‘Not like him not to want to eat,’ commented Emily, concerned. ‘And Tash?’
‘Not talkative,’ admitted Nessa, ‘but I gather between the lines that she didn’t have the best time at her riding lesson.’ She paused. ‘From what I can gather, “things” were said.’
Emily raised an eyebrow. ‘About …?’ she prompted.
‘Oh, you know, silly nonsense about Ralph and this daft Sophie woman.’
‘Susie,’ corrected Emily automatically. ‘Anyway she’s just “the other woman”, they can’t know who…’ she added, jealous, again, that Susie was being spared vilification by her continuing anonymity. ‘Poor Tash,’ she went on. ‘She’ll be glad not to be going to school tomorrow then,’ she observed, thinking that perhaps there was an upside to the next day’s plan.
Come to think of it, with barely twenty-four hours until polling day, who was to say that Tash would ever go back to that particular school. Again, Emily’s stomach lurched. How could they possibly uproot their lives? It was just so drastic. So violent. As if her brain was simply unable to handle any more overload, she found herself staring mindlessly into space. Vaguely responding to Nessa’s goodbyes, she sat at the kitchen table to finish her tea.
When she finally looked at the clock, she was astonished to see it register nearly midnight. Clearly this was yet another evening when Ralph was not planning to make it home.
Earlier in their marriage, he had stayed over at the London flat rarely, making every effort he could to return home, even if, after late night voting, he only arrived in time for cocoa and bed. He delighted in the children running into their bedroom the following morning to say hello, jumping and rolling all over him like puppies. When he had stayed away, she tended to find herself imagining him in the little flat, picturing him cooking himself some supper, having a glass of wine perhaps, wishing she were there. Invariably he would telephone her late and they would share the little triumphs and disasters of the day.
Mostly now he didn’t call.
Tash was excited when Emily broke the news about the campaign bus the next morning. Alfie, on the other hand was still pale and quieter than normal. He smiled when she told him they were to spend the day with Daddy but pushed his cereal around his bowl, eating little.
Even Emily had to admit being a little bit swept up by the adrenaline when they arrived at the constituency office where the bus was setting off. It was still barely eight o’clock, but the media was out in force, keen to record Ralph’s every utterance and facial expression as the hours ticked by until polling day. The next forty-eight hours were the pinnacle of the campaign, and the team was bullish with the polls reporting a landslide despite – or perhaps because of – the fascination with Ralph’s infidelities and Emily’s grace under fire.
‘Mrs Pemilly,’ shouted the reporters crowding behind a barrier beside the bus, ‘what do you think about your husband’s impending victory?’
‘I’m very pleased for him,’ she replied, smiling. ‘If it’s true then it’s good news for the party and good news for the country.’
Ralph was there as she climbed on the bus, pushing the children ahead of her.
‘That wasn’t bad darling,’ he said, as he gave her a peck on the cheek, ‘but don’t go spouting without checking stuff past Gerald will you?’ he added. ‘We don’t want any last minute boo boos do we?’
‘I wouldn’t imagine so, no,’ she replied, giving him a bright, empty smile.
‘Mummy,’ whispered Alfie, tugging on her sleeve. ‘I don’t feel very well.’
‘Don’t you sweetie?’ she said, switching her focus. ‘Darling, you’re not yourself are you?’ Heavens, he really was pale, sickening for something to be sure. She pressed her hand against his forehead, but wasn’t certain. He was a little warm perhaps.
‘Why do people say “you’re not yourself”?’ he asked peevishly. ‘I’m poorly but I’m still me, aren’t I?’
‘Yes, you are darling,’ she reassured him. ‘Now let’s cuddle up at the back. You and Tash can look out of the window. That’ll be fun won’t it?’ She chivvied them to the rear of the bus, passing Gerald and Rebecca en route. Turning to smile at Rebecca, Emily tripped and fell heavily in the aisle. She would have sprawled on the floor of the bus if a strong pair of arms hadn’t shot out and held her up. Muttering her thanks, she steadied herself and looked up to see her saviour.
‘Matt! What are you doing here?’
‘Oh, let’s see,’ he said, putting his finger to his chin, pretending to consider. ‘Is it because I am a feature writer for the Sunday Times, I’m lined up to do the definitive post-election profile on your husband in a matter of days and we are hours away from polling day where we will find out whether the world has any interest in reading my – rather good – article about him or not?’
‘Yeah, yeah, okay. I thought you got your moment in the spotlight when you broke the infidelity story,’ she whispered so the other journalists wouldn’t hear.
‘Not me, remember?’
‘Oh yeah. You said.’
‘Believe me,’ he replied, ‘when I break stories I like to get the credit. It wasn’t me.’
‘Okay,’ she conceded, too weary for a fight. She knew Matt was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a liar and, anyway, none of the snide, suggestive coverage actually identified Susie, so it looked like it was only Matt who knew that bit.
‘How are you?’ he said, staring at her intently.
‘Fine,’ she snapped, not able to meet his eye.
‘You look rough.’
‘Thanks.’
‘It’s destroying you.’
‘What?’ said Emily, throwing a nervous glance at Rebecca who was giving them both a curious look.
‘This situation. That bastard. He’s a turd. You should leave him,’ he hissed fiercely.
‘Shh,’ she replied, glaring at him to shut up. ‘Why do you keep doing this to me?’ she whispered, glancing over her shoulder.
Luckily, Ralph was fully engaged, smiling winningly and shaking hands with great enthusiasm. He had a way of leaning his head towards the person who was talking to him. It gave the impression of his being fascinated with what he was hearing. She knew different.
Matt was still staring at her, his eyes burning with all the words unsaid and she was suddenly indescribably tired. She swayed and felt Matt’s hands either side of her waist, steadying her.
‘Muuummy,’ came a wail from behind her.
‘Gross,’ added Tash. ‘He’s puked.’
‘Oh, it’s all right darling,’ said Emily, hurrying to Alfie, who was sitting on the middle of the back seat, with a pool of vomit spreading at his feet.
‘It’s all right sweetie-pie,’ she said, gingerly giving him a hug. ‘We’ll get you cleaned up, don’t worry …’
Luckily he had thrown up with a fair amount of responsibility – something Emily had trained both of her children in from an early age – and the clothing problem was sorted with a quick removal of his sweatshirt. The floor was another matter, but stoic Rebecca got stuck in with a miraculously produced mop and bucket. Emily really did feel that the poor girl was earning herself a promotion and said so to Ralph, who had appeared at the head of the melee, but only once the worst of the mess had been cleaned up.
‘Can’t you keep the children out of trouble for one day?’ he said.
‘Alfie is poorly,’ she replied. ‘They do that, children, unfortunately. I’m going to have to take them home.’
‘No, Mummy,’ wailed Tash. ‘I don’t want to go! I hate Alfie, he’s always spoiling things.’
‘He can’t help it darling,’ she reasoned. ‘Maybe Daddy will let you stay with him,’ she said, looking to Ralph for confirmation.
‘Darling, I really can’t,’ he protested. ‘It’s polling day tomorrow for goodness’ sake, plus I really need to have you here for the final publicity drive.’
Emily sighed. She regarded Alfie thoughtfully. His colour seemed a little better and he was
watching the fuss he was responsible for with bright-eyed interest.
‘How do you feel now, darling?’ she asked him, putting her hand on his forehead.
‘I’m okay, Mummy,’ he said in a small voice.
Emily’s heart swelled with love for him. ‘Let’s stay, shall we sweetheart?’
He did seem a little better. Maybe it was just something he ate.
‘Great,’ said Ralph, rubbing his hands together. ‘Right, let’s get this show on the road.’
Practically before they had set off from the constituency office, Alfie had dozed off.
The plan, Emily learned, was for a sort of triumphal parade, with frequent stops, from the constituency office to Westminster, where there would be a huge final press conference before the polls opened the following day.
More than one person likened it to the Palm Sunday return of Jesus to Jerusalem. Emily seemed to be the only one who thought comparing Ralph to the son of God was a bit much. Also, she didn’t like to remind people – least of all Ralph – that Christ had been crucified a few days later.
Now Ralph was sitting amongst the favoured journalists allowed a place on the bus. He was doing his ‘man of the people’ thing, Emily noted, giving the men matey claps on the shoulder as he sat down and then leaning forward, hands resting relaxed on his knees, to answer their questions. Matt wasn’t part of the sycophantic crowd, she noted with approval.
He was still. Watchful. Moving only to scribble in his notebook in the accomplished shorthand budding reporters seldom bothered to learn now. He had always said that, while Dictaphone junkies would be stuffed when the batteries died, he would never miss a quote. He used to tease Emily when she struggled to read her own shorthand, she remembered with a smile, suggesting she might get further if she turned the book upside down.
Alfie was sound asleep when they reached their first stop-off point. Emily edged herself out from under him and took Tash out to join the spectacle. Her daughter was thrilled to be in the centre of all the action, and hung winningly from Ralph’s hand, beaming huge smiles at all the little old ladies who cooed gratifyingly over her.
Like father like daughter, thought Emily wryly.
‘Is she mine?’ came Matt’s voice, right next to her. She followed his gaze to Tash, who was oblivious to their joint scrutiny.
Emily gasped. ‘Certainly not!’ she exclaimed, jumping away from him, but a hand clamped firmly onto her arm.
‘How old is she?’
‘Nine, damn it,’ hissed Emily. ‘Barely nine, and you have no right to ask, after – after …’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘You made that very clear at the time.’ He released her arm so suddenly she nearly fell again.
Chapter Fifteen
‘Try to look a little bit positive, darling,’ muttered Ralph through a bare-toothed grin. ‘You look like you’ve been slapped in the face with a big sack of poo.’
The poo would be a positive pleasure in comparison with this little charade, she thought, but gave him an adoring look for the cameras as he planted a kiss on her mouth. The camera shutters went mad.
‘Emily,’ shouted a scary bleach-blonde hack in a tight skirt, ‘what is your message to other women with unfaithful husbands?’
‘Vote for Ralph,’ Emily replied dryly. ‘As husbands go, he makes a pretty good Prime Minister.’
Ralph laughed but the arm around Emily’s shoulders tightened painfully. ‘As you can hear, my wife is one of my greatest supporters.’
‘Didn’t sound like it to me,’ shouted the bleach-blonde. Emily warmed to her. Then, she read the banner held up by a gaggle of supporters. It said, ‘Emily for Prime Minister’. She giggled and pointed it out to Ralph whose lips thinned in irritation.
‘No time for more questions now, I’m afraid,’ intercepted Gerald swiftly. ‘Back on the bus for the final leg please. Ralph will be giving a full press conference when we get to Westminster.’
‘How very convenient,’ said Emily still grinning but seriously beginning to worry all this mirthless smiling and laughing was making them all look like gurning lunatics.
‘I brought you along as an asset, not a bloody liability,’ Ralph complained. ‘Tash is the only one who seems to care about making a good impression.’
‘I expect she’ll be a politician when she grows up then,’ said Emily. It was true, Tash seemed in her element, holding court in the centre of a crowd of little old ladies. She was tossing her hair and peering out from under her fringe, charm turned up to gale force. The old dears were loving it.
‘I must check on poor Alfie,’ fretted Emily.
‘Don’t fuss, darling,’ snapped Ralph. ‘I hope to goodness he’s not breathing his germs all over everyone. The last thing I need is for the whole team to be chucking their guts up for the whole of the next week.’
She ignored him. ‘Come on Tash,’ she barked at her daughter, ‘time to go.’
‘But I’m telling these ladies about when I was the Virgin Mary at school,’ complained Tash. ‘I was just getting to the best bit.’
‘You’ve delighted them enough, my dear,’ misquoted Emily, propelling her back to the bus with an apologetic gesture to the old ladies who cooed and waved gratifyingly.
Alfie was still sound asleep, his blond fringe darkened and plastered to his forehead with sweat. When Emily sat beside him and cuddled him close he partly woke and moaned, before settling back to sleep with his head on her knee.
‘I need to get him back to his bed,’ she told Rebecca who came down to ask if she would like a cup of tea. Rebecca looked around her as if the solution was somewhere else on the bus if only she could see it.
‘Okay, er, we’ll be in Westminster soon. I’ll call ahead and arrange a car to take you home,’ she said.
‘Thank you,’ said Emily, her eyes filling unexpectedly with tears at this tiny kindness. Rebecca saw and – being young – was embarrassed. ‘Everything will be fine, Mrs P,’ she said, earnestly.
‘Susie called me Mrs P,’ observed Emily.
‘Oh gosh, sorry,’ replied Rebecca, clapping her hand to her mouth.
‘Is she going to be there?’
‘I don’t follow …’ said Rebecca, but she wouldn’t look Emily in the eye.
Answer enough thought Emily, deciding not to torture the poor girl further. It was all the more reason to make herself scarce when they got to London.
She drank the tea Rebecca had brought. Then, with the soothing sway of the coach, and the after effects of her sleepless night, before she knew it her head nodded forward and her eyes closed.
The cessation of movement woke her. She glanced out of the window and registered the sheer, grey walls of central London, with their vertical acres of concrete and stone, dwarfing the pedestrians and cars at street level.
Tash was chatting excitedly at the front. She looked down at Alfie, still sleeping on her lap. She wondered if she could get him off the coach without waking him. He really did look unwell, poor little scrap, with his pale, sweaty skin and hectic cheeks, made pinker by the mottled rash dappling his face …
Dark red pinpricks were scattered across his skin.
She grabbed his hand and held it up to the light. The pinpricks again, like blotches of blood just under the skin. On his palm several spots had joined together forming a brownish-red circle, the size of a kernel of corn.
‘Alfie?’ called Emily softly, giving him a little shake. He moaned but his eyes barely flickered. ‘Alfie!’ she said again, louder this time. Another moan, but his eyes were half-opened, staring unseeing into the middle distance. Still holding his hand she noticed it was icy cold, although slick with sweat. She put her other hand on his forehead. Boiling.
‘Let me see,’ said Matt, appearing suddenly in front of her. He quickly ran his eyes and hands over Alfie’s little floppy body, taking just seconds to see what was frightening her.
‘There’s a car waiting to take us back home,’ she said.
‘No time for that,’ he
replied. ‘We need to get him to a hospital.’ Even as he spoke, he gathered Alfie into his arms and marched down the central aisle.
In seconds they were standing on the pavement, the seething mass of traffic in Parliament Square between them and the Houses of Parliament. Glancing up at the coach alongside, she saw Ralph staring open-mouthed at Alfie. He raised his eyes to meet hers as Gerald pulled at his arm, demanding his attention. For an endless moment, they stared into each other’s eyes.
And then he turned away.
As he did so, another strand in the fraying cord of their marriage snapped for good.
‘Where are we going?’ said Emily, realising she was panting, her breathlessness making it hard to talk. The chaos of London life swirled around them, oblivious to her rising panic.
Without seeming to signal, Matt brought a taxi screeching to a halt beside them.
‘A & E,’ he said sparingly as he opened the door with one hand and swept Emily into the cab ahead of him. Emily sobbed at the sight of Alfie, paler even than before, draped lifeless over Matt’s knee. The rash had spread within minutes, the pinpricks becoming blotches with malevolent speed.
‘Keep it together, darling,’ whispered Matt. ‘He’ll be fine.’
‘You don’t know that,’ she said, desperately wanting him to disagree. He didn’t.
The taxi took them right to the door of the A & E department. Although Matt was already carrying the still limp, unresponsive Alfie, Emily was grateful that he could spare a hand to support her elbow as she got down from the taxi. Her legs felt like they belonged to someone else and her body was trembling violently.
‘It’s like I’m an old lady,’ she joked.
‘You’re in shock,’ observed Matt curtly. ‘The last thing we want is you falling over and breaking your neck.’
‘I’d be in the right place though,’ she observed.
Night was falling already and coming from the dusk into the brightly-lit hospital was like walking on stage.
Matt shouted for help even as they came through the door. Straight away a little flurry of staff gathered around and propelled him through a pair of double doors.
Never Marry a Politician Page 13