's a truce, right, or I'll knock your block off.
Cherie throws the teapot at Sarah who ducks and grabs Cherie by the hair. The two women go tumbling into the next room, where Tony is being held in a headlock by Gordon. Cherie and Sarah crash on to their husbands.
Photographer: Official photo, everyone! Smile.