Archer | Lord of the Lies | 1
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Alice, if I was to ask you to name a famous Geoffrey, who would you go for? OK, Goldblum, obviously Geoff to Friends, maybe the character from the now-defunct kids' TV show Rainbow and the giraffe from Toys R Us. Given that this is British Scandal, do you think that any of those three are likely to feature in a series? Yes. Fair point. The prices at Toys R Us were a disgrace in the 80s. Amen.

Remind me to never stay at the Albion.

He's 46 years old with small eyes, a wide flat mouth and brown crew cut hair. He's average height, slightly built. Nothing about him looks remarkable. But Geoffrey Archer's face is one of the most famous in the country. He's deputy chairman of the Conservative Party. He's also a best-selling novelist. His photo smiles out from the covers on all his books. In the next few minutes, he needs to get out of this hotel without anyone seeing him.

He picks up his jacket, grabs his car keys from a bowl of condoms. Oh, you see now, I have a bowl next to my front door where I put my keys so I don't misplace them. But this feels like something a bit different. Oddly, I have a bowl of condoms by the front door so that I don't misplace them. He creeps out of the room, chin tucked low. A few hours ago, he was having dinner in Le Caprice, an exclusive art deco restaurant in Mayfair. It's one of his favourite places to do business and to be seen.

Most of Le Caprice's clients already knew him. The rest were eager to meet him. He'd enjoyed it. He'd worked his way round the tables, shaking hands, chatting and joking. But now he edges down a back staircase, his eyes firmly on the floor. The Albion is busy tonight. Men are knocking on doors or trying to sneak out themselves. It's a business hotel. Yeah, one of those sorts of places. Outside, he gulps in air, looks around. The street's empty.

He lets his head tip back in relief. He's just grateful nobody saw him coming out of that seedy hotel. He crosses the road to his Jaguar. He looks up. A good-looking man in a suit grins down. It's Aziz Kurtha, a barrister and television presenter, and the biggest gossip he knows. Oh, no. His heart drops to his stomach. Everything he's worked for is now under threat. His career, his marriage, his mission to be prime minister.

Because if Aziz Kurth talks, he's finished. My dad works in B2B marketing. He came by my school for career day and said he was a big ROAS man. Then he told everyone how much he loved calculating his return on ad spend.

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As summer winds down, let your imagination soar by listening on Audible. Whether you listen to stories, motivation, expert advice, any genre you love, you can be inspired to imagine new worlds, new possibilities, new ways of thinking. With Audible, there's more to imagine when you listen.

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As an Audible member, you choose one title a month to keep from their entire catalogue. New members can try Audible free for 30 days. Visit audible.com slash WonderyPod or text WonderyPod to 500-500. That's audible.com slash WonderyPod or text WonderyPod to 500-500. From Wondery, I'm Alice Levine. And I'm Matt Ford. And this is British Scandal.

The show where we bring you the murkiest stories that ever happened on these odd little isles. British scandals come in many shapes and sizes. Some are about money, some are about sex. They're all about power. But when we look at scandals a little bit closer, they turn out to be stranger, wilder and just plain weirder than we remember. So we're journeying back to ask who's to blame for what happened. And when the dust settled, did anything really change? MUSIC

Alice, what do I like more than anything else in the world? Oh, OK. Open brief. You. What do you like? Red trainers you love. Those Czech shirts you can't get enough of. Bottled water. You love your phone. You love those pens. You're just saying what I'm wearing and what's around me. What am I into? Oh, OK, yeah. You love your music. All those bands you love. You love to drink. Come on.

Come on. Okay. What topic am I really interested... We talk about it all the time. Yeah, we're both from Nottingham. We talk about that. I've got a podcast about it. What's it called? Big Matt Show. You don't know me at all. I do. You...

Crazy cat. One more go. What big thing am I always talking about? The Kardashians. Politics. Yes, I was joking. Politics, you love it. I do love it. And I have a juicy political scandal for you for this series. A juicy political scandal to end all juicy political scandals. If you think the current Prime Minister Boris Johnson is an amoral, power-hungry narcissist, wait until you meet Geoffrey Archer.

Archer, okay, I get it now. I'm excited. And I will listen to The Big Matt Show because it sounds great. 19 years earlier, 1965, Oxford. Geoffrey Archer straightens his tie and walks into the party. At 25, he's a few years older than most of the other students here, but he looks like he belongs to another generation. He's the only man here who doesn't have long hair. He tugs at his sports blazer, adjusts his collar. His hands are sweating, but he's not going to let his nerves stop him.

He scans the room looking for Mary Whedon. He's going to ask her out on a date. She's already turned him down twice. I've already got a boyfriend. He's not giving up. He's written to her boyfriend asking his permission to take her out. What are you talking about? It's an odd tactic, isn't it? Odd? It's downright psychotic. He wants Mary to know he's playing by gentleman's rules.

but he hasn't had a reply, so he's going ahead anyway. This is utterly bizarre. A few minutes later, he spots her at the back of the room. Her large brown eyes look out from under a big floppy hat. She looks radiant in a flower-print dress, and she's surrounded by men desperate to get her attention. Geoffrey pushes his way over, but he's shorter than most of the men here. They crowd him out. He's sick of these students.

They always ask about his A levels and he hasn't got any. He's only got three O levels. He's had to lie to get here. Oh, Geoff, you naughty boy. Yes, this is very much the first light to flash on the dashboard. Michael Crick alleges that he gave false academic qualifications to get on the course. Red flag. He pushes to the front of the group, introduces himself to the other men who surround her. Mary is the most beautiful woman in the whole of Oxford. And the smartest.

He's going to show everyone here what he's made of. He's going to marry her. And what sports do you lot do? The group goes quiet. One of them says, We don't do sports. Geoffrey grins. Tells them he's just won his second Athletics Blue. They should come along and join the athletics team. He's club secretary this year. He'll give them a try out, if they're any good that is. Someone puts Ticket to Ride on the record player. He tells the group he met the Beatles a few years ago.

I got them involved in an Oxfam fundraiser. Raised a million pounds. Why do I have the very real feeling that these might be slightly embellished claims? He's cynic. He glances at Mary. She looks impressed. A million? All by yourself? He smiles at her. He only raised a fraction of it. There it is. He'd hijacked the Beatles on their way out of a concert. Got them to pose with him for the college paper. It got into the tabloids. Donations to Oxfam had shot up.

He talks about the Beatles now like they're his friends. He asks Mary if she wants to dance. She takes his hand. The men in the group look annoyed and a little bit impressed. Next day, he takes her to see Dr. No. Then to a restaurant. They eat sausage and chips. He tells her he's going to do three things with his life.

I'm going to make a million before I'm 30. I'm going to win a silver medal at the next Olympics. And I'm going to be prime minister. Oh, this is just our bread and butter at British Scandal, isn't it? Another man with a gigantic ego and ambition. I think he had bread and butter with his sausage and chips. You've got to make a butty. He watches Mary laugh. Then he says, why don't you marry me? Then you can see if I do at all.

The next night he takes her to a dance, then to a concert, sends her gifts and flowers, buys a 1924 Morris and takes her on day trips. The following July he holds her hand at the altar of the University Church in Oxford. Oh my god, they held hands. I now pronounce you man and wife. He lifts Mary's veil and kisses her. He tells her he's the proudest man in the world and he promises he'll make her the proudest wife ever.

Six years later, July 1971, the Post Office Tower restaurant, London. Mary slips off her satin jacket and sits on the chair the waiter holds for her. It's definitely 1971. She should be at home preparing her classes. She's got a full day of lectures tomorrow.

But Geoffrey's persuaded her to help him network. If I'm going to get anywhere in the party, I'll need some serious allies. How about dinner with the Education Secretary? Early call, but I think he might be a nightmare. Again, these aren't the most romantic gestures, are they? Darling, for our anniversary, I've booked something really special. The committee room under the Commons. We're going to meet the Shadow Environment Secretary. LAUGHTER

She's been to a lot of functions in the two years since Geoffrey was elected as an MP, most of them boring. She'd rather talk about chemistry than politics, and she hates small talk. But she knows how important it is for him to make contacts. Top three elements in the periodic table. Ooh, got to be oxygen. Got to be. Without it, I wouldn't be able to tell you about what my favourite elements are. Actually, chemistry chat's not that bad, is it? I disagree. From their window table, she looks down on the whole of London.

As the restaurant slowly revolves, she can see different streets every few minutes. I've never liked the idea of this restaurant. I mean, I feel gippy on a bus. I don't need my restaurant to be swirling round. It'd be like trying to eat your dinner on a waltzer. Not having it. She sips her orange-garnished cocktail and hopes she can get through tonight without yawning too much. Or spewing.

A few seconds later, Geoffrey springs to his feet. Mrs Thatcher, I'd like you to meet my wife Mary. Oh sure, I've heard of her. She looks up at a middle-aged woman dressed in a two-piece suit with pearls and bouffant hair. Margaret Thatcher introduces her husband Dennis, a small balding man with large glasses. Twenty minutes later, Mary picks around her prawn cocktail in its thick pink sauce. Geoffrey is desperately trying to impress Thatcher by talking about education policies.

But Thatcher's bored. She challenges everything he says. She's irritated with him. The table falls silent for a minute. Then Dennis turns to Mary. What do you do, Mary, while Geoffrey's out changing the world? She smiles. I teach chemistry at St Hilda's College in Oxford. I've done that since my PhD. Margaret Thatcher's eyes light up. A fellow Oxford chemist? She leans forward.

What branch of chemistry exactly? For the rest of the entree, Mary tells Margaret about her research in heterogeneous catalysis. That is so weird. That is literally what we were talking about over coffee this morning. Mary then listens intently as Thatcher talks about her own time as a research chemist, how it's informed her work now as Education Secretary.

By the time the sautéed beef medallions in peppered butter arrive, Mary and Margaret are chatting happily about the Oxford teaching staff they had in common. Just a couple of good time gals and a couple of beef medallions. On the drive home, Geoffrey talks non-stop about what a success the whole evening was. She wants to meet us again. She really likes you. Mary gazes out of the window and smiles to herself. It's the first time she hasn't had to hide her own brilliance to help his career.

She can use her intellect to help him. And from now on, that's exactly what she's going to do. What a perfect application for her incredible smarts. January 1973. Geoffrey Archer's office, the Houses of Parliament, London. Geoffrey paces the floor in his oak-panelled office. He needs to start work, but he can't concentrate.

Is this the start of a joke? He rings the Canadians again, but there's no answer.

Being an MP has made him realise if he wants to fit into this place, into this party, he needs money. And this deal with the Canadians was supposed to be his big ticket. He looks up at a thin-faced man wearing an ill-fitting suit. The man holds his hat in his hands. Mr Archer, wondered if I could have a word, sir? Geoffrey hasn't got time for this. Make an appointment with my secretary. The man tells him this won't wait.

He holds up his police ID. Uh-oh. Geoffrey leans back and frowns. The officer sits down, slides three photographs across the desk. Which do you prefer for my ID? I like the slightly smiley one, but also the one with the furrowed brow is kind of brooding. Do you recognise any of these men, sir? Geoffrey stares in horror at the faces of the three aqua blast execs he was meant to meet this morning. Why are you asking about them? The officer fixes him with sharp eyes.

They're conmen. They've been duping innocent investors to buy shares in a company called Aquablast. Trouble is, it doesn't exist. He taps at one of the photos. This man? Manny the Snake Silverman. We've been after him for years. There's an Interpol warrant out for his arrest. You don't go into business with someone called Manny the Snake Silverman. That is your first clue. Geoffrey feels his chest tighten.

The policeman's still talking, but all Geoffrey can hear is the sound of his own blood pounding in his ears. He blurts out, Will I get my money back? The officer asks how much he invested. Geoffrey hears his own thin voice say, £400,000. It's not even mine. I borrowed it from the banks. And from my friend Anthony Bamford. I have to pay him back.

I will get this money back, won't I? My perspective is now warped because in British scandal protagonist terms, that's pocket change. It is, and you'd be forgiven for thinking that Archer, a Tory MP of the time, moving in wealthy circles, came from a wealthy family, but he didn't. There's no family money to back him up at all, and that partly is why he's such a striver and has this drive to earn cash. The officer looks at him with pity. Just let me know if you hear from any of these three again, Mr Archer.

He stares for a few seconds at the wall in front of him. He's lost everything. He's completely broke. Worse than that, he's in serious debt. And Mary doesn't know anything about it. Is it too late for Mary to get out of this? Friday the 17th of May, 1974. The Boltons, South Kensington, London. Mary stands in the middle of her big Victorian kitchen and wipes her hands on her apron. She loves this house with its high ceilings and large sash windows.

Not just because it's one of London's most exclusive streets. It's the first place that feels like home. She opens the oven and takes out the cakes for her son's party. William's two years old today and she wants it to be perfect. The trouble is, at seven months pregnant, she's exhausted. Her feet are swollen, her back aches and she hasn't slept properly for weeks. Work has also been non-stop. She's just set up the UK branch of the International Solar Energy Society.

And now she's looking forward to maternity leave. They've just hired a live-in nanny. The first thing she's going to do is hand the baby over and get some sleep. Just pass her back when she's 18. She's making jelly when her guests arrive. A few seconds later, her kitchen is full of mums sipping tea while the kids play. The mums gaze around the big comfortable kitchen. This is such a beautiful house, Mary.

What's the name of your interior designer? She's about to answer when she sees Jeffrey standing in the doorway. He looks ill. I'll be back in a minute. She grabs him by the arm, takes him to the living room. He sits down, puts his head in his hands. It's bad news, Mary. I bought chairs and a company, but it didn't exist. We've lost all our money. I'll have to resign as an MP. She cuts him short. How much money? He blinks through his tears.

£427,000. Oh my God, I didn't know about the £27,000. Her legs give. Will we lose the house? Mary, do you want me to put the candles on William's cake? We can't afford the candles! She opens the door, forces a smile. I'll do it. She grins her way through the rest of the afternoon, but all she can think about are the years of debt ahead. When the party's over, she runs to the bedroom and cries herself to sleep. She wakes in the night, feels the baby kick,

She's got a few weeks yet before it's here, but she's already decided. She's not going to lose everything. She's going to keep working. If Jeffrey can't support this family financially, she will. Hey, I'm Ryan Reynolds. Recently, I asked Mint Mobile's legal team if big wireless companies are allowed to raise prices due to inflation. They said yes. And then when I asked if raising prices technically violates those onerous two-year contracts, they said, what the f*** are you talking about, you insane Hollywood a**hole?

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It's my novel. I'd like you to read it.

She can feel her scalp prickle with irritation. She's sick of his money-making schemes. Since he's resigned as an MP, he's had one mad scheme after another. Last month, he tried to bring Elvis Presley to Britain. While she was touring Canada giving lectures, he'd flown to the States to have lunch with Elvis' manager, Colonel Tom Parker. But it had fallen through. Elvis refused to visit a country that didn't even have a McDonald's.

The only money he's brought in recently is from selling his white Daimler. And now, after a gruelling week and an exhausting flight, he wants her to read his bloody novel. Has that offer ever filled anybody, particularly a spouse, with joy? I've written a novel, I want you to read it. I mean, you're assuming it's going to be shit, aren't you? Yeah, good books are written by people you don't know. I've got work to do, Geoffrey. One of us has to keep the bailiffs away.

For the next hour, she marks papers, ignores his handwritten scribble. Oh my God, it's handwritten as well. Give me a break. Do you know, by the way, Archer's technique for writing a book, he says, it's just he starts writing and sees where the pen takes him. There's something incredibly obnoxious about that. But her eyes keep wandering back to it. She picks it up, thumbs through. It won't hurt to read a few pages. She's written some fiction herself.

A few years ago, she won a BBC short story competition. Yes, but you're a woman, Mary. It's different. Geoffrey's always been impressed by that. She's curious to see what he's written. So she starts to read. It's the story of four men who get caught up in a share scam. They're swindled out of a million dollars. It pulls her in. It's like a film script. She grabs her pen and starts making notes in the margins. A few hours later, she hands it back to him.

It's good. I liked it. Oh God, put that quote on the cover. He'll need a publisher and an agent. She tells him to ring all their contacts. Try David Owen's wife, Deborah. She's a literary agent. A month later, she gets a call at work. It's Geoffrey. He's booked a table in Mayfair. She sits in the restaurant and sips a glass of champagne. He grins at her. We've done it. Not a penny more is going to be published. Oh God, it's actually good. I have to confess at this point, I've read it.

And I do really like it. It's a very good book. Is it? Yeah, it's so sad to admit it. I've actually got a few of his books and I enjoyed every single one. It's really important for full transparency that you tell us how many. It's all of them, isn't it? And they're all signed. I would say I've probably got more than 10. Okay, we have a super fan on our hands. He tells Mary he's got a $12,000 advance. He's going to tour the UK promoting his book and he's determined to conquer the US market.

It's not anywhere near enough to cover their debts. But her mind goes back to his promise on their first date, how he'd be a millionaire. Who knows, she thinks. So she raises a glass to him and toasts. Here's to your first million. Five years later, September 1979, a central London bookshop. Geoffrey makes his way through the crowd. It's the launch party of his third novel, Cain and Abel, a story of two men who are bitter rivals. Pre-sales are through the roof.

He's due to read a few chapters now before he signs copies. Come on then, have you read this one? I have, and the sequel, The Prodigal Daughter. Oh my God, I don't know if we can have you do this story. He also wrote a book called The Fourth Estate, which is basically about Maxwell and Murdoch slugging it out for the news of the world. It was also very good. To be clear, do you work for Archer? No. You just stan him? Everybody in the room wants to chat with him, but he just wants to find Mary. She'd promised to be there for the speeches.

He wants to tell everyone how his brilliant wife pushed him to get published with his first novel. But she's nowhere to be seen. She'd been upset with him in the car on the way there. He can't understand it. He's already paid off their debts and bought a large family home in Cambridge for her and the boys. The old vicarage in Grantchester is famous. It's where the poet Rupert Brooke used to live. Mary loves it.

He's also got himself a penthouse on the banks of the Thames opposite the Houses of Parliament. And everyone says this new novel is his masterpiece. That's the most important bit. Eventually, he spots Mary talking to his publisher. He heads over. I've been looking for you everywhere. He takes her hand, leads her to the front of the crowd, but she stops him.

Not until you promise to stop seeing that woman. Oh. His shoulders drop. He looks at his wife. She looks defiant and upset at the same time. He thought he'd managed to keep his affair with Andrina Cahoon quiet. He whispers, Please, Mary, let's not do this now. But she stares at him coldly. I want you to stop seeing her.

Isn't the correct answer to that, no matter what's going on in your mind? Yes, of course. Yeah, or at least, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, fine, but... Her eyes have filled with tears. Promise me, before the boys find out, before the papers find out, promise me you'll end it, he nods. OK, I'll tell her it's all over. He holds her hand as his publisher announces him as... The new Charles Dickens!

A few hours later, they pull up outside the old vicarage. He watches Mary get out of the car. He doesn't follow. He tells her, I'll talk to Andy tonight. Get it over with. But as he drives away, he's already decided he isn't going to give Andy up. He's just going to have to work a lot harder to keep her secret. Yep, I made a bet with myself and I just won. He's as rotten as I thought. Friday, the 21st of September, 1984. Winter Gardens, Cleethorpes.

Geoffrey tugs at the hem of his navy blazer, grabs a microphone, strides onto the stage. He looks out at endless rows of round tables.

Why is he so shy? He's working hard to show Prime Minister Thatcher that he's a serious player, that he's not the failed politician she knew from the early 70s.

He's made huge donations to the party, but this is the kind of work that really impresses her. He picks a raffle ticket from a champagne bucket, hands over a bottle of sweet German wine and signed copies of his own novels to a rosy-cheeked woman. He's been out of politics for almost ten years now. Writing novels has made him rich, but it bores him. His new novel is First Among Equals. Yes, I've read it. I just see him now. It's about four men who want to become prime minister.

The truth is, that's what he wants himself. No way. It's quite a thinly veiled autobiographical bent, isn't it? Yes. First book about a scam. Third book about people wanting to be prime minister. It's a very different life to mine. If I was writing books, it'd be the bloke who can't get through to British Gas. The guy who took his recycling out. And I have to say...

I would read them. I have to say that because I work with you. In reality, I obviously wouldn't. Funny you mention that, actually. I've got a transcript here, if you wouldn't mind. Gosh, it's a very big book. 700 pages. Yeah, yeah, yeah. In 0.8 font size. Let's fit it all in. Archer taps the microphone and launches into the story he's been telling everywhere.

How, ten years ago, he was on the brink of financial disaster. I owed exactly £427,727. How long would it have taken me to pay that off on an MP's wage? Before anyone can shout an answer, he tells them... 142 years. Lucky for me, my first novel sold over a million copies. LAUGHTER

He lets the microphone drop for a couple of seconds as he paces the stage. Oh, no, don't do that. Then he tells the crowd. Being in debt was tough, but I didn't rely on handouts. I solved my own problems all by myself. The true conservative way. The only way this country can be great again. Also, your wife worked really hard and made sure that there was food on the table and that you could look after the kids. But yeah, all on your own. He asks people if they've had a good time. Everyone says yes.

Can you imagine all of that mail that she doesn't want? That's like at the end of a gig going, oh, please tweet about it. Not that I would ever do that. I mean, it's like us at the end of this saying, please fill in the survey and give us a five-star rating. Give us a five, guys. As he leaves the stage, someone tells him he's got a call. He checks his watch. It'll be from Andy.

Five years!

This is the call he's been waiting for. Hard work deserves reward, Geoffrey. How does Deputy Chairman of the Party sound? He's delighted. He tells her how honoured he is, how hard he worked for the Party. She cuts in. She's happy to give him the post, but on one condition. Get rid of your mistress! Imagine being told by Maggie Thatcher to stop shagging around. You should have said it like that. Stop shagging around, Geoffrey!

September 25th, 1986. Grantchester, Cambridgeshire. Geoffrey grabs a champagne bottle from an ice-filled bucket. He hops from guest to guest, chats as he fills their glasses. He's spent weeks planning every last detail of this garden party. We'll have the slippy side there, we'll probably have... Yeah, top right, we'll go swing ball and then just have a bucket of super soakers. He's even finally dumped Andy, but he can't enjoy it. Not until his guest of honour arrives.

Last month, Margaret Thatcher told him how pleased she was with his work as deputy chairman. He's been touring the constituencies, feeding information back to her. And now she's coming to his garden party. It's proof he's now part of her trusted inner circle.

But she's late. She's a busy woman. He glances across at Mary. He told her he'd got rid of Andy for her. Well, for Thatcher. Their relationship is more solid now. He just hopes it's solid enough to convince Margaret Thatcher he's totally trustworthy. I mean, Andy is just collateral damage in all of this, isn't she? A few minutes later, a black daimler sweeps into the drive. The other guests fall silent. Margaret emerges with her husband, Dennis...

Geoffrey dashes over to greet them. Welcome, welcome. He leaves Mary talking to Dennis, takes Margaret on a tour of the house. He wants her to see that he's a solid, respectable family man. If you're that worried about it, if that's your main aim, maybe just be a solid, respectable family man. Yeah, surely the fact that you've had a five-year affair is always going to linger as a doubt. He guides Thatcher over to an antique walnut table. I bought this for Mary for our 20th wedding anniversary. Thatcher smiles.

tells him in a low voice how pleased she is he put his indiscretion with that other woman behind him. He reassures her. That whole business, it was a mistake. I'd never look at another woman, not now. She nods, tells him to come visit her at number 10 for afternoon tea. And bring Mary with you. Irrespective of the fact that she's Prime Minister, there's something really embarrassing about your boss constantly bringing up the fact that you've had an extramarital affair.

That night, Mary hands him a tumbler of whisky. Her eyes shine. She talks about how well the party went. How excited she is to be invited to number ten. She kisses him. "I'm so proud of you. Don't stay up late." When she's gone, he leans back. For the first time in years, he can see a clear path to power. Now he's under Thatcher's wing, he's certain to be the next party chairman. From there, he'll work towards party leader.

He's popular enough with grassroots members. No one has the range of support in the party like he does. He picks up the receiver. At first, he doesn't recognise the voice. A woman tells him her name is Debbie, that she's a prostitute, that she works from a room in the Albion Hotel near Victoria Station, and that he had sex with her there a few days ago.

Does he remember? A couple of days ago. Can you be a little bit more specific? Just had a bit of a busy week. My mind's gone blank. If it's Wednesday afternoon... His mouth goes dry. You've got the wrong number. He gulps down the whiskey. He's cold and shaking. He knows exactly who Debbie is. And right now, she's the only woman in the world who can destroy him.

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A few weeks later...

1.30am on the 25th of October 1986, Grantchester. Geoffrey grips the telephone. My instinct tells me a phone call at 1.30am in a British scandal story, not good news. Or any phone call to Geoffrey Archer. Get rid of your phone, Geoff.

He rubs at his forehead. He's had a permanent headache for days now. He's on the phone to Debbie. He's found out that her real name is Monica Coughlin. He's been talking to her late at night for the past couple of weeks. Yeah, that's the way to deal with it. He needs to keep his calls secret.

The last thing he wants is for Mary or the party to find out he's been talking to a prostitute. Monica tells him she's scared. After you left my room, you bumped into one of my regulars, Mr Curther. Oh, that's Gossip Monger of the Year 1986, right? Yes, the guy Archer saw as he was getting into his car. Geoffrey takes a sharp breath. He's not going to admit to anything over the phone. She might be recording him. It can't be me. I wasn't there.

But Monica doesn't listen. Thing is, he knows you. He keeps asking me to go to the press. I don't want to do that, Mr Archer. I don't want any trouble. He rubs at his forehead again. Why don't I give you some money? You can take a long holiday abroad, and in return you'll tell everyone it wasn't me. I'm going to send someone to meet you tomorrow. He's 45, grey-haired, a little overweight. He'll give you an envelope with the cash, OK? OK.

Next morning, he paces nervously as he waits for his friend, Michael Stackpool, to report back. Eventually, Stackpool rings him. Sorry, Geoffrey. She wouldn't take the money. He tries to ring Monica, but she won't answer. Next day, he realises why. Mary sits in the kitchen, sobbing.

She throws a newspaper at him. He looks down at the news of the world. It's running a five-page story under the title, Tory Boss Archer Pays Vice Girl. He has to think fast. Really fast. How are you going to spin this one? I paid her off for an MP, a cabinet member. As deputy chairman, it's my job to fix this kind of mess. You're lying. He promises he isn't. I can't tell you his name, but it's true.

An hour later, he persuades her to face the waiting press with him. Are you joking? She stands in the garden serving tea and biscuits, poses for a photograph holding the tea tray. That is such an iconic image now, isn't it? Stood in front of their country pile. It's been pastiched and spoofed and reproduced so many times. Yes, and copied by politicians who find themselves at the centre of a scandal. How many times can you picture them at the bottom of the garden gate with a mug of tea? Exactly. I would like you to print that my husband is innocent.

That night, he holds her close to him, promises her again he's innocent. "This will all blow over, don't worry." Next day, he gets a call from head office. The Daily Star are going to run a story on him. This time, it's not just that he paid a prostitute to leave the country. This time, the story is that he actually had sex with her. In a seedy hotel, at 1:30 in the morning. And they've got enough lurid detail to finish him forever.

Later that morning, the Conservative Party chairman's office, Westminster. Geoffrey sits across a wide oak desk. He's watching party chairman Norman Tebbit read the Daily Star article. The headline reads, He has to convince Tebbit it's all lies.

But the details in the article are damning and humiliating. The Star claims that most of Monica's clients demand a specialised field of sexual perversion. They've quoted Monica's nephew. One of them wants to be dressed up like Little Red Riding Hood with suspenders. He wants to be trussed up. Then Monica had to whip him. Geoffrey watches Tebbit raise his eyebrows. You can't believe this, Mark Norman. You know what the press is like. Tebbit raises a finger.

Geoffrey ignores him. OK, I was silly. I let myself fall into a trap set by the newspapers. But I have never met this woman. I have never been with a prostitute. And I have never dressed up as Red Riding Hood. Imagine having to put that claim on the record. Yes, I've never dressed up as one of the Seven Dwarves or Aladdin or that damn talking clock from Beauty and the Beast. Tebbit reads on. Eventually, he folds the newspaper, takes off his glasses, scratches his long, thin forehead.

Would it make any difference if it was Gretel from Hansel and Gretel? He gets up, promises Tebbit he'll have his written resignation by the close of the day.

He walks the short distance across Westminster Bridge to his flat, pushes through the huddle of press. Can you give us a comment, Mr Archer? Is it true you like to be whipped by a big bad wolf? He pours himself a drink, then another, sinks into his white leather sofa. That's the most perverted detail of this whole thing, a white leather sofa. Not OK. Imagine if Tebbit finds out about that. You're sick, man. Front page. His political career is in tatters. His marriage is in tatters.

But a few seconds later, he sits bolt upright, snatches up the phone. He dials his lawyer, Victor Mishkon, tells him to get over here for an emergency meeting. He's going to fight this. He's not losing his political career over some call girl. I want to sue the star and the news of the world for libel. Oh boy, buckle in. Three months later, 7.30am, central London. Geoffrey paces up and down his office. He's waiting for his secretary, Angie Pepiat.

He's asked her to come in early today. He's been organising paperwork for his libel trial. He needs her to help him. A few minutes later, Pepiat rushes in. She's in her 30s with neatly cut blonde hair. She's wearing a navy suit and a silk scarf. He watches her take keys from her handbag, unlock her desk drawer, take out his diary.

A couple of weeks ago, he received court papers for the trial. But because he was with Monica at one in the morning, the Starz legal team cited two dates, the 8th of September and the 9th. He's managed to get alibis for both. Whichever date is called now, he's covered. But he needs Pepiat to write both his alibis in a new diary. That sounds legit. Her handwriting will make it look authentic if anyone checks. I think if you're Geoffrey Archer at this point, you can absolutely justify this to yourself.

I think if you're Geoffrey Hodger, you can justify a lot of stuff to yourself. So now he shoves an almost identical diary across her desk. I need you to transfer these dates. He hands her a sheet of paper, watches her scan down the page. She squirms, looks up at him. Can't somebody else do it? He'd expected her to say this. He leans in close. The trouble is, Angie, I've asked you now, and that means if it leaks that I'm falsifying alibis, I'll know where it came from.

Oh, God, shudder. He watches her hand fly to her throat. Of course, Mr Archer, I understand. Her hands shake as she opens the blank diary. He watches her copy out the entries. She hands it back to him. He smiles at her. Why don't you go out today and do some shopping? Put it on the company account. I won't need you again. Oh, this is horrible. When she's gone, he tapes the empty pages together. That way, if he's asked to show the diary in court, they won't see most of it is blank.

He pours himself a whiskey, stares at the diary on the coffee table in front of him. He's got a brilliant legal team. He's got his alibis lined up. And now he's got the forged diary. But this is still the biggest gamble of his life. Because if the court finds out he's lying to them, it won't just be his reputation at stake, or even his marriage. It'll be his freedom.

This is the first episode in our series, Lord of the Lies. A quick note about our dialogue. In most cases, we can't know exactly what was said, but all our dramatisations are based on historical research. If you'd like to know more about this story, you can read Geoffrey Archer's Stranger Than Fiction by Michael Crick and In For A Penny by Jonathan Mantle. I'm Alice Levine. And I'm Matt Ford. Karen Laws wrote this episode. Additional writing by Alice Levine and Matt Ford.

Our sound design is by Rich Evans. Script editing by James Magniac. Our associate producer is Francesca Gilardi Quadriocorsia. Our senior producer is Joe Sykes. Our executive producers are Jenny Beckman, Stephanie Jens and Marshall Louis for Wondery. Wondery.

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