The Magnificent Mrs Mayhew

by Milly Johnson

  This was the first time both families had all been together since the weekend before doorstepgate; bar Edward, of course, who was still in the cold hinterland of rejection. At least Sophie could do him a favour there, she thought, because today she would turn him into a saint by comparison. Lunch was chateaubriand with a red wine jus. There were no home-cooked Yorkshire puddings or beetroot wine, nor a black kitten in a furry bed in the corner. There was, however, a lot of forced politeness and good behaviour. Dessert was panna cotta; individual portions, each turned out of its own precise mould. Not crunchy pie with a smash of raspberries on top. Would she miss these gatherings at all, she asked herself ? The answer was a very easy no. She felt fear clamp its hand around her jaw, then bravery prise off its fingers and tell it to get lost because it wouldn’t change anything with its unwelcome presence.

  As soon as her offer had been accepted, she had started packing. Elise’s garage now boarded the boxes and bags and cases she would take with her into her new life: bolts of material and all her sewing paraphernalia, her wardrobe of dresses that would constitute her first stock, jewellery which she would sell, all her shoes – with the prospect of many other shoes to come when she was ready to take possession of them. In the boot and passenger side of her Mercedes sports car were a few suitcases of essentials that would cater to her immediate needs, and in the tank enough petrol to take her where she wanted to go. She had been expecting something at every stage to stop her, been prepared for a head-on battle, but nothing had interrupted the smooth flow of her planning. As if it were meant to be.

  ‘So, don’t you think it’s about time we saw some articles in the press about you both as a couple?’ asked Clive, directing the question more at Sophie than John. His tone was casual with a hard edge. This was something that had long been niggling him, thought Sophie.

  John answered for them. ‘Absolutely. It’s all in hand. A wonderful Christmas feature, we thought. “At Home with the Mayhews”.’

  The ‘we’ was Len and John, not Sophie and John. John had broached the proposal: mistletoe-covered inglenook in the drawing room, Everest-sized tree in the hall, fake snow on the lawn. He was probably planning to dig up Perry Como to sing about chestnuts roasting on an open fire too. She’d listened to what he had to say and hadn’t said no, which John had taken for a yes. She was slipping more and more into insignificance with every day that passed; Sophie the Trophy, the puppet on a string.

  ‘About time,’ Clive huffed. ‘People want to see evidence of family life when your husband is Secretary of State for Family Matters, Sophie. They don’t want his wife to be hiding away. She should be there at his side where she belongs.’

  Something reared inside her. Something that would have raised its hand to make a small protest in times past and then decided against it; but not now.

  ‘They might see much more of a family soon, as John has suggested we adopt a child.’

  The result was a silence bomb which thudded onto the table in the middle of them all.

  ‘Sophie, we . . . er . . .’ John wiped his mouth with his starched linen napkin, smothering his annoyance. ‘Shouldn’t really have said anything until we’ve actually started the process, darling.’

  ‘Well, that is a surprise,’ said Celeste, in the manner of one who had just been told that her son and his wife were about to renounce Conservatism in favour of Marxism.

  ‘It is, but of course it won’t happen,’ said Sophie, an imp of mischief sitting on her shoulder, handing her verbal weapons of mass destruction. ‘It was merely something John said to keep me onside.’ She carried on eating her panna cotta, but the others had frozen mid-pudding. Annabella’s husband made a small choked-off sound as if he were responding to a joke that he didn’t quite understand.

  ‘Now why would you think that?’ John’s clipped response.

  ‘Probably because you aren’t capable of telling the truth, John,’ Sophie returned, with her sweetest smile on display. ‘And that’s why I’m leaving you. That and the fact that you don’t love me, of course. Did you ever, John?

  It was a rhetorical question; he never had. Love went hand in hand with respect and there was none of that in their relationship. She was a first-aid kit expected to come to the rescue when he self-harmed.

  Margaret had unfortunately picked that moment to check on how the desserts were going down and reversed out at speed as if this were a film and someone had just hit the rewind button. An awkward laugh – from Robert, Sophie thought; for once reduced to a state of no sarcastic comment.

  This was not how it had played out in her mental rehearsal. She had planned to have a civilised lunch, say a polite goodbye and then skedaddle.

  Annabella’s plummy voice now: ‘Sophie, is that a joke because if it is, it isn’t very funny.’

  ‘Totally uncalled-for behaviour,’ said sister number two. ‘Especially since you caused—’ She cut off her words.

  ‘Oh, don’t stop; please continue, Victoria. Especially since you caused what? Caused a furore by not letting you all section me in a hospital because I wouldn’t take the blame for John screwing a fame-hungry political aide? Sorry, political aides, because there was more than one, wasn’t there, John? Two I know of for certain, plus someone’s stocky little wife, which makes three. And God knows how many others. Even though you swore to me that there weren’t. Swore on our baby’s memory.’

  ‘John, what is she talking about?’ snapped Celeste.

  Angus ripped his napkin from his collar.

  ‘Not this madness again,’ he said.

  Sophie stood up and rounded on her father.

  ‘No, there’s no madness here, only cold, clear, sanity. Mum, Dad, I’m sorry that I’ve been such a disappointment to you. Celeste, Clive, unfortunately it’s not my fault that John has jeopardised his career and any future honours for you by not being able to keep his genitals in his trousers. You should look up the Bathsheba syndrome. It may explain a few things.’

  Angus and the Mayhew seniors joined together in a choir of outrage. ‘Well really!’

  ‘John, say something,’ screeched Alice, but John remained abnormally silent. Outmanoeuvred. A king piece on a chessboard, brought down by the queen of the same colour.

  Sophie wasn’t finished. ‘Annabella, Victoria, we’ve never got on, have we? Sometimes blood isn’t thicker than water, is it? Sometimes it’s simply red stuff. But do look after that little boy, Annabella, because all children need love, otherwise they grow up . . . well, like us.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Sophie,’ snarled her mother and for a split second she felt a spike of real gut-wrenching fear, fear that this time she was about to close a door that could not be opened again. Then it segued into the wonderful realisation that she was about to close a door that could not be opened again.

  Sophie picked up the handbag at her side; there was nothing more to be said, she was done. She turned to the now puce-faced John who seemed for once unable to dredge up any fitting response. ‘I’ll take the car, I’m sure someone will give you a lift, and I’ll be gone by the time you get back to the house. I’ll be in touch about the divorce – play fair and I will too. You wanted me to give interviews to the press – well, I’ll be happy to . . . if I don’t get what I want.’ Then she swept her eyes across the roomful of people and said, ‘Au revoir’ in an accent worthy of Pom, although in her heart, she knew that it was far more likely to be goodbye.

  Chapter 54

  ‘Excusez moi, do you have a room for the night?’ asked Sophie in an exaggerated accent that belonged to someone in a beret with a necklace of onions around their neck.

  ‘Oh my goodness, it’s you,’ shrieked Tracey, bouncing out from behind the bar to embrace her friend. ‘What are you doing here? Couldn’t keep away, eh?’

  ‘I could, but I really didn’t want to,’ replied Sophie.

  ‘Hello, lass.’ Old Marshall nodded from the corner. ‘Nice to see you back.’

  ‘Hello, Marshall,’ smiled Sophie. ‘It’s
good to be back.’

  ‘I do have a room and it’s all yours,’ Tracey said.

  ‘Well, if you hadn’t, I’d have taken the bedsit in the alms-house,’ said Sophie, as Tracey embraced her for the second time, unable to contain her delight.

  ‘Can you believe, it’s been sold?’ said Tracey. ‘Subject to contract of course. A company from down south gave us the asking price and didn’t even try and negotiate or even request a viewing. Mad idiots.’

  ‘Solomon Holdings by any chance?’ asked Sophie.

  Tracey’s mouth was pulled open by surprise. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘Because it’s me. I’m Solomon Holdings.’

  ‘Fuck a duck.’ Tracey hurriedly went back behind the bar, poured out two glasses of wine: rosé for herself and red for her guest. ‘What are . . . did you . . . why?’

  ‘I want to be a woman who lives out her dream, however small it seems to anyone else, that’s why,’ said Sophie, picking up her glass and chinking it against Tracey’s. ‘I want to own the biggest centre for prom outfits in the north. I’m going to buy up all those prom dresses and suits that are worn once and forward them on to a new wearer.’

  Forwarding Address. She hadn’t realised why the name of Edward’s company persisted in sticking to the inside of her skull until the night of the wedding in Dorset. Forwarding A Dress. The idea was as simple as it was brilliant. And if Edward could break free from the Mayhews and make his dream come true, so could she.

  ‘That’s bonkers,’ said Tracey.

  ‘Isn’t it.’

  ‘You’re off your nut. It’s fantastic.’

  ‘I can but try.’

  It was time to be the sun in her own solar system.

  ‘Luke will be thrilled to see you. He wouldn’t take his guard uniform off for six weeks. It threw itself into the washing machine in the end.’

  Sophie smiled. The inside of her bloomed with warmth at the mention of his name.

  ‘I’m sorry that I didn’t say goodbye last time,’ she said. ‘I thought it best I should go when I did. When I knew Joy was back.’

  Tracey huffed. ‘She turned up on what she thought was Luke’s fourth birthday, which he’d already had the month before, which tells you everything. With a bloody enormous blue bear which traumatised me, never mind him. She tried everything to get back with Elliott: crying, pleading, threatening, pretending the brakes on her car were faulty and she couldn’t drive anywhere. It was late so Ells let her have the spare room in the vicarage and I stayed with her to make sure she didn’t chain herself to the bannister or something, whilst he went over to the pub to stay with Luke. I had Steve come over and look at her brakes first thing the next morning and guess what – nothing wrong with them. Elliott sent her on her way but it wouldn’t have worked between them because he was in love with you. Obviously I couldn’t tell you that; your life was complicated enough.’

  Sophie’s whole body froze; she felt as if she had forgotten how to breathe.

  ‘I’m not daft, I know why you left here when you did,’ said Tracey. ‘I guessed you felt the same about him. I’m hoping that you haven’t come back just for Kitty Henshaw’s old house?’ She looked hopeful.

  ‘No,’ replied Sophie, a rasp of emotion in her voice. ‘Not just for the house.’

  Tracey grinned. ‘Why don’t you pop along to the vicarage and see Elliott? If you chuck me the car keys, I’ll take your cases upstairs. How many have you got?

  ‘Four and a sewing machine.’

  ‘Blimey, planning on staying a while?’ snorted Tracey.

  ‘Yes,’ came the reply. ‘For ever.’

  Sophie knocked on the back door of the vicarage. Elliott opened it tentatively, not expecting to see her there.

  ‘I wanted to avoid the curtain-twitchers,’ she said, trying not to laugh at the look on his face because it was the sort of expression a small football-mad kid might wear finding Cristiano Ronaldo on his doorstep.

  ‘Pom. Come in. How lovely to see you.’

  She crossed the threshold into this dear kitchen. It smelled of baked potatoes and grilled cheese; it smelled like a home. There on the table was his large notebook and she wondered if her name still sat on the pages. Luke’s kitten was running madly around the kitchen playing with a ping-pong ball. He’d grown. Time didn’t stop for anyone, that’s why sometimes it was important not to wait for it, but to jump onto the train, ride with it.

  ‘Can I . . . can I get you a coffee?’

  ‘Thank you, that would be nice.’

  He didn’t know what to say to her, that was clear as he put a pod into the machine, pressed a button, waited for something to happen.

  ‘You need to switch it on at the mains.’ She leaned forward, did that for him.

  ‘Oh yes, of course.’

  ‘And I’d put a cup under the spout as well.’

  He was flustered, almost dropped the cup. Sophie smiled. She wondered if she would ever stop.

  ‘Luke will be sorry he missed you, he’s in bed obviously at this time,’ said Elliott as the machine started to growl and deliver.

  ‘I’m sure I’ll see him tomorrow,’ Sophie replied.

  ‘You’re staying for a while?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve bought the almshouse.’

  Elliott’s head snapped round to her. ‘You? It’s you?’

  ‘Yep. It’s me.’

  ‘What are you going to do with it?’

  ‘I’m going to turn it into a prom outfit paradise.’

  She made a quick mental note to contact Dena Stockdale now she was in situ. Daisy Shoes was supplying a huge consignment of footwear suitable for proms for the price of her silence. But she was probably wiser not admitting blackmail to the local vicar.

  ‘How will you manage the business from down south?’ asked Elliott. His eyebrows had pulled together in the middle, his brain must be tumbling with questions, she thought.

  ‘I won’t. I’ll be moving in with Kitty. I’m an outcast. I don’t mind, I’ve had some of my happiest times as a pariah. I reckoned it was time to start living for myself, rather than for someone else. I’m expecting a very generous divorce settlement.’

  He took the cup from the machine, placed it on the work surface at the side of her. She noticed that his hand trembled as he did so, sending the coffee over the rim.

  ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why here?’

  ‘Because I have friends here and the shopkeeper down the road gives me free breadcakes.’

  He smiled. ‘Any other reason?’

  ‘There’s a little boy that I’m a bit in love with.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘The beach.’

  ‘And?’

  She swallowed down the fear, prepared to launch. ‘Elliott, I have no idea if I’m here because of the cosmos sending me messages on business cards or Kitty Henshaw turning pages over or God talking to me at a wedding or maybe it’s all of them, maybe it’s a three-pronged attack . . . Sorry, I know this makes absolutely no sense to you at all but what I’m trying to say is . . . is that . . . if you want me . . . ’

  Tumbleweed. He didn’t answer. She’d got it wrong. She was here because she’d followed a Norwegian sea-full of red herrings. Her damage-limitation auto-correct cranked up.

  ‘But . . . if you don’t, that’s okay, we can be friends. I can live with that. I’d rather have you in my life as a friend than not and . . .’

  He was looking at her with his beautiful blue eyes. She wanted the floor to open up and drag her down – this woman who had just made a complete fool of herself.

  Elliott took a breath, began to speak slowly, calmly.

  ‘I can tell you now. . . that even as a non-believer, you are witnessing an actual moment where a prayer has been answered.’

  His hand came out, captured hers, lifted it to his lips. The kiss flew to her heart, landing there with a contented sigh and even as a non-believer, Sophie Mayhew knew she had found her heaven.

  The Magnificent (Ex-) Mrs
Mayhew Revisited

  By Gina Almonza for South Counties Magazine

  Sophie Mayhew has changed since I interviewed her over a year and a half ago. Then she was designer-preened and polished and beautiful, now she is in jeans and sneakers and if anything is even more stunning, plus there is a light dancing in her eyes that was not present at our last meeting.

  We are in the homely, bright kitchen of her grand, but not grandiose, house, delightfully named ‘Seaspray’, and drinking festive hot chocolate with a shot of egg-nog. My mug features the name of her business, Prominence. Hers features the wording, ‘Best Mummy in the World’. There is a sewing machine on the table and a pair of pinstripe trousers. Clearly Sophie, as she insists I call her, is mid-project.

  Sophie has been divorced from John F. Mayhew for seven months now and has happily turned her back on the lime-light, whilst the limelight has unhappily turned its back on her ex-husband. Following the general election which saw the Conservative Party ousted, Mayhew did not find himself elected party leader as expected, thanks to the surprise rise of back-bench whizz-kid Barclay Freemantle. Meanwhile his old rival Lena Sowerby – ironically, an old school friend of Sophie’s – has become the new deputy Prime Minister. Still, John F. Mayhew has his many millions from his increasingly successful business portfolio to compensate him. Do Sophie and John ever speak? There is no reason to, she answers. They belong to two very different worlds now and it is easy to see in which one Sophie is most comfortable.

  The front rooms of the gorgeous Seaspray are filled with shoes and accessories, fabulous gowns and suits, most of them ready to be tweaked and altered to fit their new owners like the proverbial glove, although some are made to measure from scratch, too. ‘I want my young clients to have their Cinderella – or their Prince Charming – moment,’ says Sophie, ‘and without their parents having to sell a kidney to supply it.’ Any profits are ploughed back into Prominence, which is less of a business and more of a service.