‘I trust you greeted her lovingly, without reproach upon her return, hmm?’ said Len.
‘I did,’ John answered him, ‘even though I wanted to grab her by the fucking throat.’
Len bet he did. He knew that John had been boiling with rage ever since he found his wife had vanished from their house; John F. Mayhew reacted badly to not being in control. Luckily for him, men with psychopathic tendencies were expert at pretending, because they had to study human behaviour and ape it in order to blend in. Len had no doubt that he had played the considerate husband role to perfection since Sophie had returned to the fold, give or take actually apologising for his role in the drama. People were objects to John, blocks to be positioned where they served him best. It was a condition Len found fascinating and admired on an intellectual level but he wouldn’t have wanted not to feel a full spectrum of emotion himself.
‘Her cretinous parents nearly had her running off again. Bloody hell, I thought the Mayhews lacked feeling but the Calladines – they’d make Caligula look gushy. God forbid anything gets in the way of Angus’s future knighthood. One day I’ll inform Sophie how it was her mother’s idea to have her own daughter hauled off towards a waiting straitjacket.’
It might have been Alice Calladine’s suggestion that Sophie be hospitalised but John had leapt on it with zeal, Len thought, but he didn’t inflame the situation by mentioning it.
‘All that matters now is that Sophie feels valued and loved and safe and most importantly, unthreatened.’ They’d all had Sophie categorised as a pet mouse rather than a potential velociraptor. Len’s own possible inclusion on a future honours list depended on restoring John’s popularity levels too. He’d earned it more than John F.’s doddery old father-in-law.
‘So, the schedule. This week, of course, you and Sophie will be seen around London. Dinner, theatre, ease yourself back into the public domain as a couple, a show of strength. When Sophie is ready – let’s not push her and risk another meltdown – My Home, Your Home will feature the exclusive. You and Sophie photographed in Park Court: domestic scenes, particularly the kitchen, eating together, cooking together. I want a few shots of you relaxed watching TV, and in the bedroom, Sophie fastening your tie for you whilst you hold your briefcase; putting her earrings on at the dressing table, you standing over her fondly smiling. A nice mix of business and pleasure.’
‘Doable,’ mused John.
‘My Home, Your Home are tame, we will retain full editorial control of course. You need Sophie to open up about your son. Have you discussed Rebecca Robinson with her yet and if so, what was the outcome?’
John grimaced at the prospect. ‘No. I wanted to hear from you what I should say for the best.’
Len gave a small laugh. He certainly couldn’t coach John F. Mayhew in shelving blame. He should have held masterclasses.
‘My suggestion is the sooner you approach the subject the better, John. Say what you have to in order to get back on track. This is perfectly recoverable. Sophie may even have done you a favour. Voters do like to see a little human frailty. If a poppy grows too tall, they will cut it down. Then, when it’s looking all pitiable and broken, they’ll try to regrow it.’
Professionally, Len Spinks was congratulating himself in anticipation of what would surely be a coup de maître in PR, but in his heart – and Len Spinks did have one away from the job – he was thinking: Poor Sophie.
Chapter 47
When Sophie got back from her lunch with Elise, she set up a Facebook account in the name of Pom Calladine and searched for the Ackroyds in Australia. Her best bet was Charlie, as Tina could have married and changed her surname, but there were quite a few Charlie Ackroyds on the site. She checked them all and found four in Australia who were male. She wrote them each a private message:
Hi, I’m trying to contact Tina Ackroyd who lived in Briswith and will be 31 now. She had a twin brother called Charlie and her mum was a cook at St Bathsheba’s school. I spent the summer with them 18 years ago and I’d love to trace them. Best wishes, ‘Pom’.
She sent the message and immediately regretted it. What was the point of keeping Pom alive and kicking? Pom had no place in the world to which she had returned. At best Charlie or Tina would reply, there would be a couple of ‘how are you’ emails pinged between them and then contact would cease again. It would only complicate things in the long run. The past was gone, she should let it lie.
But still, with any time at all to think, her mind strayed to Little Loste. As she packed a jade-green silk blouse into her suitcase for her forthcoming London trip, she wondered how excited Jade would be now in the build-up to her prom on Friday, and if she would feel like Beyoncé in her beautiful dress and designer shoes. And she wondered how Elliott was, if he was attempting to rebuild his family as she must attempt to rebuild hers.
She and John were going to spend a few days in London together so she could introduce herself back into the social whirl: lunch, theatre, dinner, sending out a clear message that she was restored to health and standing behind her husband one hundred per cent. She was dreading it.
The sound of the doorbell disturbed her thoughts and she hoped that her caller was no one related to her by either blood or marriage. She walked down the stairs to find that Margaret had let in the only exception to that hope – a beaming Edward.
‘Sophie, I am so glad to see you back safe and sound,’ he said, bounding over, enclosing her in a very un-Mayhew-like hug. ‘Are you all right? Have people been kind to you? I was passing on my way to an appointment and I had to call in.’
‘Yes, I’m all right,’ she answered. ‘Can you stay for a coffee?’
‘Of course I can,’ he said.
‘Come through.’
He followed her into the kitchen and threw himself down on a chair. He looked smilier than she could ever remember him being, like a man in tune with himself.
‘It’s so wonderful to see you again, Sophie. Are you alone in the house?’
‘Apart from Margaret.’
‘John’s gone to London?’ he asked, puzzled.
‘He had an early meeting, I’m going to join him.’
He made a breathy sound of relief. ‘Ah, I see. Good. I had to risk that he’d be here with you when I knocked on the door. I’m not exactly flavour of the month with the family.’ He made a face. ‘Did you hear?’
‘That you have a new occupation? Yes, I heard. How’s it going?’
‘Bloody brilliant. I’ve found my niche. Of course I’ve been building up the business for a year on the side, splitting myself in half, but it’s been worth it. I was aiming for the mid-price market but after an old contact of mine who now works for a Saudi prince asked if I’d handle a top lot, I’ve been inundated with those.’
‘So you won’t miss life in governmental chambers then?’ She asked it, but she already knew what his answer would be.
‘Absolutely not. I’ve bought myself a new pied à terre in London. Bachelor pad.’ He puffed out his cheeks. ‘I expect you’ve heard about my change in relationship status too.’
‘I’m so sorry to hear you’d split up with Davina.’ Sophie brought the coffees over to the kitchen table.
‘Don’t be. I feel as if I’ve been let out of jail.’
Sophie gave a soft chuckle. ‘For the record, I never thought you were a match.’
‘I’m better at matching people to houses than I obviously am to other people, including myself.’ He slurped his drink and she smiled. He was so very un-Mayhew.
‘Was she terribly upset?’
‘I expect she was over me by the time I’d reached the front door.’
‘Find someone who makes you laugh next time,’ said Sophie. ‘Someone who you enjoy being with and coming home to. With no elbows.’
Edward guffawed. He had a deep, genuine laugh that came right from his belly, like a posh, slim, balding Father Christmas. ‘Will do. But for now, I’ll enjoy my freedom. So what’s on the agenda for you now? I suppose you’ll h
ave a lot lined up, won’t you? I expect Len will be on a PR offensive. Piece of advice, Sophie, you take things at your own pace, not theirs. You’ve been through a lot. I hope John’s bloody well made it up to you.’
She didn’t answer. She wouldn’t lie to Edward.
They passed the length of time it took to drink their mugs of coffee talking about the Mayhew clan blacklisting him. ‘I don’t believe I ever fitted in with them, Sophie. My own family, isn’t that strange?’
‘More common than you think,’ replied Sophie pointing at herself.
‘Yes, you too, you’re right. We stand out like sore thumbs, don’t we? I think we’d have made a much better pairing. Two black sheep standing in the same field, we’d have been good company for each other.’
Sophie nodded. ‘We would.’ She’d always known her brother-in-law was a little in love with her. His choice of women were all of a similar physical mould to her: long caramel hair, slim, over-composed. She hoped the next one would be very different.
Edward gave Sophie a lift to the train station. After he had wheeled her case to the barrier for her, he pulled a few business cards out of his shirt pocket to give to her.
‘Forwarding Address, estate agency, that’s me. If any of your friends are selling their properties or buying, tell them to give me a call. I’m very good at what I do.’ He gave her a hug and held on to her as if he wanted to transmit something through the embrace that might relieve him of saying the actual words. Then he decided that she should have those words; he needed her to hear them. He took a deep bolstering breath before he spoke.
‘I owe you an apology, Sophie. That day when we were all gathered in the hallway about to face the press, no one asked if you were all right. Everyone was buzzing around John like bees around the proverbial honey pot and when I thought about it all afterwards, I was ashamed. I was ashamed that I didn’t stand with you. I should have been there for you.’
‘No, Edward, you shouldn’t have. John should.’
‘Don’t settle for anything less than you deserve, my dear Sophie,’ he said.
She waved him off, then looked at the cards in her hand and for a moment it was as if a highlighter pen had swept over the two words: Forwarding Address. Most odd.
Chapter 48
The Mayhews’ London flat was small but incredibly chic with a fabulous view over the Thames. Sophie had always liked this place, although it had never quite felt the same after Crying-girl had barged into it and dumped the key. That incident had tarnished it indelibly with a memory she had tried to sponge away, but vestiges of it remained like the faintest pink bloom of wine on a white dress – almost but not quite gone.
She unpacked her suitcase, made herself a coffee and went out onto the veranda with it. The panorama never became any less impressive; London was equally beautiful during the busy day as it was at night with all its Christmas-like coloured lighting. Whenever she had been here before, she could sit for ages just watching London life happen; she adored its energy. So why now, if she could have snapped her fingers and teleported to another place, would she have done so in an instant: to the view of a quiet Yorkshire beach where the sea rocked backwards and forwards contentedly under a vast moody roof of sky.
She needed to rally, as her mother said, move on. No good ever came of something that had been cast into a mould and then tried to change its shape when set. It warped at best; shattered at worst.
When John came home, they ate a simple pasta meal that Sophie had prepared for them. Then John opened a bottle of wine and they sat on the sofa. It wasn’t big or squashy with black kitten hair on it. It was stylish and terribly expensive and uncomfortable as hell. But they were together, in the intimate scenario she had wanted for them. Except that they weren’t about to cosy up and watch a film.
‘I suppose we should talk, if you’re ready,’ he said. ‘About why it happened. Blast it open. Get everything out there so we can draw a line in the sand.’
‘I suppose we should,’ replied Sophie.
‘Sounds a cliché but I . . . I didn’t feel loved. And in no way am I blaming you for this’ – his open palms in remonstrative pose – ‘but somehow, we lost us along the way, didn’t we? And I want us back so much, Sophie. We are a team, a brilliant team.’
She nodded, smiled encouragingly, but felt nothing. She presumed she was numbed by the events of the past month, the equivalent of novocaine in a dental surgery. It wore off, allowing one to feel again, eventually. Given time.
‘Why her?’ she asked her husband.
‘Because she was there. There was nothing special about her, Sophie. There were a lot of lies in the press. It only happened a few times, I swear to you, and I didn’t know about the pregnancy, whatever she says. I don’t even believe it. I think her PR lot knew that would really hit home and make the story even bigger than it was.’
‘Did you love her, John?’
‘God, no. It wasn’t about love, it was something primal and idiotic.’ He committed primal to a memory chip, it was definitely the word to use in an interview. It almost removed the element of choice. He reached for her hand. ‘One thing I did realise whilst you were away . . . I thought . . . thought maybe we could think about adopting.’
He watched her reaction and he knew that she was hooked, lined and sinkered.
‘Adopting?’ Her voice barely audible.
‘I resisted the idea for stupid reasons, Sophie. I love you and I want to have a family with you.’
‘Really, John? Is that what you truly want?’
‘Truly it is.’
She looked into his eyes and there was no hint of a lie there.
He went on. ‘This whole episode has taught me a lesson about what is important, Sophie. And it’s family, it’s you and me and the job comes second, not first.’
Her head was whirling. Her own baby, because it would be her own if they adopted. It didn’t matter that someone else had given birth to the child, it would be she who picked a son up when he fell, or read to a daughter before she went to sleep. Scary Edwin Page. A child would breathe life into Park Court, and into her.
She glanced over at John to find him smiling and she felt a glimmer of a flame in her heart.
‘John, one more thing. I need to know. Have there been any more women, any more indiscretions? Ever? Tell me now because I need to know if we are to move on from this. Just tell me the truth, it has to be the truth.’
‘I swear to you, no.’
‘Swear on Henry’s memory.’
‘I swear on Henry’s memory.’
She looked into his eyes and there was no hint of a lie there.
Chapter 49
The day after, she walked into the Palace of Westminster having arranged to meet John in the Strangers’ bar. She bought herself a small red wine and picked a corner table at which to wait, aware of eyes everywhere, nudges, gasps, and some smiles too cast in her direction. She felt the nip and bite of words uttered in quiet gossip but remained composed and cool as always. Sophie Mayhew was back on the scene.
She was early so she took a book out of her bag, made herself look unavailable for chat. Whatever Elliott might have said about Pom being approachable did not apply to Sophie Mayhew, with her impenetrable and alienating air which, today, she was more than glad she had. She’d read five pages when someone sat in the chair opposite bringing with her a pulse of floral perfume. Sophie raised her eyes ready to combat any Dena Stockdale-style rounded vowels of disingenuity. ‘I’d just like to say I was so sorry to hear . . .’
‘I thought it was you. I’ve hoped to bump into you so many times burra never ’av. I made up my mind that if I got the chance, I’d bite the bullet and say hello.’ A wonderful Scouse accent that stripped back the years. In front of Sophie sat the mighty oak of a figure she had never associated with the little acorn she had known so well. ‘I’m Lena Sowerby. We went to school together forra bit. I was Magdalena Oakes then.’
She held out her hand, which Sophie ignored.
‘Magda!’ she shrieked instead, rising from her chair and throwing her arms around the chic, elegant woman. That would set tongues wagging. Let them, she thought. ‘Oh my goodness, I can’t believe it.’
‘I’ve never dared to talk to ya in case you told me to piss off,’ said Magda, holding her old friend as tightly.
‘You should have. Oh, you really should.’
‘I was only ever called Magda at that bloody school and I didn’t want to ever be her again. What a difference a name makes.’
Sophie knew that for sure. ‘You look amazing.’
‘I’m a bit different to what I used to be, aren’t I?’ Magda grinned. ‘My eyebrows were like two morbidly obese slugs until you got hold of ’em.’
Sophie grinned back.
‘If it hadn’t been for you, I’d still be shovelling on the blue eyeshadow like they did in Abba. Okay to sit here? I presume you’re waitin’ for John so I’ll shoot off as soon as I see him.’
She sounded like Magda but looked nothing like her. It was beyond odd.
‘It’s so good to see you, Magda.’
‘And you. Well, properly, because I’ve seen you loads of times from a distance.’
‘Maybe if I’d known Lena Sowerby went to St Bathsheba’s it might have set me thinking.’
‘You are jokin’ aren’t ya? Do you think I’d ever admit I went to that educational abomination? How the hell it existed in this day and age I have no idea. It was like something out of a Hammer horror film, wasn’t it? Miss Egerton and that bloody cane.’ She laughed, a tinkling Magda laugh, a sound that made Sophie’s heart soar.
The Magnificent Mrs Mayhew Page 31