No-one could accuse Clarissa of being nice and trusting. Having made a career out of being a sexy, earthy woman of the people, with her hugely popular day time magazine show, she hid a fierce intelligence under bottle blonde hair and curves, being disarmingly frank about her own tribulations, from the stresses of being a good mother, to the pressures of fame, no aspect of her life was off limits – and she expected the same of her interviewees.
Having softened Emily up with lots of predictable bonding over motherhood and flattering references to the embarrassingly prim fifties-style dress the party ‘image committee’ had insisted she wore, Clarissa went right in for the kill.
‘So darling,’ she purred, ‘your loyalty to Ralph is an inspiration to all us women …’ She paused infinitesimally and Emily braced herself for the punch, ‘… but what,’ she added, smiling dangerously, ‘exactly is it about your Prime-Minister-in-waiting husband that makes you prepared to tolerate his infidelity?’
‘Well, it’s not the “Prime Minister-in-waiting” bit, I can assure you,’ replied Emily hotly. Clarissa merely smiled, her head pseudo-sympathetically held on one side, waiting for her to condemn herself from her own mouth. She duly obliged. ‘I am simply saying,’ Emily continued, ‘that it is easy for other women to look at a man’s indiscretions and decide what they would do under the circumstances but, frankly, until you are actually in that position …’
Clarissa was looking vacant, her eyes fixed not on Emily but on the middle distance as she listened to instructions from her producer.
‘Right, right,’ she said briskly, cutting right across her guest. ‘It’s time to announce the results of our viewer poll. You will remember girls, we asked you to tell us if Mrs Pemilly should forgive or forgo. Should she cuddle up or kick him out. At the start of the programme, seventy-two per cent of you advised Emily to forgive but now,’ she paused, ‘now a compelling eighty per cent want to see her kick him out, and a few of our ladies were keen to suggest precisely what she should do to a somewhat delicate part of his anatomy. Steady girls! So, Emily, what do you make of our viewers’ advice?’
Emily gave her an incredulous look. She was exhausted, her eyes felt gritty and sore, the lights were making her sweat under the arms, almost certainly creating visible stains on her once crisp cotton dress, and her feet, in the clumpy high heels she had been told to wear, were starting to throb.
‘Actually Clarissa,’ she said, ‘I can honestly say your viewer poll is the most fatuous, pointless, viciously conceived load of nonsense I have ever had the misfortune—’
‘Anyway,’ interrupted Clarissa rudely again, ‘that’s all we’ve got time for but stay with us for our 1950s fashion special, right after the news in your area.’
She beamed at the camera until the red light went off, her face dropping instantly into an expression of boredom. ‘Thanks,’ she said, waving vaguely at Emily, as a minion with a clip board led her away.
In the green room, she saw, not her minder Rebecca, but a shockingly familiar back view. The room had felt spacious before but, with Matt standing there it was small, cramped, even a little claustrophobic.
‘Emily,’ he said, turning to greet her with a wide grin. ‘I haven’t laughed so much in years. You do have a way with words.’
‘So does that old cow, Clarissa,’ she muttered, scuffing her foot petulantly on the carpet. Matt’s amusement was irritating enough but Ralph and his little mates were going to do their collective nuts when they saw her losing her cool. As a matter of fact they had probably already seen, so she wasn’t looking forward to returning to the office. Luckily she still had Woman’s Hour and a couple of regional radio interviews to do.
‘Where’s Rebecca?’ she asked, hoping to change the subject.
‘She decided to jump off the roof when she heard your interview,’ joked Matt.
She scowled even more. ‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘what the flipping hell are you doing here? Are you actively persecuting me, or just stalking me so you can enjoy my distress?’
‘There is nothing enjoyable about seeing you in distress,’ he said, suddenly serious.
She met his gaze. He had always been able to do that with her. To look into her eyes and make the rest of the world seem to disappear. Her head swam and she felt herself sway slightly. Time passed. Unconsciously, they moved closer. She could smell him, almost feel his lips on hers. She pined for his strong arms to slip around her waist. Her longing was so intense, the idea of being embraced so vivid, she imagined she could feel his touch as she stood, suspended between fantasy, reality and the painful memories of the past.
In the end it was Matt who broke contact.
‘You should go,’ he said, ducking his head and moving away. ‘Before I do something you’ll regret.’
‘Quite,’ she said, crisply, resolve fully restored. ‘Although it’s more likely to be something you’ll regret. A smack on the chops is not beyond me. Ask Ralph.’
He chuckled. ‘So I hear …’
‘Darling!’ screeched a voice, and Clarissa charged in, pushing Emily aside to throw her arms around Matt. ‘How completely adorable to see you. Where have you been you naughty boy?’
‘Hello Clarissa,’ he drawled, smiling apologetically over her shoulder to Emily, who was pressing her hands to her burning cheeks to cool them. ‘Far from avoiding you, some of us actually work for our living. I’ve been busy.’
‘Not too busy to come on the show today,’ observed Clarissa archly.
‘Ah, well, that’s work,’ replied Matt, smiling patiently. ‘Purely a career move.’
‘Oh yes, that,’ said Clarissa, fluttering her eyelashes at him. ‘Well, my researchers tell me you have unparalleled access to “team Pemilly” so I expect you to dish the dirt and earn your fee.’
‘That’s not the brief, Clarissa and you know it,’ he replied, with steel suddenly in his voice. Clarissa blinked, disconcerted for once.
‘Nice try though,’ he added to mollify her.
When Rebecca came back to escort her to the next interview, Emily wanted to dig her claws in like a cat being kicked out into the rain. Life in the green room was strangely appealing – a hinterland outside real life where she and Matt could – well, they just couldn’t could they …
If the idea of further interviews was painful, at least the delay in having to return to party headquarters was welcome. In the end, after Clarissa’s startling approach, Emily almost began to enjoy herself.
On Woman’s Hour, she only threatened to lose her cool when a question about the impact of Ralph becoming PM on her and the children was put in such an empathic, motherly way she was delayed in replying by an overwhelming urge to throw her arms around the woman’s neck and burst into tears. Hopefully the little pause didn’t register too much and, with radio, the listeners would have been unaware of her clenched fists and momentarily tear-filled eyes.
Matt, who had tuned in on his iPod while in a taxi from the Clarissa studio to his flat, was all too aware of the tiny catch in her voice and the distress he knew it signalled. He bowed his head and groaned in frustration. He had to appreciate the irony of being both the one who had – indirectly – put her in that studio, and the one who wanted most desperately to rescue her from the pain it was causing her.
Hours later he was still agonising. The way the party communications team had decided to handle the story infuriated him. Whilst he had personally decided not to admit to Gerald it was Susie who had told him, he made it perfectly clear that he, Matt, had the whole story, including Susie’s identity. He had sworn – mainly to protect Emily – that he would not go public with it provided Ralph confessed to Emily. But that was then. Now the media had sniffed out the story anyway, Emily had been thrust into the full glare of the camera flashes. The heat would be off Emily if the press were pursuing Susie instead. Only they weren’t. Because they didn’t know who she was. He groaned again. A smaller issue was that his editor had been furious that he – Matt – had, apparently, been s
cooped by lesser journalists with the affair story. If he came out with Susie’s identity he would simultaneously protect Emily and win back the trust of his boss. It was tempting. And yet … his principles wouldn’t let him do it. Not without Susie’s permission.
Impulsively, he picked up his phone and put a call through to Susie’s mobile. It rang twice and went to voicemail. Impatiently, he called again. This time he received a recorded message saying her phone was unavailable. She had seen his call and switched it off. Swallowing his irritation he tapped out a text instead and tried to distract himself with his current story. He was due to file it in a couple of hours. He had better get a move on.
His phone woke him. Glancing at the clock he saw it was just after two in the morning.
‘Susie?’ he said.
‘Shh,’ came the reply. ‘I’m not supposed to be talking to you. They even wanted to take my phone away but I wouldn’t let them …’
She sounded hyper-alert, on edge.
‘Well?’ accused Matt. ‘Are you going to come clean?’
‘I can’t … I can’t,’ she whispered, desperately. ‘They’re watching me. This isn’t how I wanted it to be.’
‘No? Well, you’re a fool if you think you can control the press,’ Matt said. ‘Or the PR team either,’ he added, more fairly.
‘They say they’re protecting me, but really they’re silencing me,’ admitted Susie. ‘There’s someone with me all the time. They won’t even let me speak to Ralph,’ this last part was a cry of distress.
More likely he doesn’t want to speak to you, thought Matt, but he was too kind to say it.
‘They’re parading Emily and Ralph around like love birds,’ she wailed, surely risking waking up her minders.
‘Shh,’ Matt reminded her. ‘Of course they are. It’s three days to the election, they’re hardly going to do anything else.’
‘I do want people to know it’s me,’ said Susie, sulkily.
‘Well, make sure you tell them,’ he said, losing patience. ‘As soon as you can.’
Later he felt guilty. There really wasn’t anything Susie could do to influence how the team had chosen to manage the story. He would just have to wait and hope Emily had the strength to tough it out over the next few days. After the election they could all take a breath and then, hopefully, she would see reason, call time on her marriage and hand Ralph over to Susie once and for all.
Chapter Fourteen
‘What the bloody hell was that all about!’ snapped Ralph when Emily got back to the office from the Clarissa studio.
‘If you actually look at the interview, I was defending you,’ said Emily crossly. ‘Goodness knows why, because despite my unfathomable loyalty,’ she continued, ‘I have been unable to persuade the majority of women in this country that you are not a complete arse, an opinion with which I am beginning to have some sympathy.’
Clearly unable to think of a reply, he turned to Gerald instead. ‘What’s the damage Gerald?’
‘Well, I, erm,’ he began with what Emily now recognised as his normal reticence. ‘This morning’s poll does seem to suggest that, erm, perhaps fortunately, the Clarissa show audience view is not entirely typical,’ he said, pushing his specs back up the bridge of his nose.
‘What, you mean the national official “Is Ralph a complete prat or what” poll is coming up with a different result?’ questioned Emily.
‘I, er, um, yes,’ said Gerald, uncertainly. ‘That is to say, the, er, poll didn’t exactly ask that,’ he said unnecessarily, ‘but it did seem to indicate that a significant majority of the electorate found Ralph’s human frailty and subsequent humility a positive boost to his standing.’
Humility my arse, she thought, but Ralph looked mollified, which was a relief. If she could convince him and his scary crew that she had done her bit maybe there was a chance they would let her go home to the children, who she hadn’t seen since the previous night. She was especially worried that Tash might have had a tough day with her friends where she had posted her. Children could be cruel and their parents were often no better. She longed for the normality of tea and homework around the kitchen table. They should all make the most of it while they could.
Gerald was talking again. ‘… we’ve managed to uncover one source of rumour, turns out we’ve been a victim of a bit of a dirty tricks campaign, which is good news …’
‘How the hell can that constitute “good news”?’ exploded Ralph in disbelief.
‘Well,’ he explained, undaunted, ‘it means we can start to get a bit of control over the news agenda. Rather than having to be on a back foot, having to confirm the rumours, we can go on the attack to suggest that the other parties aren’t playing fair. Making the story about them, basically. With luck, I think we can get the front pages to concentrate on that tomorrow.’
‘OK,’ said Ralph slowly. ‘And then, of course, we’ll do more of Emily going on about how brilliant I am as well? No hint of anything other than devoted loyalty?’
‘Absolutely,’ confirmed Gerald.
Emily’s heart sank.
‘And the Twitter campaign is going really well,’ he added. ‘The media interviews have generated nearly forty thousand followers and loads of comments with sixty per cent broadly favourable according to our analysis. The tweet giving details of the dress Emily is wearing has been retweeted massively as well as generating coverage on several womenswear blogs.’
‘So, I’m now officially more domestic goddess than human being,’ commented Emily. ‘I am simply an empty media construct – until after the election anyway,’ she reminded them darkly.
They both gave her a wounded look which made her even more cross. ‘Look, have you at least had your pound of flesh for now?’ she said plaintively. ‘Can I go?’
‘Yes, yes,’ snapped Ralph. ‘She can go, can’t she?’ he added to Gerald who nodded nervously.
‘Just stay in touch,’ he said. ‘Things are changing fast. It looks like we’ll need you on the campaign bus tomorrow.’
‘Surely not,’ protested Emily. ‘Who will look after the children? I’m running out of favours to pull in.’
‘Mm, that’s a consideration,’ mused Gerald. Emily shot him a grateful look for his understanding. He hadn’t struck her before as being a family man. ‘Yes,’ he continued, staring into space, ‘it’s a hard call as to whether it’s strategically advantageous for Emily to be seen being loyal to Ralph, or to feed out the line that she’s a devoted mother staying with her children.’
‘Gerald has a point,’ said Emily, ‘although not for quite the reasons he gives,’ she added pointedly. ‘I actually do have to look after the children tomorrow and frankly I don’t give a monkey’s how it looks to the electorate.’
Ralph gave her an admonishing look. Really, thought Emily, she could absolutely murder him, so far removed was he from the man she remembered marrying.
‘Of course!’ said Gerald, excitedly. ‘I have the perfect solution. Emily should come on the bus, and so should the children. What a chance to show Ralph as the dedicated family man, even the day before polling day.’
‘I like it,’ grinned Ralph. Then he looked doubtful. ‘Isn’t it the first day of term tomorrow? We had better not keep them out of school – doesn’t look good, with all the stuff about education in the manifesto.’ He looked pleased with himself. Clearly remembering the dates of the school holidays elevated him to the status of genius in his own eyes. Of course Emily had to do it all the time, but this was taken for granted.
‘Tomorrow’s an inset day,’ muttered Emily reluctantly.
‘What’s that?’ asked Ralph.
‘Staff training,’ explained Gerald, who really did seem to know everything. ‘The unions negotiated it a few years ago. It’s term time but the children have a day off so the teachers can do courses and things. Quite often they bung it onto the beginning or end of holidays, half terms and the like.’
‘Good grief,’ wondered Ralph. ‘Don’t they already hav
e about fifteen weeks holiday a year for that? Anyway, they should already know what they’re doing. There’s one for reform when I get in. Take a note,’ he added, waving at Rebecca, who diligently wrote something on her clip board.
‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘on the bright side darling, it means we can all be a family tomorrow, spend a bit of time together,’ he said, smiling appeasingly at Emily.
‘Make sure the media know,’ he added to Gerald. ‘I want to get a good turnout.’
By the time she finally made it home that evening, a family tea around the kitchen table was a lost opportunity for yet another day.
Nessa came out to greet her as she let herself in through the front door, slipping off her shoes with relief.
‘Hallo darling. Wine or tea?’
‘Cup of tea would be heaven, Nessa, I am sooo sorry,’ she said, giving the older woman a forlorn look. ‘I am hideously late.’
‘I’m sorry too,’ said Nessa patiently, but there was no criticism of Emily implied. ‘They own you,’ she added. ‘I get it.’
‘They want us all on the campaign bus tomorrow,’ she said, taking a cup of tea and cradling it in both hands with a sigh of gratitude.
‘Might as well,’ observed Nessa. ‘Not long now,’ she added comfortingly.
Not long until things get even worse, thought Emily. It was funny how the horror of a positive result on polling day was starting – after the last few nightmare weeks – to be a comfort. A bit like starting to look forward to a horrible exam or even an operation because then the worst would have arrived and needn’t be dreaded any longer.
‘How are they? Are they both asleep?’
‘I’m pretty sure Alfie is,’ said Nessa. ‘He was a bit tired, poor lamb. Barely managed his tea and pretty much fell asleep into his pudding.’
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