‘Yes,’ said Ralph, keen to agree. ‘Actually no,’ he added, on reflection.
‘Yes you do,’ insisted Emily. ‘You do. All the time, and you just take it for granted. He’s stalling his career for you. It’s his life, for God’s sake. All you have to do is make a call, have a conversation with one of your revolting cronies. TJ would make the most fantastic MP – a damned sight better than half the old farts the party has now, but no, you won’t lift a finger …’
‘Okay,’ said Ralph slowly. ‘I’m with you – at last … Look,’ he said, raising his hands placatingly, keeping a wary eye on the vegetable knife, ‘I did say I’d put in a word but – darling – you can’t seriously expect me to do without TJ. Not now. There’s plenty of time. He’s barely thirty …’
‘He’s thirty-two actually. And you should bloody well know how old he is.’
‘Okay, thirty-two, and you’re right, I should help him,’ agreed Ralph with relief. ‘Right after the election. I promise you, next by-election that comes up he’ll be on the list. I guarantee it.’
Emily wasn’t at all sure she believed him. Matt’s criticisms about Team Pemilly were still ringing in her ears and – she hated to admit it – they were looking increasingly accurate. Ultimately, for all his charm, diplomacy and wit, Ralph, she realised, always did exactly what suited him best. It was extraordinary how compliant they all were with him though. He only had to hint at what he wanted and, thanks to his sense of entitlement and casual privilege, the devoted little bunch leapt to attention. Susie, TJ, even Emily herself, she admitted. They were all as guilty as each other.
At least the photographer’s visit meant that Ralph would be at home, she thought when she heard, although Ralph, who had been circling her nervously since their little chat, would probably have been happier to be elsewhere. The brief was for the photographer to shadow Ralph, just like Matt had done, recording in pictures every aspect of his life, from his role as family man with charming children – not sure whose children they were going to borrow to create that impression, she thought – through to his matey relationship with constituents and local supporters. Again, she wasn’t certain where they were going to find constituents to tell that story – perhaps Equity … and then there was his forthright, thrusting persona as Home Secretary in waiting, a key force in the new team set to run the country, if the polls were to be believed.
The photographer was charming. A South African called Kevin, who was delightfully playful and chatty, although she recognised his name and knew that he had done some very dark work in Rwanda, which seemed at odds with his Pollyanna attitude to life. A defence mechanism, she decided.
It was all a bit staged, with Ralph pretending to help Tash with her homework at one end of the kitchen table while Emily made chocolate hedgehogs with Alfie at the other. Ralph was looking handsome and modern in an open-necked shirt and jeans and Emily had made the children wear clean clothes – something Alfie was fiercely opposed to on principle. The overall impression was of a perfect family from a Boden catalogue.
‘Have you heard of the curse of Hello magazine?’ joked Kevin. ‘It’s the same with us. These pictures come out and you’ll be divorced within the month.’
‘You mean when the perfect politician, daddy and husband is exposed as a double-crossing fetishist with a penchant for kinky sex with small, old, bald men in leather masks and nappies?’ asked Emily.
‘At least it won’t be a shock then,’ he said, sighing in fake relief.
Later, she showed Kevin her computer so he could send his pictures to the office.
‘So,’ she said, casually, while they were waiting for the pictures to upload, ‘do you know Matt well?’
‘We work together quite a bit,’ he replied. ‘He’s a sound guy.’
‘Single?’
‘Yeah,’ he said, not showing any signs he thought it an odd question. ‘Lots of women around him, mind you. Good-looking ones too, lucky bastard.’
‘No-one special then?’
‘Not in all the time I’ve known him. A shame really, when you think he could take his pick …’ he mused. ‘There was someone once, I think. It messed him up pretty bad.’
‘What do you know about her?’
‘Bog all,’ he replied. ‘I can’t get him to say anything about it, although I have to say we talk about everything else. Like I said, whoever she was, she messed him up bad.’ He thought for a bit. ‘Yeah, he’s a good bloke though.’
‘Good,’ said Emily, feeling she had to explain her nosiness. ‘Dealing with the press is – well – exposing.’
‘Interesting choice of words! Something to hide?’
‘Well, only the little old bald blokes in nappies, but why should I worry?’
‘Absolutely,’ he laughed. ‘You of all people should know that stuff, though’ he continued. ‘Matt mentioned you were a journalist yourself in a former life?’
‘Never a muckraking one, like Matt.’
‘I’m sure not! You’ve got him wrong though … He’s good at getting the story, but he’s not a sleazy bastard. Not that I’ve seen anyhow.’
‘I think I’ll be the judge of that,’ she muttered.
Chapter Six
Emily palmed off the children onto friends for a play date and attended a constituency surgery where Ralph hoped to join them later.
A draughty village hall smelling of dust and Dettol was the venue. TJ was there to meet her. ‘A couple of regulars, one nasty, one nutty, and an elderly lady who wants Ralph to get her young, fit boyfriend out of Ghana,’ he muttered by way of a briefing. ‘It’s true love apparently.’
‘Of course it is,’ she said. ‘Right, let’s dive in.’
‘He’s a lovely man, your husband,’ said Mrs Butterworth comfortably, shifting her bulk in the chair to take the weight off one of her puffy ankles. She wore a tweed skirt coated in white dog hair from the smelly little Westie that sat, sulking, under her chair.
‘So I says to my friend Joan,’ she continued, ‘I says, Mr Pemilly won’t let them change that bus route, I says, ‘cos he cares about the people ‘oo voted for ‘im. He knows what side his bread’s buttered don’t he. So I told the man at the Council, I said “I’ll have none of your lip, young man,” and then I come ‘ere,’ she finished triumphantly.
Emily had reassured Mrs Butterworth that Ralph would write quite the strongest letter to the County Council on the matter, and had told another ‘frequent flyer’ constituent with mental health problems that Ralph was quite safe to vote for because he wasn’t planning to switch his allegiance to the Zargan Democratic Union. This, Emily patiently explained to him, was not least because there had been no constitutional possibility of a political party from another galaxy being eligible to field a candidate in an Earth-bound election.
Then there was a further upsetting interview with a constituent who was desperate about her son’s failure to get into the best local primary school because they had recently moved into the area, were outside catchment and there were simply no places. Frustratingly, she was unable to offer her a lot of help but she thanked her lucky stars that the village school didn’t really have a lot of choice about taking Alfie when he started in September because Ralph and Emily had made damned sure their house was nice and close to it. They won’t know what’s hit them, she mused, having been lulled into a false sense of security by Tash who was surprisingly angelic at school. As far as Emily could gather, from the glowing reports at parents’ evenings, Tash saved her grumpiness and sloth for home time only.
And still TJ kept feeding them through to the main room in the village hall where the ‘surgery’ consisted of a couple of hard chairs and a small table in a draughty corner.
‘I want to make a complaint about our MP – he’s rubbish,’ said a nasal, whining voice into her left ear.
She jumped and spun around, nearly falling off her chair.
‘Hallo darling,’ said Ralph, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. ‘TJ tells me you’ve seen
off hordes of whingers, loonies and charlatans.’
‘Shush,’ she said, looking around guiltily. ‘That’s an awful thing to say.’ Ralph was always appalling about his constituents behind their backs. It worried Emily, who was irreverent but never cruel.
‘Well, you’re all done. Every last one, so we can go home,’ he said, ‘thanks to you.’
‘Just say the word,’ she replied, loyally. ‘Anything I can do. You know that.’
‘Great. Darling you’re a trouper. Actually there is just one thing at the moment – could you possibly get Susie a present for me? It was her birthday today and I forgot.’
‘Oops. Poor Susie,’ she said, even though she didn’t mean it. ‘What sort of thing did you have in mind?’
‘Well, she’s got a cracking figure, probably about your size,’ he said, looking Emily up and down. ‘She’s actually, a bit slimmer now I think of it. Maybe get her some silk underwear or something … a negligee or whatever women wear these days.’
‘A bit personal isn’t it?’ queried Emily, trying to ignore the casual “you are fat” implication.
‘Nah,’ said Ralph, waving away her protest. ‘That’s what everyone gets their staff these days. It doesn’t mean anything.’
‘I’ll get two of everything then,’ she said, personally unconvinced. ‘That way you can give the same to TJ when it’s his birthday.’
The next morning, thanks to Emily, Susie was delighted to have a large, expensive-looking box delivered to her. Unfolding the striped tissue paper within, she uncovered an exquisite oyster silk set of French knickers and camisole with a matching wrap. It contained a printed message card, supposedly from Ralph, thanking her for her hard work and wishing her many happy returns. Her lips pursed. Far from being too racy, the gift was a little less intimate than she had been expecting – or hoping for.
‘Will we have to move?’ said Tash, suddenly over tea.
‘What, darling?’ asked Emily, although she had heard perfectly.
‘When Daddy’s party wins the election. We’ll have to go and live somewhere else won’t we? In London? Where Daddy’s office is?’
‘I don’t think so darling. Not if we don’t want to.’ She ruffled Tash’s hair. ‘We don’t want to leave here, do we?’
‘Nope,’ said Tash, reassured and tackling her ice cream with new energy. ‘We want to stay here. Daddy can just come home when he feels like it. Like now.’
‘He would be here more, if he could, darling. When the election is over things will be better.’
‘When I’m at big boy’s school, will Daddy come to get me at home time?’ said Alfie, flicking a glob of ice cream at a pigeon sitting on the windowsill. It splatted on the glass and slid down slowly.
‘Don’t do that, darling,’ she admonished. ‘I hope he’ll be able to sometimes,’ she added, without conviction.
Having got the children to bed at last, she poured herself a glass of wine and lit the fire in the poshest of the two sitting rooms to sit and wait for Ralph to come home. He had promised to make it back in time for a late end of the week dinner and – unusually – to have a whole day with the family the next day, although Sunday saw him back to the electoral grindstone, having to travel up to Cheshire for intensive lobbying starting early on the Monday.
She pondered, over her wine, recalling how they had planned, together, exactly how much he would do professionally, and how work would fit with family life. Somewhere along the line, the goalposts had been moved. The invitation to join the shadow cabinet had been the point where the joint promises had been forgotten. The time spent in London had increased and, when the leadership issue was being discussed, he had sounded her out on whether she would support him standing. Knowing that winning an election with him as leader would inevitably lead to moving the family to London – no Prime Minister had ever lived in his constituency – they had jointly agreed against it. In the end, the decision had been a bit academic with the party choosing to go for Alan, the man with the age and gravitas. Even then she had doubted the veracity of his assurances but had been soothed by the relatively low rating of the party in the polls at the time. When Alan won the leadership too, she felt she could afford to relax a little.
That was then.
‘Will things change much if we win?’ asked Emily, when Ralph had finally returned and eaten supper.
‘What brings this on suddenly?’
‘Tash was asking today. She’s not brought it up before. Plus we got the letter today, confirming Alfie has a place at school for September.’
‘We’ll be here, darling, of course we will. Whatever, happens,’ he said vaguely, his mind clearly already on other things. Then, she saw him drag himself back and he tried again.
‘I will have to spend more time in London obviously,’ he said, squaring his shoulders. ‘We’ll get more help in the constituency of course.’ He glanced at her, checking for her approval. ‘I hugely appreciate all the work you do for me here, but I’ll need you beside me in London more often once we are holding the reins. There’ll be events, ceremonial stuff. We’ll have a grace and favour apartment. There are some amazing places to choose from …’
‘Sounds nice enough.’
‘It will be. Once the children are older you can come and join me in town in the week. We can go to the theatre, the opera … Whatever you want.’
‘Will we really win?’
‘The polls say we will. Mind you, there’s still three weeks to go. Anything could happen’.
Chapter Seven
At around two in the morning the telephone rang, shrilling through the house like an emergency. In Emily’s sleep it transformed into a nightmarish dream about fire alarms and trying to escape with the children through a house she no longer recognised, the familiar layout turning into endless corridors of smoke with no doors and no windows.
Eventually, although it must have been just seconds later, Emily awoke sweating to hear Ralph in bed beside her, talking on the phone.
‘So, what’s the prognosis?’ he barked, as alert as if he had just drunk ten espressos and had eight hours sleep.
‘Okay, well, keep me posted if you hear anything – anything at all.’ A pause, and then, ‘Sure. Send a car. Tell them I’ll be there by – what?’ she saw him check the luminous dial of the alarm clock, ‘three o’clock, at the latest.’ He paused again, while the other person spoke and then made his perfunctory goodbyes.
Before she had a chance to ask him anything, he was out of bed, switching on the light, and rummaging around for clothes.
‘It’s Alan,’ he explained as he hurriedly dressed. ‘Heart attack, an hour ago. He’s still alive but it’s not looking good.’
She watched him, dazed, as he moved around the room, gathering up his phone, wallet, car keys. His expression was grim, purposeful … excited.
Giving her a careless kiss, he was gone.
She lay awake, rigid, staring at the ceiling after he had left. Hours later, just after she had collapsed into an exhausted sleep, the children got up and were simultaneously squabbling and complaining of starvation. Wearily, she dragged herself out of bed and co-ordinated some breakfast. Of course she had heard nothing from Ralph and knew better than to interrupt whatever vital conversations were going on by calling his mobile. Instead, she flicked on the radio as she made a strong cup of tea to revive herself.
Almost immediately, she was shocked to hear Ralph’s voice. ‘Our overriding concern, at this time,’ he was saying, ‘is for Alan and his family. It would be wholly inappropriate to speculate on the General Election and the effect on it of Alan’s sudden illness which has shocked and saddened us all.’
Turning off the radio, Emily switched to watching the twenty-four hour news on television where Alan’s heart attack was either being discussed by a series of pundits or was scrolling across the bottom of the screen while they briefly covered the rest of the news.
Ralph’s interview was repeated periodically, alternating with comments f
rom the party chairman James, who Emily knew vaguely, stating that the party had no plans to consider a replacement leader at that time.
Rubbish of course, thought Emily. She had tried calling Ralph on his mobile but it was permanently on answerphone. She contemplated calling his office for an update but was reluctant to have to declare to Susie that she wasn’t in the know. By teatime, still with no direct contact, she had no choice.
‘Oh hello Mrs P,’ came the chirpy, condescending voice. As always Emily resented being patronised by a woman barely a couple of years younger than her but Susie had always refused to call her by her first name. ‘I really do think it is important to maintain that respect,’ she had said to Emily when she gently invited her to do so. Respect, my arse, she had thought. Knowing perfectly well, as Susie did, that in fact, she was being put firmly in her place as a person to be tolerated and humoured – outside the circle of power which Susie considered herself very much a part of.
‘Isn’t it awful about Alan?’ continued Susie, speaking slightly slower and clearer with the voice that Emily knew she saved specially for her. ‘Of course now he’s had the second one, things have changed here a bit.’
‘A second heart attack? Are you sure? There’s been nothing on the news.’
‘Quite sure,’ she replied, triumphantly, delighted to be in the know. ‘Has Ralph not been in touch?’ She didn’t wait for a reply, knowing perfectly well that he hadn’t. ‘I’m afraid it’s all over bar the shouting. There was a massive second heart attack a couple of hours ago. They’re just keeping him on life support until his children can get there to say goodbye.’
Tears pricked Emily’s eyes. How devastated they must all feel, his wife, his children – albeit that they were grown up with children of their own. It was too difficult to comprehend, for the poor man to be Prime Minister in waiting that morning and for the sun to set on the end of his life, just hours later.
Never Marry a Politician Page 6