Michael Gove’s ex on her compassionate pieces for the Daily Mail, struggling to survive on an MP’s salary, doing Sam Cam’s ironing and becoming a laughing stock after Brexit
I
thought long and hard for three seconds about writing this memoir. I’ve not done so to settle old scores but because I want to settle old scores. A chance to relive broken friendships, dirty deals and to unconsciously act out my passive-aggressive fantasies on my ex-husband. In taking myself down I will take down most of those around me. Put simply, I am the former Westminster Wag with no fucks left to give.
It is still dark when I open my eyes. It’s the early morning of Friday, 24 June 2016. My phone rings. It’s one of the special advisers. “We’ve won,” he says. “Gosh,” I reply. I had better wake Michael up. Michael had gone to bed early the previous night having drunk two-thirds of a jeroboam of claret.
I think of Michael’s team frantically debating what to do next, as they had forgotten to make a plan for what they might do if Vote Leave won the referendum. So easily done. I think of the day before when I went to vote wearing the wrong clothes. I think of my family who will be very cross with Michael. I think of Samantha Cameron and whether she will ever ring me again. Please do call, Sam. I’m always there. I hate upsetting people. Except when I am writing something unpleasant in my Daily Mail column. Then everyone is fair game.
