The Magnificent Mrs Mayhew

by Milly Johnson

  ‘You and Gerald will be all right. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Gerald?’ Elise guffawed. ‘I couldn’t give a toss about him. One of my horses had to be shot yesterday, that’s the only pain I need to blot out,’ and she removed her hand from underneath Sophie’s before the sympathy burned her.

  Chapter 5

  Six days before Doorstepgate

  Sophie picked up John’s discarded shirt from the bed and before she deposited it in the laundry basket, she lifted it to her nose and inhaled. It smelled of a day’s work and his strong, spicy, expensive Italian aftershave with no notes of a woman’s perfume intruding upon the scent. You’re being stupid, Sophie, get a grip, said a reprimanding voice in her head. The trouble was there was another voice that was telling her to watch out for herself. That one was quiet but knowing, a whisper with a vigilant eye. A part of her that cared for herself more than anyone else ever had. She’d last heard it four years ago and dismissed it; she wouldn’t this time.

  She didn’t want to turn into the sort of woman who searched pockets or went snooping in desks, prying open locked drawers with a paper knife, but her radar had picked up something. There had to be a reason why Crying-girl had been in her thoughts recently. Then again, John’s focus was purely on work, not women. His adrenaline levels were in overdrive at the moment because there were rumblings of discontent within the party. The PM Norman Wax had enemies in the ranks whose consciences would not let them support his stance on some heavy issues: the contentious lifting of an ivory ban, unpopular stealth taxes on the middle classes and the one John was most excited about – the PM’s intention to renege on a large chunk of investment that he’d promised to the NHS. A death knell was ringing on his career and the party was already furtively gathering behind John, ready to lift him onto their shoulders and deposit him in number ten. He wouldn’t risk all that for an affair now, would he? ‘Do you think I would be so idiotic as to fuck an intern in my position?’ he’d said to her about Crying-girl. ‘Even the most holy of them are susceptible,’ Elise had told her.

  The gown Sophie had chosen for the Cherlgrove Ball was beautiful and very expensive: matt satin in a shade of pale grey-blue that shimmered like lake water when light caught it. The cut showed off her slim shoulders and long neck, her tiny waist, the gentle curve of her hips below it and her small, pert breasts above. Sophie hadn’t liked the way it sat on her waist so she had unpicked the seam there and restitched it so it fitted perfectly. It wasn’t a difficult job and she’d done tweaks like this more times than she could remember. She could quite easily have designed and made her own dress but John had vetoed such ridiculousness before. A home-made dress? Who did she think she was – Maria von Trapp? She was the wife of the future prime minister, he’d barked, and she could make all the clothes she liked in her little sewing room but she would not wear them in public. He had never heard anything so preposterous in his life.

  As she sat at her dressing table putting in her earrings, John emerged from his en suite, towel covering his modesty. He smiled at her in the mirror, walked towards her, put his hands on her shoulders, kissed the corner of her jaw with a butterfly touch of his lips.

  ‘You look absolutely beautiful, darling,’ he said. ‘I should get a move on, shouldn’t I?’

  ‘You’ve got plenty of time before the car arrives,’ replied Sophie.

  ‘That’s good. By the way, we have an engagement on Monday so don’t make any arrangements,’ he called casually over his shoulder as he strode into his dressing room.

  ‘Do we?’ She couldn’t remember anything in the diary for Monday.

  ‘Last-minute appointment.’

  She paused then from fixing some tendrils of hair which had worked loose from their pins.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The hospital.’

  He was being sketchy on the detail and that triggered off an alarm inside her.

  ‘What department?’

  Please don’t say it.

  ‘Geriatric.’

  Her climbing nerves relaxed. For a moment there, she’d expected him to say the neonatal unit because she wasn’t an idiot, she’d been following the news. It had only just reopened after a refurbishment and already it looked as if it might have to close. She had been pushed into duties before that she had stoically undertaken when she really hadn’t wanted to, but she couldn’t have gone in there. Even after four years, it was too soon.

  ‘I thought . . .’ she said, almost laughing with relief, then closed her mouth. There was no point in putting an idea there for him to harvest.

  ‘What? You thought what?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘It’s important you’re at my side. Norman is kicking the NHS in the balls. I . . . we . . . have to show that we are supporting our local hospital.’

  ‘Absolutely. But isn’t that going against Norman?’

  ‘I’ve considered that. Len thinks that looking after our local constituents should be our priority on this occasion. Norman won’t be in the job much longer. I . . . we have a wonderful opportunity here to make a mark. Damned if I do and damned if I don’t, so I might as well do something that will benefit me . . . us.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Sophie liked old people. She enjoyed talking to them, hearing their stories, seeing the light in their eyes and imagining all that learning and wisdom behind them. It broke her heart sometimes to think of the still ones, to see the shells of the once young and lively waiting for nothing because even hope had deserted them.

  John reappeared from the dressing room fastening up his shirt. ‘Thank you. I’m so lucky to have you, Sophie. Sometimes it hits me just what a great team we are. You are going to make a magnificent prime minister’s wife,’ and he smiled at her and though she smiled back, the feeling persisted that all was not as it seemed.

  They arrived at the venue looking fabulous enough to attend the Oscars. There were quite a few cameras clicking and a TV news team was present because the ball was a big, big event in the county calendar, thanks to the newsworthiness of its sponsors: the young, hip and enviably rich Duke and Duchess of Hawshire had invested an obscene amount of money into this evening to raise money for disabled servicemen, and in the process had attracted a whole shedload of celebrities because everyone was keen to be associated with such a charity, whether for purely altruistic reasons or to enjoy the glitz and mingling, or to take advantage of such a shiny bundle of PR opportunities. Robbie Williams, a few minor young royals, David Walliams were all rumoured to be attending, along with glamorous reality TV stars snatching their moment in the spotlight before it waned and Simon Cowell’s latest boy band. The cameras burst into action as soon as Sophie and John had alighted from their car. The lens loved them; sometimes Sophie looked at photographs of herself and marvelled how beautiful she appeared in them even though she never equated them with a true image of herself. She felt as if she was looking at a different person, an imposter. The woman in the magazines was stunning but also too self-assured, unreachable, distant, cold, as if she lived life behind an impenetrable barrier. No wonder people felt about her the way they did if she felt that about herself.

  ‘Sophie, darling.’ A woman waved across – the council leader’s wife, Cordelia Greaves, grinning like a hyena on a good drug trip. The one who thought her too thin. She was standing with Eileen Eveleigh, who had adjudged her to be boring – as if that weren’t a case of pot calling kettle. Sophie waved back but a smile could not be coaxed. She might as well live up to what they thought of her.

  She spotted Elise standing with Gerald, over whom she towered. He was wearing a kilt and looked far more attractive from the knees down than he did from the knees up. They were conversing with Dena and Christopher Stockdale, the Chief Whip, who’d graced them with a visit from London. They all looked very jolly and friendly together despite Sophie knowing that neither couple could stand the other. Gerald had got even fatter since the last time she had seen him. His neck had disappeared and his chin was puffed over h
is collar. Sophie tried to imagine him in a clinch with a young woman of twenty-five and couldn’t. Elise waved over. She seemed cheerful which was good because Sophie had been quite concerned for her after their lunch yesterday. She had texted her last night to check how she was, but she hadn’t replied. That was nothing new. Elise did things when she wanted to, not when she was summoned to.

  Handshakes were exchanged between the men, cheek kisses between men and women, air kisses between women.

  ‘You’re looking absolutely gorgeous, Sophie,’ said Dena.

  ‘That’s very nice of you, thank you. And your dress is beautiful, Dena,’ Sophie replied. Politeness and smiles successfully masking the insincerity. Dena’s dress would have cost a fortune, but the price tag would always be more important than the object with Dena, so Elise had informed her in the past. The dress was stunning but Dena didn’t suit it at all. It was dark purple, which made her skin look sallow and the cut made her waist appear thicker than it was. Sophie had a true talent for instinctively knowing what shades suited people’s colouring, what necklines they should wear, even what cloth would make the best of their attributes. Some people rocked linen, others looked as if they’d been dragged through a hedge backwards in it. John suited linen. John suited everything. He looked more model material than many of the professionals in the glossy magazine shoots. He could throw a photoshopped David Beckham into the shade.

  Dena flicked her eyes up and down Sophie again. Sophie suspected she was hoping to find faults to make herself feel better, a slick of lipstick on her teeth, a stain in the watery satin. She almost wished Elise hadn’t told her about Dena’s true feelings towards her. She’d really hoped they could have been friends. But she didn’t want friends who were nice to her face but ripped her to shreds as soon as her back was turned.

  ‘Excuse me,’ butted in Elise. ‘I wonder if I could have a private word with you, Sophie. I do apologise, Dena.’

  Elise steered a surprised Sophie a few steps away from the group by the elbow.

  ‘I’m guessing you wouldn’t mind me rescuing you from that insincere bitch, Sophie. What I told you yesterday about Gerald, please keep it to yourself.’

  ‘Oh of course,’ said Sophie. ‘You didn’t need to say that . . .’

  ‘Sophie, none of us are to be trusted. I blame the fucking menopause for my indiscretion. As I’ve already told you, knowledge is currency in our world. I’m not such a fool that I’m not aware that your loyalty is more with John than it could ever be with me, so I appreciate your silence more than you can know.’

  ‘You can trust me, Elise. I haven’t told John, nor would I.’

  Elise’s eyelids dropped for a split second as if pulled down by the weight of the sigh of relief whistling past her lips. ‘I’m not sure I could have afforded you the same courtesy, Sophie. Gerald would love to have something on John, something to savour and use to bring him down if he needed to. You’re naïve if you think otherwise.’

  In the background Gerald guffawed and clapped John on the back as if they were the best of buddies.

  ‘Look at them, all pretence,’ said Elise. ‘All gamesmanship. Everyone enjoys the thrill of cutting down a tall poppy.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Anyway, I had to say it. I can’t stop you using the information but—’

  ‘I won’t. I promise,’ Sophie interrupted her. ‘It’s forgotten.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Elise. ‘Best get back to the throng.’

  ‘I messaged you. To see if you were okay,’ said Sophie.

  ‘I am. I went to see another horse this morning. Onwards and upwards eh? I feel much better.’

  They returned to the group. ‘We must do lunch, Sophie,’ said Dena.

  ‘We must,’ returned Sophie.

  She looks in a mirror and sees her and not you. Elise’s words came back at her. Was that really the reason why Dena Stockdale bitched about her, because it couldn’t be anything else, could it? Miss Palmer-Price had once warned a selection of girls, whom she deemed to be the ones who might encounter such a problem, that beauty brought its own particular set of complications. Pulchritude will make people hate you for no other reason than that they can. Avoid those who envy because they can only destroy, never construct, she said. They are to be pitied and despised.

  But Sophie had never seen beauty in her reflection. She could recognise that she had all the requirements in place to look well on photographs: hazel eyes (two of) perfectly symmetrical, thick dark lashes, straight nose with a slight tilt at the end, full lips (also two of), bottom one fuller than the top. High cheekbones, golden hair that streak-lightened naturally as soon as the sun found it. She was above average height, willowy with gentle curves; her legs were long, her skin a shade or two darker than her parental genes dictated. She was a possible throwback to an Italian great-grandparent on her father’s side that no one spoke of, because it was an extra-marital scandal. All the other Calladines were pale bordering on pasty, with light-brown hair and a no stand-out shade of blue-grey eyes. Yet all the most attractive people Sophie had seen had more imperfect features, their personalities adding more to their auras than a straight nose ever could. Sophie saw bland when she looked in the mirror.

  Her attention was drawn from this reverie seeing John’s brother Edward working his way across the room to them, a woman in tow behind him that was not his fiancée Davina. Sophie was linking John’s arm at this point and felt a muscle in it spasm slightly as Edward entered their circle.

  ‘Hello, all,’ he said, shaking hands, smiling broadly, sparking a round of kisses. The woman stood behind him, wearing a smile that didn’t slip. She had a headful of wild fire-red curls and huge brown eyes shown off to their best with expertly applied smoky eyeshadow. Her mouth was a scarlet slash, the same colour as the dress she wore. A look-at-me colour, at odds with the understated style that still managed to accentuate her shapely figure. Just a hint of cleavage showing, delicate silver necklace at her throat, small silver studs in her ears.

  That feeling visited Sophie again, the image of herself resting on a quiet web but on her radar, a disturbance, a tweak to her silken threads sending a tingling feeling to her extremities. A line from Macbeth floated past her . . . By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes. This woman had dressed very carefully: the most unshowy showy gown possible, her ensemble a perfect balance of modesty and swank. Very clever. A statement. Edward looked understandably pleased to be escorting her, which was no surprise considering Davina acted like a burst cold tap on everyone’s mood. Still, she hoped that Edward wasn’t doing the dirty on her. She didn’t deserve that. No one did.

  ‘Mrs Mayhew, how delightful to meet you at last,’ said the woman, smile still held, hand extended.

  Sophie’s hand stretched forward to meet it, hoping for some sort of introduction, which she presumed Edward would supply.

  ‘Ah, Rebecca, glad you could make it,’ said John. ‘Sophie, this is Rebecca, the newest member of our staff.’ He didn’t miss a beat before saying to Rebecca, ‘I didn’t know you had a ticket.’ The statement had a flick at the end, turning it into a question and Sophie picked up the hint of something reproachful.

  ‘Edward’s plus one let him down at the last minute so I stepped into the breach.’

  ‘Davina and a woman’s thing,’ said Edward, pulling a face. ‘Didn’t ask any questions.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Rebecca. Beautiful dress.’

  ‘Thank you. I bought it ages ago for another function. Didn’t have time to go shopping for a new one,’ replied Rebecca, with a click of her tongue.

  Oh but that is a new dress, thought Sophie. An expensive new dress bought for this evening, perchance, she recognised it as part of a very current collection. Sophie’s interest was piqued by this colourful creature in their midst and the game she was playing.

  Sophie had been fascinated by psychology all of her life, the hidden language that bodies gave up. This woman had dressed to impress tonight. But an individual rath
er than a group, she considered, catching a glimpse of those very glamorous fuck-me shoes. Someone that she hoped to lure back after the evening maybe? The jewellery chosen to give out a message also, subtle and non-competitive. To throw a woman off the scent?

  ‘And how long have you been working for Sophie’s husband,’ Elise asked her, choosing the possessive phrasing as carefully as Rebecca had chosen her dress, Sophie thought.

  ‘A couple of months or thereabouts,’ answered Rebecca. Her smile hadn’t dropped yet, it appeared to be super-glued on.

  That was longer than John had said. Strange then how he hadn’t mentioned her, thought Sophie. She’d known about the male staff he’d employed, but not Rebecca.

  ‘I hope my husband isn’t being too much of a demanding monster,’ said Sophie, mirroring that smile. She had a flashback to a lesson she’d had at St Bathsheba’s which taught them, basically, how to behave when threatened by a rival bitch on heat, although it wasn’t exactly called that but Confrontational Resilience. Not the case here though because she hadn’t worn those shoes for John. Edward maybe, who was much warmer and kinder and possibly vulnerable, considering the amount of pressure the dreadful Davina had put on him to get engaged recently.