“Happy Christmas, Nick!”
Nick looked round from studying his overcrowded bookshelves as David bounded into his Cabinet office. “Happy Christmas to you, too,” he responded with a smile, and giving up his search for the policy document he’d wanted to reference, came round his crowded desk to meet his visitor. As soon as Nick reached him, David proffered a colourfully-wrapped, vaguely box-shaped parcel, a bright and oddly hopeful smile wreathing his patrician features.
“W-what’s this?”
Jovially, David responded, “What do you think? Your Christmas present, of course!”
“Oh.”
Nick bit his lip, clearly taken aback, and David’s face fell.
“What’s wrong?”
“Well – I, I’m sorry, David, we Liberal Democrats, we, we don’t get each other individual presents at Christmas. It can, you know…” Nick waved his hands in the air, the words tumbling out in his desire to explain, “Give rise to, to jealousy, and embarrassment, and… we just buy general, general presents for the, the – for everyone. To show our, our appreciation of all the hard work our people put in over the year. I brought in a couple of boxes of Quality Street only this morning, to… to, to share around…” he brightened as he looked towards the two bright purple tins, and hurried over to pick one, ignoring David’s exclamation,
“No, Nick, really, I didn’t expect – I only wanted -”
Oblivious, Nick carried on talking as he returned with his selection. “… I,I really should have discussed this with you… Never mind – here,” he held out one hexagonal purple monstrosity, still biting his lip apologetically, “Um, Happy Christmas, David. I’m sorry it’s not wrapped -”
For the first time since David had given him his present Nick looked straight at the other man, and hastily David controlled his features, fiercely trying to hide his acute disappointment as he accepted the heavy sweet tin.
“No, really, that’s fine,” he said heartily, “I love Quality Street – especially those green triangles! Thank you!”
Nick’s face lightened and he grinned. “I prefer those big purple toffee things with the nut in the middle,” he confided, and looked down at the parcel which David had given him, turning it over and over in curiosity.
David watched the strong, square hands flex and move and suddenly, piercing through his disappointment, came an abrupt shaft of pure, unadulterated lust. Dry-throated he looked away, trying to ignore the way all his blood was rushing south in a highly inappropriate manner. This was not about his completely unsuitable feelings for his deputy, he told himself, holding the Quality Street awkwardly in front of him with both hands and trying to use it as a shield. This was about Nick, and how depressed he’d been recently… All he’d wanted to do was to cheer Nick up a little after Miriam’s departure, and then his appalling public crucifixion in the media and in the Commons, and instead all he’d done was embarrass the poor man.
David sighed. Perhaps he should just leave? He’d cocked it up again, he reflected morosely. Instead of cheering Nick up he’d managed to make things worse! Bloody Lib Dems and their politically-correct gift-giving… He could only hope that George’s Christmas present to Danny didn’t elicit the same reaction – though George had seemed far more exercised over the precise wording on one of the Christmas cards he was sending out. David had no idea of the identity of the intended recipient, but he could only hope that whoever-it-was appreciated all the effort that George had put into composing his message.
David was turning towards the door, intent on getting away before his carefully-planned little gesture bombed even more spectacularly, when he heard the sound of ripping paper and swung back to see Nick working on the wrapping covering his gift. He hesitated, hope flickering. Surely Nick would like them – as soon as David had seen them in the jeweller’s window he had known – just known that they were perfect for Nick. That conviction seemed to have deserted him now. He could only hope that his instinct proved right, and more, that his gift would make Nick smile. He hadn’t seen Nick smile – really, genuinely smile – in a very long time. Not since Miriam had left him for that flashy Spanish lawyer…
David shook his head at his thoughts. Damned woman – and Nick still wouldn’t hear a word said against her, insisted that it was his fault that Miriam had left, that he must have failed her somehow… Still. At least she let Nick see his boys regularly, and spend Christmas and holidays with them -
“I’ll open it now, shall I?” Nick was saying lightly, “Taking it all the way to Spain to open on Christmas Day seems a little…”
“…Futile?”
“… Unnecessary.” Nick amended, and leaning back against his desk he began to unroll the huge sheet of expensively-gilded wrapping paper which an over-enthusiastic David had used to envelop the present, until he revealed a small dark-blue leather box.
“Oh…” he murmured, studying the gold of the ‘Cartier’ embossed on the lid. “David, I…”
His words trailed off as he lifted the lid and saw the cufflinks nestled on the silk lining within. Two modernistic, abstract bird shapes, made of a rich yellow gold, with tiny topaz eyes that sparkled with life in the dim light from the window. Nick stared at them, entranced.
“Do – do you like them?”
Abruptly brought out of his fascination with the tiny golden birds, Nick looked up at an anxious David.
“I – yes, I think they’re beautiful,” he said, stunned. “Little Liberal Democrat birds – Liberal Democrat cufflinks, and so exquisitely made… how could I not like them?
“ …Though I’m sure that most of my party are convinced that I would prefer Tory trees, not Liberal Democrat birds,” he added suddenly, bitterness briefly ruling his voice before it smoothed again.
“But David -” Standing up from his desk, Nick carefully closed the box and held it out, looking extremely uncomfortable, his forehead crinkled in concern. “- I can’t possibly accept this. It’s too much. I mean – gosh, Cartier of Bond Street! I – no. It’s extremely, extremely generous of you, but no. I really appreciate the time and, and thought that you’ve put into this gift, but surely you can see that I can’t possibly accept it? Here.”
Stunned and silent, David automatically held out his hand in response to Nick’s firm tone and felt the small weight of his long-planned, eagerly-anticipated present land back in his palm.
And with that impact the full realization of what he had done crashed in on him. He had embarrassed – no, more than that, he had hurt the man he wanted so desperately to help. He hadn’t helped Nick at all. In fact, in all his clumsy, well-meaning tactlessness, he had made things worse.
Nick would never accept his overtures of friendship now -
Somehow, he was never afterwards sure how, David managed to choke out some vague pleasantry and get out of the office before his self-control gave way completely. He almost ran back to the haven of his office in No 10, clenching his jaw against the tears and somehow, some way, keeping his usual unrevealing mask of good humour and bonhomie in place until he reached the safety and privacy of his own office - with its ornate, en suite bathroom.
Locking the door of the bathroom firmly behind him, Dave sank down on the side of the bath, buried his head in his hands, and wept, rocking back and forth with the force of his emotions. He wept in humiliation and shame at his idiocy… In remorse for the hurt he had caused Nick… But most of all, he wept from loneliness, and the pain of the realization that no matter how he tried, no matter what gestures he made or invitations he extended, Nick Clegg would never, ever, allow him to become anything more than a vaguely congenial work colleague.
Not friends. Never ever friends…
… Least of all anything closer.
And somewhere in the most private, most closely-guarded part of David’s heart, a small, tentative, persistent hope – one that he was barely aware of himself – finally withered and died, leaving dull despair in its place.
***
“Nick, are you finished yet? Thought we could go for a wee dram and toast the season,”
Danny’s ginger head, poking round the half-open door to Nick’s office, waggled its eyebrows interrogatively, and laughing, Nick came to his feet and eagerly shrugged on his winter coat.
“That sounds like a plan,” he said, tucking his scarf into his coat and joining his friend at the door. “Where did you have in mind?”
With a flourish, Danny brought out a bottle filled with clear amber liquid. “The lounge downstairs,” he proclaimed. “This is better than any whisky you’ll find around here! Even Boodles doesn’t have this in its cellar.” He turned the bottle reverently to show Nick the label, which bore a familiar red, gold and blue crest.
“That’s Osborne’s family coat-of-arms, isn’t it?”
Danny nodded happily as they trotted down the stairs to one of the No 10 reception rooms . Often called into use for informal get-togethers by the No 10 and Cabinet staff, it held an ample supply of drinks glasses of all kinds. Setting his bottle down on the side table holding a decanter and several crystal tumblers, Danny set about removing the cap and carefully pouring a measure into two of the glasses.
“Osborne gave me this as a Christmas present,” he said, all his attention on ensuring that both glasses held the same amount of the unique spirit. “It’s a Tory tradition to hand out gifts at Christmas, apparently. I was a bit embarrassed that I couldn’t return the favour – well, we Lib Dems just don’t do that sort of thing, do we? – but Osborne was fine with it. Told me that if I insisted on being all Presbyterian and honourable about it, I could find him a present tomorrow, and anything would do, even a couple of tangerines to go in his stocking! One thing’s for sure – I’ll never be able to match this!”
Handling the glasses with as much reverence as a devout Catholic carrying a holy relic, Danny gave one glass to Nick and held the other up before his eyes, studying it with loving eyes. “This,” he said in hushed tones, “Is one of the greatest whiskies ever produced. This, Nicholas my lad, is a 34-year-old Macallan 1968, and bottles are as rare as gold dust.”
Nick eyed the innocuous-looking amber liquid in his tumbler dubiously. “And Osborne gave you a bottle of this, this – gold dust for Christmas? And you simply accepted it?”
“Well, it seemed rude to turn him down,” explained Danny, flushing a little. “He said that his father had shares in the Macallan distillery, and the family had arranged for a barrel of the 1968 to be set aside and bottled just for the Osbornes. So as far as George was concerned” – Danny pronounced it ‘concairned’, which told Nick that he wasn’t as relaxed about this gift as he was pretending to be. Danny’s accent always strengthened when he was uncomfortable or tense – “As far as George was concerned, he hadna paid anything for the whisky, so he didna feel it was an expensive present, at all.”
Lifting his glass, Danny tasted his whisky and sighed, his eyes closing in pleasure. “Oh, that’s smooth,” he murmured, and looking across at Nick, raised his glass, gesturing for Nick to raise his. “To Christmas!” he announced, adding mischievously, “And to Tories with expensive tastes in presents!”
Murmuring what he hoped sounded like agreement, Nick knocked back his whisky, hiding his wince at Danny’s half-joking toast and barely noticing the smooth mellowness of one of the best whiskies he would ever taste. He was too busy kicking himself for rejecting David’s present, the selection of which had clearly taken considerable thought, and for doubting David’s insistence that the giving of lavish presents was a Tory tradition.
Still , Nick thought, placing his now-empty glass on a tray near the door for the cleaners to collect later and following Danny out into Downing St., I’m sure Cameron was only following the rules of polite conduct as he sees them; the man’s so damned charming that it’s impossible to tell when he’s being sincere and when he’s simply being … courteous!
I was only trying to keep myself… safe. Free of that magnetic charisma of his. Independent… it would be so easy to fall for David, and I daren’t. My relations with the party are bad enough without that.
I’ll apologise for my churlishness when I see him tomorrow. That should mend bridges well enough.
Funny, though – he really did look quite upset back there for a moment… no, he couldn’t have been. Not David I’m-Prime-Minister-and-isn’t-this-fun Cameron!
***
“Clegg, I want a word. Now!”
Nick looked up at the angry tenor voice to see a glowering George Osborne closing Nick’s office door. Sitting back in his chair, he raised his eyebrows questioningly.
“Something you want to say to me in private, George?”
“Too bloody right!” snapped the younger man, stalking – there was no other word for it – towards Nick’s desk. “It’s about Dave – well, you and Dave,” he corrected himself.
Nick’s expression hardened as an uncomfortable feeling of guilt squirmed through his gut. He’d meant to apologise to David, of course he had, but he’d been so busy... And he’d wondered if it might be better to let things go, wait for a few days to pass, hope that David might forget...
“Why did you snub Dave like that?” George was demanding. Placing his hands on the desk, he leaned forward, his eyes blazing with anger. “All he wanted was to cheer you up after the shitty year you’ve had! He was so happy when he found those cufflinks – he really thought you’d like them. He bought them, he wrapped them – Christ, Nick!”
Throwing his hands in the air, George began to pace around the office. “Surely you know how Dave feels about you!” he snapped over his shoulder after a few fulminating minutes. “Or maybe you don’t, though how - Christ, at times it’s been like watching an over-eager Labrador pup trying to make friends with a bored Siamese.... It’s so bloody obvious! But maybe you’re being wilfully oblivious, maybe you don’t want to see it.
“If that’s the case, why not?”
George swung round to face the silent watcher behind the desk. Righteous anger fading into bewilderment, he repeated, “Why not, Nick? Do you really dislike him so much that you’d snub him over something that’s this important to him?
“Dave might not show it, but the estrangement from Sam after Ivan’s death... Well, it left a few wounds. He started to close in on himself – shut people away – and then you came along.” George shrugged. “Funny, I was pleased when I realised. I thought, ‘Hey, Clegg’s a decent enough chap, he’ll be a friend at least, he’ll help Dave get over Sam and start living again’.... And then you go and do something like this!”
The angry words hung in the air, and finally Nick stirred.
“I didn’t mean to, George. Truly,” he said quietly. “I... I didn’t know about this, this present-giving tradition of yours -”
“-Neither did Danny, but he didn’t cut me off at the knees when I gave him a present,” snapped George, and Nick winced.
“No. I heard all about your incredibly generous gift last night.”
Nick shook his head in despair.
“I can’t get anything right, can I?” he murmured, half to himself. “I, I thought David was just, just being... polite. Doing that County thing, bestowing largesse on his dependants... I can’t read him, George.” Nick raised his head to look at the other man, shrugging his shoulders helplessly. “I can’t read him. I never could.”
“Bollocks,” retorted George. “You read him perfectly well. You just don’t like what you see, so you second-guess yourself away from your discoveries. No, wait a minute...” George stared at Nick, his dark eyes intent and penetrating. “No, it’s not dislike,” he said slowly, “It’s... it’s fear! It is, isn’t it! You’re frightened of the way Dave feels about you, so you pretend not to know!”
Wearily Nick shook his head again. “Not quite,” he said sadly. “I’m, I’m more frightened of the way I... could feel about him, if I let myself. I daren’t! Can’t you see that, George? Any hint of a - a closer relationship between the Prime Minister and myself, and my party would throw me out in a heartbeat. A good proportion of them are looking for any excuse right now! And, and if they did get rid of me, the, the party would fall apart and the Liberal Democrats would disappear into the political wilderness for a long - a very long time.
“That would be a fine legacy of my time in office, wouldn’t it?” he added bitterly. Then his jaw hardened. “I am not going to permit that to happen!”
George shrugged. “I’m not disagreeing with you,” he said peacably, “But the answer’s obvious, surely? Be very, very careful, and very, very discreet. You’re the PM and the DPM – you’re supposed to spend a lot of time together! Think about it...
“But for now – please, go and put Dave out of his misery, will you? He’s walking around with a face as long as a wet Monday morning and it’s getting everybody down!”
As Nick obediently got to his feet George added quietly, “I shouldn’t joke. When I saw him yesterday it was pretty obvious he’d been, um, crying. It takes a great deal for Dave to break down like that. The last time was when Sam left... Go and put things right, Nick. Please.”
***
Nick hesitated outside the Prime Minister’s office, then, instead of simply walking in as was his usual habit, he knocked tentatively.
As he waited for the acknowledgement he glanced down at what he was carrying in his left hand and hoped that it would give Cameron the right message. Assuming that Cameron was even in his office ...
Finally David’s voice called, “Come!” and Nick went in – then, keeping his left hand behind his back, carefully closed the door behind him.
“Oh, er – hullo, Nick. Did you want to see me?”
Cameron’s voice was neutral, polite – and carried no emotion whatsoever. Nick recognised his expression, too – it was Cameron’s ‘meet the public’ mask, apparently open and friendly but giving absolutely nothing away.
Saddened at this evidence that David had indeed been hurt, and had reacted by retiring behind that defensive wall of impenetrable civility that so confused Miliband at the despatch box every Wednesday, Nick determinedly marched forward. This was all his fault, and he had to make it right.
Coming to a stop just in front of David’s desk and feeling ridiculously like a schoolboy up before the head for some minor infraction of school rules, Nick said abruptly,
“I’m, I’m sorry about yesterday, David. I was inexcusably rude. It was boorish of me to reject a gift that you had taken so much trouble to find... and,” Nick swallowed, “And I hope that you will accept my, um, my apology. And, um, I have a present for you – a proper one this time.
“If, if you’re willing to accept my, my apology – and with it, my, um... friendship -” David’s eyes widened and he sat up in his chair, “- I hope you’ll accept my present, too.”
Nick took a deep breath.
“But you’ll have to close your eyes. Please?”
Without saying a word, David smiled a small, tentative, hopeful smile, and closed his eyes.
And Nick walked round the desk, held a sprig of mistletoe above both their heads, and kissed David Cameron full on the mouth.
David tasted of chocolate, and coffee, and David, and Nick realised that he never wanted to stop tasting him. That this felt right, and perfect, and that he’d desperately wanted to do it for months. Why oh why had he denied himself for so long?
With a soft, needy moan, Nick unceremoniously dropped the mistletoe on the carpet, buried both hands in the fine silk of David’s hair, and plunged deeper. David’s mouth opened willingly under his; David’s hands roamed across Nick’s body, caressing and stroking; and David arched his body in a mute pleading for more which set Nick’s blood racing.
Drawing back from the kiss, he looked down at David’s flushed face and dazed, passion-blurred eyes and felt his own arousal leap higher. Fighting back the urge to return to his plundering of David’s mouth, Nick said softly,
“Let’s move to the couch. I want to, to lie with you. I want to feel all of you against all of me -”
With a choked cry of assent, David stumbled to his feet and, grabbing Nick’s hand, dragged him across to the big, overstuffed couch adorning one corner of his office. Pushing him down on the soft cushions and going with him in a controlled fall, David found himself lying chest to chest with the man who had been the subject of his secret fantasies for months – and with sudden, overwhelming hunger he attacked Nick’s shirt and tie even as Nick attacked his. Shirts went flying, followed by the other annoying garments which prevented them lying skin to skin, and then – ah, then – there was touching and stroking, gentle bites and burning hot kisses, murmurs of encouragement and cries of passion, and then at last, when neither man could resist any longer, the final, inexorable build to shattering all-consuming climax...
After a while one of the two prostrate, exhausted men on the couch stirred and opened his eyes.
“Well,” Nick said reflectively, staring at the ceiling, “Can I take it that you’ve accepted my apology?”
David turned his head, his blue eyes warm as he gazed at the tousle-haired man lying next to – and partly on - him. “If that’s how you apologise, I’m going to have to take offence on a regular basis in future.”
Nick snorted with laughter. “Ah no. I gave you my apology earlier. This -” he rolled over on top of David and kissed the tip of his nose, “This is your Christmas present! Do you like it?”
“Oh, very much,” responded David, his eyes crinkling into that happy smile which Nick had been afraid he would never see aimed at him again. Dropping his head to rest on David’s shoulder and nuzzling into David’s neck, Nick heard David add, “Mind you, I do hope this present isn’t confined to Christmastime only...”
“No, no,” murmured Nick drowsily, “This Christmas present is for use all the year round...”
And Nick slid gently into sleep, held in David’s arms, his worn, hollow-featured face finally relaxed and smiling in peaceful repose.
This is... all my dreams come true, thought David, holding his lover close. Nick’s mine, and I’m Nick’s... And he’s sleeping, and happy – at least for a little while.
It must be Christmas after all...
FIN