‘And we are damn well going to do this together,’ she continued. ‘Not just because this is all your fault – which it is – but also because the children are unlikely to be satisfied by this charade of togetherness, unless we are – in fact – together.’
‘Are we?’ he ventured.
She gave him a crushing look but didn’t reply.
For Ralph, talking to the children was clearly more nerve-racking than public announcements. Emily was surprised he hadn’t discussed strategy with Gerald in advance. Actually, he probably had.
The two of them sat the children down in the kitchen and Emily made pancakes while Ralph tried to broach the subject tactfully. After several minutes of perplexing platitudes that left Alfie open-mouthed and Tash glazed with boredom, Emily brought the monologue to a close.
‘What Daddy is trying to say, darlings,’ she told them, ‘is that when mummies and daddies have been together for a long time, sometimes they make mistakes and start doing the special thing they do together with other people. After this happens, people can still stay married and things can get better.’ She looked at Ralph pointedly, and added ‘and even if mummies and daddies decide they don’t love each other any more, they still both love their children very much.’
‘Did you make a mistake with another lady?’ asked Tash, incisively. Emily smiled despite herself.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Alfie. ‘Daddy’s going to be a pry mincer, they don’t make mistakes because they have to rule the world.’
‘Not that sort of mistake,’ explained Tash patiently, ‘Daddy made a sex mistake.’ Ralph and Emily gasped in unison. ‘Well you did, didn’t you?’ Tash interrogated. Ralph nodded. She gave a small smile of satisfaction. ‘Told you,’ she announced to Alfie proudly.
‘What’s sex?’ he asked, but then Gerald poked his head around the door. ‘Time to go,’ he said, and Ralph breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Come on gang,’ he said heartily, rubbing his hands together. ‘Our public awaits.’
The photocall was grim. The team at central office had done their job well and every major news media outlet was represented by the scrum outside the garden gate. Police stood by, quietly observing and ready to step in. Some of the photographers had brought step ladders to ensure they could get a clear shot. Emily was worried for the children, but they delighted in the attention and, by some unspoken moral code, or – more likely – by prior arrangement, the media mob kept a respectful relative silence and distance while the photos were taken. Emily smiled stiffly as they arranged themselves on the far side of the garden gate, the children both standing on the bottom rung with their wellies sticking out, and Ralph standing behind, with one arm proprietarily around Emily’s waist and the other around the children’s shoulders.
‘Kiss me,’ he muttered out of the corner of his mouth.
‘You’ve got a nerve,’ she hissed in return, but she tilted her head towards him. The noise of the camera shutters rose to a climax as their lips met. With enormous restraint, she stifled her instinctive recoil. Instead, she forced herself to meet his eye and smiled warmly at him. The camera shutters went mad again.
After a mercifully brief interval, the plain secretary ushered the children back into the house. When they were barely out of earshot, the shouted interrogation began.
‘Mrs Pemilly, are you planning to divorce your husband?’ shouted one. ‘Will you stand down, Ralph?’ demanded another. ‘Can the country vote for a cheating Prime Minister?’ screamed a woman hack, jumping up and down, waving her notebook to be seen.
Gerald appeared from nowhere, holding his hands up for silence.
‘You have all had the press release. Mr and Mrs Pemilly will now make a brief statement. They will answer no further questions at this time.’
Ralph started and Emily found it relatively easy to go into ‘listening with polite interest’ mode. She had had a lot of practice at other occasions when he was making speeches. It was easier not to tune into what he was saying, but the occasional phrase filtered through and threatened her composure. He talked about ‘his precious family,’ and his ‘darling, loyal and beautiful wife’. At this she maintained her polite distant smile, nodding supportively as if he was making some abstruse point about the prison system or crime statistics. He drivelled on, hanging his head and agonising about ‘betraying the support of his colleagues’ and ‘bowing to the strains of maintaining the work-life balance which challenge us all’. This last point, she thought, was a bit rich, given that he could spend so very much more time with his family if he hadn’t been choosing to spend it rogering his secretary – sorry – parliamentary assistant.
Then it was her turn. The only way she could get Gerald’s words to come out of her mouth was to pretend she was doing nothing more than reading a shopping list or an instruction manual. She could feel the waves of disapproval from Ralph, irritated that she wasn’t putting more into it, but the press seemed convinced, hanging on her every word, microphones shoved eagerly into her face.
‘… and so,’ she concluded, ‘Ralph and I will continue to work on our marriage, for the sake of the children, and for the sake of my husband’s career, in which he and I are equally committed to serving the needs of the country.’
How are people simply not vomiting at this sanctimonious rubbish, she thought, forcing herself to meet Ralph’s eye and to smile as he put his arm around her waist and led her back inside the house. There was a cacophony of questions in their wake, and she heard Gerald telling them all where to get off as Ralph shut the door behind them.
Matt continued staring at the screen, long after Emily and Ralph had disappeared inside the house, replaced by a talking head back in the news studio. As a thorough and professional journalist with an important piece of new material he would be watching the clip several times, exploring every nuance. Watching it live, though, his attention was fixed on Emily. She had lost weight, even in the few days since he had last held her in his arms. The dark circles under her eyes were mercilessly revealed by the morning sunshine, despite her careful make-up which was heavier than usual, he noticed. He also noticed the twitch at the corner of her mouth as she smiled up at her husband, the slight tremor in the hands which held the statement she read out. She was tough, though, he told himself with a swell of pride. The old Emily he loved was still there all right, but the strain was evident, and he knew, with concern, she had more battles to face, alone.
Safely out of sight of the cameras, Ralph had quickly let go of Emily’s waist and marched off to confer with his little gaggle of advisers and hangers-on who seemed to have taken up permanent residence in the posh sitting room.
Wearily, she trailed into the kitchen. She looked at the kettle but felt so drained she doubted her arms had the strength to haul it onto the range. In any case, she could hardly make herself a cup of tea without brewing up another gallon for the hordes and she didn’t feel like doing them any favours at the moment. Instead, she wandered out into the back garden which was mercifully private. The bulbs she had planted the autumn before were the only splashes of colour.
How long ago, it seemed, that she and the children had planted them. That autumn, life had still been reassuringly predictable. There had been no election, no Susie, no terrifying prospect of being cast so very much into the public eye – and no Matt stirring up painful memories and complicated feelings.
She stroked a scarlet tulip petal thoughtfully. The grass needed cutting and the garden was littered with children’s toys. Tash’s pink bike was sprawled carelessly on the lawn and she noticed fondly that Alfie had inexplicably taken all his bath toys and arranged them amongst the pots of flowers by the back door. A rubber duck peeped out from behind some fading daffodils and his submarine nestled amongst some alliums yet to flower. She wondered if they would still be there to enjoy them when they did. She didn’t believe Ralph’s assurances that the family could stay in the constituency if he really did get the top job.
How odd, she thought, that she could s
inglehandedly ensure his failure in the election and safeguard her children’s stability into the bargain, albeit at the probable expense of her marriage. Nothing seemed more impossible than to use that power, even though she realised, she was starting to wonder at whether the marriage was worth saving anyway. Maybe he would be better off with Susie, she thought. Perhaps somehow he could fulfil the Westminster part of his life with Susie at his side. She, Emily, could carry on working in the constituency, doing the job that he rarely had the time and the patience for any more. It wouldn’t be the first time, she knew perfectly well, that a public figure had led a complicated personal life – although harder now that the media was so omnipresent and unforgiving. That said, the press appeared to have bought today’s little charade with great enthusiasm. She seemed to have the capacity to keep everyone happy – everyone except herself that was.
She felt her mobile, which was on silent, buzzing in her pocket. Matt’s name flashed up on the screen. She froze, staring at it for several long seconds. Then, in a flurry, she pressed accept, panicking that he would ring off before she answered.
‘Emily?’ came the comfortingly familiar voice.
‘Yes,’ she whispered, a lump forming in her throat.
‘I wanted to …’ he paused. ‘I was watching. Are you all right?’
‘I think so.’
‘I wish I could help you.’
‘You can’t,’ said Emily, sadly, with infinite weariness. ‘You can’t help me, but – thank you.’
‘If you need someone to talk to,’ he continued. ‘If you just need a friend …’
‘I know,’ she replied.
‘Emily?’ called Ralph, as she hurriedly ended the call and shoved the phone back out of sight. ‘Darling what are you doing out here, for heaven’s sake? There could be telephoto lenses – can’t be too careful,’ he said, hustling her inside, looking suspiciously around the tranquil garden.
‘I must see if the children are all right,’ she muttered, keen to get out of his presence.
‘They’re fine,’ he snapped. ‘Nessa’s here.’
Thank goodness for that, she thought, wondering how on earth she would ever be able to repay Nessa’s efforts.
This was not a problem that seemed to trouble Ralph though.
‘Hurry up darling,’ he said, hustling her along. ‘The team have been waiting to talk to you. We wondered where you’d gone,’ he added petulantly.
‘Here she is,’ he announced as they went together into the sitting room, ‘the hero of the hour.’
For a moment she thought they might give her a round of applause – a standing ovation even. But, thank goodness, even their capacity for condescension limited them to the type of smile you might save for a toddler who has just wiped his own bum for the first time.
They all glanced nervously at each other. On the whole they seemed to feel that Ralph should speak but he indicated his reluctance with a tiny shake of the head and a fierce look at Gerald.
Poor Gerald, thought Emily stifling a laugh at their discomfort. They had a lot in common, her and Gerald. They should probably be friends. Belatedly she realised he was speaking.
‘… so, with the superb response to the photocall and statement this morning,’ he was saying, ‘strategically, we need to build on that over the next few days,’ he continued, making sure she was listening. ‘You are such an asset to Ralph, as the dedicated wife and mother of his children. Now you have nobly accepted the – er – current situation, the eyes of the voters are on you as much as they are on Ralph.’ He glanced at Ralph, and amended, ‘well, nearly as much, anyhow. My point is, with only three days to go until polling day, we need to use every weapon at our disposal to ensure the country understands that Ralph is a worthy leader. A real person, battling with the same dilemmas as the common man, a flawed person – if you like,’ he warmed to his theme not noticing Ralph’s wounded look, ‘a man who is redeemed in the eyes of the country by the steadfastness and loyalty of his devoted wife,’ Gerald finished with a flourish, rendered moist-eyed by his own rhetoric.
‘Don’t I know it,’ responded Emily waspishly. ‘Wasn’t that little chimps’ tea party we all had to act out this morning precisely that?’
Gerald looked embarrassed and the meek but ambitious secretary earnestly made a note – presumably of the monkey reference – for future posterity. First, though, she gave Emily a conspiratorially sympathetic glance and seemed to be stifling a smirk at Gerald’s discomfort. She’ll go nowhere, thought Emily, with detachment. That is unless she learns to go along with the men’s little games with the slavish admiration they expect.
‘Well, hmm,’ Gerald continued, ‘the point is, we have discussed next steps, and I do think – under the circumstances – our policy with the media should be a rather more – er – confessional, personal approach than one we would otherwise have chosen. Less about the policies and more about the man, you know …’ he tailed off, looking hopefully at Emily.
‘Abso-bloody-lutely,’ she said, deciding she’d better chuck him a bone. After all it wasn’t his fault her husband had turned out to be an arse. ‘By all means shove Ralph on the telly anywhere you can. Bung him on the flipping Jerry Lewis show, it can’t do any further harm now can it?’
‘Jerry Springer,’ said the secretary shyly, ‘but that’s American. I think you mean Jeremy Kyle.’
‘Yeah, him,’ replied Emily. ‘Jeremy Kyle. He can wheel bloody Susie on and Ralph can choose between us live on air.’
‘I do think you need to calm down a bit, darling,’ said Ralph testily.
‘Well, that’s a bit rich under the circumstances,’ she said, and Ralph made those infuriating ‘calm down’ gestures with his hands that always made her want to poke him in the eye. ‘Anyway,’ she added, suddenly weary. ‘I said I’d go along with it, and I will, but don’t think you need me to sanction every interview you want my husband to do.’
‘Ah, well, that’s where I need to explain the plan,’ said Gerald, nervously. ‘Strategically, we have had Ralph say everything we want him to say for now.’
‘Tell me about it,’ muttered Emily under her breath, wondering if he was aware how many times he used the word “strategically”.
‘Now,’ Gerald continued, ‘the most powerful weapon at our disposal is third party endorsement and – under the circumstances, as I was saying – that third party is you.’
Emily stared fixedly at him, which Gerald decided to find encouraging. He continued; ‘So we have decided to say yes to you appearing on “Daytime with Clarissa”, “Women at large”, “Breakfast time”, and then, this weekend, on “Sunday, Sunday”,’ he finished, looking proud of himself.
‘So, every magazine programme on national television and radio, then.’
‘Yes,’ confirmed Gerald with a satisfied nod.
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow,’ continued Gerald. ‘Well, except “Sunday, Sunday”,’ he said. ‘That’s on Sunday,’ he added unnecessarily.
Emily sat blankly looking at her hands. He had, in one sentence, rounded up all the programmes she and Matt had jointly sworn they would never work on. ‘Can’t I at least do something proper as well?’ she asked faintly. ‘Like Woman’s Hour or something?’
‘Great!’ said Gerald, sensing victory. ‘They asked for you a while ago actually, but we were holding off to see what else we got.’ He turned to the secretary. ‘Give them a call and confirm, could you Rebecca?’ Rebecca nodded, and took another note.
‘We are also launching a Twitter account,’ Gerald continued.
‘I’ve already got one,’ said Ralph.
‘I know,’ said Gerald. ‘We need to keep that one fairly quiet for a while …’ he added with masterly understatement as he remembered scanning the torrents of abuse which had poured in as the rumours surfaced. The account had had to be suspended that morning.
‘I actually meant a Twitter account for Mrs Pemilly,’ he explained. ‘Twitter will be one of the platforms we are u
sing to get across our brand values of loyalty, domesticity, commitment to family values. We are already drafting a profile and will be tweeting content on Mrs Pemilly’s day to day activities; baking for the PTA, taking the children swimming, and so on …’
‘I haven’t got time for that,’ said Emily, uncomfortably.
‘No problem Mrs Pemilly,’ Gerald assured her, ‘our office staff will be generating the content on your behalf.’
‘But how will you know whether I’m baking or swimming?’ she asked.
‘We won’t,’ explained Gerald, ‘but that doesn’t matter does it? It’s just a tool. A means to an end. Nobody actually generates their own content nowadays.’ He smiled at her reassuringly.
Chapter Thirteen
The breakfast time programme went by in a blur. To allow for getting there, and for make-up, the car had arrived to collect Emily at four-thirty in the morning. Determined to get their pound of flesh, and to make sure they retained their exclusive, the programme’s producers had decided that Emily would be interviewed hourly from the programme’s beginning at half past six. Mostly she was left sitting wanly in the green room, clutching a tepid vending machine coffee and looking without enthusiasm at a plate of stale croissants. On the screen in the corner she could listen to the presenters talking up her presence, making much of being the first television channel to obtain an interview with the would-be PM’s wife. Every hour, she would be ushered over the wires and cables and plonked on the sofa. Weeks of poor sleep plus the early start had made her feel more than usually stupid. The presenters asked patronising ‘safe’ questions which had clearly been agreed in advance with Gerald. She tried terribly hard to be entertaining but their faces told her they thought her vapid and dull.
After that, the day was a simultaneously stressful and boring whirl of studios and taxis. Emily was accompanied by Rebecca who earnestly told her that her job title was ‘external communications intern’ and that her real ambition was to reach the heights of chief party spin doctor by the age of thirty. She didn’t like to say, but Emily thought Rebecca was highly unlikely to achieve her goal as she gave the impression of being far too nice, with a tendency to think the best of everyone. She would get nowhere with an attitude like that, she thought. After all where had it ever got her?
Never Marry a Politician Page 11