Her Jaguar and a follow car pulled into the side gate of Buckingham Palace. Upstairs, outside on the landing to the regal drawing room, Andrew McCullough, the king’s valet, held ground at the large wooden door while Georgia waited patiently to be given the sign that the king would be ready to see her, ready to ask her the question the press and the pundits were all asking: would she be able to form a government?
Once inside, she nodded to the king, did a slight bow at the door, and was summoned into the seemingly never-ending room with the ornately coved ceilings and the silk-lined walls. She made her away across. They were alone in the room. He held out his hand. She took it, suddenly not sure if she should bow again. Do I bow only at the door, or here across from him? Do I kiss his hand? I know it’s all different when it’s a private meeting at the palace, but I forget exactly what I should do. Damn this all. Why don’t I have this all down?
For some reason she couldn’t settle on what to do, so she bowed slightly again. Awkwardly, she thought. The king seemed fine with the response and invited her to have a seat on the couch across from him.
“How are you holding up, Miss Turnbull? These can’t be easy times.”
“No, Your Majesty, they are not.”
“I have sent a note to the prime minister. My heartfelt thoughts on news he would be leaving public life. It’s a loss.”
“Yes it is, sir. A horrible loss.”
“I guess it’s all to you then, now. Can you form a government?” He was wasting no time. There was no small talk to be had. That was it, the big question. She had always imagined there was more to say in private meetings with the monarch, little wisps of truth to be shared, wisdom passed on, but it wasn’t to be. He wanted an answer to the query the constitution forced him to put forward, and nothing more.
“I believe that, yes, I can, sir, form a government. That will be my task.”
“Yesterday’s dispatch box had a summary to me of your objectives. I’ve looked them over and feel that all of them are sound. They not only carry on Roland’s work well but will give the people a good sense of continuity. I do have concerns on the referendum, Miss Turnbull. I can see that it’s going to be a high priority of your government. Is that true?”
“Yes, I believe it is. I should think it’s an idea whose time has come.”
“I guess you could label me sitting on top of the fence on this one. All I have really is a strong desire that it’s a majority vote. There will be unending repercussions, I’m sure.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. It’s a course change fraught with peril. But one we believe needs to be taken.”
“It would cause massive change. You’ll need it to be a resounding decision of the electorate to leave the union. I would hate to have it feel as if it had the fabric of a backroom deal by big business or any other collective or pressure group. It has to clearly be the people speaking. I’m sure of that much.”
“Yes, of course, Your Majesty. I’m in lockstep with you on that.”
He looked across at her now for what seemed to be the longest time.
He can see through me, Georgia thought to herself. He’s staring right into my soul. Knows all. No. That couldn’t be. He’s just a man. He’s the king but, in the end, just a man. Dear God, why is this all so unnerving?
After a pause, the king broke the silence.
“You’ll have the weight of the world on your shoulders, won’t you?” he asked with complete empathy, a knowing kind of compassion.
“I’m sure it comes with the title, sir, but, yes. I can feel it already, to be honest.”
“You’ll take it in drips and drops. It will become part of you, the weight. You’ll learn to live with it.” He took another quiet breath. “I’ll be saying my prayers for you.”
“Thank you, Your Highness.”
“Thank you, Miss Turnbull. A pleasure to see you again.” He stood. She quickly followed. They faced each other. The meeting was over. She started to panic. Do I walk backward now all the way to the door? It’s an incredible length. Not sure that I’ll be able to do that without tripping or doing something silly. Damn, why can’t I figure this out?
The king smiled, almost as if he were in fact reading her mind. He nodded his head, turned, and walked toward the rear hallway leading to his residence. Georgia waited for what seemed like a season for him to cross and leave the endless room, then turned and scurried out as quickly as possible.
* * *
“I’VE JUST ACCEPTED an invitation from His Majesty the king to form a government.” Georgia was speaking to the British public through the press, outside Number 10. It was early morning and a pleasant sun favored her face as she read a short statement on the priorities of her new government, number one of course being to bring to justice the persons responsible for the bombing that had taken place there. To the great dismay of the assembled journalists, she finished her statement, took no questions, and briskly strode back through the black door behind her, away from their glare.
Several days had passed since Georgia had taken a pill. She felt better, yet in moments alone, when darker thoughts consumed her, she’d find herself fending off an impulse to run to her flat and reunite with her helpers. She had so far resisted and had been free of the little beasts for almost seventy-two hours. With all that there was to be done, she needed to have as clear a head as possible. She was aware that unless she pushed through the storm of the inevitable withdrawal, the clarity she was longing for would never reappear.
She had a light breakfast with Holmby, the deputy PM, Arnold Haddon, the minister for the cabinet office, and the very pregnant Lucy Barnathanson, the cabinet secretary, in the den adjacent to her office—Roland’s office. There was little doubt that she would have the numbers in Parliament. She would bring a vote in and have the backing of her party. She would indeed form a government. Georgia Turnbull was going to be the prime minister. It was done, set down in stone. All that was left to do was lead—lead and breathe.
She had hoped to avoid making any cabinet changes at such an early point, but the cabinet secretary sensed that many felt that a reshuffle was due—in particular, Burnlee had made clear his desire to leave the home secretary post and take up Treasury as the new chancellor of the exchequer. There was also talk of unrest at Justice, Health, Work and Pensions, and Energy and Climate. Georgia begged Lucy and Haddon to postpone all that they could, at least for the time being.
The requests would likely be granted. There would be much goodwill toward Georgia now, not only in her own party but with the Tories and the Lib Dems, and even UKIP as well. This was still crisis time they were in: the new PM needed backing and would get it. Everyone was on the same page. Hopefully.
* * *
IT WAS BEFORE the cabinet meeting, while Burnlee was bending her ear on how he needed to help her by taking over at Treasury, that Jack Early let Georgia know how desperately Inspector Steel was trying to get ahold of her. She had insisted the matter was urgent. Georgia took a breath. Simply the thought of Steel was enough for her to lose her calm. How had it happened? After a lifetime of not letting anyone into her center, this young woman had climbed the gate and gotten in. Even a simple flash of a thought of her made Georgia’s head go a little light with too much oxygen.
She wouldn’t see her today, though. She didn’t have the strength, not without the help she couldn’t let herself reach for. She had the cabinet meeting, the address at Parliament, and sit-downs with the BBC, ITV, and then Sky News, plus a dinner planned with her father. Steel would make her heart race at too fast a clip today; she couldn’t take the chance. Early pressed again, not aware of how loaded his inquiry was.
“Should I schedule her to come by once you’ve returned from Parliament? She says it’s most important. I assume she has news on the investigation. We need to stay at the front of her trail, ahead of the pack. Didn’t you say that, ma’am?”
“Yes, I know. But I can’t. Not today. I just can’t. Do you hear me? Have her see Darling. Let her convey whatever she has to him. Tell her I’m fine with it.”
“Yes, of course, ma’am. I’ll tell her.”
Georgia made her way over the finely woven rug runners down to her initial cabinet meeting as prime minister to be, something she had waited for her entire adult life, yet David Heaton, her own gnawing ambition, those “damn pills,” and, yes, even Davina Steel had all conspired to take any sense of joy from the moment or the victory. Everything she had ever wanted had come true, yet here she was, deeply demoralized and dispirited. The historic hallways of 10 Downing Street all seemed to be bouncing around a cackling form of laughter, one wall to another. The joke was entirely on her.