Never Marry a Politician
Page 20
Far from telling her to buck up and pull herself together as she had expected, he asked a few more gentle questions and then sat back in his chair. ‘Well, it’s perfectly clear we can’t leave you in this state for much longer,’ he said. ‘I am going to give you something to help you sleep, that’s the first thing – just a mild sedative,’ he explained before she interrupted. ‘And I’m going to start you on a low dose of antidepressants.’ Emily nodded obediently. ‘They won’t take full effect for a couple of weeks I am afraid, but in the meantime, you need to take something for the anxiety too.’
‘I’ll be rattling,’ joked Emily weakly, but with relief stealing in at the idea that someone was helping. ‘You’re right though, I need to do something. But anti-depressants? Really?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Doctor Gladwin. ‘They’re awfully fashionable nowadays, all the best people are taking them,’ he joked. ‘Not that I want you to just take drugs, effective though they are. No, it’s important that you talk about why you are in this state. We all deal with anxiety-inducing events in different ways. Some of us are unlucky enough to develop unhelpful strategies to deal with it that’s all. You’ve got yourself in a muddle over recent events – and who could blame you?’
Emily blinked. Strange that he should know so much about her private life. But that was it, wasn’t it? As Ralph’s wife she had no private life. Not any more. Mind you, lovely Doctor Gladwin thought her distress was Ralph’s affair and the election. They hadn’t helped but he surely couldn’t have known the real problem. Emily hoped not anyway. The last thing she felt strong enough to do at the moment was to explain how she was condemned to a miserable life of duty, married to the wrong man because the right one was sleeping with her bitter enemy. Who wouldn’t be depressed?
‘Well I hope you were discreet,’ was Ralph’s response when Emily told him about her appointment and the drugs she had been prescribed. Nessa had kindly filled her prescription but if the pharmacist had raised an eyebrow when he saw the name on the form, Nessa wasn’t going to be mentioning it to Emily. She was paranoid enough about intrusion as it was.
‘Don’t you think its bit over the top though, darling?’ Ralph had gone on. ‘All these drugs, I mean what have you got to be depressed about?’ he continued rhetorically. ‘What woman wouldn’t want to be married to the Prime Minister of the UK for heaven’s sake?’ he said without a trace of irony which made Emily smile for the first time in days.
‘Seriously though darling, I know it was a shock for you this whole unfortunate, er, “indiscretion” with Susie. It must have upset you, obviously, and I’ve apologised as you know.’ Actually Emily didn’t remember that he had. ‘Granted, the stress of the election must have had an impact on you, but what on earth can you possibly have to be anxious about now?’ he concluded with more than a hint of resentment.
‘I’m sorry,’ Emily said, desperately gritting her teeth so she wouldn’t cry. ‘I honestly don’t know why I’m not coping. I suppose I’m worried about the move, the packing, the children’s schools …’
‘Of course,’ sighed Ralph. ‘You’re right. I’ll get you more help.’ He thought for a moment. ‘The best person to put on the case is TJ of course. He’s a whizz at logistics and planning and he could probably do with something to get his teeth into.’
The plan appealed more than many others. TJ was an easy person to have around, although the downside was the probability that Emily and the children would be stuck in London all the sooner with his efficiency brought into play. And that would be a good thing overall, admitted Emily to herself, with the new school year approaching. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘Okay then.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
‘Emily lovie,’ came the dear familiar voice, just as she was finishing her breakfast coffee. Today she had even been able to choke down half a piece of toast after a record five hours sleep and was consequently almost chipper about facing the day.
‘TJ,’ she replied, with a rare genuine smile. ‘How are you?’
‘Oh fine thanks, lovie,’ he replied. ‘Now, the sainted Ralph,’ he paused for a nanosecond of irreverence, ‘has asked me to help you get things sorted. What I’ve done is organised the removal boys for tomorrow. They’ll pack too. This morning I need you to use these,’ he waved a pack of stickers like semaphore, ‘to mark up what goes where. Blue is for Number Ten, green is to stay here, yellow is for stuff going into store …’ Emily let him witter on for a bit longer, tuning back in as he said, ‘… so the interior designers will meet you tomorrow morning. I’ve taken the liberty of getting them to make up some mood boards – I’m sure you’ll love them.’
‘For what?’ asked Emily, stupidly.
‘Well, for Number Ten,’ said TJ in his ‘humour the idiots’ voice. ‘It’s the norm for the PM’s wife to have a say …’
‘I don’t want to,’ said Emily firmly. ‘I’m sure everything is fine as it is and heaven knows it’s going to take lot more than a few thousand pounds worth of taxpayers’ money to make it feel like home for me and the children.’ TJ looked disappointed. He was obviously keen to get stuck into the interiors part of the role. He fancied himself as quite an authority.
‘Okay,’ she relented, ‘all I’m saying is let’s get in there before we just change everything for the sake of it, there’s altogether too much change going on at the moment anyway.’
‘Okey dokey,’ replied TJ brightly.
Okey dokey? thought Emily. Good God, is that what people say to unhinged people – probably is, actually. Mad people and old people – and especially old, mad people, she speculated. Then she realised she had drifted off again. TJ was still talking.
‘… So with the schools more or less sorted, the other big issue is your new image. Now my very good friend – ex-boyfriend actually – is a buyer at Liberty and he has kindly offered to set you up with a couple of personal shoppers. I can’t tell you their names yet because it’s all hush hush but they dress the best, that’s all you need to know. The emphasis is obviously on British designers. Vivienne Westwood is an obvious choice but a bit, how shall we say, outré. Also, it’s nice to support the young designers too isn’t it? Not to say you need to dress entirely British all the time, or even all designer, come to that, in fact the team is obviously keen that you support the high street retailers as well. The voters need to see you in the everyday life stuff too, just to show you still have the common touch, and I’m bound to say Em, you’re so lovely and slim, I am sure you could carry off “high street” just fine …’
Emily decided to simply wait until TJ stopped talking. It was amazing how long it took.
‘No,’ she said at last.
‘No to which bit?’ enquired TJ solicitously.
‘The bit about getting someone else to dress me,’ she explained. ‘Call me precocious, but I’ve been managing to dress myself since I was about three – five if you count shoelaces – and I have no desire to be infantilised now.’
TJ looked blank, clearly wondering how to approach this unacceptable impasse.
‘However,’ Emily continued, ‘I appreciate I may need to do some shopping.’
TJ smiled. Things may be okay after all.
‘So,’ Emily continued, ‘I will do so, in my own time, and with my own opinions.’
He looked concerned again.
‘I’ll probably ask Nessa to give me a hand,’ added Emily, relenting just a fraction.
He sighed with relief. ‘Cool,’ he said. ‘Of course Gerald will be pleased to know Nessa is involved.’
Why? thought Emily.
Whether it was the sleep or the toast, or even the buoying effect of TJ’s entertaining gossipy bitching about mutual friends, Emily was able to finish the stickering hours before the lorry arrived to move everything.
The removal men were cheerful enough, happy to be made continuous cups of tea by none other than the wife of the country’s leader. ‘She seems lovely and normal,’ she heard one of them mutter to another after she h
anded over the fourth round of teas with a plate of chocolate digestives. ‘Won’t last long,’ replied the other. ‘She’ll get the airs and graces quick enough. I mean look at the last one. Imelda Marcos eat your heart out.’ She felt this was a little unfair, but, was ashamed to admit, she had thought very little of her predecessor in the previous hectic weeks. What had become of her? Emily should want to know as the same fate inevitably awaited her one day.
The ex-PM, of course, had launched on his hugely lucrative lecture tour and autobiography already. Emily had heard this highly indiscreet memoir was due to be published in time for the Christmas market, although she seriously doubted it was the man himself who was writing it. His wife, on the other hand, had an even more difficult role to forge than she’d had when her husband ran the country.
Emily had watched with detached interest – well, it hadn’t seemed so personally relevant then – as the poor woman had been forced to give up a high-flying career in PR. Undercover journalists from a Sunday red top had caught her out making amusing but indiscreet comments about other members of government. The advisors had moved in swiftly and she had been forced, by the middle of the following week, to make a public and humiliating little speech, prettily pledging to give up her career in order to support her husband’s career, given that the country needed him to be entirely focused on his work. Emily had felt the woman’s pain to say nothing of the employees at her firm who were all, presumably, out of a job. She didn’t even have the ‘spending more time with family’ euphemism to fall back on, given that she and her husband had, to their intensely private and painful regret – also laid out for public examination in the press – never managed to have children of their own. No wonder the poor woman had turned to shopping as an outlet for her new narrow life as consort, or ‘concubine’ as Matt had insisted on calling her at the time.
Desperate though her own situation was, as a consequence, she could have some sympathy for the party which had clearly been determined to learn the lessons of the opposition. There was to be no chance for Emily to balls up, she thought. Being buried alive – at least career wise – was the safer option. She had been wondering briefly about finding work anonymously. She could perfectly well write under a pseudonym, but the press had developed a keen nose for outing anonymous bloggers in the last couple of years. Given that they had chosen to be anonymous for good reason, being ‘outed’ had been catastrophic for most, leading to lost or damaged careers, red faces all round and – in one case – terminal damage to a marriage. Mind you, that one was a highly entertaining diary of a serial adulterer – written from experience it transpired. She was surprised it hadn’t turned out to be Ralph.
Matt and Emily had watched the whole early blogging rise with interest, and Matt had encouraged Emily to use one as an outlet for all the observations she was too diplomatic to say in her paid work. Very recently she had started doodling on her laptop, putting down a few lines observing her own thoughts. It felt good to write again, to exercise her brain, but she was too craven or too cautious to put her material out in the public domain, even anonymously. If nothing else, she had told herself, it might be useful material for when she found herself a counsellor to speak to as she had told Doctor Gladwin she would. He had offered to refer her locally, but she had declined, telling him she would find someone in London as there was a better chance of making regular contact with them that way. He had made her promise she would. It was another thing on the list but not one she felt she could delegate to efficient but gossipy TJ.
By September, Emily had run out of resettling things to do and the day to day reality of her new life yawned before her like a prison sentence.
The school, St Hughes, had finally been chosen and uniforms bought. Emily had been reasonably happy in the end, finding a little co-educational prep school meaning Alfie and Tash could go together, not that they would see much of each other in the course of the school day, but Emily was comforted by the thought they could seek each other out if they wanted or needed to.
Although sibling bickering continued, worsening if anything, Tash and Alfie had shared a new affection for one another since Alfie’s illness. Emily frequently found Tash tenderly reading Alfie a story and he was inclined to give his sister a quick hug providing he imagined no-one else was watching.
Miss Bennett was the teacher in Alfie’s class and Emily loved her on first sight. ‘He’s not reading yet,’ she admitted when she brought him into the classroom on the first day of term. ‘Thank heavens for that,’ Miss Bennett had exclaimed in her broad Yorkshire accent. ‘He’s only four, the poor little scrap, why would you be teaching him to read for goodness’ sake?’
‘I just thought he’s probably going to be with a lot of quite advanced children,’ admitted Emily, sharing a look with Miss Bennett that spoke volumes about competitive and intense pre-schooling.
‘There can be a bit of that,’ agreed Miss Bennett, ‘not that I frankly see the need or the benefit – Horatio!’ she barked suddenly, ‘we don’t pull Anastasia’s hair, do we?’
Horatio thought about launching a rebuttal but was quelled with a stare of some majesty, Emily noted with approval.
‘Take that one,’ Miss Bennett muttered to Emily out of the side of her mouth, ‘arrived in our nursery class last term knowing the names of all his dinosaurs – and spelling them too – although he’s still wetting his pants most days. And,’ she added, ‘he’s a little bugger as you can see. But then he had three different nannies last term alone and never sees his daddy, poor love.’
Alfie, Emily decided, would be absolutely fine with Miss Bennett.
Tash, she was more worried about. She no longer confided in Emily about her life as she had in Sussex. There she would tell Emily about every minute of her school day – with the exception of anything relating to its academic content.
At St Hughes, Tash would return home silent and unresponsive. Emily didn’t think it was the school work that was bothering her as she tackled her homework with few complaints, which was unusual in itself. The school also confirmed that she was managing well academically. ‘We do tend to find that children coming from the state sector are working at a lower level than St Hughes’ children when they first arrive, but Natasha is a credit to her old school – well advanced for her age,’ commented her class teacher when Emily raised it with him.
When pressed, Tash mentioned the names of a couple of girls she had made friends with but was uninterested in Emily’s suggestion that they might want to come back for tea one day.
‘Why would they want to do that, Mum?’ she retorted. ‘Our life is weird, okay? I would rather just see them at school when I can at least pretend to be normal.’
That said, Tash’s perception of ‘normal’ seemed to have become considerably grander, Emily noticed.
‘Can’t we go skiing at Christmas?’ she asked one day in November. ‘Everyone else goes. God, we never do anything,’ when Emily gently explained that now was hardly the time for the PM’s children to be taking glamorous holidays while the rest of the country struggled through a recession. And then there had been the ‘I must have a mobile phone I’m the only one without one’ conversation.
‘You’re too young,’ Emily had explained reasonably.
‘The other girls aren’t too young, and Sophia is younger than me,’ argued Tash, infuriated. ‘How am I going to let you know where I am all the time if I can’t call you?’
‘But I know where you are all the time,’ countered Emily reasonably.
‘That’s the trouble,’ retorted Tash darkly. ‘I’m never allowed any freedom because of Daddy.’
‘Tash,’ explained Emily, at the very end of her patience, ‘for heaven’s sake stop being such a drama queen. The reason you are not allowed to wander around the country on your own is not,’ she enunciated slowly and clearly, ‘because Daddy is the Prime Minister, it – is – because – you – are – nine.’
Exasperated, Emily had recounted the conversation to a clas
smate’s mother the following morning.
‘Don’t I know it,’ sympathised India, ‘my oldest went on about it for months until I gave in when she was eleven, apparently she was the last one in the world to get her own phone. And then the little missy sent me fifteen spectacularly inane texts on the first day – turns out she didn’t know anyone else with a mobile to send them to!’ she snorted with laughter.
It had taken half a term for Emily to summon up the courage to talk to India, a dauntingly glamorous woman in her early forties with two children at the school. She was one of very few mothers turning up at the school gates. Mostly it was the nanny mafia who studiously avoided eye contact with parents and chatted amongst themselves in a tower of Babel-like variety of Eastern European languages.
India had been extremely friendly and funny when Emily first struck up a conversation and admitted she would have spoken earlier if she hadn’t been so sensitive about toadying up to the PM’s wife. ‘Soooo not done,’ she admitted apologetically and, from then on, they occasionally sloped off for a coffee and a chat after school drop off.
Emily was always terrified of saying something she shouldn’t and even a casual gossip and chat seemed fraught with danger. As a result of her matiness with India the other mothers at the school gate regarded Emily with an even more unfriendly mixture of envy and aloofness. She knew that a charm offensive would overcome the barriers but was so weary and emotionally fragile, she retreated into shyness instead, doubtless giving the impression that she was stuck up.
Despite her tentative friendship with India, Emily – like Tash, she suspected – was lonely most of the time. Ralph was only the attentive husband when the eyes of the world were upon him. On the rare occasions when they were alone together he was polite but distant. They were like flatmates who didn’t particularly like each other, but kept up a diplomatic front. There was little conversation, even about the children.