Central London, 4.15pm
Jackie Sutton hailed a taxi outside of the Carlton Club. She looked terrific in a grey mélagne business suit and Vivienne Westwood heels, and she felt immensely pleased with herself. Jackie had spent the past three hours in a blizzard of networking, socialising with Daddy’s well-connected friends in the Conservative Party hierarchy, acting as William Broadwick’s unofficial agent. She had put on a great show, saying all the right things to all the right people. She’d been waspish, witty and occasionally wise, and as she’d long suspected she was knocking on an open door. The Party readily understood Broadwick’s backwoods appeal, his media skills and common sense populist opinions. A Cabinet Minister let her know, off the record, that Cameron’s Tories would welcome an official approach from William. It would play well with the Tory Right, who felt utterly betrayed by the wishy-washy compromises Coalition government conveniently necessitated. A safe seat in the Home Counties was William Broadwick’s for the asking.