‘So, when will they announce it?’ she said, at last.
‘When they’ve decided what to say,’ explained Susie. ‘It’s headless chicken central here at the moment. I should imagine they’ll want to announce a plan at the same time as a memorial, for fear of losing the lead we’ve gained. We can’t leave a ship without a captain, can we? Not with just three weeks until polling day.’
‘I suppose not.’
‘Of course it’s terribly exciting for Ralph.’
‘Why?’ queried Emily, knowing the answer.
‘Well …’ Susie demurred, ‘it’s the big opportunity isn’t it? The answer to a dream for us all I’m sure, if we’re honest. The PM post – and barely in his forties? Extraordinary really …’
‘I hardly think— ’
‘Absolutely,’ interjected Susie hastily, realising she had gone too far.
‘… and without us having discussed it …’ Emily continued, sure of her ground here at least. He would never allow such a thing to be announced without her agreement, whatever had gone before. And she wouldn’t give it, of course, especially after the discussion they had had about it the other night.
Damn him, why didn’t he call?
Suddenly, there he was on the screen, looking sombre, head bowed, with James at his side. They were both wearing black ties. She was pretty sure Ralph didn’t own a black tie, which was probably an oversight on her part. Inconsequentially she wondered how he had got it. Probably that annoyingly efficient cow Susie had sorted it out for him.
The television presenter was saying ‘… and now, live, from party headquarters, is the statement we have been waiting for.’
James spoke first, announcing the death of their party leader, expressing sympathy to the family, paying tribute to his extraordinary achievements and then – within seconds it seemed – handing over to Ralph.
With unusual deference, he kept his head slightly bowed and eyes lowered as he spoke.
She stared at him intently, only vaguely aware of the words at first, tuning in eventually to hear him finish: ‘…with Alan having so recently taken over the leadership of the party, we are in the privileged position of being quite clear about Alan’s wishes and the wishes of the party should a new leader be required as is now so suddenly and distressingly the case.
‘And so, it is with the humility that is born of taking up the chalice from such an exemplary leader, that I pledge my energies to serving my party and – if the electorate wish it – my country.’
Emily screamed. And then when that didn’t do enough to vent her wrath, she flung her mug at the television screen. Luckily it was empty.
Now, his face had disappeared from the screen anyway, replaced by the anchor man burbling on about strategic rebranding and regaining the confidence of the electorate within the three weeks remaining until polling day.
She glanced at the clock. There was just twenty minutes until she had to collect Tash from her after school club and Alfie from his friend’s house where he had, thankfully, been having a play date. She had to pull herself together.
Just as she took a couple of deep breaths to steady herself, the telephone rang. She leapt at it hoping to goodness it was Nessa. Now, more than ever, she could do with a dose of her common sense and wisdom.
‘Hi, Emily.’
‘You bastard!’
‘Darling, I’m sorry. I meant to call you.’
‘So I notice,’ she said, scathingly. ‘Have I unwittingly been waiting next to a broken phone all day? Was it inadvertently off the hook? Did I spend too long chatting to my mates on it, preventing you from involving me in quite the most massive decision of our whole lives which – mysteriously – you seem to feel is a choice to be taken entirely without my input?’
Vaguely, she was pleased with herself at managing to be so articulate – even sarcastic – despite the fact that hearing his voice meant that her chest was heaving frantically and she could barely catch her breath.
‘Darling of course you’re upset,’ he soothed. ‘We need to talk. That’s a top priority of course …’ he sounded as if he was talking to himself now, checking off a list of problems to be solved. ‘I’ll get away just as soon as I can, it’s completely mental here. Just hold on darling.’
She made a dismissive noise.
‘Oh, and darling?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Don’t make any comment to the media will you? Not until we’ve decided what to say.’
She gave a hollow laugh. It almost sounded like they would be thinking up a response to the press together. Now she knew differently.
Minutes later, the phone rang again. Ralph. She let it ring, six, seven, eight times and then snatched it up, unable to bear the strident tone any longer.
‘What?’
‘Emily?’
‘Matt!’
‘Are you all right? A bit of a day for you both obviously.’
Not for the first time that day, she had an overwhelming desire to collapse sobbing.
‘I – I can’t talk to you.’
‘Sure, no, I understand. I’m not calling for a quote.’
‘You’re not?’
‘Actually no,’ he replied. ‘I just wanted to know you were all right,’ he paused, ‘and to let you know the magazine has stalled the story I wrote.’
‘They did? You mean they’ve spiked it? Why?’
‘God no, they’re running it all right,’ he replied. ‘But what with Ralph being in the frame for the big job they’ve decided what they’ve got is dynamite.’
‘Tell me about it,’ muttered Emily. Just imagine what they’d think if they could hear the conversation she was going to have with Ralph the next time she saw him. That would be flipping front page stuff …
‘… so anyway,’ he was continuing, ‘we’re going to need to keep following the whole thing through to the end. The editor wants to run a major profile, straight after the election – assuming Ralph wins of course. A kind of “fly on the wall” the making of a Prime Minister thing … Emily?’ he said, ‘Are you there?’
‘Yes,’ she said, faintly. Just hearing the words ‘Ralph’ and ‘Prime Minister’ in the same sentence made her feel quite dizzy with fear.
‘I’ve been told to stick to Ralph like glue – for the duration. Just thought I’d – well – warn you.’
‘Great, yes, thanks. So … I’ll see you around.’
She observed, with a peculiar detachment, that the promise of Matt’s continued presence leading up to the election was reassuring. But somehow disturbing too.
Matt hung up and stared at the wall, thoughtfully. Of course, being in line for Prime Minister was plenty reason enough for his editor, Mike’s, decision to run a bigger piece.
If he knew the other new angle Matt was suspecting his response could only be guessed at …
Chapter Eight
The next time Emily saw Ralph, she was giving Alfie and Tash tea.
‘Daddy, Daddy,’ they both clamoured. ‘You’re home at last,’ Tash continued as if life had been unbearable in the inadequate care of their mere mother.
‘You’re lucky,’ Emily hissed in his ear without them hearing. ‘If we were on our own I would bloody tear you limb from limb.’
‘Thanks darling,’ he replied, cheerily. ‘Well chaps,’ he said to the children, ‘isn’t this exciting? Daddy might be Prime Minister.’
‘Is that bigger than home secetrarary?’ asked Alfie.
‘Home Secretary,’ enunciated Tash with crushing precision.
‘Oh yes,’ said Ralph, ‘much bigger.’
‘Dan’s daddy’s a policeman,’ continued Alfie. ‘Is it bigger than that?’ he demanded with an air of triumph. Surely Daddy couldn’t beat that, was the sub-text.
‘Of course it is, stupid,’ snapped Tash. ‘Daddy’s going to run the country.’
‘If people vote for me,’ he qualified, modestly.
‘Well I won’t be voting for you,’ muttered Emily.
‘Do try to resist the temptation to think out loud when Matt gets here won’t you?’ he snapped.
‘Oh great, that’s all I need.’ She had assumed they might have a couple of days’ grace to have a marital row without an audience. ‘When?’
Ralph looked at his watch. As he did, the doorbell rang.
‘Saved by the bell,’ he sighed, and strode off.
She rubbed her face wearily. Great. She could hear Matt congratulating Ralph in the hallway. Bloody sycophant, she thought. ‘And I look a right state’, she told herself. And yes, she did mind.
‘Hi Matt,’ she said, as he came in, careful not to meet his eye. ‘We’re all in a bit of confusion I’m afraid. It’s rather late.’
She hoped he would take the hint that his arrival was far from convenient.
‘Sorry,’ he said unrepentantly. ‘Don’t let me interrupt.’
‘I’m going to get the children to bed,’ Emily told Ralph. Chivvying the protesting children upstairs, she spent as long as possible getting teeth brushed and clothes changed, reading stories and sorting washing. Then, she ran herself a really deep, hot bath and soaked in it until she turned wrinkly. Still Ralph didn’t come up to talk to her. Avoidance tactics if ever she saw them. Refusing, on principle, to go down and make polite conversation with her ex-lover and – frankly – a man she was currently happy to consider as her ex-husband, Emily put on her favourite, least alluring pyjamas and went to bed. She needn’t have worried about having to fight off advances – from either of them.
In bed, her eyes pinned open with nervous exhaustion, she could hear the low rumble of male voices, Matt and Ralph talking late into the night. The general tone was obviously cordial, with appreciative laughter on both sides, but Emily’s heart pounded in her chest as she strained to hear the content of their conversation, paranoid that either one of them was disclosing confidences to the other about her. Matt’s Stepford wife taunt of the other night still stung and she felt judged and belittled for exactly the qualities Ralph knew her for. Will the real Emily please step forward, she thought, wryly, as she put her pillow over her head and, eventually, fell asleep.
Days later, she had still not had a chance to discuss things with her husband. She reckoned Ralph could have tried a little harder to make time. How else could she communicate that she was not speaking to him?
On the day of Alan’s funeral they had no choice but to be in the same room. Even then, Ralph decided that Emily would have to meet him in Westminster Abbey as he would already be in London. Normally she would have asked Nessa to look after the children but, as she would have to attend as well, she had no choice but to ask Ralph’s mother.
‘But Mummy,’ Tash had said, ‘the only thing she ever talks about is how I’m doing at school.’
‘Quite right, darling. At least she shows an interest,’ said Emily brightly.
‘But she makes us eat yucky sardines,’ said Alfie. ‘And she smells,’ he added.
‘She doesn’t smell,’ argued Emily. Actually she did smell faintly and unappealingly of lavender cologne and mothballs. Ralph’s mother was old-school. Long ago widowed and rigorously slim, she was unforgivingly straight of back and strict of demeanour, living for church, mother’s union and occasional lunches with similarly widowed old women with whom she spoke disapprovingly of ‘the youth of today’.
‘It’s only for a few hours,’ she wheedled. ‘We’ll get pizza tonight, shall we?’
‘How about chips?’ said Alfie, sensing weakness.
‘Or Chinese?’ asked Tash, pressing the advantage.
‘Maybe. We’ll see what Daddy wants to do, shall we?’ she added, neither caring nor expecting that he would be around to ask.
To add insult to injury, Susie had made the travel arrangements. She had seen fit to organise a car for herself and Ralph to be brought from central office and another for Emily, collecting Matt and dropping off the children en route.
‘Hi!’ said Matt as he joined them, throwing himself into the back of the car and pressing his long thigh unnecessarily against Emily’s as he did so. He looked with frank appreciation at her nylon-clad legs until she tugged her skirt down, scowling at him.
‘Hello Matt,’ she said, being icily polite for the sake of the children.
‘Hey kids,’ he replied, grinning widely and taking his eyes reluctantly off her legs.
‘Hello Matt,’ they both squeaked, disloyally, obviously delighted to see him.
‘Are you coming to Mama Pemilly with us?’ said Alfie.
‘Don’t think so,’ he said, ‘although it sounds fun.’
‘It won’t be,’ Tash observed.
‘You’re covering the funeral I take it,’ said Emily primly, attempting to turn things to a professional level.
‘You bet. The king is dead, long live the king – and all that sort of thing.’
‘Not quite king yet,’ she pointed out. ‘Two weeks to polling day, after all.’
‘All right, the heir apparent is dead, long live the heir apparent,’ said Matt, amenably. ‘How are you?’ he added, ducking his head down to meet her eyes. ‘You’re looking tired.’
‘Thanks very much,’ she said. ‘You say the sweetest things.’
‘You’re welcome,’ he replied, unmoved by her sarcasm. ‘Hey kids, how about a game of I-spy?’
‘Me first, me first,’ said Alfie, bouncing in his seat excitedly. ‘I spy, with my little eye, something beginning with … “tree”.’
Tash gave a snort.
‘Er, would it be “tree”?’ hazarded Matt, clearly amused.
‘No!’ shouted Alfie. ‘Lamp post. I win! I win!’
Matt was still laughing when they arrived at Emily’s mother-in-law’s Knightsbridge flat. The children were quickly despatched into her care and they continued, not speaking, to the Abbey.
The press pack outside were a tiered mob, with photographers at the back perched precariously on step ladders. Crush barriers separated them from the funeral attendees, who were being decanted from a stream of black limousines. Matt had peeled off immediately and Ralph was nowhere in sight, leaving her to walk in alone. The focus group people had been driving themselves mad over the question of whether or not she should wear a hat. Eventually it was agreed that she should wear a small fascinator – a plain black band with a token veil which made her feel a complete pillock. Actually, it went rather beautifully with her severe but sexily cut black suit with its nipped in jacket and narrow skirt that suited her curvy figure. She looked simultaneously youthful and elegant but felt self-conscious for having made such a conspicuous effort.
The twittering focus group had a reason for their even greater than normal indecision though. Alan, being leader of the opposition, was not even a former Prime Minister or cabinet member, meaning a highly formal state event was inappropriate. On the other hand, the great and good were petrified of seeming churlish or ungracious. Consequently, a service at Westminster Abbey had been hastily convened where all the right people would attend. The current Prime Minister was expected to give a flattering address and the cabinet of the dissolved parliament were to turn out in force, looking grave and respectful.
After the service the plan was for the coffin to travel from the Abbey to Alan’s Surrey constituency. There it would be laid to rest in the churchyard of his tiny local church with only close family present – to Emily’s relief as she found burials hopelessly gruelling and always cried buckets.
She was shown by an usher to her seat. She sat, keeping her head bowed, partly to avoid catching the eye of anyone she knew but whose name she couldn’t remember. Looking up surreptitiously, she saw Ralph, standing next to Susie in a group milling around at the front. Even from twenty yards away, their backs were amazingly eloquent. His head was bent solicitously down to Susie as she, with her hand on his arm, whispered something in his ear. He nodded approvingly and gave her an admiring look. Emily tried and failed to remember the last time he had looked so warmly at her.
After a
minute Ralph was led by an usher to join her, initially too involved with nodding seriously at people to acknowledge her. Then, probably mindful of the media and his image, he kissed her on the cheek, with half an eye on the bank of selected media who had been allowed into the service itself. At the end of the row sat Matt, looking impeccable in his dark suit and black tie although the formality of his dress contrasted oddly with his slightly too long shock of dark, wavy hair and his conspicuous five o’clock shadow. His eyes roved constantly over the congregation and occasionally he made a note on the lined pad resting on his knee. Emily had a pretty good idea he had seen their lukewarm greeting. She wondered if he had seen Ralph with Susie too.
After the funeral, selected guests were invited to attend a reception in the old Methodist Hall on the opposite side of Parliament Square. Thankfully the media was excluded and there was a palpable relaxation of the atmosphere as a result. Emily was relieved to see Nessa on the other side of the room, chatting animatedly. To get to her, she had no choice but to make polite conversation with a host of acquaintances, not least Alan’s widow, Miriam. She was a sweet older woman who was kind to her but always made her feel lumpen and gauche.
‘Mrs Williams, I’m so sorry,’ she said inadequately, when she reached her.
‘My dear girl, you must call me Miriam,’ she said giving her a peck on the cheek.
‘How will you manage?’
‘I’ll do very well, dear. Alan was a darling man, but high maintenance you know,’ she said with a wry smile. ‘I shall miss him terribly, but,’ she continued, giving herself a tiny shake, ‘I will find things to occupy me. My darling grandchildren, not least,’ she said, gazing fondly, at her grown-up son and his wife, who stood sentry at her side.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Emily said, helplessly. ‘It must be peculiar seeing Ralph take over so quickly.’
‘Needs must,’ Miriam reassured her. ‘I wish you both all the very best and of course we all know Alan was keen that Ralph would take up the baton. It’s such an exciting time for you.’
Never Marry a Politician Page 7