13 - It's your lucky day

[lolitics_meme]

13 YEARS  POSTS! 
What an achievement, my honourable friends! Hopefully we'll still go strong after this ;)

The usual things:

1) All fills for prompts of the earlier prompt posts go in the post the prompt was posted in. No re-posting or splitting up prompts and fills.
2) Self-prompt when you post unprompted fic. (This means posting what

Comments

Fill: 2035 (Florence/Samuel: 4.1)

[anonymous]

Sam switched on the TV to find a huge brass band marching down Whitehall on BBC1. Despite the poppies which had been fixed to the jackets of every person in Westminster that week, he had completely forgotten that it was Remembrance Sunday. The camera switched to the members of the royal family, standing directly before the cenotaph, and then to the politicians forming a row down the side.

Behind the prime minister and current party leaders, Sam spotted his father standing between David Cameron and Yvette Cooper. David Cameron turned his head to say something to Ed Miliband, who nodded in response. He recalled his father saying that although things had often been fiery between him and Cameron politically and publically, they had never had a bad personal relationship.

His thoughts drifted to David Cameron’s charming and confident daughter and their meeting many months ago. It was far from the first time he had thought about her since and he had come to regret not agreeing to meet her again. He had decided it would be too weird, having parents who had been political rivals, and it was weird, but when he was with her it had been incredibly easy to forget, or just ignore, that her values contrasted so sharply with his idealism.

However it was hard for not to make too much out of that difference, because Labour had always been the single most important institution in Sam’s life. It had become more so while working for Chuka Umunna. He was glad that Florence was more relaxed about politics than he was, because if his allegiances didn’t bother her, why should hers bother him?

An opportunity came the following Monday morning. Sam found an email from the Telegraph asking the Treasury office if Chuka Umunna would give them an interview on upcoming changes to public spending.

Chuka wasn’t at all enthusiastic when Sam suggested it to him. “How can I give them an interview when we’re still finalising decisions?”

“You could give them a general idea of what you’re trying to do.”

Chuka shook his head. “I don’t have time for that. Not now.”

Sam was struck with an idea. “I could go over there and brief them - be your spokesperson.”

“What makes you so keen to do this?”

“Er…” Sam flushed. “I - I think it’d do us good to start getting the message out, especially to people who aren’t usually on our side.”

“If it makes you happy.” said Chuka, with a slight roll of his eyes. “Just check your lines with me before you let them quote you.”

The Telegraph newsroom, an entire floor of the offices at Canary Wharf, was packed and hectic, and Sam dawdled through it in the hope of spotting Florence. He was getting a few odd and suspicious glances and saw that he would hardly be able to look for her in such a place.

The journalist who had arranged to meet with him received him in a small, separate office. Sam had just outlined the aims of the Treasury’s plans to him, as approved by Chuka, when the door opened behind him and a familiar voice said: “Is that Sam Miliband you have there, Derek?”

Sam turned around and Florence Cameron stood there, looking amused, smug, and pristine in her work clothes.

“I’ve got a Cameron and Miliband!” said Derek, the journalist. “Let me take a photo of you two.”

“No.” replied Florence, setting a recording device on the desk. “Here’s your equipment back.”

Sam shook hands with Derek and followed Florence out of the office. “I was wondering if I’d see you here.”

“Really? I’m surprised you remembered me.”

“Um, how have you been?”

“Busy with work, not much else.” She waved her hands vaguely. “I’ve got to go to a press conference now, actually. Sorry I can’t stay and chat.”

“That’s okay, but it’d be nice to see you again. Would you like to meet up?”

Florence’s face brightened. “Yes, when? I’m busy most evenings this week.”

“We could do something at the weekend. Here, let me give you my number.”

Florence phoned him that evening and Sam offered to take her to a French restaurant in Camden that Friday. It was somewhere he had been to several times before and wasn’t a well known place, so he knew it would be quiet and relatively private. They selected a bottle of red wine to go with their meal and carried on drinking and talking long after they had finished eating.