‘Edward?’ Her tone insistent.
‘Wait for John, Sophie.’
Sophie had had enough of this nonsense. This was her house and yet she was the only one who didn’t know what was going on in it.
‘Edward, I will not—’
She felt a hand on her shoulder from behind her. Len.
‘Let’s you and I go and have a coffee, Sophie, whilst we wait for John, hmm?’ He steered her into the kitchen. At least Len wouldn’t be afraid of whatever it was that seemed to be petrifying Edward.
‘Sit down, Sophie,’ said Len. ‘Coffee? Tea?’
Sophie didn’t really want either but she said, ‘Coffee, please.’ There was a percolator full of it in front of him so he wouldn’t need to wait for a kettle to boil.
Everything Len did was measured. She watched him take two mugs from the rack, pour coffee, take the milk out of the fridge. He knew this house as well as she did, where everything was.
‘I’m presuming Norman hasn’t resigned,’ she remarked, leaping to the obvious conclusion.
‘Sadly not,’ said Len. ‘He should have but . . . something has . . . interrupted the process. Something none of us saw coming.’
Sophie’s brain spun on the possibilities, jumped from stepping stone to stepping stone. Family illness? Some terrorist attack? Death of the monarch? Every eventuality crossed her mind except one – the one it actually was.
Len’s movements were slow, every word he uttered drawn out, buying time.
‘Sophie. John has been under an inordinate amount of pressure, as you know.’ Len smiled at her as he carried the mugs over, encouraging her to understand.
Sophie sipped the coffee; it had been left too long and was acrid, bitter.
‘As you found out yourself, only yesterday, our flaws are what make us human. Many people think that John is super-human; hence his popularity, in the face of the PM’s incompetence, but he isn’t, he is a man, with human frailties. Remember that word, Sophie, human.’
Sophie had no idea what he was talking about.
The kitchen door swung open and in burst John.
‘Sophie,’ he said, the word imbued with a quality she didn’t recognise. He had never said her name in that way before.
‘I’ll leave you two alone to talk. Everything will be all right, don’t you worry,’ Len said, getting up. He paused on his way out to place an avuncular hand once again on Sophie’s shoulder. ‘Nothing to worry about at all, my dear.’ As he passed John, Sophie noticed him give a small shake of his head as if answering a silent question. John threw himself into the chair which Len had just vacated.
‘Oh, Sophie.’ He reached for her hands across the table, held them tightly. He had narrow hands with slim, long fingers. She’d always thought he had hands that might have belonged to a concert pianist.
‘Is someone going to tell me what’s going on?’ said Sophie. ‘It’s like being caught up in a giant puzzle.’ She laughed, a sound of confusion, not humour.
John kissed the back of her hand, a reverent gesture. His eyes were closed as his lips touched her skin. He sighed.
‘Sophie, there’s no other way of saying this . . . I’ve made a mistake, a big one. A really, really stupid fucking big one.’
‘What sort of . . .’ Three words into the question and she self-answered it. There was only one sort of stupid mistake that would warrant this whirligig of activity. Sophie tried to pull her hand back, but John held firm.
‘Sophie, darling . . .’
Sophie stood, tore her hand away successfully this time. She needed to move, spend this sudden injection of nervous energy. Even if it was to pace up and down her kitchen.
‘Who is she?’
‘No one . . . I . . .’
‘Obviously she’s someone, John, unless you’ve screwed a ghost.’
John exhaled a long, laboured breath of resignation.
‘I’m going to tell you everything, Sophie. I shan’t leave a detail out, okay?’
Sophie’s hands and feet were tingling, as if her body were filled with nails. Dena Stockdale’s smirking face drifted past the front of her mind, ‘Some men – and I’m not saying John is one of them – have a taste for different cuts of meat, Sophie.’
‘Who knows about this?’ she asked.
‘Well . . . us . . . for now. The story will break in the papers tomorrow. We’re trying to contain it. Norman knows . . .’
‘Who is she?’ Sophie demanded the name.
John pinched the top of his nose. ‘Rebecca. Rebecca Robinson.’
The Girl Friday with the red dress and the red hair and the red lips at the Cherlgrove Ball. She had been the fly hovering near Sophie’s web, making her presence felt, touching her spider thread, whispering, ‘I’m here.’ It had been John she had worn those fuck-me shoes for, the scarlet to flaunt at him, the subtle jewellery to throw her – the wife – off the scent; how could she not have seen what was in front of her face? She was stupid stupid stupid.
Sophie stumbled back to the chair before her legs gave way. Pictures worthy of a porn film bombarded her brain from all directions: that red hair splayed on a pillow, John kissing Rebecca’s body, the pair of them slithering around on black satin sheets like oiled eels feasting on each other. Sadness swamped her, she felt sick, barely able to breathe.
‘Oh, my darling, Sophie . . .’ John was kneeling at her side now as if about to propose. Tears felt closer than ever before but not close enough to show because they were always diverted; like an underground river they plunged down further, seeking a cave to hide in, rather than out towards the surface.
‘How long has it been going on for?’
‘A few weeks, if that. It only happened a couple of times. In hotels.’
Every clichéd phrase in the book followed. It was a mistake. I was flattered by her attention. It meant nothing. It had ended before it begun.
Sophie heard the doorbell ring, more people arriving. The familiar tones of her in-laws reached her.
‘The bitch has timed this to cause total devastation because I rejected her. Because I told her it was over. Because I love my wife. Sophie, I am begging you for help. Throw everything you have at me.’ He picked up her hand, slapped his face with it. ‘Hit me, do anything you can to make yourself feel better but stand by me here. We can make this go away. Norman doesn’t want me to resign.’ John laughed. ‘Oh, the irony of it all.’
Sophie was flung into panic. The whole fabric of her life was about to be ripped to shreds by a woman she had met only once; everything she knew, everything she had, everything she’d been made and trained for was at stake. There was chaos inside her, confusion, hurt, humiliation, disgust, fear, all vying for supremacy. She felt as if she’d been cast into unknown waters that threatened to drown her. Her defences short-circuited to the best course of action: she wouldn’t flounder; she would get back on board and steer this ship. Keep the ship level. Hold the wheel steady, Sophie.
Sophie felt all her rage being wrested from John, repacked into a laser-like beam ready to launch in the direction of that red-haired tart.
‘What do we need to do?’ she asked, feeling his arms close around her in relief and gratitude.
Chapter 10
Eighteen years ago
Miss Palmer-Price’s words struck home after the tête-à-tête in her office. Sophie did want to make her parents proud of her, she didn’t want to let the family down. She’d never felt as saintly as her two sisters who had never once received a reprimand at St Bathsheba’s and gained more house points than a Gryffindor full of Harry Potters. Like a pair of weak, watery ghosts they had glided through school, handing in their homework punctually, never contributing to any acceleration of the greying-hair process of their housemistresses. They were the ones who earned extra house points for reporting girls for smoking behind the sports pavilion, snitching on the ones who paid others to do their homework. But they’d had to slog far harder than Sophie to achieve their grades of success because she was
much more naturally bright; something else that engendered their resentment. They hadn’t been blessed with Sophie’s lithe frame, her clear skin, her flawless features either. Annabella resembled their mother with her naturally pallid skin, shapeless form and hair that refused to grow past her shoulders, not ideal for a girl with secret Rapunzel ambitions. Victoria was the female double of their father with his long face and large features. She’d had her nose surgically altered but now it looked oddly too small sitting in the middle of her face like a lost island. She had mannish hands and thick shapeless legs that she always kept covered. To have such a perfect-looking sister to hold herself up against for comparison had made Victoria especially bitter, enough to cause frown lines that an Olympian could have bobsleighed down.
For the following five weeks Sophie blocked out Irina’s presence from her life as much as was humanly possible. She sat as far away from her as she could at mealtimes, ignoring any little aside comments intended to inflame. She mastered the art of overcoming her desire to shut Irina’s foul mouth by blocking it with her fist. It was surprisingly easy with a concerted effort. Even when she happened upon Irina and her cronies throwing stones at Magda Oakes as she swam in the outdoor pool and poking her with a stack of garden canes, Sophie remained indifferent. Fat Fiona Coates-Duff was blocking the steps so Magda couldn’t get out and she was panting and gulping and bleeding from a cut to her head and calling between gasps of breath for help. Sophie remembered what Miss Palmer-Price had told her about it being a dog-eat-dog world, because the words had branded themselves onto her brain and she understood them a little more after much cogitation. Magda would just have to get out of this one herself and learn a life lesson, so she thought as she put her head down and continued on her way.
Chapter 11
One day before Doorstepgate – afternoon
Despite even Len’s best machinations, the story could not be halted. Rebecca Robinson’s exposé was due to hit the front pages in the morning and it was dynamite. Even though John F. Mayhew’s position as chief promoter of family values meant that he would be mercilessly lambasted, Len wasn’t unduly worried; he was firmly in his comfort zone. Human was the word he had zoomed in on. Whatever life threw at ‘the family’, it could be weathered. John F. Mayhew was a good man, he cared about his constituents, who should in no way be affected by a regrettable mistake in his personal life. His values were solid; he put others before himself always, but personal tragedy had taken its toll. This gross error of judgement stemmed from unresolved grief. Forgive him, would be Len’s pitch. He was at this very moment ensconced in the Mayhews’ dining room writing a speech that would be worthy of Julius Caesar.
John had found out that the PM had been having a dalliance himself with his long-standing secretary. The affair had been a closely guarded secret for years – and not a sniff of scandal had reached anyone’s attention until very recently. One tiny indiscretion on the lady’s part had put John on her trail. He had been planning to leak it to the press and knife Norman squarely in the back once he could present irrefutable evidence. Ironically, because he still thought his secret was safe, Norman did not want to set a precedent of anyone in his government abandoning a post because of an extra-marital indiscretion and that was why he was coming out in full defence of John. He had no idea of John’s scheming, still thought he was the golden boy – despite their obvious disagreement over the NHS. The price of getting John out of the mire by lending him his support would be John’s absolute loyalty going forward. The PM had him bound up in knots and he had no alternative but to be a good boy and wait a little longer for the top job. It would come, eventually, but he could cancel the champagne order for now.
Sophie’s own parents arrived after lunch cross about the trouble they’d had to get in through the gates. The word had spread that something big was about to break around the Mayhews and a few journalists with long lenses and flasks of coffee had arrived to camp out. Edward had arranged for a locally based security firm to be in charge of letting people in at both the front and the back of the house, and already there had been a kerfuffle as one journalist had been forcibly thrown back over the hedge under which he had crawled and the police had been called. Things would get uglier, they all knew.
Sophie’s mother’s head started shaking as soon as she had taken her coat off.
‘What a terrible situation,’ she said. ‘Are you bearing up?’
Sophie wanted her mother to open up her arms, but they didn’t do things like that in the Calladine family.
‘Yes, I . . .’
Her mother strode past her and towards John. She’d been addressing him.
‘Can this be rescued? There’s an army of press outside. An army. John, whatever possessed you to be so stupid?’
Not cruel, not thoughtless, but stupid. Not for the first time this week did Sophie wonder if she was cut from a different cloth to these people who were supposed to be her family.
‘Come through,’ said John, leading his mother-in-law into the dining room, or the new Office HQ as it was fast becoming, leaving Sophie and her father alone in the hallway.
Sophie’s father gave her a small smile.
‘Men make mistakes, Sophie,’ he said. ‘That’s what you have to remember.’
Sophie didn’t know what she’d hoped for here but it wasn’t that everyone thought that John was a casualty of his own balls.
‘He’s broken my heart, Daddy,’ said Sophie, the disclosure surprising her. She couldn’t help it, she needed to feel someone holding her and she crashed forwards into her father’s chest, but he didn’t embrace her. Awkwardly, his hand came out, gave her a pat on the back.
‘There’s too much to throw away for a bit of silliness,’ said Angus Calladine. ‘You must be strong now, Sophie. Strong and sensible and loyal.’
Sophie stepped back, burned by his coldness.
‘Loyal?’ she echoed. She was being asked to be loyal? Was this national irony day?
‘Teamwork,’ went on Angus. ‘A lot at stake, Sophie.’
Miss Palmer-Price’s words came thundering to the front of her brain as if riding on one of Elise’s Arabian stallions.
One day you will most likely have to call upon what you have learned here. The training to remain faithful to someone who has kicked you in the heart, the training to ‘do the right thing’ when it feels like the wrong thing. The training not to throw everything away when you temporarily refuse to see the bigger picture because emotion is blinding you.
This was that time.
‘Come on,’ said her father, stepping towards the dining room, encouraging her to join him. ‘United front. Remember your marriage vows: for better, for worse.’
Yet there was no mention of ‘forsaking all others for as long as ye both shall live’.
Sophie and John made love that night. Or rather had sex because it was wild and animal-like, clinging, possessive. Desperate. Sex that had something to prove, and in Sophie’s case that was that John was hers. They had never made love that way before; it was almost animalistic, primal. He said that he loved her and that he had realised what he had done and could have lost and how much he valued her, but she knew deep down in her heart that this was a façade. He wanted her to feel desired because he needed her onside. She knew this but still she clung to him and she faked a climax for him because she felt numb and dead inside and couldn’t have managed a real one. Not once that day had he said the two words that she wanted to hear from him more than any others; words which had never been part of his vocabulary: ‘I’m sorry.’
Maybe they would have made all the difference.
Chapter 12
Doorstepgate, 5 a.m.
Sophie was awake at a ridiculous hour, yet again. She showered and wished she could have taken a run but peeping through the curtains informed her that would be an absolute impossibility. Reporters were banked against the gates and beyond them, vans from various radio and TV companies lined the road. John had told her not to look on the
internet because the internet lied. Rebecca Robinson was ambitious and vengeful and though the indiscretion (not an ‘affair’, which implies some level of affection rather than just straightforward lust, he said) had happened, Robinson would have embellished and woven an elaborate tapestry around the bare bones of what could only be described as inconsequential at best. The detail would torture her, he forewarned and he did not want to see her hurt. Sometimes there was an awful lot of smoke from a little fire, he said – a line right out of the book of Len. Think how much money Robinson was going to make from this, plus the fame. What decent woman wanted that sort of attention? Think, Sophie, think – one with no shame, one with hate in her heart because she had been rejected, because she had been dismissed as a mistake. Her ego would be trying to redress the balance by portraying herself as wronged and used. Incredible, considering that it is I, John F. Mayhew who has been exploited, manipulated, targeted.
But still Sophie looked.
She crept downstairs into her sitting room and fired up her laptop. The news headlines were suitably tacky: Mayday for Mayhew. From Hero to Zero. Government Minister not Keeping it in the Family. John F... ive Times a Night. There were clear pictures of John and Rebecca standing facing each other in public and smiling at one another, or sitting on a park bench sharing a picnic lunch. Len could throw these into the camp of innocence, but not the others which showed the pair of them kissing passionately in a shop doorway. Grainy, but unmistakably John and her.
Every newspaper seemed to be carrying the story on the front page but it was the downmarket News of the Day that had obviously written the biggest cheque, because they had the full exclusive. Sophie pressed on their link and a long teaser opened.
Seven hours after I got the job last October, I was bedding the boss. John couldn’t keep his hands off me. That first night we made love five times which became our record to beat and we’ve done so over and over again.
The Magnificent Mrs Mayhew Page 8
