The Magnificent Mrs Mayhew

by Milly Johnson

  She was writing a list of what she needed to buy on her next trip to Slattercove when there was a text from Elise.

  Need to talk to you urgently. When’s best to ring?

  Now? Sophie replied.

  The phone rang immediately.

  ‘Sophie, how are you?’ A voice full of rounded vowels, a voice from a distant world.

  ‘Good. I’m good.’

  ‘Marvellous. Now, I wasn’t sure if I should tell you this but I’m going to anyway. I’ve just had lunch with Dena Stockdale. You were the main topic of conversation of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ echoed Sophie.

  ‘Anyway, the wine flowed and Dena entrusted me with a little drunken confession, trying to impress, I suspect. Turns out that she once had a knee-trembler in the House of Commons. Une liaison dangereuse, in Emily Davison’s broom cupboard, of all places.’

  Elise let that sink in, leaving a pause that was pregnant with octuplets. Sophie waited for her to continue and then laughed when she didn’t.

  ‘You really aren’t suggesting she had this with John are you?’

  ‘We were discussing how much of the allegations of Rebecca Robinson were likely to be true and I asked why John should even think of being unfaithful to you and she replied that he had form. Apologies for not sugar-coating this, Sophie, but Willy Wonka I am not.’

  She was right about that at least, thought Sophie. ‘Dena Stockdale? John despises the woman.’ Okay, so that was indiscreet but she was allowed a day off.

  ‘My dear girl, I wasn’t inferring a Dena and John coupling, not even he would be that stupid. But I did feel duty-bound to ask what “form” meant. Dena refused to expand on it.’

  ‘I have no idea,’ replied Sophie, but it could only mean that Dena had somehow heard about Crying-girl – Malandra Moxon. There had to have been rumours about her circulating, even if they had been quashed like a resting fly with a rolled-up newspaper. And as Chief Whip, Christopher Stockdale would have been party to even the barest whiff of scandal. John really did seem to have a thing about becoming entangled with women with alliterative names, which was another reason why Dena Stockdale was probably safe. Eileen Eveleigh ought to watch out though.

  Sophie was vexed that Dena was acting like a gossipy tabloid. It was one thing divulging her own indiscretions, but to jump on the let’s kick the Mayhews in the bollocks whilst they’re down bandwagon was bad form.

  ‘Elise, whoever Dena had her liaison with, I can assure you it wasn’t John.’ Sophie was adamant about that.

  ‘Ah, I did wonder if she was telling the truth. It did cross my mind she was trying to insinuate a desirability,’ sighed Elise, disappointedly. ‘I mean she’s hardly Uma Thurman. Then again, a man’s penis is blind. A creature with one eye and a single basic need which it continually seeks to satisfy. Two if you count urination, I suppose.’

  No one could criticise Elise for being short on detail.

  ‘Obviously I swore to her that I would not tell a soul. I did not swear on Monty’s life before you ask, only Gerald’s. I do hope it all swims to light if it’s true. Christopher is a thoroughly decent man, if hardline. John has certainly had a slaughtering in his office, according to Gerald.’

  John would not have liked that. He considered Christopher his inferior in every way possible.

  Elise carried on in full flow. ‘We were also speculating on your whereabouts because there’s been a leak that you are not ill in the family home at all. John apparently has sacked your housekeeper for gross misconduct, blaming that rumour on her.’

  ‘Margaret? Margaret’s worked for the family for years. She’s as trustworthy as they come.’ Sophie blew out two lungfuls of exasperation.

  ‘Yes well, that’s rather backfired because her loyalty has been kicked in the face, so newspapers are chasing her to sell her story about life in the Mayhew inner camp. The premier cru of backstairs gossip will be unleashed unless Len Spinks can put a stop to it, but she is by all accounts very, very cross.’

  ‘Oh, the stupid man,’ huffed Sophie. ‘I can’t say I blame her. She must be so terribly hurt.’ Margaret had witnessed John speaking to his wife as if he had just wiped her off his shoe on quite a few occasions. He would not want his housekeeper’s jaw to wag.

  ‘I don’t know if you are reading the papers but Rebecca Robinson is haemorrhaging public sympathy. Once you persist in kicking a horse after it’s dead, one’s appetite for viewing wanes considerably; it all becomes rather boring and distasteful. Have you made your point now, darling? Are you going to come home?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Sophie defiantly.

  ‘Come home now,’ said Elise. ‘Come back to what you know and rebuild. John has been an idiot, but it can strengthen a marriage, make you realise what you were in danger of losing – trust me, I do know – and I think that John has learned his lesson. If you rescue him from this, he will worship the ground you walk upon for the rest of your life. Demand anything and you shall have it. That’s certainly what Gerald thinks, and he is wise. If he had been blessed with a Mayhew face, we would have had our stint in number ten. It won’t happen, but I would rather like you to have it.’

  ‘I’ll think about it, Elise,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Playing devil’s advocate, Sophie, I do have to ask if any side is entirely blameless when an affair happens. Think on that. Even when Gerald had his momentary madness with Sheila Crabtree, it did make me realise that our marriage had drifted off course without us realising it. We had to readjust our sextant. Maybe it was a cri du coeur from John?’

  Sophie clicked the phone off. That conversation had given her too much to think about. The mere suggestion that John and Dena had . . . no, impossible. Then again, is that why she’d smirked so much that last time, when Sophie had seen her at the Charity Ball? Sophie tried to remember that comment Dena had made about men liking different cuts of meat. Was she comparing herself to a tenderloin there? Or brisket? She tried to picture John and Dena having une liaison pornographique in Emily Davison’s broom cupboard – but that really was stretching her imagination way too far. It had been too easy to picture John and Rebecca the Red though. Was it a cry from John’s heart as Elise had suggested? An attention-seeking exercise par excellence? Had she fallen short on supporting him, loving him? Had she missed signs that their marriage was veering off track and, in doing so, had played a part in what had happened?

  *

  Over in his Westminster office, John was pacing about the room in a state of high agitation whilst Len Spinks was leaning back in the captain’s chair at John’s desk, hands steepled, supercilious grin fixed firmly in place.

  ‘Relax, John. We are over the worst of the storm. Tides have a tendency to turn and whirlpools calm to wimpy little swells. Your ship has negotiated the roughest waters now and is heading for calmer seas. How was your meeting with Christopher Stockdale?’

  ‘Vile,’ snarled John. ‘He drowned me. Told me to get my house in order, which is ironic.’

  ‘Ironic how, hmm?’ asked Len, nose lifted to a possible scent of scandal.

  John shook his head as if momentarily annoyed with himself for mentioning it. ‘I heard a story in Strangers’ bar about his wife and her propensity to keep her ankles warm with her knickers.’

  ‘Really?’ Len’s interest was piqued. ‘Well, those rumours have certainly bypassed my finely tuned receptors. How odd.’

  ‘Talking of which, what are you doing about the rumours that I’ve killed my bloody wife? I can’t believe that stupid cow of a housekeeper blabbed to someone in confidence that Sophie was not recuperating in bed and her family are all running around like headless chickens wondering where the fuck she is.’

  ‘No one thinks you’ve murdered Sophie,’ Len answered impatiently. ‘Rumours without substantiation are easy to deal with but you flew off the handle, John. You shouldn’t have sacked her, because that has given a weight to her words that they didn’t have before. Now . . .’ he reached down, opened up his briefca
se, took out an envelope. ‘I have negotiated a sweetener for Margaret. Total reinstatement—’

  ‘No chance, Len. Not a fucking chance.’ John crashed his fist into the top of his desk.

  Len’s smile stayed in place. ‘I’m afraid you have little choice, John. Not unless you want this pitiful saga to carry on ad infinitum. Margaret Reynolds will be reinstated and compensated for hurt feelings. And she’ll receive a pay rise and a week’s paid holiday. This was all a terrible misunderstanding brought about by a very, very stressful situation. Margaret of course was quite right in that Mrs Mayhew is not in the house. She is in a secret location having the best of care. It’s perfectly understandable that you avoided reportage saying as much, seeing as the press have a tendency to hunt and find and Sophie’s recuperation is paramount. Margaret Reynolds has not done any harm at all; in fact if anything it makes you look even more considerate.’

  ‘If Sophie doesn’t come back, I’m going to end up being investigated for a crime,’ John growled between his teeth like a mad ventriloquist’s dummy. ‘She can’t have disappeared into thin air. Someone must have seen her. She must have told somebody where she’s gone?’

  In the corner, making coffee, Edward huffed. ‘Like who? Those maggoty siblings of hers? Her loving family?’

  John and Len swung their heads round to him. They’d forgotten he was even there.

  ‘What?’ said Edward, answering their look. ‘I’m not saying anything that isn’t true. There’s no love lost between them is there? It’s like the ugly sisters and Cinderella setup. Sophie – the only one of them all who has any human qualities – is treated the worst. How the bloody hell she grew up to be so . . . so superlative, I will never know.’

  ‘Bit like us. isn’t it,’ said John, narrowing his eyes. ‘The eldest couldn’t quite make the grade so the youngest had to. Face it, you’re just the first draft, Edward.’

  Edward took a step towards him, fist bunched. John didn’t flinch but laughed.

  ‘Oh, come on, big brother, really? Okay – do your worst if you must.’

  ‘This truly isn’t helping the situation, is it?’ said Len, pressing his hands down on the air as if the gesture would relieve the room of tension. ‘We need to find Sophie. We need to winkle her out, bring her home. And you, John, have to practise some humility.’

  Edward snorted. Len ignored him and carried on.

  ‘I think a bouquet of flowers to Margaret in the first instance.’

  ‘What about a statement to the papers, my side of the story?’ asked John. ‘What’s the hold-up on that?’

  ‘Rebecca Robinson is becoming a bore,’ said Len. ‘She’s also contradicting herself quite a lot. Best to let her petrol run out and then we can blast everything out of the water with one definitive explosive interview, with your wife at your side looking fragile, beautiful and fully reinstated to the team. You need Sophie. The Magnificent Mrs Mayhew.’

  ‘Just make this go away, Len. Whatever you have to do, whoever you have to pay.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Len, his voice caramel smooth. ‘Rebecca might be proving a little more difficult than Malandra Moxon, but we will get there in the end. Trust me.’

  Chapter 31

  The next morning Sophie washed her clothes in the sink and hung them on the line to dry whilst she walked down the hill to buy some bread and milk. Three people said good morning to her and in Loste Things, the shopkeeper once again gave her a free breadcake. She protested, feeling guilty because she was a rich fraud, but he told her that she’d insult him if she didn’t take it and, as she could hardly tell him why she was resisting so much, she accepted his kindness and thanked him.

  She had lunch sitting in the garden on a deckchair that she’d found in the shed. After a scrub it was perfectly usable. She made herself a cheese sandwich and read one of the Mills and Boon books. This one featured a dark-haired hunk with very blue eyes. He was a doctor, but annoyingly he kept appearing in her imagination wearing a clerical collar and with featured sunray pleats at the corners of his eyes. As he kissed the heroine in the book, Sophie let herself wonder what Elliott Bellringer’s lips would feel like pressed against her own, how he would hold a woman, what he would look like naked.

  As Sophie climbed out of the bath that night there was a knock on the door. She slipped on her robe, peeped through the curtains and saw Elliott. She held up her hand to indicate that she’d be a minute, then threw on some underwear, jeans and a top.

  She hadn’t noticed that Luke was with his father until she opened the door. He had his Thomas the Tank Engine dressing gown on and matching slippers.

  ‘I am so sorry to trouble you, Pom, but could I ask you the biggest favour. I have an emergency. Talking someone down off a ledge. Is there any chance at all that you could look after Luke for an hour. If you can’t I’ll take him to the pub but there’s a party on and—’

  ‘No worries. I’ll walk back with you,’ said Sophie, interrupting Elliott’s flow.

  ‘You’ve obviously just got out of the bath.’

  ‘It’s fine, so long as the sight of me with no make-up on and wet hair doesn’t scare you.’

  ‘Not at all, you look . . .’ He stopped himself and Sophie didn’t get to find out what word he would have used, but she felt herself blushing slightly because she knew it would have been something charming, complimentary, something straight from his heart.

  She locked up behind her and as soon as she started to walk towards the vicarage with them, Luke reached for her hand. The effect of that small action was ridiculous, totally out of proportion. He felt so little, so precious. She’d wondered before what it would have been like to hold her baby boy’s hand as they walked along. She’d imagined him reaching for her, his protector – Mummy’s hand. Her son would have been four now, the same age as Luke. This is what it would have felt like to hold his hand. She didn’t want to let go.

  ‘Luke’s ready for bed now. In fact he’s late and I’m hoping he won’t be fractious.’

  ‘I’ll settle him with a story, how’s that?’ said Sophie.

  ‘Yaaayyy,’ cheered Luke.

  ‘I’m sorry, I have no idea how long I’ll be.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Be as long as it takes.’

  Elliott pushed open the vicarage door. ‘Raid the fridge and cupboards. Watch TV, make yourself at home.’

  ‘It’s fine. Just go.’

  ‘The kitten might plop.’

  ‘I’ll clean it up. Go.’

  Elliott leaned down, kissed Luke on the head. ‘Be good for Pom. Sleep after one story – that’s one, Master Bellringer. Thank you again, Pom.’

  Elliott darted to his car, Sophie closed the door on him, turned to Luke. ‘Okay, show me to your bedroom.’

  ‘Can I kiss Plum goodnight first?’

  Plum was in the kitchen doing a huge poo in his litter tray and the smell took over the whole room. Sophie and Luke held their noses and giggled.

  ‘How can one small cat make a pong like that?’ asked Sophie, scooping it up as Luke picked up his kitten very gently and kissed him.

  ‘Daddy flushes the poop down the toilet,’ said Luke, putting Plum back in his bed and showing Sophie the way to the downstairs loo. That duty done, they went upstairs and along the landing to the end. Luke’s bedroom was a proper little boy cave, with a train-shaped tent in the corner, shelves full of toys and boxed games, Thomas the Tank Engine wallpaper, quilt cover and a wardrobe that looked like the front of a train. There were stars stuck on the ceiling that glowed with a soft light in the semi-dark. A bedside lamp at the side of Luke’s single bed was also in the shape of a train.

  ‘I’m seeing a theme here, Luke,’ said Sophie. ‘I’m guessing that trains are a thing.’

  ‘That’s Thomas,’ said Luke, pointing to his quilt.

  ‘Is he your favourite?’

  Luke nodded. ‘I like Percy second.’

  ‘He’s the green one, isn’t he?’ Sophie knew because she’d bought a book. For Henry. A
lift-the-flap book. She knew at thirteen weeks that it was far too early to start buying things but it made it all seem real. She had no idea what had happened to it. She vaguely remembered stuffing clothes and baby toiletries into a bin liner when she came home from the hospital, dismantling the part-finished nursery, ripping up the carpet like a mad thing.

  ‘Come on then, in you get.’ She helped Luke take off his robe, then he climbed into bed. He passed her the book that was on his bedside cabinet: Scary Edwin Page. Sophie flicked through it warily. It was about the scariest kid in the world. ‘Won’t this give you nightmares?’ she asked.

  ‘He’s not real,’ whispered Luke, which made Sophie chuckle.

  ‘Okay then, here we go. Are you sitting comfortably?’

  Luke was as wide awake at the end of the story as he was at the beginning. But one story was all his father had allowed and Sophie didn’t want to deviate from the instruction.

  ‘That’s it. Time to sleep,’ she said, expecting a protestation, but none came. ‘Do I leave your bedside light on?’ she asked.

  ‘If you do this, it goes off by itself in a bit,’ said Luke, reaching over and pressing a button on its base.

  ‘Right. So, goodnight then.’ Sophie stood.

  ‘Kiss goodnight, Pom.’

  Sophie leaned over, kissed his cheek, inhaled that little boy smell of minty toothpaste and post-bath talc. His arms came around her neck just as she was about to pull away and hers wrapped around his body. He felt so sweet and small and she felt her breath catch in her throat.

  ‘’Night, Pom.’ He shuffled down the bed and she tucked the quilt around him, wanting him to be toasty warm.

  ‘Goodnight, darling.’ Under her breath she added, bonne nuit, dors bien, fais de beaux rêves.

  She shut the bedroom door, eyes clouding. She had wanted to be a mother so much. She had shut those feelings away into a trunk, but the merest scent of Johnson’s baby powder had threatened to break the lock.