e money； even now； I have to ask one of the secretaries or one of the protection boys to get it for me。 I couldn’t do it myself； anyway； I don’t know my—what’re they called？—I don’t even know that—”
“PIN？”
“You see？ I just don’t have a clue。 I’ll give you another example。 The other week； Ruth and I went out to dinner with some people in New York。 They’ve always been very generous to us； so I say； ‘Right； tonight； this is on me。’ So I give my credit card to the manager and he comes back a few minutes later； all embarrassed； and he shows me the problem。 There’s still a strip where the signature’s supposed to be。” He threw up his arms and grinned。 “The card hadn’t been activated。”
“This；” I said excitedly； “is exactly the sort of detail we need to put in your book。 Nobody knows this sort of thing。”
Lang looked startled。 “I can’t put that in。 People would think I was a complete idiot。”
“But it’s human detail。 It shows what it’s like to be you。” I knew this was my moment。 I had to get him to focus on what we needed right from the start。 I came round from behind the desk and confronted him。 “Why don’t we try to make this book unlike any other political memoir that’s ever been written？ Why don’t we try to tell the truth？”
He laughed。 “Now that would be a first。”
“I mean it。 Let’s tell people what it really feels like to be prime minister。 Not just the policy stuff—any old bore can write about that。” I almost cited McAra but managed to swerve away at the last moment。 “Let’s stick to what no one except you knows—the day…to…day experience of actually leading a country。 What do you feel like in the mornings？ What are the strains？ What’s it like to be so cut off from ordinary life？ What’s it like to be hated？”
“Thanks a lot。”
“What fascinates people isn’t policy—who cares about policy？ What fascinates people is always people—the detail of another person’s life。 But because the detail is naturally all so familiar to you； you can’t sort out what it is the reader wants to know。 It has to be drawn out of you。 That’s why you need me。 This shouldn’t be a book for political hacks。 This should be a book for everyone。”
“The people’s memoir；” said Amelia dryly； but I ignored her； and so； more important； did Lang； who was looking at me quite differently now： it was as if some electric lightbulb marked “self…interest” had started to glow behind his eyes。
“Most former leaders couldn’t get away with it；” I said。 “They’re too stiff。 They’re too awkward。 They’re tooold 。 If they take off their jacket and tie and put on a”—I gestured at his outfit—“put on a tracksuit； say； they look phony。 But you’re different。 And that’s why you should write a different kind of political memoir； for a different age。”
Lang was staring at me。 “What do you think； Amelia？”
“I think you two were made for each other。 I’m beginning to feel like a gooseberry。”
“Do you mind；” I asked； “if I start recording？ Something useful might come out of this。 Don’t worry—the tapes will all be your property。”
Lang shrugged and gestured toward the Sony Walkman。 As I pressed Record； Amelia slipped out and closed the door quietly behind her。
“The first thing that strikes me；” I said； bringing a chair round from behind the desk so that I could sit facing him； “is that you aren’t really a politician at all； in the conventional sense； even though you’ve been so amazingly successful。” This was the sort of tough questioning I specialized in。 “I mean； when you were growing up； no one would have expected you to become a politician； would they？”
“Jesus； no；” said Lang。 “Not at all。 I had absolutely no interest in politics； either as a child or as a teenager。 I thought people who were obsessed by politics were weird。 I still do； as a matter of fact。 I liked playing football。 I liked theater and the movies。 A bit later on I liked going out with girls。 I never dreamed I might become a politician。 Most student politicians struck me as complete nerds。”
Bingo！ I thought。 We’d been working only two minutes and already we had a potential opening of the book right there：
When I was growing up； I had no interest in politics。 In fact； I thought people who were obsessed by politics were weird。
I still do…
“So what changed？ What turned you on to politics？”
“Turned on is about right；” said Lang with a laugh。 “I’d left Cambridge and drifted for a year； hoping that a play I’d been involved in might get taken up by a theater in London。 But it didn’t happen and so I ended up working in a bank； living in this grotty basement flat in Lambeth； feeling very sorry for myself； because all my friends from Cambridge were working in the BBC； or getting paid a fortune to do voice…overs on adverts； or what have you。 And I remember it was a Sunday afternoon—raining； I was still in bed—and someone starts knocking on the door…”
It was a story he must have told a thousand times； but you wouldn’t have guessed it； watching him that morning。 He was sitting back in his chair； smiling at the memory； going over the same old words； using the same rehearsed gestures—he was miming knocking on a door—and I thought what an old trouper he was： the sort of pro who’d always make an effort to put on a good show； whether he had an audience of one or one million。
“…and this person just wouldn’t go away。 Knock knock knock。 And； you know； I’d had a bit to drink the night before and what have you； and I’m moaning and groaning。 I’ve got the pillow over my head。 But it starts up again： knock knock knock。 So eventually—and by now I’m swearing quite a bit； I can tell you—I get out of bed； I pull on a dressing gown； and I open the door。 And there’s this girl； this gorgeous girl。 She’s wringing wet from the rain； but she completely ignores that and launches into this speech about the local elections。 Bizarre。 I have to say I didn’t even know therewere any local elections； but at least I have the sense to pretend that I’m very interested； and so I invite her in； and make her a cup of tea； and she dries off。 And that’s it—I’m in love。 And it quickly becomes clear that the best way of getting to see her again is to take one of her leaflets and turn up the next Tuesday evening； or whenever it is； and join the local party。 Which I do。”
“And this is Ruth？”
“This is Ruth。”
“And if she’d been a member of a different political party？”
“I’d have gone along and joined it just the same。 I wouldn’t havestayed in it；” he added quickly。 “I mean obviously this was the start of a long political awakening for me—bringing out values and beliefs that were already present but were simply dormant at that time。 No； I couldn’t have stayed in justany party。 But everything would have been different if Ruth hadn’t knocked on that door that afternoon； and kept knocking。”
“And if it hadn’t been raining。”
“If it hadn’t been raining I would have found some other excuse to invite her in；” said Lang with a grin。 “I mean； come on； man—I wasn’tcompletely hopeless。”
I grinned back； shook my head； and jotted “opening？？” in my notebook。
WE WORKED ALL MORNINGwithout a break； except for when a tape was filled。 Then I would briefly hurry downstairs to the room that Amelia and the secretaries were using as a temporary office and hand it over to be transcribed。 This happened a couple of times； and always on my return I’d find Lang sitting exactly where I’d left him。 At first I thought this was a testament to his powers of concentration。 Only gradually did I realize it was because he had nothing else to do。
I took him carefully through his early years； focusing not so much on the facts and dates （McAra had assembled those dutifully enough） as on the impressions and physical objects of his childhood： the semidetached home on a housing estate in Leicester； the personalities of his father （a builder） and his mother （a teacher）； the quiet； apolitical values of the English provinces in the sixties； where the only sounds to be heard on a Sunday were church bells and the chimes of ice cream vans； the muddy Saturday morning games of football at the local park and the long summer afternoons of cricket down by the river； his father’s Austin Atlantic and his own first Raleigh bike； the comics—theEagle and theVictor —and the radio comedies—I’m Sorry； I’ll Read That AgainandThe Navy Lark ； the 1966 World Cup Final andZ Cars andReady； Steady； Go！； The Guns of Navarone andCarry On； Doctor at the local movie theater； Millie singing “My Boy Lollipop” and Beatles singles played at forty…five RPM on his mother’s Dansette Capri record player。
Sitting there in Rhinehart’s study； the minutiae of English life nearly half a century earlier seemed as remote as bric…a…brac in a Victorian trompe l’oeil—and； you might have thought； about as relevant。 But there was cunning in my method； and Lang； with his genius for empathy； grasped it at once； for this was not just his childhood we were itemizing but mine and that of every boy who was born in England in the nineteen fifties and who grew to maturity in the seventies。
“What we need to do；” I told him； “is to persuade the reader to identify emotionally with Adam Lang。 To see beyond the remote figure in the bombproof car。 To recognize in him the same things they recognize in themselves。 Because if I know nothing else about this business； I know this： once you have the readers’ sympathy； they’ll follow you anywhere。”
“I get it；” he said； nodding emphatically。 “I think that’s brilliant。”
And so we swapped memories for hour after hour； and I will not say we began toconcoct a childhood for Lang； exactly—I was always careful not to depart from the known historical record—but we certainly pooled our experiences to such an extent that a few of my memories inevitably became blended into his。 You may find this shocking。 I was shocked myself； the first time I heard one of my clients on television weepily describing a poignant moment from his past that was actually frommy past。 But there it is。 People who succeed in life are rarely reflective。 Their gaze is always on the future： that’s why they succeed。 It’s not in their nature to remember what they were feeling； or wearing； or who was with them； or the scent of freshly cut grass in the churchyard on the day they were married； or the tightness with which their first baby squeezed their finger。 That’s why they need ghosts—to flesh them out； as it were。
As it transpired； I collaborated with Lang for only a short while； but I can honestly say I never had a more responsive client。 We decided that his first memory would be when he tried to run away from home at the age of three and he heard the sound of his father’s footsteps coming up behind him and felt the hardness of his muscled arms as he scooped him back to the house。 We remembered his mother ironing； and the smell of wet clothes on a wooden frame drying in front of a coal fire； and how he liked to pretend that the clotheshorse was a house。 His father wore a v