Donald’s face was chilled by the wind and snow was forecast. The nip of brandy warmed him, but also surely contributed to the reddish-purple hue across his face, and he thought of his wife telling him that he drank too much already. Bart was ten years Donald’s junior, but in politics and business, age was a mere number. In his early sixties, Donald was nowhere near retirement, and the prime minister relied upon his integrity and longevity, almost as much as he did his own. Last night had given him the little boost he’d needed.

It was the prime minister he’d represented this weekend, and what a triumph it had been. The climate conference had been a resounding success, and local businesses had benefitted hugely, as well as raising the profile of the area, that was in dire need of it. Unemployment in Cumbria was up there with the highest rates in the UK and, apart from tourism, they were desperate for a bit of glory and praise. Images and soundbites had been broadcast all over the world, and the UNESCO status of the area had drawn in the national and international press. It was a glorious backdrop and made even the most miserable attendees look quite perky. And that was the point. It had been Donald’s idea in the first place, and he’d been driving for it for two years. As under-secretary to the Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs (DEFRA), he’d driven the agenda, and delegates had gone home impressed and satisfied with progress. Of course, China and Russia had failed to send representatives, but it was essentially a bonding exercise for the West, so it was only to be expected. All in all, Donald felt smugly contented with himself. Being hosted by Bartholomew, even though it had to be kept secret, was simply the icing on the cake. Thoughts of the protesters outside the hotel, and the feeling as the egg had slammed onto the top of his head, subsided as he controlled himself and focused on the positives.

A sudden change in chugging made his stomach leap and he reached out for Bart’s hand absent-mindedly. Bart laughed.

‘Oh, Donald, relax. It cost me seventeen thousand quid to rent this thing. The pilots are excellent, and they like my tips. Believe me, they want to get home to their girlfriends tonight too.’

Donald had panicked about every detail when Bart had suggested he go back to London on his private chartered helicopter. That included questioning leaving the helicopter out overnight in freezing temperatures, but he’d been assured that with the proper protective equipment and de-icing first thing, everything was in order.

‘Ex-RAF eh? Good job,’ Donald said.