Hannah felt a thrill of excitement the evening when her pager displayed a message asking her to drop into the Prime Minister's office. In her time in Parliament she'd worked diligently for the Party, always voting and speaking on-message, asking incisive questions as a committee member, making occasional appearances on serious TV shows, but not enough to be branded a media whore. Bust as well as being loyal, she was also deeply ambitious. Now, at the age of 31, she felt it was time that her loyalty, and her unquestionable ability, were appropriately rewarded. The PM's Parliamentary Private Secretary -- basically his bag-carrier -- had recently been promoted to a ministerial post, and there had been feverish speculation among her colleagues as to who would be appointed to the prestigious vacancy, a good first step on the road towards real power.
As she sat in the Commons chamber, half-listening to the debate on European fishing regulations, she reflected with a self-satisfied smile that the tabloids would enjoy the prospect of her promotion as well. With her shoulder-length honey blonde hair, her Vogue looks, her impressive bust and her long, shapely legs, Hannah secretly revelled in their interest in her, even as she publicly dismissed it as "typical sexist media flim-flam". Even the ones who didn't like her referred to her in terms like 'the comely Ms Armstrong'; the gutter red tops preferred references to "hot Hannah", while the readers of a lads' mag had voted her the politician they'd most like to be whipped in by, and dubbed her "the Shaggable Member for Surrey South-East".
Despite her fifteen months as an MP she didn't know the PM that well; Martin enjoyed the company of his public school-class chums, but he wasn't known for hob-nobbing with backbenchers, especially female ones with grammar school backgrounds. On reflection though, Hannah realised that he had thrown her a couple of smiles in the Division Lobby recently, and now there was this invitation to meet with him in half an hour. Clearly the Whips Office had recognised her worth and put her name forward for the vacant position.
Five minutes before her appointment Hannah slipped out of the Chamber and into the ladies loo. She checked her make-up, re-touched her lipstick and fluffed up her hair. She half-turned away from the mirror then paused; somewhat self-consciously she undid the top button of her blouse. With her sharp intelligence she had never had to rely on her looks to achieve things; but after all, Martin was a man, and a little bit of additional allure couldn't do any harm! Thirty seconds before her appointment time Hannah entered the PM's Commons suite. Jane, Martin's secretary gave her a warm smile and, nodding at a connecting door, said, "Hello Hannah, he's expecting you."
On entering the main office, Hannah was slightly surprised to see the PM was alone, and her confidence faltered. Surely, if this was a meeting to confirm her promotion it was usual for the Chief Whip to be present? Perhaps her appointment to the PPS job wasn't a done deal after all. Martin was sitting at a nest of low leather chairs around a coffee table. He half rose and, flashing his trademark grin, waved her to a chair -- not across the table but right next to his, that had to be a good sign. Smoothing her knee length skirt Hannah obediently sat, with a nervous smile. Sitting back in his chair, sipping from a cut glass tumbler of whisky, totally at ease, Martin said "So Hannah, how are you? Would you like a drink?"
She politely declined and Martin placed his glass on the table and sat forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped. "Well Hannah, I'm sure you have an idea what this is about: the PPS job." Inwardly, Hannah preened; outwardly she turned up her smile several notches and resisted the urge to pump her fist into the air and whoop in triumph. Then the PM stuck a pin in her balloon. "You're on a shortlist of three."
Hannah tried desperately to control her reaction, but clearly failed. Martin sat back with a chuckle. "Oh don't look like that! You're the front-runner, the most talented, and certainly my preferred choice. I was going to ask if you were up for the job, but there's clearly no doubt about that. No, before we confirm anything I just wanted this little chat, to make sure you fully understood the role." As her heart rate returned almost to normal Hannah tried to compose her face back into something resembling a smile. Martin continued, "I won't patronise you by telling you the practical duties, I'm sure you know most of those. I'm looking for someone who's discreet, and entirely loyal in public -- which I know you are -- but who's not afraid in private to tell me if they think I'm making a tit of myself, or about to say something stupid. With your PR background, and from what I've heard, I think you fit the bill. The Chief Whip likes Bradley, but he's too much of an arse-licker for my taste. And Tom, the other candidate, in my view lacks the, erm, intellectual rigour for the role." Still smiling, he leant forward, gazed intently at Hannah, and added, "Plus, I don't want either of them to suck my cock."
Hannah wasn't aware of Martin having a taste for smutty humour, and couldn't prevent herself from whinnying with laughter. It took a few seconds before she realised she was on her own. For the first time in the interview, the PM looked entirely serious. Recovering herself, Hannah nervously asked, "Sorry Martin, you, um...that was a joke wasn't it?"
He simply stared at her for some time, eyes slightly narrowed s if appraising her. Then, sitting back, he replied, "No, it wasn't. I'm sorry, I know it's not a particularly professional approach on my part but...look Hannah, I've fancied you ever since your first speech at conference five years ago. You're a highly talented member of the Party, with a bright future in front of you; I have no doubt that you'll be sitting in the Cabinet a few years from now, with or without a head start. But, well, I've got this opportunity to give you an early leg-up, and I have every intention of turning it to my best advantage."
Hannah stared at him in disbelief, mouth open, her face burning. A whole raft of emotions mixed in her brain: anger at the man's bloody cheek, outrage at his blatant attempt at sexual blackmail, humiliation at the position in which he'd placed her...and embarrassment that she was still sitting there listening to him, instead of leaping to her feet, slapping the bastard's face and storming out of there. Struggling to find her voice, she mumbled, "But you can't possibly ask me to...you can't make that a condition."
