Shocked, Art took a seat opposite his boss and watched as the Prime Minister wordlessly measured out two generous glasses of gin, before downing them both in quick succession.

“Why did I bother calling you here Arthur?” Stephen loosened his tie and buried his head in his hands. Unsure what to do, Art leant over and patted the Prime Minister consolingly on the knee.

“Because I can help. Arthur Prestley – spin doctor par excellence!”

“Can’t you see it’s too late for that?” Stephen hissed, well aware that the one person he least wanted to find out was asleep in the room above. “Bloody hell Arthur how do you ‘spin’ photos of me quite clearly having an… Intimate encounter with a girl I’m old enough to have fathered!”

“And there was no note? Demands?”

“Nothing.”

His face grey with stress, Stephen stood now, and began to pace.

“Get me MI5 on the phone, they can sort this out.”

“You’re not going to have her killed!”

The Prime Minister’s lips curled into a sad smile, and he chuckled quietly.

“You wish.”