She barrelled straight into Irina and the pair of them thudded into the water. Irina spluttered and struggled as Sophie grabbed tightly on to her hair and pushed her head down under the surface.
‘Fiona, get your fat backside off those steps or I swear I will drown her.’
She raised Irina’s gasping head. Fiona, who was too stunned to move initially, began to scramble madly up the steps when Irina’s head went under the water again. Irina was a poor swimmer and started coughing up swallowed water in panic.
‘Magda, get out of here,’ commanded Sophie. ‘Any of you lay a finger on her and I will kill this bitch, trust me.’
Irina’s cronies – Beatrice Fallowes and Lady Selina Montford – edged back from the sides of the pool to give Magda space. Just for good measure, Sophie ducked Irina again, which set Fiona off screaming. Sophie felt surprisingly powerful for a few seconds and experienced the sadistic rush that Irina must enjoy. Intoxicating.
‘There, she’s all yours,’ Sophie said, when Magda was clear of them, stumbling away.
Sophie let go of Irina’s hair and swam effortlessly to the steps. Fiona and the others leaned over the side to try and reach their leader and help her out. Irina was sobbing pathetically. When she was safely on terra firma, she screeched at Sophie, who was now trying to catch up with Magda.
‘You’ll be sorry for this, you cow, you total bitch, you . . .’
She hadn’t bargained on Sophie still having plenty of that temper left inside her, which she was only too happy to dispense. Sophie whirled around, came at her again, knocking both Irina and Fat Fiona into the pool. Fiona grabbed at Selina to stop herself falling and ended up pulling her in too. Beatrice, who stood petrified at the side of the pool not knowing what to do for the best, was too easy a target for Sophie not to push in as well. After all, she didn’t want her to feel left out.
‘Any time you are ready for more, bitches, come and find me. I’ll take the lot of you on single-handedly. Again.’ And, because they all believed that Sophie could do exactly that, they never did come and find her for more.
Sophie caught up with Magda in the changing rooms. She was shivering and upset and jumped when Sophie entered.
‘You okay?’ she asked, sitting down beside her.
Magda nodded. But she wasn’t. Her throat was sore from coughing and there were cuts on her shoulders and her head where the canes had stabbed her.
‘I’m sorry I walked past at first. I hate myself,’ said Sophie.
‘You came back, though,’ said Magda. ‘Thank you.’ Her hands were shaking so much, she couldn’t unfasten her bag to get out her towel.
‘You look frozen, Magda.’
‘My skin looks like corned beef, doesn’t it?’ Magda remarked, but Sophie had no idea what corned beef was so couldn’t comment.
‘I’ll run a shower for you, a warm one,’ said Sophie. ‘I won’t leave you. I’ll keep watch. They won’t dare come in here, trust me.’
She waited for Magda to emerge from the shower, adrenaline still pumping around in her system ready for another showdown if necessary, and felt quite disappointed that Irina denied her the opportunity.
‘You’ve got a bit more colour to you now,’ said Sophie when Magda had dressed. ‘I’ve got some antiseptic cream for those cuts in my bedroom. Why don’t you come back with me now? I’ve got a very large bar of chocolate in my cupboard and I’ll share it with you. Chocolate is very good for cuts.’
‘Is it?’ said Magda, then realised it was a joke. She smiled. ‘I’d like that, thank you.’
‘It’s shit sharing a dorm in the first year isn’t it?’ said Sophie.
‘Totally shit,’ replied Magda.
‘I like your accent.’
‘You’re the only one who does.’
‘I wish I had it. It’s so full of joy. I come from Liverpoo-il.’
Magda laughed. ‘I’ll teach you Scouse in exchange for the chocolate.’
And they walked back to the school following a wet path made by four soggy bullies.
Chapter 16
Doorstepgate, 11.11 a.m.
. . . Wrong, wrong, wrong, being dictated to, being told what to do when it wasn’t the right thing. When her heart told her that it was unfair, when it was screaming at her that she should not compromise her values to follow the directives of others whatever the consequences.
He called my dress a rag.
She had absolutely no idea why, out of everything that John F. Mayhew had ever said or done – or not done – why that insult reigned over them all, but it did. She saw herself walking up the staircase, head bowed with humiliation, to change her eau-de-nil dress as clearly as if she were watching a film. And now that person who made her feel like that was expecting her to heap all the blame for his misdemeanours onto herself until she was drowning in it. Drowning like Magda almost did until she was rescued.
‘This is my statement,’ Sophie began. ‘My husband works incredibly hard . . .’ Pins dropping everywhere could be heard. ‘Politics is his life . . .’ So far she had adhered to Len’s instructions. ‘This job is one full of pressure and that pressure occasionally causes one to act irrationally. My husband . . .’
Aaand, mentally at this point, she screwed up the script and threw it in the air. Mentally she was at the sports pavilion hearing a cry for help, but this time it was her own voice calling out and not Magda’s. Mentally she was a woman standing tall in a beautiful hand-made dress who was not prepared to drown in a pool of anyone else’s mess.
‘. . . My husband . . . my husband has been an absolute selfish shit of the highest order. And no, I will not be standing behind or beside him. Thank you.’
And with that Sophie nodded to the crowd, turned and walked back into Park Court. The assembly was so smothered by shock that it did not immediately react; then all hell was unleashed as cameras clicked and reporters pushed forward; the Calladines and Mayhews piled into the house, slamming the door behind them.
‘Sophie, what the fuck . . .?’
‘Sophie.’
Sophie, Sophie, Sophie.
‘God, I am so SICK of my name,’ she screamed as she headed up the stairs. ‘Leave me alone, all of you. Do NOT follow me.’
No one did, which led Sophie to think that Len had orchestrated their inaction. His brain must be spinning so much, his head was in danger of whizzing off his shoulders. The thought of it made Sophie giggle and she wondered if she might be going slightly mad.
Then, as she flung herself onto her bed, the panic set in, the enormity of what she had done hit her. She could have destroyed John’s career.
No, he did that, said a voice inside her. Not you. Him.
But fear continued to hold her in a vice-like grip because she was now in unchartered waters. W hat have you done, you wretched girl? Miss Palmer-Price’s voice. She’d said that when she found out about the Magda Oakes incident and how she’d pushed a Viscount’s daughter, the Chairman of ICI’s daughter and the Bishop of Pontefract’s daughter into a swimming pool and, worst of all, nearly drowned the apple of a Russian oligarch’s eye. She’d never regretted her actions then, but she was already starting to regret this one.
She had no idea how long she was lying there for before the door cracked open and John appeared. She sat bolt upright, waiting for a verbal onslaught. He had a mug in his hand.
‘Hi,’ he said, his voice full of concern. She hadn’t expected that.
‘I’ve brought you a drink. Hot milk.’
‘Thank you.’
He put it down on the bedside table.
‘I obviously haven’t realised how much strain you’ve been under.’ His voice was uncharacteristically gentle.
‘I have,’ she agreed stiffly.
‘I just wanted to say I register that. You couldn’t have slept well last night.’
Unlike yourself.
‘I didn’t.’
He stood. ‘I’ll go back downstairs and try and sort . . . you get some rest now.’ He ga
ve her a small smile, bent to kiss the top of her head, closed the door softly behind him and Sophie continued to stare at it, expecting him to burst back in and tell her how he really felt about what she had done. She knew John and he would be livid. So why the gentle voice? Why the considerate milk?
Sophie lifted the mug to her lips and sipped, even though she had no idea why because warm milk didn’t appeal to her at all. It was the sort of drink they gave you in films when they were trying to drug you. She pulled her lips from the edge of the mug, looked down into it with a cynical eye. Surely he wouldn’t? Well, she wasn’t about to take any chances. She poured the milk carefully down the sink, all too aware of how low a spot she was in even to contemplate that her own husband might be attempting to sedate/poison her.
She opened the bedroom door then, stole down the landing towards the end room, which was directly above the dining room. No one used it; it had once been the designated nursery. It was devoid of all furniture: the pale blue walls had been painted over with white, the curtains with the yellow chickens taken down, the blue carpet had been lifted and discarded four years ago. When the house was quiet, it was possible to hear in there what was going on below. Len et al always gravitated there to rant rather than to John’s office, which he liked to keep totally private to himself.
Sophie laid flat and pressed her ear to the floorboards.
John’s voice: ‘Strain . . . understandable . . .’ She could only hear the odd word. Then Celeste Mayhew’s voice, twittering like a high-pitched really angry bird. Her mother’s now, calm, measured but too quiet to make out actual words.
Len’s: ‘Extreme step . . . but . . . might . . . work . . .’
Her father: ‘Sectioned? . . . a bit far.’
John’s voice: ‘. . . Short time . . . obviously ill . . . need . . . rest.’
Sophie’s pulse started to beat in her ears. Sectioned? Were they discussing having her sectioned? Is that how they were going to explain her outburst: by implying she’d had a breakdown and having her locked away? Her heart was galloping. If that were so, how long before a white van arrived? This could not be happening. But this was happening. Paradoxically, she should be sectioned for such paranoia. Oh God, help me. God. No point in beseeching him. Not after what he’d done to her. She was on her own in this.
Sophie tiptoed back to her bedroom, blood pounding in her ears. She pulled a mid-sized suitcase from her dressing room, wildly started throwing in the nearest clothes to hand: jeans, sweatshirts, underwear, her make-up bag. Her handbag was at the side of her bed, phone inside, purse. What else? She needed to get away for a few nights, what would she need? Bank cards, driving licence; her passport was in the safe downstairs so she’d have to leave that. Her head was a whirl. She needed to get out of this house and soon. Think, Sophie, think.
As quickly as she could, she tied her hair up into a pony-tail, pulled a knitted bobble hat on, changed into her running gear, trainers. They’d hear her if she tried to leave via the main staircase, but not if she went up to the attic, out of the window there and down the fire escape steps. If they were still attached to the wall, that was.
She opened the bedroom door, heart bouncing like a mad ball in her chest, trod as lightly as she could to the door leading up to the attic. It hadn’t been opened in ages and had to be centimetred away from the jamb to stop it squeaking. Then up the stairs. The old sash window was stiff but it gave after three tugs. She climbed out. She couldn’t be seen from anywhere here, not by cameras, yes to drones and helicopters, but she’d have to take a chance on that.
The fire escape rattled and shook and she wasn’t convinced it wouldn’t collapse on her because some of the bolts fastening it to the wall had worked loose and her breath caught in her throat a couple of times as she ventured down. Then she was at the bottom, dragging air into her lungs as if it were in short supply, and wondering what the bloody hell she was going to do now.
There was only one thing she could do: garden-hop. There would be reporters outside the back gates and the front. But if she could find a way over the wall into the neighbour’s garden, she could get to the main road and then . . . she didn’t know. But at least she was now out of the house.
Using the hedge for cover, she scurried along the length of the boundary wall between Park Court and Fernlea hoping for a convenient hole, without any luck. There was nothing for it but to climb over it. Sophie looked around for a rock or something to stand on and found only ones which were too far away and too heavy for her to lift. There had to be something. She looked again, found a discarded wheelbarrow covered in foliage. Lazy damned gardener must have seen this and not bothered to shift it. Blessed wonderful lazy gardener. Sophie wrestled with it until it was in position against the wall, hefted the suitcase up, over and onto next door’s land and then put her foot into the wheelbarrow, testing that it would hold her weight if she stood in it. She felt the rusty metal give slightly, but it held. She pulled upwards with everything she’d got, swung her leg up, found purchase with her foot enough to lever herself up over the top. Now just to let herself down on the other side without impaling herself on a pitchfork or breaking her neck, whilst hoping that there were no Rottweilers on guard duty. She didn’t know the neighbours, they were American and rarely over here but she’d spotted a security van patrolling sometimes, checking in to make sure everything was tickety-boo.
Fernlea’s garden was perfect for subterfuge, full of trees and bushes. Sophie took a breather for five minutes whilst planning what to do next.
Elise. The word came to her in an inspired rush. She pulled her phone out the side of her bag and switched it on. Then wished she hadn’t because it began to buzz as email after email and text after text came through. Dena Stockdale:
Dear Sophie, what terrible news. Can I help in any way?
‘No you can’t you horrible cow,’ said Sophie to that. A message from Elise in insistent capital letters.
WHAT IS GOING ON, RING ME IMMEDIATELY.
Sophie’s hands were shaking. As if in a nightmare, she couldn’t negotiate her way around the phone and had to force herself to calm down. Elise picked up after two rings.
‘Sophie. Are you all right?’
‘Elise, are you alone?’
‘Yes, I’m in Waitrose.’
‘I need your help. But you have to swear to me that you won’t ring John or anyone. I really really need to trust you.’ .
There was silence. Sophie had a mental picture of Len standing by Elise’s side at the checkout prompting her what to say, like a hostage negotiator.
‘Elise?’
‘Sorry, I’m loading my halibut onto the conveyor belt. What do you want me to do?’
‘Can you pick me up from Church Lane as soon as you can. There’s a passing place for cars, I’ll be hiding behind the wall there.’
‘Hiding behind the wall? Whatever for?’
‘Please just go with this. And swear to me that you won’t tell anyone.’
‘I swear on my new horse’s life. There, will that do?’ It would. That was the ultimate in swears.
Twenty minutes later, Sophie was sitting in the back seat of Elise’s new Maserati GranTurismo, filling her in with the story so far and wondering how the hell she’d had the luck not to be spotted by the Sky News van. It had whizzed around the corner at the same time that she had darted across the main road. The driver had given her an enraged blast on his horn and, thinking on her feet, Sophie had flipped him the bird. They wouldn’t think it was Sophie Mayhew doing that.
‘Drugged?’ repeated Elise. ‘Sectioned?’
‘I can’t swear to any drugs, but I know what I heard, Elise,’ replied Sophie.
‘Ruthless bastards, politicians,’ harrumphed Elise. ‘Although I have to say at this point that Gerald isn’t having an affair after all. He’s probably the only one in the party who has learned to keep it in his trousers. I confronted him. Long story but the woman is his long-lost daughter. I’ll save the details for another time,
I doubt you are in the mood to listen to that one now. So what are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Sophie. ‘I need some time to think. Away from here. Where no one can find me.’
‘Don’t tell me where, then I can’t tell anyone else.’
Sophie smiled. ‘If you want to do me a massive favour, you can lend me some money, please. I’ll write you a cheque to cover it.’
‘I can manage that. How much?’
‘Ten thousand pounds.’
‘Certainly. Pay me later. Cheques can be traced.’ Change in her back pocket, Elise didn’t even flinch at the amount. ‘And so can bank cards. Don’t use them.’
‘I don’t plan to.’
‘There’s a little guest house in Otterly St Philip. Dreadfully impersonal, not very savoury, cheap and don’t eat there. After the Sheila Crabtree incident I had a revenge fuck in it. Probably shouldn’t have told you that but, there you go. Big mistake, hated myself. I’ll have the money for you in the morning. Totally secret squirrel – on Monty’s life.’
‘Do you think you could pull in at the next supermarket and get me a few bits and pieces en route?’ asked Sophie.
Elise nodded. ‘I was surprisingly relieved to find that Gerald wasn’t being unfaithful, Sophie. I wasn’t even sure if I loved him any more but I find that I do. Very much. Sometimes idiocy can bind you together with very strong glue so I don’t know if I’m presently helping you preserve your marriage or aiding you to destroy it.’
‘I don’t know either,’ said Sophie.
An hour later, Sophie was ensconced in a grotty room in a guest house and wondering who Elise had bonked in this awful place. She’d been right, though: the man on the desk didn’t even seek eye contact with her, he only wanted his cash up front. She opened up the bag of shopping that Elise had acquired for her and prepared to un-Sophie herself. First, the hair had to go. She stood in front of the bathroom mirror, put the blades of the new scissors around the initial hank and without thinking about it too much she cut. There was a horrible crunch and her eyes widened at the sight of the unsymmetrical hairdo she’d inadvertently created. There was no turning back now. The front was harder to do, especially with scissors that were more suited to cutting wallpaper than an accurate fringe but she made a decent job of it. Then she mixed up the black dye.
The Magnificent Mrs Mayhew Page 10
