The Magnificent Mrs Mayhew

by Milly Johnson

  ‘I can’t tell you how happy I am at this moment, Mag— . . . Lena.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about the name thing. You’ve got permission to call me Magda, but don’t let on to anybody else. We’ll have to have a proper catch-up one day.’

  ‘I’d like that very much.’

  ‘Just don’t tell your other half. He won’t like you consortin’ with the enemy.’

  That was true. John would totally forbid it.

  ‘Where are you living now, Magda?’

  ‘We’re in between houses. We sold ours but the one we were buying fell through at the last minute so we’re renting at a stupid price and I need to find somewhere permanent as soon as poss. Looking for somewhere in the St Katharine Docks area. Always thought I’d be a country girl, but I’ve fallen in love with the London vibe and my husband’s from the East End. He’s a big lad in the city. Funny how life turns out, isn’t it? I was on course to be an English teacher living on the Wirral with a house full of kids, and here I am in the shadow cabinet; couldn’t make it up, could ya?’

  ‘Nope.’ Sophie couldn’t have closed up her smile if she tried. ‘That’s quite a change. How did it all come about?’

  ‘I found I didn’t care about the Brontës or Byron any more, it was as simple as that. They weren’t enough for me to get my teeth into. So, in my first year at uni, I looked to change to another course and History and Politics was suggested. I didn’t even know what the House of Lords was when I started, but I became fascinated by it, and by all the people who got into the game because they wanted to better things for everyone else. And all the dickheads who got struck down by the old Bathsheba syndrome, of course. I hoped I’d never become one of those.’

  So many did, though. So many were intoxicated by the drug of power and it toppled them in the end.

  ‘Do you have any children, Magda?’

  ‘No, just a Cornish Rex cat who is my baby. I’m sorry to hear about the . . . what happened to your son. I wish I’d reached out then . . . not that it was the right time to . . . plus I didn’t know if you’d want to be associated with me.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘For a start it was my fault you ended up having to stay at school through the whole summer. I always felt really guilty about that. No wonder you never replied to my letters.’

  Sophie was confused. ‘What letters?’

  ‘Letters I sent to you at the school. I wrote and told you that I wouldn’t be coming back but asked if we could be penfriends.’

  Sophie shook her head. ‘I never got them, Magda. Did you get mine?’

  ‘No. Did you write?’

  ‘I did. None of the teachers I asked would give me your address but said they’d forward them to you. When you didn’t reply I presumed that you’d left me behind with everything else.’

  Magda scowled and just for a moment, Sophie recognised the Magda of old. ‘The rotten, stinkin’ bitches. Probably saw the Liverpool postmark and burned them.’

  ‘Bitches indeed,’ agreed Sophie. She wondered how her fate would have been altered for not receiving those letters, because lives were changed irrevocably by such things.

  ‘When we eventually get a place, I’ll be having a house-warming. You’ll be first on my invite list,’ said Magda, reaching across the table and squeezing Sophie’s arm, her affection evident.

  Sophie opened her handbag and drew the zipper on the inside pocket. ‘I know a very good estate agent in London. He matches people to property. He might be able to help you. It’s my brother-in-law. He’s a Mayhew but he’s a good sort. His company is called Forwarding Address.’ She handed one of his business cards over and Magda read it.

  ‘Ah, Forwarding Address. Thanks for this. Right, I’d better go and get back to the red corner.’ She stood, gave Sophie another hug. ‘Google me and my website comes up top, there’s a contact form on there. Let’s arrange something soon.’

  ‘Very soon,’ said Sophie as Magda disappeared into the throng hanging around the bar and wondering why – again – the words ‘forwarding address’ had a weight to them and a meaning that she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

  Chapter 50

  When Sophie returned to Park Court at the weekend, it was to find four messages waiting for her on Facebook. Two Charlies had replied and said, ‘Sorry, not me.’ The third had replied:

  That’ll be me. I remember you! I’ve sent you a friend request and so has Tina. She’s called Tina Turner now (she’s heard all the jokes!) We are all delighted that you got in contact, Pom. Mum says are you still making pom poms?

  The fourth message was from Mrs Tina Turner.

  Oh my GOODNESS I cannot believe it is really you, Pom. I have thought about you so much over the years and wondered how you were, where you were, what you were doing. You must tell me EVERYTHING.

  All good here. Mum got married five years ago to a really nice man. He moved out here twenty years ago from WHITBY – can you believe? All that way and she meets someone from virtually around the corner from where she was born. Such a small world. I’m married with a ten-year-old son. Hubby is a cameraman. He shoots Neighbours. Obviously not shoots the neighbours, you know what I mean. You married? Kids? Tell all and soon!

  Pom it would be great to see you. Please please, we must meet when I’m next over, not sure when though as we came over last year. Here’s my address, email, telephone number, mobile. I can’t tell you how much you have made us all smile by getting in touch.

  Sophie accepted the two friend requests, scrolled through Charlie’s and Tina’s photos. Charlie was taller, balder and wider but unmistakably the man of the boy she remembered. Married to Darryl, who was a fireman. She smiled at that and thought no wonder he’d been impervious to her girlish charms. Tina’s pictures showed her as a glam, sleek, cheerful woman. Her husband was a bear of a man, her son a mini image of him. And there was a photograph of her cuddling a plump lady with grey curly hair – Mrs Ackroyd. Tina’s occupation was listed as ‘Multi-award winning make-up artist to the stars’.

  Whilst she was on Facebook, she clicked on search, put in the name Jade Darlow; last night would have been her prom. The top picture that came up was of a girl in a jade-green gown posing at the side of a pink limousine, leg cocked behind her, hint of a red sole showing. She looked stunning, full of far more sass and swagger than Beyoncé could hope to conjure up. There were a lot of images from the prom: Jade and her friends in their coloured gowns and obligatory teenage pouts; Jade and various boys in suits; Jade and presumably her teachers and one of Jade standing in between her dad and Tracey, all three with their arms around each other. Sophie didn’t even know she was grinning until she felt her face muscles ache.

  She closed her eyes, tried to imagine that she was back in Seaspray, that beyond the window to her left was sand and sea and if she walked outside and turned right she would come to the front door of a vicarage where there was love and laughter and lasagne within the walls and a little boy who loved crunchy pie and trains.

  Chapter 51

  Two months later

  Life for the Mayhews was smoothing. Rebecca Robinson’s fire had petered out and ‘doing a Becky’ had slipped into modern parlance as an analogy for sleeping with a high-profile figure, doing one’s best to savage him in the press and in the process ending up as a charred, spitting, bitter, pathetic figure that had a certain novelty appeal on low-grade TV shows where the desperate and fame-hungry congregated. Just as ‘The Spink Doctor’ himself had predicted.

  Sophie totally confused a nation that had been expecting a PR whirl following her return to the public eye, by giving them nothing. Her refusal to be interviewed had frustrated John, who was a natural ‘fight fire with fire’ man, but Len had expressly forbidden him to push her. Len himself had been initially confounded by her ‘invoking of the fifth amendment’ but when he started to monitor polls and reactions he quickly became convinced she had played a blinder. Sophie’s popularity points appeared to have gone up by a zilli
on per cent. And when hers went up, they pulled John’s up with them.

  There were, of course, many who disparaged her decision to return to her husband after such a cruel humiliation but they seemed to be grossly outnumbered by those who admired her unassuming decorum and determination to rebuild the shattered castle of her marriage brick by quiet brick. Sophie Mayhew had somehow become the poster girl for dignity. In this age of washing grubby laundry in full view of the masses, she was a blast of fresh air with immaculate white sheets.

  ‘Sophie the Trophy’ had transmogrified into ‘Sophie the Toughie’, a woman with bearing and loyalty, strengths but also the best sort of weaknesses. The PM Norman Wax came out in full support of the Mayhews. He even named John as the man he wanted to succeed him.

  In short, all was good.

  Nearly all. Because something wasn’t quite right. As much as Sophie tried to be the same self she had been before she had bolted to Yorkshire, she no longer fitted precisely into the space she had left behind her, however much she tried to cram herself back in. It was too small – she had grown, expanded and it pained her to try.

  She went into the dressing room and took out her suitcase, the old faithful one she had taken with her on her adventure. She and John were going to a wedding that weekend in Dorset. A Labour backbencher was marrying a Conservative frontbencher and Sophie had heard that Madga would be there. She hoped she would be able to sneak off and chat to her at some point. Even if it happened to be in the ladies’ loo.

  She hefted the case onto the bed and opened it up, unzipped the inner pocket to place some underwear in it and saw paper. She’d forgotten she’d put them there: the newspaper article about the women who had reached for their various-sized stars, and the picture that Luke had drawn for her with the disembodied kidney hanging between herself and Ells Bells. The smile on her crayoned face was a deep curve of happiness and she felt herself mirroring it. She had only smiled like that once since she’d left Little Loste and that was when she encountered Magda in the Strangers’ bar. Tears started to pour from her eyes so fast that she couldn’t wipe them away as rapidly as they flowed. What the hell was wrong with her? She almost never cried. Her mother’s voice in her head with that word she detested: Rally.

  She packed a blue taffeta dress for the wedding which had cost an arm, two legs and a head and still it wasn’t a patch on the one she had made for herself that John had forced her to change out of for Clive and Celeste’s golden wedding lunch. The dress was the same blue as Elliott Bellringer’s eyes. And Tracey’s. She wondered how they both were, wondered if Tracey’s and Jade’s relationship had changed gear in the two months since the prom. She wondered if they laughed at the eBay dress saga and thought of her sometimes.

  *

  The wedding was being held in the private chapel of a stately home, which was now an exclusive hotel, and most of the guests were staying in the rooms.

  ‘I don’t bloody believe it,’ said John, as they entered the reception area to find Magda booking in. ‘Her.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Mayhew, how great to see ya,’ said Magda, pausing to speak to them on her way to the grand staircase.

  ‘Lena,’ said John, with a strained smile.

  ‘And Mrs Mayhew, how good to meet you at last in person.’ Magda held out her hand and Sophie shook it, noticing the twinkle in her eye. Then off she swept, leaving Sophie trying to appear innocent and John’s lip pulled back over his teeth.

  Their bedroom was outrageously large. One of the most expensive rooms at the top of the hotel with a view of the sea. It was the first time Sophie had been near the coast since she had returned from Yorkshire. She stood in the window and stared out at it, thought of herself walking barefoot in the warm shallows as she had on the day when she’d visited Briswith, until John told her to get a move on because they were due downstairs for pre-wedding drinks in half an hour.

  They dressed. John looked strikingly suave in a Tom Ford navy suit, pristine white shirt, handmade shoes; an outfit that cost more than Elliott’s entire wardrobe probably. Elliott Elliott Elliott. All roads insisted on leading her thoughts back to him. She had tried so hard to push those three weeks to the back of her mind for the sake of her sanity, but they were too rich, too loud, too colourful. She hoped he was happy, she hoped that Joy had finally got the wildness out of her system and appreciated what she had.

  They went down to the bar. John made a beeline for Chris Stockdale, leaving Sophie lumbered with Dena who once again said to Sophie that they ‘must do lunch’. Sophie excused herself from Dena’s scintillating company after Magda pushed past her, apologising profusely for almost knocking her over. A far from subtle message to follow her, Sophie thought with an inner snigger. Thank goodness, Dena didn’t decide to tag along.

  The ladies’ powder room was enormous and full of chaise longue seats and dressing tables. Inside it a delighted Magda was waiting for her. She looked stunning in an Everton-blue suit and a matching hat with an upturned brim.

  ‘I was hoping you’d taken me banging into ya as a gentle hint.’ They threw their arms around each other.

  ‘It’s so brilliant to see you again,’ gushed Sophie. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch yet about meeting up, I’ve been finding my feet.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ replied Magda. ‘I figured as much, plus I’ve been dead busy myself. I used your brother-in-law’s services by the way. He found us a fantastic place. I’ve passed his name around a few times since.’

  ‘He’s a good egg,’ replied Sophie.

  ‘I was up in Yorkshire last month. Showed my hubby Colditz.’ She shuddered. ‘Called in to see friends whilst I was up there. I was at uni with someone who lives in the next village. Little Loste, it’s called. Isn’t that lovely?’

  Sophie felt a rush of longing. ‘It is,’ she said. It really is.

  ‘She runs an inn so we stayed overnight.’

  Sophie wanted to ask questions, so many questions.

  ‘Her brother’s the local vicar,’ Magda went on. ‘He’s absolutely gorgeous as well. One of those annoying people that gets better-looking with age.’ She hooted. ‘He once came to stay with her at uni and my eyes started pumping out cartoon hearts.’

  Sophie was desperate for detail. ‘He must be married, then.’ Was that too obvious a question?

  ‘Yeah, he is, but he’s going through a divorce apparently.’

  Sophie’s heart stopped. She had to kick-start it with a large gasp.

  ‘He’s single?’

  ‘Far as I know.’ Magda gave her a quizzical look. ‘Got a thing about vicars, have ya? He’s got a lovely little— . . . ah . . . sorry.’ She broke off and admonished herself. ‘Stupid.’

  ‘Child.’ Sophie filled in the missing word for her. ‘Magda, you can say it. Little boy or girl?’ Luke.

  ‘Boy,’ said Magda. ‘He’s four, going on forty-four.’

  ‘Did you take any photos when you were up there?’ Please say you did. ‘. . . I’d like to see the school again.’

  ‘Oh yeah, hang on.’ Magda took her phone out of her glittery silver bag, keyed in her passcode, clicked on photos, scrolled.

  ‘This is my other half and me, a selfie in front of Colditz . . . Colditz again. Still grim, isn’t it? Skip through the boring scenery ones. Ah, this is my mate’s pub and this is me and her . . .’

  Tracey and Magda, arms around each other. Two beautiful women.

  ‘This is her and her fella. He asked her to marry him the day after his daughter’s prom.’ The next picture was a blurred close up of a ring on a finger. ‘We took this when we were pissed on celebratory champagne, hence the quality. This is her cat, he’s deaf and old and gorgeous if you like cats, which I do. Here’s her nephew, isn’t he cute?’

  Luke, in his guard’s uniform, sitting on the ride-on train. His eyes bright blue, his hair in his face and her hand came out of its own accord, before she could stop it, as if to smooth it back. She swallowed, her throat felt blocked with tears, smiles, love
.

  ‘And this is the vicar. Isn’t he a looker?’

  Elliott and Tracey together. Dear Elliott with his dark hair and dimple in his chin, broad shoulders, heavenly eyes, unholy sexiness pouring from his image.

  ‘How can someone who looks like that be single?’ asked Sophie.

  ‘He won’t be for long though, will he?’ replied Magda. ‘According to his sister his wife was a bit of a twat. Messed him about a lot. Turned up a couple of months ago with a big teddy bear expecting to play happy families but she couldn’t even remember when the little boy’s birthday was.’

  A sob escaped from Sophie’s mouth, surprising her more than Magda.

  ‘You all right, girl?’

  ‘Hiccup,’ said Sophie. ‘Go on, Magda, you were saying.’

  ‘Well . . .’ A little confused why Sophie was so interested in people she didn’t know, Magda nevertheless indulged her. ‘So he kicked her to the kerb. Tracey said he’d been feeling really low, but obviously my sparkling presence cheered him up.’

  Elliott and Joy hadn’t got back together. He was single. None of that altered anything in Sophie’s life, so why was she feeling as if her emotions were on a fast spin in a washing machine?

  ‘You’d better go before John sends out a search party,’ Magda nudged her affectionately. ‘Come over to the flat the next time you’re in London. We need a proper natter with gin. Give me a couple of minutes’ head start out of here so John doesn’t see us together.’ Magda embraced her again. ‘Oh, Sophie, you are so lovely. I just hope after all you’ve been through that you’re happier than you look.’

  And with that telling observation, she was off.

  *

  The Chapel of Mary Magdalene was a short walk down a path from the back of the stately home. It was narrow inside with a long red-carpeted aisle and ornate stone pillars, friezes of biblical scenes painted on the walls. A magnificent stained glass window faced the congregation, featuring a resurrected Jesus outside the sepulchre, a woman standing in front of him, arms outstretched in greeting. The Magdalene herself. Now there was a woman who split opinion. Sophie thought of the verbal assault Miss Egerton had given her for implying Mary Magdalene had been in love with Jesus and yet in this depiction there was no doubt of her adoration. Their affection for each other was clear, their happiness at being close again. She heard Elliott’s voice whisper to her: And we are good people who like each other, I think. Friends.