A pale winter sun shines through my office window. I sigh deeply. Even though I am one of the most successful men of my generation with one of the most demanding jobs imaginable, deep inside I have never felt quite so alone. How I long for someone who understands the real Matt.
I quickly get a grip. There is no point feeling sorry for myself. The NHS isn’t going to run itself. I fall to the floor to do eight press-ups, before returning to my desk. On the TV screen, a reporter runs a brief story about a new flu in China. I yawn. That could never happen here. Not while I am in charge of the country’s health.
The so-called coronavirus has spread to the UK. Just as I predicted. The prime minister rings to ask if I have any contingency plans for a pandemic and if hospitals and GPs’ surgeries have enough personal protective equipment. I reply that I have everything well in hand. I have arranged for all elderly patients in hospital to be discharged into care homes and have personally checked that there are enough masks for every doctor to have two. One to wear, one to wash. That should do it.
My breathing is laboured. Much like my prose. And I also have a temperature. I think I have Covid. But I don’t want to make a fuss. So I just sit at home and continue to work in the brief, fleeting moments that I am awake. The phone rings. It’s Grant Shapps. I tell him I’m feeling a little better. He says that he doesn’t care about me. What he wants to know is whether the PM is OK. Boris sends me a WhatsApp message telling me I’m completely fucking hopeless, only to quickly send another one saying he is still a bit delirious and to forget that. I smile and reflect on how the pandemic is bringing the whole country together.
I have returned to work feeling invigorated and even more determined to control Covid. I am now committed to wasting more than £40bn on a useless track-and-trace programme and to creating an app that tells everyone the NHS is near breaking point and that morale among doctors and nurses has never been lower. We have now reached 50,000 deaths and the UK is top of the mortality leaderboard!
By an extraordinary coincidence, it turns out that Gina Coladangelo, an old friend from university, has started working with me to help me improve my emotional intelligence. She thinks that the public will respond to my press conferences better if they can see my vulnerability rather than being distracted by my rugged good looks. I casually pick up an office chair and do some biceps curls. I think she’s impressed. I’ve begun writing poetry. “My darling, beloved, sweet Gina / I’ll never forget the time I first seen her …”
The death toll has now reached 60,000 and I have agreed with the prime minister that Dominic Cummings was right to drive for an hour to test his eyesight, but all I can think of is Gina. I feel there is an electrical connection between us. That she gets me in a way no other woman ever has. If only I wasn’t so shy about making the first move. I feel vaguely guilty about my wife but fortunately can’t remember what her name is, so the moment passes. It’s a casual day in the office and I put on my smartest pressed Levi’s and a black turtleneck sweater. I start singing: “He’s a smooth operator.”
OMG. I can’t believe it. Dreams do come true. I never dared to hope my feelings might be reciprocated but Gina loves me as much as I love her! It went like this. We just happened to be sharing a sandwich alone together at lunch when my hand accidentally brushed her knee. “I thought you’d never make a move, my gorgeous, hunky Milk Tray Man,” she whispered.
Within seconds our bodies were entwined, our tongues darting ravenously as we devoured one another.
“You complete me, Gina,” I said afterwards, using my last reserves of emotional intelligence.
“You are my rock, Door Matt,” she replied.
“I’m always hard for you,” I said, tensing my six-pack. “But right now I should probably congratulate the cricketer Daniel Rashford. And perhaps I should put you on the departmental payroll.”
“You can’t put a price on our love.”
“I think you can. How about £15k?”
Much of the rest of the year passes in a blur, though I do manage to nearly cry on TV when the first vaccines are administered. It is so humbling to think it was all down to me that the UK was the first country to start a vaccination programme. Inevitably there are the naysayers, with Cummings saying I should have been fired for 15 to 20 different things. But with Gina by my side, I can rise above it. How we try not to make love in my office every night! We know it is so wrong, that we are breaking lockdown rules, but somehow it feels so right. Our love cannot be denied.
It is almost a relief when the CCTV footage of our passion is released. Who cares if the death toll is over 150,000? Now our love will be the love that can be named. “I’m standing right by you,” says the prime minister. “I’d never sack anyone for having an affair. Especially not myself.”
“Thank you, thank you,” I sob, before correcting him. Ours is not a tawdry affair. It is a beautiful romance.
“Actually,” says Boris, “I’ve been told to sack you after all. No hard feelings and that.”
“Thank you, thank you. Do what you will with me. I’ll always stand by you because I’m spectacularly needy. If ever you need me back, I’m all yours.”
And so it is that the pandemic comes to an end a year later. Even though 600 people still insist on dying of Covid each day and the NHS is still on its knees.
“You must be so proud of the difference you’ve made,” Gina says, as we feast on each other’s bodies.
“I’m now thinking of taking in some Ukrainian refugees,” I reply.
“Don’t you think they’ve suffered enough?”
