Never Marry a Politician

by Sarah Waights

  A bleak tidal wave of misery engulfed her. Avoiding bursting into tears was increasingly difficult and the effort was giving her a headache. Following the urge to simply leave, she started plodding back towards the station. Even though tears were now falling unbidden, she was ignored by the evening crowds that streamed around and occasionally brushed against her as she walked.

  Back on the train, she wondered how to hide what had happened from Nessa, who was far too good at knowing what was going on. She remembered the story of Pandora’s box, where Pandora was unable to resist the temptation to peek into the box given to her by the gods, releasing all the evils of the world. In the story, Pandora was at least left with Hope to comfort her. For Emily though, her Pandora moment was without the chance of redemption, with the final removal of any possibility that she and Matt would fan their relationship back into life. The tiny spark of happiness that had begun to grow in the back of her mind since he reappeared was extinguished.

  ‘Headache,’ she explained tersely, when Nessa raised her eyebrows at the sunglasses she was wearing even at nearly midnight.

  ‘Hangover already, eh?’ said Nessa, unconvinced. ‘You must have had a good night.’ Fortunately, her friend didn’t press for an explanation. Brushing her teeth, she regarded her pink, puffy eyes. Even now the tears leaked out and ran down the sides of her nose. Hay fever might be a better cover story for tomorrow, she thought. Lucky it was the right time of year.

  Lying in bed, relieved at being hidden by the darkness, she prodded her memories for an explanation. There were no reassuring ones. From the time he came back into her life he must have been lying. She was an idiot to have made herself vulnerable to him again.

  He and Susie had professed not to know each other when they met at supper that evening. Was that true? She certainly no longer believed that another journalist broke the story of Ralph’s affair. It would have been Matt and Susie together. Why else was Susie’s identity not revealed? They were protecting her from the press pack Emily had had to face. Susie had probably even got a fee. He had comforted Emily so tenderly when he came to warn her that the story was coming out and all the time he was manipulating the whole situation and never mind the damage to her. Good grief, the fact they had a history together was probably just a tool he used to get his story. A wrenching sob escaped, but she had done enough crying over Matt. She had done enough ten years before, she would waste no more tears on him now.

  By the time dawn broke, she had made up her mind. With all hope of a future with Matt dashed, her own misery was assured. The only vaguely positive outcome for the whole mess was for her to take the path least likely to cause anyone else unhappiness. She supposed that meant resurrecting her marriage to Ralph. At least that way the children would be happy and, probably, he would be happy too. Providing she dedicated her life to providing for his every need. Maybe if she had been better at doing that he wouldn’t have been tempted to have an affair with Susie. Taking the masochism further, she even managed to convince herself to feel sorry for him. He must be feeling bruised that Susie had dumped him for Matt. Assuming he even knew. Perhaps Emily had misjudged him. Perhaps the whole fling had been just that. Ended when he had told her it had. She even managed to make herself feel bad for doubting him. On that bleak thought, she slept at last, fitfully, through a long rambling dream, where she had taken another path in her life. She and Matt were together, content and settled. They were living in a little cottage, working alongside one another, both writing, companionably. In the final stretch of sleep before the alarm tore her awake, she even dreamed they had a son. Ten years old, handsome, funny and energetic, he was climbing a tree in the garden, laughing at her as she begged him to be careful.

  He looked just like Matt.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  When Emily dropped the children off at their schools the next morning, she carried on – for the first time in ages – to the constituency office. Hopefully there would be some mind-numbing chore to distract her from her misery.

  TJ was touchingly pleased to see her. ‘Em! We thought you’d got too posh for us.’

  ‘I’ve always been too posh for you,’ she replied. ‘But us posh people are too well-mannered to show how posh we actually are.’

  ‘You’re right,’ he joked. ‘You hide it really well.’

  ‘Just give me something to do,’ groaned Emily. ‘I’m bored witless.’

  ‘Join the club. This place is like a morgue now Ralph’s hit the big time. Before we were grateful for a crummy fête opening to raise his profile, now we’re inundated with requests for the great man to attend constituency events and we don’t see him from one week to the next. I’ve had it, frankly.’ He sighed.

  ‘You’re not really leaving?’

  ‘Did I say that?’ replied TJ.

  ‘No, but …?’ she continued. She knew it had been on the cards but now it was possible, she was gutted.

  He shook his head. ‘I’m not saying I’ve made up my mind but – well, yes, maybe I’m looking. Things have changed so much. You know I’ve been looking for a chance to stand for parliament myself where I can make more of a difference.’

  She nodded, remembering her little chat with Ralph on the subject.

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ he continued, puffing up slightly, ‘There’s that safe seat coming up in Maresbury, Somerset and your husband has had a word in a couple of ears. I’ve been encouraged to think about allowing my name to go on the selection list.’

  ‘Well, I think that’s a great idea,’ she said. ‘You would make a fantastic MP. You’ve got so much experience of constituency work now, it’s about time Ralph paid his dues to you.’ She looked sad. ‘I’ll miss you appallingly of course.’

  ‘After our talk the other day, I suppose I assumed I’d be losing you anyway,’ he confessed.

  ‘You misjudge me,’ she said. ‘I’m here now aren’t I?’ But she knew TJ was right. When she carried out the pledge she made last night, she would be home only for ribbon cutting duties and perhaps the occasional weekend. Ralph would want her in London, and that was where she would be, with a dutiful smile plastered on her face.

  ‘I really am going to miss you,’ she repeated.

  ‘Me too.’

  They grinned at each other. ‘And now,’ continued TJ grandly, ‘the raffle tickets await!’

  ‘No, please,’ she begged, ‘not ticket folding duty.’

  ‘“Duty” is the word,’ TJ said gesturing at a black dustbin in the corner, filled to the brim with clumps of prize draw tickets. Separating the booklets, checking they each had contact details and folding them individually was a hated task. Today though, the repetitive job was curiously soothing and she allowed her sleep-deprived brain to switch off while she did it, killing time until she needed to gather up her strength to be normal and cheerful in front of the children again.

  The following weeks were simultaneously endless and rapid. There was a heat wave. The children became increasingly fractious as their final term in their current schools drew to an end.

  Emily braved sports day without Ralph who pleaded a crucial international aid conference. There was intrusive interest in her presence without her husband, a frank appraisal of her, particularly from the other wives, which she found uncomfortable. Preferring a low profile under the circumstances, she demurred at the parents’ races. This, in her paranoid state, seemed to incur even more disapproval with tutting parents and staff clearly feeling they were being denied their chance to observe a celebrity by proxy in the detail they felt they were entitled to.

  In addition, Emily had a sticky interview with the head teacher when she announced Tash would be leaving at the end of term and Alfie would not be taking up his place in the autumn after all. The head teacher, Mrs Formby, was generally known for being pretty sour-looking at the best of times, but her face contorted as if she was on the business end of a cattle prod when she heard the unwelcome news. Emily didn’t know whether to laugh or run away.

&
nbsp; ‘Well, I can’t approve of the children having their education interrupted like this,’ she said, as if Emily had proposed taking them to Butlins for the rest of their childhood rather than just moving them to a different school. ‘The school will suffer of course,’ Mrs Formby continued. ‘Funding, as you know, is entirely reliant on the number of children in a class.’

  Emily really couldn’t let her get away with this. ‘But surely Mrs Formby, such a popular and well regarded school as this must have a waiting list of children desperate for a place?’ Hah, that got her, the old bag.

  ‘It’s not as straightforward as that,’ said Mrs Formby, but declined to elaborate, preferring to keep an irritating, “it’s far too complicated for mere mortals to understand” stance. Emily knew perfectly well the real reason Mrs Formby was so cross was because she was looking forward to queening it over all the other local head teachers who didn’t have the Prime Minister’s children on the school roll.

  Tash’s reaction was a lot more difficult to deal with. ‘Muuummy!’ she wailed in despair. ‘You said we wouldn’t have to move!’

  ‘I’m not sure I said exactly that darling,’ she replied, thinking that, actually, she might very well have done. It was the sort of conversation she would be entitled to expect Ralph to be present at. Both parents should have to take the flak on these occasions. They had seen him just once that week, briefly, and were not due to see him again until after the end of term when the Summer recess would also close parliament and give everyone a welcome breather.

  Gerald had given up making complaints about the challenge of explaining to the media why the family were together so little and Emily knew he was working terribly hard to buy her the time in the constituency she had begged for.

  ‘It’ll be fine darling,’ Emily reassured Tash with no inner confidence at all. Tash was due to start secondary school the year after next and Emily was really concerned at getting her into a nice London school where she would feel safe and make friends. Wherever she went, Emily suspected it would be a shock after this cosy, little village school. Her preference would be to look for a private girls’ day school. She was scared Ralph and his bloody cabal of advisors would tell her it was necessary to lob Tash into the nearest huge, dysfunctional comprehensive school with a reputation for teen pregnancy and knife crime, just to make some party political point.

  ‘What about my friends?’ said Tash, tightly. Her eyes were brimming and her attempts to rein in her distress were even more upsetting for Emily than the drama queen antics her daughter usually went in for.

  ‘You’ll still see them, darling,’ explained Emily. ‘They can come and see us in London, and – in any case – you’ll soon have new friends.’

  ‘I don’t want to go,’ said Tash grumpily. ‘Daddy didn’t ask us what we wanted,’

  ‘Don’t tell me, tell him,’ retorted Emily, wearily.

  The weariness intensified over the following weeks, a deep fatigue that sleep did nothing to help. In fact, sleep was elusive and when Emily did finally succumb, she woke exhausted from upsetting dreams. Mainly they were about Matt and Susie together, laughing like hyenas at various examples of Emily’s distress. The distress was generally to do with Ralph who, in her dreams, was there but unable to see or hear her, whatever she did.

  Getting up in the morning was more and more difficult. She remembered that, when the children were babies – especially Tash who was really demanding – she would tackle the sleep deprivation with food, munching her way through endless pieces of toast for the energy to carry on. It worked, to a degree, but she got pretty fat.

  This time, eating was even harder than sleeping. She would try to eat with the children, who seemed to need feeding every few minutes, but everything made her feel sick and the physical act of chewing seemed impossibly wearing. Instead she lived on cups of tea and the occasional banana. Soon her clothes were hanging off her, which made her hope she was looking glamorous and skinny. She should do, having returned to a weight she hadn’t been since her early twenties. Sadly, she knew she didn’t look as good as she had then. Instead, her eyes were sunken, her skin pale and she had to be careful about standing up too quickly because her head was inclined to spin. What a catch, she thought, looking at herself in the mirror. A weary, defeated waif looked back at her.

  No wonder Matt preferred Susie.

  Come to think of it, no wonder Ralph preferred Susie.

  Sometimes only a proper wife would do though. She’d had a call from his new secretary that morning, to check Emily was still planning to attend a Westminster lunch where wives were expected to come and make polite conversation while the husbands dealt with the important stuff. It had seemed easier to say yes than think of an excuse not to, but now she actually had to go, the fatigue at the thought of a trip to London was crippling.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Make sure to do your homework before your guests arrive. It is your role to make introductions and to ensure, not only that you bestow your guests with their correct title, but also that you remember and recount a few facts about each guest so you can set the conversational ball rolling.

  FELICITY WAINWRIGHT, 1953

  The lunch, in the yellow dining room at Number Ten, was for a select group of fifty or so. The bored diplomats’ wives were clearly old hands, knowing each other well and apparently sharing the same hairdresser, beautician and hunky personal trainer who probably provided them all with ‘personal services’ too. All were immaculately manicured and coiffed. The unspoken dress code was as for a society wedding, and Emily felt out of place in her droopy black tunic, with no boobs to fill the low neckline. It had been a safe bet before her weight loss, now she just looked like a dreary widow – which was fine, because that was what she felt like.

  Making laborious conversation with the Portuguese ambassador’s wife about Harrods versus Selfridges, Emily felt the hairs go up on the back of her neck.

  ‘Mrs P,’ came a cheery ‘humour the idiots’ voice, behind her right ear. Emily turned slowly.

  There, looking as reassuringly big-nosed as ever, was Emily’s nemesis.

  ‘Hullo Susie,’ she croaked with devastating wit. The idea, Emily decided, was to stymie the woman with her rapier sharp intellect and incisive comment. ‘Fancy seeing you here,’ she continued, leaving Susie in no doubt of her cunning plan.

  ‘You too,’ said Susie, ‘it’s been ages,’ she continued, as if not meeting was an unfortunate problem which had arisen despite their best efforts to get together.

  They both stood, smiling around at the other women in the room, desperately searching for a topic of conversation – apart from the obvious. Even in the depths of her own misery she couldn’t help noticing Susie looked encouragingly rough. Weight loss had left her face looking pinched and her nose bigger than ever. The smile was bright but it didn’t reach her eyes and the overall effect was a certain brittle nerviness. Emily wondered what the problem was.

  In the end, Susie broke the conversational impasse. Under cover of the general hum of conversation, she leaned in towards Emily and muttered, ‘I’d just like to say how sorry I am about the whole me and Ralph situation. It was just one of those “bigger than both of us” things.’ She smiled reassuringly, but Emily noticed the corners of her mouth twitched with tension.

  ‘So, it’s over now then,’ said Emily.

  Susie winced as if she had experienced a stab of pain. ‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘Absolutely it is. I mean Ralph’s great, really he is,’ she stared into the middle distance dreamily, ‘but it was just impossible, what with everything.’

  Emily resisted the temptation to ask what ‘everything’ consisted of. She would like to think Susie was referring to her and the children but suspected she wasn’t, entirely.

  ‘So, are you single?’ continued Emily, not wanting remotely to know.

  ‘Well,’ confided Susie chummily, ‘I can’t say I don’t have someone – how shall I say? – in the offing …’

  ‘Joll
y good,’ said Emily faintly. The whole ‘tell her who’s boss thing’ was not going particularly well. A vivid replay of Susie’s clinch with Matt flashed into Emily’s mind. She reeled slightly.

  ‘Feeling all right, Mrs P?’ quacked Susie. ‘It’s rather warm in here.’

  ‘Fine, fine,’ Emily muttered. ‘So, tell me more about this sexy new possibility of yours,’ she asked, with forced jollity.

  ‘Oh, okay,’ replied Susie with a conspiratorial smile. ‘He is yummy. As a matter of fact, it’s someone you know.’

  And now she had to pretend she didn’t already know who this “yummy” bloke was. Better and better. Emily felt a line of sweat forming on her upper lip. It really was very hot and airless. ‘So, who is he?’ she asked to get it over with, so they could go on and talk about Matt.

  ‘Well,’ said Susie, pausing for effect. ‘You’ll never guess, it’s Matt Morley, that journalist who did the profile on Ralph.’

  Emily pretended to think. Better not make too much of a meal of it, she reminded herself. She was hardly likely to have forgotten a man who had spent days with them just a few months ago.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said vaguely. ‘Seems like a nice bloke.’

  ‘Well I think so,’ said Susie complacently. ‘We met at your supper party. Strange thing is, we didn’t really click at that point. I thought he was lovely even then actually,’ she confided, ‘but if anything I thought he was more interested in you!’ She laughed gaily at the ridiculousness of the thought.