Sophie’s returning smile was one of confusion. She opened her mouth to reply but John took her hand, threaded it through his arm, held it firm. And she knew. She knew that she had been tricked into coming here under false pretences. She knew that she was not on a visit to talk with old people and she knew where they were heading instead. How could she not have guessed why this had all been arranged?
She was going to the neonatal unit which was on the verge of closing down. Prickles of anxiety formed in her hands, her scalp. Inside she was screaming No, no, no, as her feet walked towards that lift, each step as if she were moving through treacle.
‘The neonatal unit should be the jewel in our crown . . .’ the chairman was saying in the lift but his words were drowned out by swirling memories, awful, traumatic ones she’d done her best to suppress.
‘Mrs Mayhew more than anyone knows how important this is,’ John was saying, as if from underwater, his voice sounding far away. ‘If my wife and I can help . . .’
The lift doors opened. Smiling nurses there in their scrubs, newly delivered women in their dressing gowns peering over goldfish-tank boxes with babies inside. Tiny babies hooked up to machines that bleeped, wires and equipment everywhere.
A sister in a dark blue uniform holding out her hand, a woman she recognised. She’d had a lighter blue uniform on when Sophie had been admitted at twenty-three and a half weeks. Four years ago, in the old unit, her own baby had been in one of those incubators.
She was in a blur, listening to them speak but only absorbing snatches of phrases.
Means so much . . . your support . . . you know how important . . . thank you.
Sophie felt her legs weaken, a chair was pushed under her, a glass of water pressed into her hand. John talking to the chief executive. ‘We knew it would be emotional.’ A flash of a camera. She didn’t cry. But inside she was weeping floods, and fearing that she would never stop.
Sophie recalibrated, aware that her weakness was on display. She waved away the fuss, completed her duties. She walked along the corridor, eyes locking with a woman at the side of an enclosed incubator: her face was full of pain and worry. The baby inside it was tiny. A bag of sugar baby, that’s what Henry had been. Sophie turned away from her, carried on, tried to listen to the information from the chairman about investment and figures and value to the community. I’m sorry, Mrs Mayhew, Henry was too poorly. We tried, we tried everything. We gave him all we could.
She shook hands with the executives, the nurses, though she couldn’t even remember what she said to them, but the look of concern on their faces was seared onto her retinas. So many of them were witness to John’s gallantry as he helped her into the car when the visit was over. She didn’t answer his ‘Are you all right, darling?’ She let him hold her hand, was aware that the driver’s eyes flashed to her in the rear-view mirror and she would not give him anything to gossip about.
As soon as the door to Park Court had been opened and closed behind them, Sophie let rip, as much as Mrs Mayhew could.
‘You crossed a line today, you bastard, John,’ she said.
‘Sophie, I couldn’t tell you,’ said John, looking as contrite as John F. Mayhew was able to. ‘I wanted to, but this was too important. This was everything. This is what you signed up for. This is what we do. Today you have just put me into number ten. Sky was there and the BBC, did you see? You were magnificent, darling. You have just . . .’
She turned from him, walked up the stairs, kicked her shoes off in her dressing room, stripped off her jacket and dress, tights, everything. She unpinned her hair and wiped off her make-up whilst sitting at her dressing table without looking at herself in the mirror because she did not want to stare into her own eyes and see the sadness there. Sophie the Trophy. Never had she been more of a trophy than that day. Never had she been less of a person, more of a shell, scooped out, used, empty.
Chapter 8
Two days before Doorstepgate
Sophie felt exhausted that night, but still sleep cruelly eluded her. At three a.m., she went downstairs to try and reset her body clock. She poured herself a brandy, felt the burn on the back of her throat as she tossed it down in one single smooth movement, but nothing could have burned her more than the sight of those tiny babies each fighting for life.
The alcohol worked its magic and, going back to bed, she fell into a sleep that was solid and surprisingly dreamless. She would have slept for longer had it not been for the commotion downstairs: doorbells, door knockers, doors opening and shutting, men’s voices, laughter.
Sophie rose, put on her running gear, brushed her long caramel hair into a jog-friendly ponytail, ventured downstairs, followed the sound into the dining room to find not only John and Findlay, but Len, Edward and even Rupert, all of whom had come up from London. The top half of the dining table was covered in newspapers. Findlay was sitting in front of his MacBook. At the sight of Sophie, all the men stopped conversing, turned to her as if synchronised and smiled. John came bounding over, embraced her.
‘Sophie, my darling. You are the brightest star in the universe.’ He kissed her head. ‘Well done, Sophie,’ added Len, in his gravelly voice that always made Sophie want to cough for him.
She was about to ask well done for what, then her eyes drifted downwards onto the newspapers. The headlines: Sophie’s Tears. Sad Sophie. Sophie the Trophy’s Sadness. She picked up the Mail, saw the photo of herself, sitting on the chair, hand to her head, John kneeling at her side, the Chairman holding a glass of water for her. She looked punctured.
Sophie the Trophy’s composure crumbled yesterday when she and her husband visited the beleaguered neonatal unit at Cherlgrove Hospital. Mr and Mrs Mayhew, whose own child was born and died in the unit four years ago . . .
She put it down and picked up the Telegraph:
Sophie Mayhew showed her human side yesterday. . .
The Guardian:
Sophie Mayhew, wife of popular Tory Minister John F. Mayhew, broke down yesterday at the prospect of the closure of the neonatal unit in Cherlgrove Hospital. The specialist unit, a centre of excellence in care for premature babies, has become a symbol of the split in the Tory party as Prime Minister Norman Wax plans to introduce into Britain an American-style privatised health system whilst John Mayhew champions the NHS . . .
There was a picture of her face and an insert of a close-up of her cheek, a single tear sliding down it as if it were every bit as spectacular an occurrence as a weeping statue of the Virgin Mary.
‘This is it, Sophie. Norman is edging closer to the moment when he has to fall on his sword.’
‘He can’t retreat because he will look weak, so his only option is to push forward and hardly anyone is behind him,’ said the rubbery Len. So much for the good of the party, thought Sophie. Maybe that was true of the lower echelons of it, but once you reached a certain level, it really was every man for himself.
‘Sky!’ exclaimed Findlay, twisting his laptop around. On the screen was footage of Sophie and John in the hospital. Sophie, straight-backed and beautiful in the pink suit that she had put on for the old people.
‘You look like Eva Peron,’ gasped Len.
She jumped as behind her John popped a bottle of champagne.
She turned to go.
‘Oh, stay, Sophie, celebrate with us,’ said Len. ‘Get her a glass, Rupert.’
‘No, I’m going for a run,’ said Sophie. I need to run.
On the screen now, a SAVE OUR NHS demonstration. Norman walking to his car, an egg hitting him squarely between the shoulder blades.
‘When was this?’ asked John, his delight evident.
‘It’s live,’ replied Findlay.
‘Anyone got a miracle on them to save Norman?’ said John, leading the guffaws which followed Sophie out of the room as she left them to their quaffing and mutual back-slapping. She went into the kitchen and filled up her water bottle, then she slipped out of the door and started to run, down the garden, through the field at the bac
k and towards the sun. She felt like running until she caught it.
*
That afternoon Clive and Celeste Mayhew graced them with their presence. Sophie walked into the hallway to find Celeste instructing the housekeeper on how to hang up that dreadful mink, on a long padded coathanger and not by the hook sewn into the collar which was merely for decoration, she insisted.
‘Isn’t it wonderful news,’ Celeste greeted her. ‘I’m so proud of John. I mean, I’m proud of all my children, but particularly proud of John today.’
‘What have I missed?’ asked Sophie. Had the POTUS resigned, the country been declared a republic and John taken over the running of an UK/USA alliance? John had such a Midas touch, it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility.
‘Well, it’s in the bag isn’t it?’ said Clive, in that impatient way he had as if everything was obvious and questions were superfluous. ‘No one has any confidence in Wax any more. The British public need a strong leader with their best interests at heart. Haven’t you seen the newspapers today, Sophie?’ His tone indicated annoyance that she wasn’t fully clued up.
John came out of his office, arms opened like a goose spreading its wings to embrace his mother and shake his father by the hand.
‘Master-stroke yesterday,’ said Clive. ‘Master-stroke. Rescued the Tory party single-handedly.’
John raised his hands to bat back the compliment. ‘It wasn’t just me, Dad,’ he said. ‘It was Len’s idea. He has to take some credit for this.’
So it was Len’s idea to smash her heart to get brownie points. He’d sold her tears to the British public for a handful of headlines. She hated the slimy weasel more than ever.
‘Very brave going there, Sophie, very brave,’ said her father-in-law.
‘I didn’t know that’s where I was going,’ snapped Sophie. ‘I thought I was going to the geriatric department.’
Celeste’s head swivelled around to her.
‘I suppose John didn’t want to upset you by fore-warning you.’
Sophie wanted to laugh then. Was this normal? Was this really normal?
‘Maybe John should have given me the choice to make up my own mind instead of pressuring me into doing something that upset me,’ Sophie parried, using a tone that shocked Celeste, judging by the way her pencilled-on eyebrows shot up her forehead.
‘No harm done, was there,’ jumped in Clive.
‘Not to John, obviously. He’s already mentally moved in to number ten and you’re practising your Sir Clive and Lady Mayhew signatures, aren’t you?’ said Sophie, registering Edward and Findlay passing glances to each other. ‘Because that is all that matters isn’t it?’
‘I say, steady . . .’ began Clive, adopting his I mean business stance of hands behind his back.
Sophie turned from him, left the room, hearing her mother-in-law’s huff of outrage that she had spoken so disrespectfully to a senior member of the family. She took the stairs two at a time to their bedroom, not realising that John was at her heels until she tried to slam the door behind her.
‘What the fuck is wrong with you, Sophie?’ he demanded.
She turned. ‘Do you really have to ask that, John? After what you did to me yesterday? Humiliated me in pub—’
‘I didn’t humiliate you at all. You . . . you’ – he stabbed his finger at her – ‘made yourself human in front of the whole country for the first time. You needed to crack, Sophie. People hate you.’
A gasp rose in her throat like a bubble.
‘You are too distant, don’t you see that? I turned you into Princess Diana yesterday, darling. People are going Sophie-crazy. Now the BBC want to interview you about the impact that the hospital—’
‘No,’ she said, dashing away that idea with a double-handed gesture. ‘No. I will not talk about Henry.’
‘I’m not asking you to talk about him. Well, not exactly him per se, but our experience of losing a child. To help other women.’
‘Not even you believe that bullshit, John. This isn’t for other women, this is a PR exercise for you and your career.’ She took a step in the direction of her en suite but he grabbed her arm, pulled her back.
‘So what if it is? Don’t you want to be the prime minister’s wife? Don’t you want to dine with presidents, be at the next royal wedding? Norman will resign, and you know I’m clear favourite to succeed him. I expected him to go this morning, we all did. The polls on my popularity have gone through the fucking roof, Sophie.’
His grip on her arm relaxed and he caught her hand instead, his voice softening.
‘Come down and celebrate with us. This is what we’ve been waiting for, Sophie.’
‘I know,’ she said, to appease him because an argument would have been futile; he would not let her spoil this day for him. So she would go downstairs and watch them smiling and congratulating each other on a job well done, but she would not rejoice with him that the tragedy of their son’s death had been a contributory factor in bringing him what he wanted most.
That night, when everyone had gone, John and Sophie sat in their soulless drawing room each with a large brandy. Sophie thought the house would never empty. There had been a constant stream of visitors to it all day, none of whom she wanted here. It wasn’t a home, it was an extension of John’s office and a place that her in-laws considered their property as much as Glebe Hall, the hideous manor house they owned in grounds as large as Cherlgrove public park.
‘Can you feel the changes in the air, Sophie?’ said John, grinning. It was his fourth celebratory brandy and his words were slurring.
She could. She was still that spider and there was an electricity thrumming through the web, stronger now. This is what she had felt last week, these changes already on their way.
‘Let’s make love,’ said John.
Sophie felt about as keen to make love as she did to empty the sewage tank with her bare hands.
‘I’m tired,’ she said.
‘Come on.’ He bounced off the sofa, picked up her hand, pulled her to her feet. John only heard words he wanted to hear. He always had.
Chapter 9
One day before Doorstepdate – morning
Sophie awoke the next morning in an empty bed. Like the previous day, there were sounds coming from downstairs, doors opening and shutting, Groundhog Day for politicians. More good news, no doubt. More back-slapping, hand-shaking and champagne corks popping.
She had been manipulative herself the previous evening, insisting on a shower before bed. A long shower and John was fast asleep by the time she emerged from her bathroom, as she’d hoped. She didn’t want to make love with him. She didn’t even want to sleep with him. Then again she did, but not like this. She wanted him to tell her he needed her, loved her as a woman; not just as someone who answered all his letters, prompted him on local government issues, who looked good on his arm as Sophie the Trophy. He was so handsome: perfect even – at least in looks. She remembered staring at him so many times over the years as he slept and marvelling how she couldn’t keep her hands off him, gently touching his face, hoping he would awaken and reach for her, pull her into a lazy embrace. When had he started banishing her to the sidelines of his life, still wanting her there to cheer him on but not to join him on the pitch? When had she started not minding that he stayed in London for most of the week? When had she started being grateful that he hadn’t initiated sex? She couldn’t remember. The changes had drip-fed themselves into her marriage over the years, altering the DNA of their relationship. The last time they’d had sex was after his triumph on Question Time, when he’d ripped apart the Shadow Education Secretary months ago and he’d come home to the flat in London so full of himself and pumped up with testosterone that it was inevitable intimacy would occur. But she’d felt even then as if that session on TV were the real sexual act and their liaison was the celebratory post-coitus cigarette.
Swearing, she heard swearing. Not laughter. The sounds were different to the ones she’d heard the previous mor
ning, the voices harsher, louder. She padded to the door, opened it up slowly, listened.
‘No, do not open those bloody gates.’ John’s voice echoing in the hallway below. ‘Tell him to come around the back.’
Sophie dressed quickly in her running gear. Whatever was happening, she was best out of it, she thought.
They were all there again: Findlay, Edward, Rupert, John darting around like a mad thing. She caught Rupert’s eye as she came down the staircase but he dropped contact and scurried off. Len appeared in a drenched raincoat, walking out from the kitchen, the housekeeper trotting behind him ready to take his coat and his umbrella.
‘Morning, Len,’ Sophie said politely, but tightly, as she passed him.
‘Sophie, I wouldn’t go out if I were you.’
‘I’m used to running in the rain, Len.’
‘No it’s not . . .’
John strode towards her. Something was very wrong because he opened his mouth to speak and not a single word came out. Not one. And John had words for every occasion.
Sophie was conscious of her head tilting to one side, like one of the family Great Danes was accustomed to doing when he was trying to understand what was going on and drawing no conclusion that helped.
‘John, what is it?’
‘Sophie . . .’ The words stopped at her name as John’s hands came out to rest on the top of her arms, then Edward interrupted them, holding out his mobile phone.
‘PM’s on the line, John.’
‘Shit.’ John turned from her, took the phone. ‘Norman,’ he said breezily, moved into the dining room.
‘Edward? What’s happening?’
The atmosphere couldn’t have been more different from yesterday morning. Not Groundhog Day after all, then.
‘Er, I think that maybe . . . John needs to . . .’ Edward pointed behind him at the dining room.
The Magnificent Mrs Mayhew Page 7
