Brown sat alone, as the sun shone through his window. His hands, white with tension, gripped the mahogany desk, while he tried to spin his chair around. It was impossible. The hands were preventing a full rotation.
‘Gordon? Are you there?’ Shrilled a voice behind the door. Miliband. But which one? Brown shrugged to himself and set about trying to spin his chair. A knock. Then the door groaned open.
‘What is it, Ed?’ he asked, pulling his chair closer.
‘David, actually’ he mumbled. ‘President Obama sends his congratulations.’
‘Can I speak with him?’
‘He’s gone. Said he was rushed, had to go and play golf.’
‘Obama. He’s a good person.’ Brown checked his lapels with faux-nostalgia,before adding ‘he’d better not send me some more DVDs.’
Miliband laughed, and Brown reciprocated with a smile. Today had gone well. The Tories would be unelectable for decades. Their spending cuts had crippled Britain, and they had sought to undo all Labour’s good work. Today, Cameron packed up Downing Street, returning to opposition. He resigned, deciding to spend more time with his family. George Osborne had filled the void, but Boris Johnson was indicating his interest, next year perhaps.
‘You know, David, I think I’m getting old.’ Miliband perked up.
‘Oh, no, Gordon. You aren’t a day over forty.’ This was it. He was about to ask him to lead. All these years.
‘I just think, seeing how good it is to communicate with the British youth, would you tweet me?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Miliband, disappointedly.
‘Tweet me?’ He stared at Miliband, puppy-dog eye expectant.
Miliband clenched his fist. The man was never going to give up power. He stopped the Lib Dem coalition because Clegg wanted to lead. He prevented the Mandelson take over. He’d clung on for such a long time, yet nobody wanted him. And besides, nobody used Twitter anymore!
‘Yes, Prime Minister. I will ‘tweet’ you.’
‘Thank you.’ Miliband left. Brown revolved, having relinquished his grip. He was here to stay.
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