Monday
Finally, after weeks, I get a call back from No Ten. Although I don’t recognise the voice.
The person on the other end of the line says the prime minister and the chancellor both appreciate my messages, but they felt a response should come through the appropriate channels.
“And you are?” I ask.
“I’m the intern,” he says.
“Don’t you know who I am?” I say.
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“Of course,” he says, and I can hear a bit of paper rustling. “You’re . . . David Campbell?”
“Cameron,” I say. “I was PM.”
“Yes!” says the intern. “The Scottish guy! Who threw the phones! We did you in school!”
“Er, after him?” I say, weakly.
Then the intern asks me what my main achievements were, because that might ring a bell.
“I can ring back after you’ve thought about it?” he says, after a while.
Tuesday
I always thought I’d make a packet after being PM. Although I suppose my one tiny mistake was resigning in disgrace after ruining the country, whereupon the entire government was replaced by people I’d spent a decade calling fruitcakes and morons.
Although actually, none of my old friends really talks to me now, either. Except for Michael, but his wife would write a column about it. George is always so busy. And Nick still hasn’t accepted my friend request. And Steve Hilton still doesn’t have a phone, because his shaman says it’s bad for his chakras.
In fact, the only important person who still answers my WhatsApps is my camping buddy MBS, in Saudi Arabia. So I text him.
“Tough week!” I write. “Journalists! What can u do!”
“I have strategies,” MBS replies.
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Might let that relationship dwindle, actually.
Wednesday
I’m in my shepherd’s hut. It’s warmer than it was, because I’ve wheeled it into the drawing room.
After leafing through the papers, I call Alan Duncan and tell him how much I’m enjoying him slagging off Priti, Jacob and all those other nutters in his book.
“You should publish your own,” he says.
“But I did,” I say.
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“Oh,” he says.
“Anyway,” I say. “It reminds me what a heavyweight you were. Everybody takes you seriously. Know anybody good in Downing Street these days?”
Alan says he does have a contact, yes. A real insider.
“It’s not the intern, is it?” I joke.
“Oh, you know him, too,” says Alan.
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I just wish Boris would get back to me. We were almost friends once. Perhaps not so close that I ever threatened to molest his wife in some bushes. But not far off.
Thursday
George calls back. He says he knows I didn’t break any rules, but I’ve still made myself look pretty terrible. Then I ask where he is, and he says he’s on a yacht.
“Why do I look terrible?” I say. “Why don’t you look terrible? You’re on a yacht!”
“I look amazing,” says George. “I’m macrobiotic now.”
“To be honest,” I say, “I was just bored. It wasn’t even about the money.”
George says he’d heard I could have made about $60m.
“About that,” I sigh. “Yeah.”
“God,” says George. “You must have been bored. I’d just read a book.”
Friday
Suddenly occurs to me that I still have George’s home number, from when he was chancellor. On a whim, I call it, and Rishi Sunak answers.
“Rishi!” I say. “Finally! It’s David Cameron. Look. It’s about time you started defending me.”
“I’m going into a tunnel,” says Rishi, making hissing noises.
Then I remind him it’s a landline, and he says “shit”. And then he sighs, and says it’s actually good I called.
“You should know,” he says. “We’re releasing the texts.”
I ask if he means all of them. And he says yes. All of them. All two.
Odd. I thought there were more.
“Oh, there were,” says Rishi. “But the others were all from you. And we’re only releasing my replies.”
“Listen,” I say. “Do what you like. I’m not ashamed. Because I know that all of my messages were dignified and restrained.”
Rishi doesn’t say anything.
“Although out of interest,” I add, “how many were there?”
“Five hundred and thirty eight,” says Rishi.
*according to Hugo Rifkind
