Chapter Text
“Here’s what I said to her, here’s what I said. I said: ‘Listen, missy, if it weren’t for my kind little women like you wouldn’t even have the right to vote: let alone be sharing the House of Commons with the likes of me!’”
Raucous laughter erupted amongst the men and a smug smile took over Julian’s face as he waggled his finger in an impression of himself.
“Who does she think she is?”
“It’s no wonder her party’s been out of power for a decade!"
Julian chuckled at the response his story had provoked in his fellow MPs and took a long swig of his whiskey. As he placed his drink back on the table beside him, his shiny gold wedding band clinked against the glass. He paused and studied the ring for just a moment, slowly turning it with his thumb, before straightening back up in time to snicker at a joke he hadn’t heard.
Once the conversation had died down, Julian turned to face the dance floor that took up the centre of the room. Conservative Christmas Eve parties always got rowdy but, after a difficult year of political conquests, most were glad for an opportunity to let their hair down.
Hundreds of politicians, staff, friends, and family filled the over-decorated hall of the manor house, many of whom were twirling wildly across the wooden dance floor. Some others gathered on chairs in front of the roaring antique fire, some huddled in corners still debating the intricacies of various policy points, most milled around the edges of the room engaging in friendly festive conversation.
Julian was shuffling his way through the crowd in search of another drink when a nearby conversation caught his attention. A group was gathered around a small television in the corner of the room beside the towering Christmas tree.
“Look at those berks!” A man cackled. “Leftie MPs really are a different breed.”
“And they look so happy? Weirdos!” Someone else chipped in. The group’s laughter ricocheted around the room causing heads to spin in their direction.
As Julian approached, a voice from the crowd called out to him: “I say, Fawcett! You’ll love this one!” Julian slipped his way into the group’s small circle, being careful to dodge the drunken dancing party-goers, and focussed his gaze on news broadcast on the TV.
On-screen, twenty or so men and women wrapped up in thick winter coats manned tables piled up to their necks with food. Others meandered between the tables speaking quietly among themselves, filling their baskets with tins and boxes.
A soothing rendition of Hark the Herald Angels Sing played in the background of a news anchor's reporting. The small church the people were gathered in was lit entirely by the soft glow of candles, apart from the modest Christmas tree covered in decorations clearly handmade by children.
Julian’s eyes scanned over the headline: ‘MPs gather to help Manchester food bank’. He felt a bark of laughter bubbling up within him.
“Spending Christmas Eve at a northern food bank? Can’t think of anything worse!” He jeered. “Didn’t know that kind even knew about Christmas dinner? Pie and chips on the sofa of a council house is more their speed, I imagine.”
The group gave off a monstrous cheer and clapped Julian on the back.
“Honestly, Fawcett!” A woman doubled over with laughter. “You’re such a scream!” Another man within the group reached across the group and delicately took the woman’s hand, pulling her towards him.
“You want screams, darling?” He smirked. “I can give you screams, I promise.”
Others chipped in with various derogatory comments (directed at both the woman and those on-screen) as Julian peered over the heads of his colleagues in search of a drink. For the first time, he noticed the abundance of waiters presenting tray after tray of rich, overindulgent canapés and expensive champagne to well-off ladies and gentlemen.
Julian turned his attention back to the TV. The sight of enemy MPs handing food to the lowest ends of society made his stomach churn, although, for once in his political career, not because he was looking at the faces of those in poverty. A notion rose in Julian that shocked even himself.
“Do you think we should’ve…” Julian paused. He stopped the damning words before they could escape the confines of his usually uncaring mouth.
“Should’ve what, old chap? Helped out at the food bank too?” A man guffawed, giving Julian an incredulous look.
“No!” Julian said defensively. “No, I meant that we should’ve err… got the media here. Yes! Shown those Lefties what they’re missing out on!”
“Too right, Fawcett! Too right!” Julian gazed back at the TV with his usual smug grin, wiping his mind of any guilt he momentarily felt. Christmas was no time for guilt, but it didn’t quite feel like the time for joy anymore either.
Julian had the approval of his peers, he had his Party, he had a Christmas Eve celebration surrounded by those at the highest ends of society, what more could he possibly want at Christmas?