It was a good lesson learned: style trumped substance every single time. It was ever thus.

Crawford retired from student politics with good grace. He was better as the man in the background, the overseer with the long view to better plot strategy and tactics, and he was happy to cede the spotlight to characters like J.J.. They had both become friendly during their jousting, despite the occasional low blow, and Crawford had agreed to work with him to make his term of office productive and useful. By and large, it was. They stayed in loose touch as they went their separate ways on graduation.

Crawford was always going to go into the law. His father was an attorney and he had known that he would follow in his footsteps since he was young. He made a career for himself in property and taxation, esoteric subjects that were complicated enough to be remunerative for the few who could master them. His firm served the nascent technology industry in Silicon Valley, and his roster of clients included Microsoft and Apple. He did well. There was the big house in Palo Alto, the BMW in the driveway and a boat. The trophy wife who wouldn’t have looked twice at him if they had met at college. Two healthy and happy kids. And it still wasn’t enough. Law was never what he would have described as fun or even satisfying, even though he was good at it. Eventually, each month became a long and depressing slog that was made bearable only by the massive pay check at the end of it.

He stayed at the firm more than long enough for it to lose its lustre. Stuck in a rut. Law had been the easy decision out of school, cashing in his degree for the easy money despite the nagging suspicion that he would have been better satisfied doing something else: academia, perhaps, or something where he could write. And then he turned forty and he realised, with a blinding flash of self-awareness that was frightening in its certainty, that he was wasting his life. He quit the next day, called an old friend at Georgetown and asked him for a job.

The man had obliged. He had been teaching the legislative process to keen young up-and-comers for three years when two very different offers came at the exact same time: the first was the offer of millions as a partner at a lobbying firm in Washington; the second was J.J. Robinson inviting him out to dinner.

He had watched his old opponent’s career with a strange mixture of jealousy and relief that it wasn’t him. Robinson had run for the House of Representatives as a twenty-eight year old Republican but had been handily defeated by the incumbent. Instead, he had switched his target to the Attorney Generalship and, after defeating a host of minor opponents, he had been elected at the age of thirty. Two years later, he defeated the Democratic Governor of California and finally took the high office that he had always craved. He had managed to hold onto his youthful appearance, a fact that gave his opponents something to latch onto when they laid into him; he was routinely derided as the ‘Boy Governor’ and not to be taken seriously. He lost popularity over misjudged taxation and immigration policies and was ousted by his Democratic challenger after just one term of office. He licked his wounds in a lobbying practice for a short while before winning the governorship again, this time serving for ten years.

Crawford had taken up his offer of dinner. He remembered the conversation. There had been some small talk, nothing consequential, until Robinson explained the reason for getting back in touch. He was forty-six now, a political veteran, and he was looking for a new challenge.

He was running for President.

And he wanted Crawford to be his Chief of Staff.

* * *

The bus pulled up outside the campaign office and the entourage duly decamped. The office was the same as the other ones, all the way across the country. It was entirely generic. It didn’t seem to matter where they were, everything looked the same. There was some comfort to be had in that, Crawford thought. There was the usual clutch of pollsters working the phones, entering data into laptops, pecking at the platter of sandwiches from the deli around the corner, the cellophane wrapper still halfway across. Empty soda cans were stacked on desks. Some wore headphones, nodding their heads to the music that seeped out. Crawford knew some of them from the convention last year but most were new recruits, drawn into the candidate’s orbit by the tractor beam of his charisma, offering their time for free.

He saw Sidney Packard standing to one side, a half-eaten sandwich in one hand and his phone in the other. It was pressed to his ear and he had an expression of deep concentration on his face. Packard was older, bald-headed and wrinkled, and, when he moved, his limbs flowed with a lazy confidence. He had been in the police before and, before that, there was talk of the army. He was head of the security detail and he had been working with the Governor for the last ten years. It was an interesting job. Crawford watched him speaking and, eventually, the other man noticed that he was looking at him and gave him a single, curt nod. Crawford interpreted that as good news, went to the nearest platter of sandwiches and loaded up a plate.

The radio crew had already set up their gear in the conference room and so Crawford went looking for the Governor. He opened the door to the bathroom and there he was; he was buttoning his shirt and fastening his belt. He recognised the young staffer, too. She was adjusting her clothes in the stall behind the Governor.

“I’m sorry,” Crawford said.

The woman seemed confused. Robinson drew her out and put his arm around her. “This is Karly Hammil,” he said. “She’s working for us now.”

“Yes,” Crawford replied. “I know. I hired her. Hello, Karly.”

She seemed to brace herself against the washbasin and just about managed a shy smile, an attempt to maintain the appearance of propriety that was redundant in the circumstances. Robinson, on the other hand, did not appear to have the capability of being embarrassed. It was as if he had just come out of the stall after using the toilet. Nothing unusual. Nothing out of order. It was an act he had, no doubt, perfected over many years. My God, Crawford thought, there had been plenty of practice. He had seen that shit-eating grin many times since he had started working for him.

“Well, then,” Robinson said. “We ready?”

“We are,” Crawford said.

Robinson winked at Crawford as he stepped outside and moved over towards the food.

Crawford followed behind him.

“You can’t keep doing this,” he said, and the note of resignation he heard in his voice made him feel even more pathetic.

“Relax.”

“How many times do I have to tell you?”

“No lectures today, Arlen.”

“If just one of them tells their story, you do know what’ll happen, right? You do understand?”

“Arlen—”

“I’m just checking because I don’t think you’ve thought about it.”

“No-one’s saying anything, are they?”

He bit his lip. “If they did that’ll be the end of it for you. End of the road. That kind of thing — Jack, I’m telling you, you need to listen to me. This isn’t the 60s. You’re not JFK.”

“Not yet.”

Arlen clenched his teeth; the man was infuriating. “It’s toxic,” he protested.

Robinson took Crawford’s right hand in his and squeezed it tight. Depending on his mood and what was required, the Governor had several ways of shaking hands. He might place his left hand by the elbow or up around the biceps or take your hand in both of his. That meant that he was especially interested, underscoring a greeting and making the recipient feel as if they were the most important person in the room. Other times, he would squeeze the shoulder or, for those he really wanted to bring within the dazzling aura of his personality, he might loop the arm across the shoulders and bring them in for a hug. He did this now, releasing Crawford’s hand, draping his arm around his shoulders and squeezing him tight.