Shaking himself he picked up his notepad and returned to the cuttings. There was very little on Ralph early on apart from a brief mention of his wedding to Emily in the society pages. This had come just months after Matt’s return to the UK, when he had discovered Emily gone. Seeing the cuttings caused Matt more than an echo of the bleak despair he had felt then. In the wedding pictures Emily’s bump, which later turned into Tash, was extremely evident. No-one – in the media at least – had possessed the temerity to comment on the speed of their wedding, or hazarded a guess on the reason for it. Matt had worked out the dates in his head many times but he had never known how many weeks pregnant Emily had been with his child when their relationship ended. He didn’t know because, like an idiot, he hadn’t thought to ask.
At about the same time as the wedding some political commentators mentioned Ralph being the ‘one to watch’ amongst the newest and most dynamic group of MPs. Soon after his marriage, you could see the spin doctors swinging into action by the press cuttings that resulted. By then he’d had a junior ministerial post and was consistently and prolifically presented as a family man and doting father – champion of the aspirational middle income family. Emily was the adoring wife, her arm perennially tucked into his as if she was barely able to stand unaided. There was only one brief mention of Emily’s early career and no suggestion that she struggled with the usual childcare versus career dilemmas. Matt had wondered about that at the time and he did again now. Emily, when he’d known her, had been fiercely ambitious. Although she’d loved children, he conceded, and of course they had never themselves had the conversation about combining work and family life, he remembered with another lurch of regret. He shuffled together the cuttings, stuffed them back into the folder and chucked them into his briefcase with a sigh.
Unusually, Emily and the children weren’t running late that Monday, despite her taking a lot more care over her appearance than usual. She dropped off Tash in the playground and gave her a big kiss.
‘But there’s no-one here yet,’ complained Tash, looking around at the near-empty playground.
‘Yes there is darling, and look – Mrs Simpson’s in the classroom. She’ll let you in in a minute,’ replied Emily persuasively. Tash pulled a face but luckily made no more fuss.
She hustled Alfie away, breathing a sigh of relief. Her main ambition was to get out of the school before any members of the mummy mafia turned up. The PTA members were the worst, all making arch comments about any television appearances Ralph had made, looking her up and down to give her outfits and general turnout marks out of ten and – worst of all – pestering her to ask Ralph to cut a ribbon or draw raffle tickets. He was always appallingly grumpy about it, nearly divorcing her when she failed to prevent him from being railroaded into calling the numbers at an evening of fundraising bingo. On this particular morning she was well aware that her more than usually groomed appearance would excite impertinent comment and she doubted her ability to brush off unwanted remarks without blushing and looking guilty.
Dumping Alfie at preschool was even quicker than getting rid of Tash. Within minutes, Emily was back in the car heading for the constituency office with an entirely uncharacteristic eagerness. Even the depressingly narrow and smelly stairs leading to the offices, which were above a betting shop in the least salubrious part of the town centre, barely registered, although TJ made noises about their lack of ability to offer disability access to the offices. To Ralph they were ideal, being consciously low budget, showing he didn’t waste taxpayers’ and local supporters’ money. Emily just loathed the shabby brown carpet and wished it didn’t smell permanently of cabbage and mice.
‘Sorry lovie,’ said TJ, ‘but basically, as usual, no one tells me anything. What’s his name again?’
‘Oh, er, Matt something or other,’ she replied disingenuously, sure that he knew her insouciance was an act. ‘It’s fine,’ she continued, ‘I think Gerald only fixed it up on Friday so that’ll be why you haven’t heard. Anyhow, what can I do to help?’
Nothing depressed her more than helping out in the constituency office, but she could hardly turn tail and leave again. Also, maybe Matt would call while she was there, and then, after a weekend of agonies, she would at least know when the unsettling moment of meeting would arrive.
‘Well, I don’t know if you fancy folding these leaflets?’ said TJ without enthusiasm, kicking a box at their feet. ‘Central office decided to save money by getting them delivered flat.’ Her heart sank.
‘Or,’ he offered, ‘I know it’s really my job but you could write and sell in a press release about Ralph’s constituency visits this week?’
‘Gosh yes, okay,’ she said, relieved at being excused the leaflet folding. Thank goodness TJ recognised and used her journalism experience whenever he could. She threw him a fond look. Maddening though he and Nessa found each other, Emily was grateful for TJ’s presence in her life. Heaven knows, she probably spent more time with him than she did with Ralph.
‘I suppose at least we’ll see more of Ralph now parliament’s dissolved for the election,’ said Emily forlornly, remembering that, actually, Monday was usually a constituency day. Instead he had left at the crack of dawn to get to yet another meeting at central office.
‘You think? Now he’s the Home Sec in waiting the constituency will barely see him. Let’s face it, as parliamentary seats go, we’re kind of a sure thing.’
Emily nodded. His seat was probably one of the safest in the country. ‘No, he’ll be sent to all the marginal constituencies now,’ explained TJ, ‘trying to swing the vote. Frankly we’re lucky to get him here at all this week.’
‘Ah well,’ she said, rolling up her sleeves, and sitting at the computer to write her press release. ‘What’s his itinerary?’
‘It’s Thursday we’ve got,’ explained TJ, ‘so I thought we’d do a whistle stop tour, starting here in town and then bombing through the Downland villages, finishing off at Corfield for a rabble-rousing speech and Q&A in the town square.’
‘Corfield?’ She pulled a face. ‘Ralph always hates going there.’
‘Me too,’ agreed TJ. ‘Nice people on the whole but, heavens, the disasters that befall the place, no wonder everyone has such a long face. You don’t want to stay there too long for fear you’ll start wanting to kill yourself. I swear, the place is cursed. We call it “the village of the damned”,’ he said, disappearing into the kitchenette to put on the kettle.
Emily giggled, then screamed as a deep male voice close behind her said ‘Or you could say the “Curse of Corfield”, I suppose.’
She spun her swivel chair around and found herself face to crotch with the owner of the voice. Scanning up, she didn’t need to see the face. The voice hadn’t changed a bit, that authoritative but faintly amused drawl still had the power – she discovered in that second – to send a shiver down her spine.
While she could picture the naked body she used to know so well beneath the clothes – still the tapered waist, wide shoulders and broad chest – the face had changed. Lines from nose to mouth had deepened, more hooded eyes added to the dangerous, watchful look she knew of old and streaks of grey at the temples had done nothing to undermine the beauty of that thick, black, wavy hair.
‘Hello Emily,’ said Matt.
‘Sorry. You made me jump.’
‘Actually,’ he replied, with a lopsided grin, ‘I think I made you scream,’ he paused for a beat, ‘but then I’ve always had a knack of doing that with women – call it a gift …’
‘You can’t just turn up you know,’ she snapped, recovering. ‘You were supposed to call.’
‘Sorry. Still, I’m here now.’
‘It might not be convenient.’
‘Well, is it?’
‘It’ll have to be, won’t it?’
Astonished and horrified at Emily’s inexplicable rudeness, TJ all but elbowed her out of the way, holding out his hand to Matt.
‘You’re the Sunday Times guy, welcome,�
�� he said. ‘It’s great to have you here. Can I get you a coffee?’
‘Please,’ replied Matt. ‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome,’ said TJ, handing him Emily’s coffee and dragging him away to the little meeting area by the window.
‘Now,’ said TJ efficiently. ‘I don’t know what central office have been able to give you, but we run a pretty dynamic constituency operation here. I look forward to showing you the ropes.’
‘No need to go out of your way. What I really need is a chance to soak up the ambience, observe from the sidelines. Just pretend I’m not here and carry on as normal.’
Emily groaned to herself. She had as much chance of ignoring Matt as she would be able to ignore a huge, hairy spider in the corner of the room. Even though she’d had the weekend to prepare, her heart was racing, her face was burning and her eyes were magnetically drawn to him. TJ was clearly keen to monopolise him, she couldn’t have been more delighted to see.
She decided to draft the release and distribute it as quickly as possible. By then, she could plead she had to collect Alfie from preschool and get away. With any luck, the next time they met she would have Ralph with her – that should cramp Matt’s style. But even though she had finished the release, the men were still chatting. She didn’t want to stand up and draw attention to herself, so she kept occupied doing a spoof version to make TJ laugh. Calling it ‘Corfield, village of the damned’ she dropped in a couple of weak jokes about the Church Council being infiltrated by devil-worshippers and a coven of witches running the Village Hall Committee before bunging it over to him on an e-mail. Just as she was giving her real copy a final check, TJ hailed her. ‘Hubby on the line, love. Can you grab it?’ Emily quickly selected the local media e-mail list, attached the document and pressed send before picking up the phone.
‘Hi, darling. Sorry I snuck off so early this morning,’ said Ralph. ‘TJ tells me this journalist bloke has showed up with you so I’d better get myself home tonight after all.’
Emily would have been more pleased at his unexpected return if he had expressed a wish to return for the sake of his family rather than his latest publicity opportunity.
‘That’s lovely darling,’ she said, dutifully.
‘Yeah,’ he agreed, ‘so can you fix something nice for supper and sort out the guest room? He was booked into the Seven Stars but there’s been some cock up with the reservation. His office has tried to get him in somewhere else, apparently, but everything’s booked up. I’ve persuaded him to stay with us. Nice for him to see the reality of family life close up and personal.’
‘Er, yes,’ she said, doubtfully. He saw so little of his own family life she wondered if he had a rather romanticised view of it.
‘Tell you what,’ he added, ‘I’ll bring Susie down too. After all, we’ve got lots to discuss, and then Matt will have met all the key people.’
Great, thought Emily, dinner for the five thousand and with no notice. Plus, try as she might, she couldn’t help finding Ralph’s parliamentary assistant more than faintly annoying, which meant that keeping up the necessary and expected charm took just a little more effort when she was around.
Alfie wasn’t thrilled about being dragged around town after preschool just so that she could pick up the ingredients for a light but perfect supper. She had become well trained over the years. It seemed another life when she used to invite friends for supper and then end up grabbing a pizza on the way home to give them all. It had never mattered. This time, as always, she visited the delicatessen for Ralph’s favourite cheese. She didn’t get it for him very often because it made the larder smell like she was harbouring a rotten corpse. Then she went to the baker for fresh rye bread plus croissants and pain au chocolat for breakfast. Crab meat from the fishmonger and steaks from the butcher sorted out the starter and main course before Alfie staged a sit down strike and she gave in. He can bloody well make do with bought ice-cream for pudding though, she thought. Matt would still be absolutely astonished she told herself. When she knew him before it was a standing joke that her entire cooking repertoire from A to B consisted of spaghetti bolognese or – if she was feeling flash – the same thing nominally reinvented as lasagne.
She was doubly irritated that Ralph had invited him to stay too. It was all very well for him, she thought as she lugged cardboard boxes out of the guest room and piled them into the corner of their already untidy bedroom. The boxes were mainly Christmas decorations and winter clothes. Stuff she had been nagging him to put into the loft for months. Luckily the facilities in the guest room were basically okay. Just fresh sheets plus a jug of water by the bed and they were there.
She surveyed the scene, pushing hair out of her eyes. A bit dusty but otherwise fine. The guest room was charming, spacious and peaceful. She would show him what an accomplished home-maker she was now and he would be bloody amazed, she was determined. Better still if she could have shown him a sparkling career path instead but that was an opportunity denied her by Ralph’s ambitions and her dedication to his job at the expense of her own. She felt sure Matt would see that. And be unimpressed too, which was a shame because, more than anything, she admitted to herself, she wanted to impress him.
Only to show him what he had thrown away, of course.
Chapter Three
It is the role of a hostess to make her guests feel comfortable. The most important component of this aim is to appear relaxed and in control, although the author appreciates this is not always easy, the appearance of effortless entertaining is the aim …
FELICITY WAINWRIGHT, 1953
‘No you may not stay up,’ screeched Emily at Tash for the fourth time. ‘You’ve had your supper, we are not eating until late, it is a school night and your father and I need to have some adult time with our guests,’
‘Sounds great,’ came a deep voice which made them both jump.
‘I’m all for “adult time”,’ said Matt, coming in carrying a backpack. ‘The door was open,’ he added, kissing her on the cheek. She was furious at being caught out a) shouting and b) before having had a chance to put her make-up on.
‘I hope I’m not too early,’ he continued, although clearly, she thought, he knew he blooming well was.
‘And you must be Tash,’ Matt added.
Tash bridled becomingly and put on an excellent impersonation of delightful nine-year-old, as if the previous few minutes had never happened. ‘How did you know?’ she said, archly.
‘Because you are just as beautiful as your mummy,’ he explained ‘and also because I am an excellent journalist so I’ve done my homework.’
‘Oops, homework,’ said Tash, with a stricken look.
‘Tash!’ roared Emily in exasperation, ‘you have been home for hours, why didn’t you say?’
‘Just kidding! I handed it in this morning. Will you read us a story?’ she added to Matt.
‘No,’ said Emily, ‘he will not.’
‘I promise I’ll go to bed right now …’
‘Devil child!’ exclaimed Emily, throwing an apologetic look at Matt, but he was already nodding. ‘Sure I will,’ he said with a smile. ‘What about your brother?’
Right on cue, Alfie’s head appeared, upside down, around the bend of the stairs. ‘My Daddy sleeps with no clothes on,’ he informed Matt solemnly.
‘So do I,’ replied Matt with equal solemnity.
‘My Daddy likes wrestling with my mummy in bed.’
‘So do I … Ouch!’ exclaimed Matt.
‘Poor you,’ said Emily innocently, hoping no-one had seen the swift kick. ‘Did you tread on one of the children’s toys?’
‘Something like that,’ he replied, giving her an aggrieved look. ‘Anyway – as I was saying – so, do I get a book from downstairs or are they all in the children’s bedrooms?’
Emily used the brief respite to charge into the bathroom and slap on some make-up. Matt was doing a surprisingly good job. They had chosen The Gruffalo, and he was producing an impressive range of voice
s. It struck her that she had no idea whether he was a father. For all she knew, he too was married, although, somehow, she thought not.
Hearing him reaching the climax of the book, accompanied by shrieks of delight from the children, she ran downstairs, checked on the supper – all fine, although Ralph and the others needed to show up soon or the crab pancakes would be ruined. She poured herself a huge glass of wine and arranged herself casually against the edge of the counter.
Smiling brightly at Matt as he returned to the kitchen, she endeavoured to adopt the mantle of ‘perfect hostess’; calm, in control and hospitable in a manner designed to encourage absolutely no innuendo or – God forbid – flirting.
‘Gorgeous,’ he said slowly, looking her up and down. She tried and failed to resist the temptation to suck her tummy in. ‘You’ve matured wonderfully,’ he continued. ‘Rather like that wine I’m rather hoping you are going to offer me a glass of.’
‘You haven’t tried it yet,’ said Emily pouring him a glass. ‘It might be absolutely vile.’
‘Not likely,’ he replied, ‘you look as if you’ve developed a taste for the high life since we last met,’ he said, quite unnecessarily stroking his finger along the back of her hand as he took the glass from her.
‘You’re right in a way,’ replied Emily waspishly, snatching her hand away. ‘I don’t know about the “high life”, but you could say I’ve raised my standards,’ she added, giving him what she hoped was a crushing look.
‘Ouch,’ he said, holding her gaze. ‘I’ve thought about you,’ he added softly, staring at her mouth.
‘I haven’t thought about you,’ she lied.
‘Darling,’ said Ralph as he let himself in with Susie in tow. ‘I’m sorry it’s so late. Is our journo chap here?’
‘I am,’ said Matt, coming forward and holding out his hand. ‘I’ve been entertained by your charming wife and now,’ he said smiling at Susie, ‘I look forward to being entertained further by your equally charming assistant.’
Never Marry a Politician Page 3