The Good Wife (31 page)

He was holding a mammoth sheaf of papers. I looked at them. ‘Are they all for me?’

‘Not quite.’ He sounded cheerful at the prospect of the fight. Someone had to. We commandeered a couple of plastic chairs and ran through the staggering list of commitments. Coffee mornings. Suppers. Press calls. Mannochie had excelled himself. ‘I’m counting on Will to wheel in some big guns. The Chancellor… or even the PM. Nothing like the big cheeses to make us feel we’re on the map.’

A little later, I got up to make a rally-the-troops speech. I knew I looked the part – unremarkable skirt, slightly more elegant black jacket, discreet jewellery. The uniform of the model political wife.

I surveyed the faces. They were good-natured, expectant, and wishing to be told that all was well. I had the choice as to whether to be honest – and the speech would run along the lines of it was going to be hard and bumpy, there were no safe harbours and no safe outcomes – or… I smiled. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I know Will would have liked to be here, and he will be just as soon as he can. Meanwhile, he sends his thanks in advance for all the work he knows you’ll be putting in during the next six weeks. None of it will be wasted. We have the right policies, the right team and, if I may say so, the right person to represent you and lead you to victory. I live with him…’ pause for a ripple of laughter ‘…and I know he spends every waking minute thinking about the constituency… even when I reckon he should be thinking about me.’

More laughter.

‘One of the things that I know concerns Will in particular is, as a minister, how much time he has to spend in
Westminster, but that does not mean that his constituency of Stanwinton is not engraved on his heart. I hope you feel that he has always considered your views and put your interests at the top of the list.’

I sat down to enthusiastic applause.

‘Very graceful,’ said Mannochie. ‘Thank you.’

I was sitting in front of the mirror rubbing cream into my face and getting ready for bed when Will placed a hand on my shoulder.

‘Fanny, I must ask you. I
have
to ask you. When Raoul came and saw you in Italy. Was that… was it?’

I knew exactly what Will was asking, and I knew he must have thought it over very carefully before he broached the subject. If it had not been for Meg, I am sure he would have tackled me earlier, and the long interval between my telling him that Raoul came to visit and this moment must have given him pain, for which I was sorry.

I continued to smooth the cream into my cheeks and neck and I watched my reflection performing this little everyday routine.

I had it in my power to square an old circle, to redress a balance. I could choose to tell Will the truth. I could say that Raoul offered me sweet and civilized delights, a moment of pleasure and sun, where I was not a wife, but myself… and I could add that I wanted very much to accept.

Or I could tell Will that I had taken Raoul as a lover, but he was not to worry. It was a terrible mistake and certainly was not going to affect our marriage. He would know what I was talking about.

Or I could say that I had thanked Raoul, and replied that I would bear his offer in mind for the future. Keep it stored in the attic, so to speak, and drag it out every so often to dust it off.

I encountered Will’s wary expression in the mirror and put down the tube of cream. It struck me that the politics of a successful marriage involved never asking too straight a question, and in never answering it fully, always leaving that tiny margin of unknowing. It was enough to know that each loved the other, and the rest had to be done with smoke and mirrors and more than a little trust.

I stroked in the final dab of cream. The mirror bore the double burden of me looking at it and being looked into at the same time. My skin gleamed with its expensive lustre and my hair was satisfyingly smart and chic. A girl had grown into a woman who, among other things was a wife and mother. Making sense of what you turned out to be was as much to do with that faith and determination of the will. And, above all, I had my inner room into which I could retreat and draw breath.

I got up and turned round to face Will. ‘It was business.’ I kissed his nose and drew a heart on his chest with my fingertip. ‘Only business.’

‘I’ve had an idea,’ Will said, as he threw back the covers and got into bed. ‘If there’s any money left over from your father’s estate, I think you should make inquiries about buying Casa Rosa. We could do it up. I’ll help you. I like DIY.’

I slid in beside him, and plumped up my pillow. ‘There won’t be enough.’

He smiled conspiratorially. ‘Did I tell you Meg has left me a small amount? You can have it. You
must
have it.’ He reached out and snapped off the light. ‘That should do.’

23

I had been on the stump for four hours. My feet hurt, and my wretched rosette kept falling off. Our last but one stop was a block of flats down by the river where the concrete walkways were streaked with damp and corridors were littered with… best not to inquire. I knocked on a door that had once been bright blue.

A woman in a plastic apron stuck her head through the window. ‘What do you want?’

I launched into the spiel and she frowned. ‘You lot never talked to us.’

‘But I’m talking to you now.’

‘That’s what you call it.’

Behind me, the junior party apparatchik trailing in my wake sniggered and I gave up. ‘Fine,’ I said, and tried to stuff a leaflet through the letterbox, where it stuck.

I stifled a yawn, as well I might: I had been woken at five thirty a.m. by Mr Tucker, who had demanded to know if my spirit was in good working order.

Good question.

Next up was Mrs Scott, my special assignment, who, I knew, would have spent most of the afternoon preparing tea for my visit.

The apparatchik and I squeezed into her sitting room, where a tray with legs had been laid with a lace napkin and a jug with a beaded cover. In the corner, a television with
the sound turned down winked and blinked. ‘I hope you use yours.’ She whipped the cover off the jug.

‘I do, Mrs Scott. I’m very fond of it.’

‘Mrs Savage and I are friends,’ Mrs Scott addressed the apparatchik, ‘she sits in for the minister.’

I glanced around the room. After much tussling, the council had replaced the glass in the front door after the violent neighbours had bashed it in. There was a patch of new plaster, too, where the window had cracked and the damp had got into it. ‘I am glad Will was able to organize to get the repairs. It’s been rather uncomfortable for you, I’m afraid.’

Mrs Scott did not see it this way. ‘If those buggers hadn’t bashed down my door, I would never have got to meet the minister.’

Polling day dawned stormy. I climbed out of our warm bed and pulled back the curtains, The rain rattled across the field, and welled into puddles on the road.

‘Sod it,’ said Will from the bed. ‘No one will go out to vote.’ He picked up the phone and rang Mannochie. While I dressed, a conversation ensued in which my name cropped up. I knew what it meant.

‘Mannochie’s ordered transport for the elderly,’ Will lay back on the pillows, already looking exhausted, ‘but we could use the second car and a driver.’

I picked up my election skirt, not a garment of great beauty but it made me look reliable and approachable, and put it on. ‘I know my duty.’

The polling station was the primary school, where, as
the roof leaked, voters dodged around buckets – which, it occurred to me, was not a good advert for Will.

He and I voted, and I set myself to pilot the aged, infirm, and those with small children to and from the polling stations. Every so often I checked in at one of the twenty committee rooms scattered over the constituency for an update.

The day vanished and, after a snatched supper of a banana and yoghurt, the order came: the MP’s wife’s call to arms.

I went home and changed into a dark grey trouser suit, a silk camisole and a pair of pink, soft leather flat shoes. I was, of course, wearing tights. I looked in the mirror and checked my eyelashes. A girl… no, a
woman
had to consider her strategies. If it was victory, I was primed. If it was defeat, I needed to be at my feminine best. I wanted to go to the death scented, lipsticked, hair in place.

I hid the shadows beneath my eyes with foundation, outlined my mouth in lipstick, blotted it and reapplied a second coat, then brushed my hair until it fell obediently on to my shoulders.

Mannochie caught up with me as I threaded my way through the army of helpers at the party association headquarters. He looked grim, and his hair was lank and unbrushed. ‘Exit polls don’t look so good.’

‘For the party, or for Will?’

‘Hard to say,’ he said, ‘but it’s possible that Will is going to cop it.’

‘Grief, Mannochie.’ I froze on the spot. ‘I thought it might be better on the day.’

‘Politics isn’t a science, but hunches are pretty good too.’

Defeat would come hard to Mannochie as well as to Will. They were linked together like a horse and carriage.

‘We’ve been through it before,’ I said to Mannochie. ‘We’ll survive.’

‘It’s not as though there’s a real reason,’ he said miserably. ‘The economy’s OK. Inflation’s under control. Public services are ticking over.’

I am told that sea-changes in the earth’s composition take place underground in secret. We don’t know about them, but they happen, and it is not until later that the scientists can work out exactly what has happened. Meg had been correct: people get bored and they crave change just for the sake of change. There is no rhyme or reason for it, and it is bad luck on anyone caught by the short-fall.

Will broke into a smile of relief when I pushed my way through to him. ‘Thought you’d done a runner.’

Like minor royalty, he and I stood side by side as people came up to discuss, take orders, make a point. Every so often, Will felt for my hand and pressed it. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Matt Smith making a beeline towards us.

Will whispered, ‘Could you smile at Matt, Fanny?’

‘You ask me to do such terrible things.’ I forced my lips into the appropriate shape.

And so… on to the torture of the count. Keyed up and fatigued, the bystanders wandered around and made aimless conversation. The activists were best at keeping up the semblance of mad activity and, with respect to the
drones, it was those from the opposite party who appeared happiest and more diligently occupied.

The ballot boxes arrived, were emptied, the papers sorted, bundled and placed in lines on the trestle tables. I knew now to watch the lines. Sometimes they creep… sometimes they rocket along and you can tell from the way the tellers glance in your direction which pile belongs to whom.

No one appeared to be looking in Will’s direction.

‘See?’ said Mannochie, in an undertone. ‘Not good.’

‘I know’

I helped myself to coffee from a Thermos. It was stewed but at least it was hot. Anyway, it gave me something on which to concentrate. No need to get the bad news before it was necessary.

At four o’clock there was a final altercation with the Natural Earth candidate over spoilt ballot papers. That sorted, the returning officer made his way to Will and me. ‘I’m sorry.’ He spoke directly to Will. ‘You win some and some you don’t.’ Will swallowed. The gaze of the returning officer drifted towards the winning candidate. ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated.

Will stood on the platform, as upright and unflinching as he had trained himself to be, and I was proud of him. The final figures were read out and he did not falter, not once, not even when he heard how his majority of 7,005 had been wiped off the face of the earth.

The victorious candidate bowed, grinned, and made a speech in which he individually thanked most people in Stanwinton.

Then Will took the microphone… and we were back
to the beginning. He spoke about change, the need to rethink and recharge, and how he had fought to hold on to his ideals. He thanked his supporters and told them that nothing had been wasted.

Every word drained him, I could see that, and I willed him to the finish in this gladiatorial death. At the end, head bowed, he listened to the applause. Then he raised his eyes and sought mine.

It did not end quite there: we had to speak to so many people who required to be reassured and reminded that there was a tomorrow and it would come.

On the way home, Will said suddenly, ‘Stop the car.’

He wrenched open the door and stumbled out. I followed him.

Then he was sick.

I held him until the bout was finished. ‘Sorry,’ he managed.

After he had got his breath back, I made him walk with me as far as the oak tree at the corner of the field. The sun was just poking above the horizon and, after the heat and frenzy of the town hall, the air was fresh and cool. We leant on the gate and looked across the field to the dawn, where the light was picking out the pattern of leaves on the hedgerows. The birds were stirring in the beech trees.

Will laid his head on his folded arms. ‘I always wondered how I would deal with it when it came.’

‘The answer is, fine. In fact, more than fine.’

His voice was muffled. ‘We will have to think again about everything. How we live, all that. What we do.’

Back at the house, I made him tea which he drank
thirstily. ‘Let’s see what’s happening on television,’ he said.

But I stopped him. ‘No, that’s finished for the moment.’ The dark eyes were dull with misery. ‘I suppose you are right.’

Although I knew he had not had any dinner the night before, he refused to eat anything, and I led him upstairs. He submitted obediently as I unbuttoned his shirt and peeled it off. His body was soaked in sweat and, every so often, he gave a shuddering sigh.

In bed, I eased myself close and held him.

After a few minutes he fell into a twitchy sleep, but I kept on holding him until my arm grew numb. When I could not stand it any longer, I detached myself from Will and went downstairs to phone Chloë.

It took a bit of determination to track her down but, eventually, I got through. It was very late at night for her, and she sounded terrified when she came to the phone. ‘Mum? Nothing bad has happened?’