Ed lay on the bed, grinning up at the chandelier. He spread his arms and legs as if making a snow angel, feeling the luxurious sheets slide under his limbs. He’d never been in a five-star hotel before, never mind the presidential suite. It smelt of new carpets and fancy soap. He glanced at the wall of window to his left, the curtains undrawn. Across the Thames, somewhere on the north side, a column of fiery smoke funnelled up from a blazing building. The river was invisible, except for a row of lights on the opposite bank, the rest obscured by snow-flakes floating down, tinged orange by the hotel lights.

He smirked. Christmas had come right in the middle of February. Jennifer was in the bathroom getting ready for what was left of the night. Although he’d had the bare minimum of sleep for the last three crazy days’ campaigning, the election-day adrenalin, plus a cocktail of Pro Plus and Red Bull, kept him buzzing. He glanced at the massive muted TV, churning out election coverage, the umpteenth replay of Vernon Rolt’s moment of glory, the new MP punching the air, then the all-too-familiar sound bite about making the streets of Britain safe again, cutting out the ‘tumour of terror’.

Jennifer appeared from the bathroom gift-wrapped in a voluptuous hotel bathrobe, her blonde hair draped about her shoulders in damp snakes.

‘How d’you like me in this?’ She did a twirl so the robe fanned out around her.

He grinned. ‘I’d like you better out of it.’

She rolled her eyes, her attention caught by the TV. The image had cut to a heaving throng of protesters in Birmingham, pushing through a cordon of police riot shields, petrol bombs arcing above, a news reporter ducking as one of the flaming missiles came his way.

Britain might be on fire, but right now Ed didn’t give a shit. He snapped his fingers to get her attention. ‘Hey, it’s a compliment.’ He pushed himself up on to one elbow. ‘Jen, babe, I’ve been meaning to say . . .’

‘What?’

‘Could you put my shoes outside?’

She groaned, picked them up, opened the door and was about to chuck them out on to the landing when they heard the first muffled thud.

She dropped the shoes, shut the door abruptly and looked at him, alarmed.

He sank back on to the bed. ‘Fireworks, probably. They’re still celebrating downstairs.’

‘Inside the hotel? Like, I don’t think so.’