The Magnificent Mrs Mayhew

by Milly Johnson

  Sophie knew exactly where Mary M. was coming from.

  The chapel began filling up. Magda and her husband walked past them and sat on a pew at the other side. He looked a nice man: very tall, solidly built, salt-and-pepper curly hair. Sophie noticed how he took her hand when they sat down, cradled it, and she tried to remember the last time that John had taken hers, but couldn’t. The sense of unease she always felt at being in church revisited her; she half expected a figure from the wall to swivel his arm around to her and point her out as a heretic. She hadn’t always been, she would have replied. But sometimes it was easier to hate than to love.

  Sophie’s eyes settled on the window again and she remembered the rolled-away stone that Luke had made in Sunday School. She suppressed a small giggle thinking of Tracey’s incredulous expression on seeing it. And the pipe-cleaner lion with no head. Let’s call him Salvador.

  The pew behind them filled up, a drift of aftershave filtered forwards. It must have been the same one that Elliott used because her body responded to it: something sighed deep within her, something happy and sad at the same time.

  The chapel was heaving at the gills by now and just before the guests impatiently started exchanging glances or checking their watches, the organ muzak gave way to the staccato opening bars of the Wedding March. A tiny flower-girl scattering petals preceded the bride and her father, bridesmaids and pageboys followed behind. The vicar in sumptuous robes began his address.

  ‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness the union of Vanya and Paul in holy matrimony . . .’

  Sophie thought back to her own wedding which had been hijacked by her mother and Celeste. She’d battled to have any say in the arrangements but it had been such hard work and so unpleasant that, in the end, she’d given up and let them get on with it. Her day had been outwardly perfect but it hadn’t been the one she had pictured in her imagination. She had wanted to make her own wedding dress which obviously hadn’t been allowed to happen. The gown she had picked had been expensive and showy as befits the bride of a political Titan-in-the-making, but she didn’t feel half as much of a princess as she would have in the one she had designed for herself.

  ‘Do you Vanya take Paul . . .’

  Vanya was looking at Paul with eyes full of love. Had she looked at John like that at the altar? Did Vanya, behind her smiles, have alarm bells ringing that she really should have waited longer, made sure, not been seduced by the flamboyant proposal in the middle of a family gathering where the cheering began before she had even said ‘yes’?

  Paul mispronounced Vanya’s middle name and the congregation chuckled; jollity warmed the chapel by degrees. Sophie remembered standing at the altar trying to stop her teeth from chattering, not just from the chill of the abbey or nerves but the atmosphere had been so austere and sombre, a vacuum of seriousness as if it were a business arrangement instead of a happy celebratory occasion.

  ‘I now pronounce you man and wife.’ A merry burst of applause, but Sophie’s thoughts had wandered from the nuptials taking place in front of her.

  She should have stood firm on so much. She had never quite rebelled enough in life. She might have kicked Irina Morozova into the pool and written an (accidentally) contentious piece about a biblical woman, but she’d hardly gone down in the annals of the school as being the Boudicca of St Bathsheba’s. Visions bombarded her of all the times she had ‘played the game’ when her heart was screaming at her to stand up and be counted. Rallying when she knew she was nowhere near ready to face the world after she had given birth, taking blame for John’s constitutional cock-ups in order to leave his reputation shiny-white, not digging deeper into Crying-girl’s story, absorbing all the snidey comments her sisters decided to throw at her, putting up with being invisible to her close and extended families . . . until they wanted to roll her out in front of a baying mob of press and decry her as the cause of her husband’s faithlessness. Even when she had broken ranks and run away, and found what was missing from her life – what had she gone and done then? She’d come back. I hope you are happier than you look, Magda had said to her. She wasn’t. She wasn’t happy at all. Let’s adopt, John had said. Two months later, he was avoiding any mention of that promise. Had she really expected anything less?

  Light streamed through the stained-glass window as if the volume on the sun had suddenly been turned up to max. Mary Magdalene’s smile seemed to widen as she beheld Jesus. Her friend. He would have made her hot chocolate and talked to her over a kitchen table, Sophie thought. This was love, whatever Miss Egerton argued, love born from respect and friendship, trust and tenderness – and it would have been enough to sustain them both.

  ‘I have found the one whom my soul loves.’ The priest’s voice broke into her reverie. ‘This, from the beautiful Song of Solomon. A man who understood the true meaning of love. His book is written from the point of view both of the woman and the man, and of the love held equally between them. Marriage is not a contract empty of affection but one of fond attachment as we see in friendship, but with that added sprinkle of romance and desire . . .’

  The priest could read her heart, Sophie thought.

  I have found the one whom my soul loves.

  Of course, that was it. That was why she hadn’t been able to fit back into her life with John F. Mayhew, because she had found the one whom her soul loved and he wasn’t her husband but a vicar with blue, blue eyes who lived with his son in a house by the Yorkshire sea.

  Those words were the key to a door that led to another life. Words from the Song of Solomon, the son of Bathsheba whose life continued to weave in and out of her own, influencing her destiny. Words from the Bible, the book of a God she had turned her back on four years ago.

  Chapter 52

  Sophie didn’t get to see Magda again at the wedding other than a discreet goodbye wave when they were booking out of the hotel the following morning, but it didn’t matter, she would see her soon without having to skulk around, she knew that. During the night, her head had been weaving words into a plan: Bathsheba, Yorkshire, love, happiness, prom gowns, Magda and Mary Magdalene, Edward and estate agencies, reaching for the stars articles, floating kidneys and forwarding addresses. Words that lay behind the door opened by that beautiful quote which had crashed into her heart, jolted it into action, made it realise what she had to do. Sophie needed to get home, and so when John suggested they set off at first light, she readily agreed. She was euphoric and terrified in equal measures. You can be brave and frightened, you know, as Tracey had said to her.

  As soon as John left for London on Monday, Sophie went into her sitting room, switched on her laptop, opened up a notepad, picked up her phone and engaged a solicitor and an accountant. Then she spent the rest of the day alternating between taking command of her life and falling to pieces. Doubts came often, firing into her head like poisoned arrows: You won’t be able to go through with this, Sophie. This is not how St Bathsheba girls act, Sophie. You have duties and responsibilities, Sophie. What the hell was she doing, dismantling everything she knew? She had no idea – but it still felt right so she kept on with it. She was looking at a different future to the one that had stretched before her only two days ago. This time she would not let bravery be eroded by fear.

  *

  The next day, whilst Len was planning a Christmas PR offensive featuring the long-awaited ‘At Home with the Mayhews’ article that he was sure he could get Sophie to agree to with some artful manipulation, Sophie was standing outside a primary school in Kent. It was the start of the new school year and uniforms were pristine, shoes were shiny. The smallest children were a mix of apprehension and excitement: she knew how they felt because she was full of both herself. She was certainly more of the former as she waited until everyone in the playground had funnelled through the school doors and they had shut behind the last of them. Today she would close her own door on something too. There was a matter she needed to clear up, so she would never wonder about it again, could sto
p it taking up space in her head which could be filled with thoughts of greater value.

  Malandra Anderson, Moxon as was, walked into the vacant classroom, registered who was waiting there for her and took a step backwards. ‘What the . . .’ She stopped short of what she had been about to say, though it was obvious it would have been an expletive.

  ‘Hello, Malandra. Do sit down.’

  ‘What are you doing here? They said you were from the Inland Revenue.’

  I lied,’ said Sophie, crossing her long, slim legs. ‘Please sit down. You once invaded my space without warning and so you will afford me the courtesy of letting me do the same to you.’

  Cautiously Malandra sat down on one of the small desks, a safe distance from Sophie.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked. Her neck was mottled red from an immediate eruption of unease.

  ‘I just want to ask you something. We didn’t really have a lot of time to speak when we last met,’ said Sophie, calm, her mien neutral, unreadable.

  ‘Look, why are you dredging this up now? It’s a long time ago and—’

  ‘Four years, four months and six days ago; trust me, I know exactly how long it is. That week is one I will never forget.’

  Malandra lowered her head as if it were weighted with shame. She knew what had happened to Sophie in that week and it had stayed with her ever since that she might be partly responsible for the tragedy that had befallen the woman now sitting in front of her. That was why she had bowed out at the first sign of pressure when Len Spinks had borne down on her like a psychotic eagle.

  ‘I want to ask you a couple of questions that I hope you will answer honestly and then you will never hear from me again, you have my word. What you tell me will remain between ourselves, but I have to know the truth.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’ll be able to,’ said Malandra, hiding her stress not too well.

  ‘I think you will. I think you may even feel better for it.’

  Malandra jerked nervously, as if it were the last movement allowed before she was forced into a straitjacket.

  ‘Firstly,’ began Sophie. ‘What you told me about having an affair with my husband, was it true?’

  ‘I can’t possibly say either—’

  ‘How much did he buy your silence for?’

  A pause, then Malandra gave a heavy sigh followed by a small, hard laugh. Sophie Mayhew was right about one thing, she would feel better for saying it aloud. This had been sitting inside her like a lump of lead for four long years. ‘Ten thousand. I had no choice but to take what he offered because I didn’t want to be blacklisted. Contrary to what he thought I’d do, I wouldn’t have gone to the press. I’m not like that. I do have some morals. . .’

  Her voice trailed off. It was rich really, purporting to be honourable to the wife she had wronged.

  ‘How many times did you sleep with my husband?’

  ‘I didn’t keep a tally. Quite a few.’

  ‘Did you ever sleep together in our London flat?’

  ‘Always in the London flat. I more or less lived there at one point. It was me that broke the clock in the kitchen. I was trying to straighten it and it fell off and smashed. I got another one to replace it. It wouldn’t hang properly so I attached a piece of string on the back to wrap around the nail and hold it in place.’

  Sophie had no doubt the detail would check out if she ever went back to the flat. John had told her the cleaner had knocked the clock off the wall whilst dusting it and he’d bought another.

  ‘Did you love him?’

  ‘Yes, very much, but I honestly wouldn’t have looked at him in that way had he not made the first move.’ She shook her head at her apparent weakness. ‘It sounds stupid I know but . . . but I couldn’t resist him. I felt . . .’ she studied, searching inside herself for the right word, found it: ‘consumed.’

  Sophie recalled John’s romantic assault on her when she had worked at Mint. The wildly expensive meals, the flowers, the jewellery, the eloquence dropping from his lips like warm Elvish honey. He had taken her breath away with his attentions, made her feel like the only woman in the world.

  ‘He made me feel like the only woman in the world,’ said Malandra, and Sophie knew she was telling her the truth.

  ‘Did he say that he loved you?’

  ‘Yes. I’m not sure I believed him but I wanted to.’

  ‘Did you ever talk about me?’

  ‘He spoke about what was wrong with his marriage and why he was looking outside it for . . .’

  ‘What did he say was wrong with it?’ Sophie fired the question at her like a bullet.

  ‘That there was no love between you. That he married you because you were the ideal partner on paper.’ Malandra apologised then. ‘I’m sorry if that hurts you, I’m trying to give you the truth.’

  ‘It’s fine. Did you know I was pregnant?’

  Malandra broke eye contact, she swallowed, tapped her fingers nervously on the desk before replying. ‘Not until I walked into the London flat and saw you. And I was totally thrown by it because John said he never wanted children.’

  Sophie saw a dark spot appear on Malandra’s skirt; she was crying.

  ‘I swear I had no idea. If I’d known, I would have resisted him. I’d have resigned, I’d have gone.’ She sniffed, dried her tears on the heel of her hand. ‘He never said.’

  It had been Sophie who insisted they keep the news of her pregnancy out of the public domain, until after the baby had been born. A superstition she’d thought would protect them from anything going wrong this time.

  ‘For the record,’ Malandra then continued, ‘it was me that finished it because I discovered he’d been seeing someone else. I had the cheek to feel aggrieved that he was being unfaithful to me. It made me realise what a ridiculous situation I was in, so I walked out. I threw some false threats at him about exposing him as an adulterer but it was just wounded bluster. I shouldn’t have, but we’re all a lot wiser in hindsight.’

  Malandra’s disclosure hit her like a blow from Miss Egerton’s cane. ‘Someone else? Who?’

  ‘I don’t want to say.’ There was a moment of internal struggle that showed on Malandra’s face and then she blurted out, ‘Oh, fuck it, the Chief Whip’s wife. That snotty Stockdale woman.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Shock gave way to a surprising emotion.

  ‘Why are you laughing?’ asked Malandra, viewing Sophie as if she was mad.

  Sophie stood. ‘Thank you for being so candid, Malandra, I appreciate it. I will keep to my word, you won’t hear from me again.’

  She strode out of the classroom, then out of the school and back to her car without looking behind her.

  Sophie’s brain was sparking with activity all through the drive home. Dena Stockdale, who would have thought? So it was true after all. Behind all those sweet and innocent let’s have lunches, Dena was secretly relishing getting one over on Mrs Mayhew. Sophie made a hands-free call to Elise.

  ‘Where would you usually choose in London as a suitable venue for a private gossipy lunch?’ she asked.

  ‘Raul Cruz’s place in St James’s is perfect and my personal favourite: Toro.’

  Bull. How fitting, thought Sophie. ‘Would you do me a favour and arrange a table for two?’

  ‘Absolutely. What day and time do you want to meet me there?’

  ‘I don’t,’ Sophie replied.

  *

  Two days later, Sophie sat in a quiet booth in Raul Cruz’s dimly lit restaurant waiting for her guest. It was decorated like a bordello with dark red walls and scarlet lighting which was appropriate, she thought. A little shiver of anticipation snaked down the middle of her back. She was owed this moment. It had come as an added bonus and slipped into her fast-forming plan like an unexpected windfall.

  She noticed the waiter leading over her lunch companion whose eager smile withered as soon as she spotted Sophie.

  ‘Dena, how good of you to come. Do sit down. I’m so looking forward to this.’


  ‘I . . . I thought . . . where’s Elise?’

  ‘Oh, last minute, she couldn’t make it. I figured it would be nice just for you and me to finally have that overdue lunch. And a lovely chat. About shoes.’

  Chapter 53

  Two weeks later

  Both sides of the clan always convened at Glebe Hall on the last Sunday in September to celebrate Clive’s and Angus’s birthdays, which were only two days apart. They were all looking forward to Christmas, this one sure to be a true celebration after such a turbulent few months. But the storm had been weathered and they were all set to sail into a calm new year, bolstered by fair winds from behind. John F. Mayhew’s career was back on track thanks to some more foolish decisions by Norman Wax, which were alienating at best, deranged at worst. Norman was starting to make Oswald Mosley look like Gandhi and ‘concerned officials’ were blamed for leaking sensitive documents into the public domain, questioning his fitness for duty. John F. Mayhew had struck a perfect balance between toeing the party line and being true to his conscience; looking worried and pained in media photos had drawn a lot of support to him. Thanks to Len spinning positive PR like a spider on speed, John’s troubled star was once again on a rapid upward trajectory, forcing Norman’s down in the direction of inter-galactic hell. Strangely enough, details of Norman’s affair had somehow trickled out to the press too so he was fighting for survival on all fronts, plus it was generally agreed that the deputy leader was as much use as ‘a fart in a wind tunnel’, as a member of the opposition had been heard to say. Oh yes, the new year was set to be a very successful one for the Mayhews.