Never Marry a Politician Read online

  Copyright © 2016 Sarah Waights

  Published 2016 by Choc Lit Limited

  Penrose House, Crawley Drive, Camberley, Surrey GU15 2AB, UK

  www.choc-lit.com

  The right of Sarah Waights to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying. In the UK such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London, W1P 9HE

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available

  from the British Library

  EPUB ISBN 978-1-78189-215-2

  To my mother, who said ‘do it’

  – and never doubted that I would.

  Acknowledgements

  It is an act of faith – to say nothing of slightly unattractive self-belief – to write a novel without a publishing deal, which is where I was when I wrote this story. It could have been lonely too – but I never felt it was, thanks to many, many people including: my long suffering husband, who always shows a polite interest; the Romantic Novelists’ Association – with honourable mentions for Catherine Jones and Melanie Hilton in particular; my lovely friend Julia Silk at Orion Publishing; the wonderfully encouraging team involved in the Good Housekeeping Novel Award including Luigi Bonomi, agent, Kate Mills and Jemima Forrester from Orion, Joanne Finney, Books Editor at Good Housekeeping and the rest of the team who scooped my entry out of the pile and were kind enough to encourage me, and not forgetting my loyal friend Anne Roberts who nagged me to enter in the first place; then there are my drinking pals who promise to buy it, including Alex, Claire, Clare, Kate, Nancy, Carolyn, Charlie, Georgie, Sarah, Anna, Vicky, Kim, Helen, et al – you know who you are … and finally, the fabulous Choc Lit team who are patiently teaching me to be a proper novelist. Special thanks go to the Tasting Panel readers who passed the book and made this all possible: Lisa B., Sue P., Louise, Linda Sp., Melanie, Georgina, and Sarah C. I salute you all.

  Contents

  Title page

  Copyright information

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  The Ten Commandments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  More from Choc Lit

  Introducing Choc Lit

  About the Author

  THE TEN COMMANDMENTS

  for a politician’s wife

  My name is Emily Pemilly. I know, catastrophic. Being of dubiously sound mind my advice would be never, under any circumstances, marry a politician.

  However, if you insist, the only advice I can offer is this:

  1. Thou shalt take thy husband’s name – because this is expected, even if thou art then called something utterly ridiculous like Emily Pemilly which makes thee sound like the heroine of one of those silly children’s books that would never have got published if they hadn’t been written by someone famous.

  2. Thou shalt give up thy career – which was the one thing that made thee feel like a proper adult. That and having a sensible name. Sadly, being a fearless and uncompromising mouthpiece for the truth – I was a journalist – is an impossible career choice for people with silly names anyway. As another option, you could consider the following commandment;

  3. Thou shalt choose a career which makes thee look saintly – thereby casting a glow of sanctity upon thy husband by association. Looking after sick children would be good, although being a nurse is politically sensitive because of the union issues and being a doctor means thou art a bit too clever. Perhaps run an animal rescue centre or similar as being nice to small, furry creatures is definitely a vote winner.

  4. Thou shalt give up the right to make even the simplest decisions on thine own – leaving such weighty issues as which supermarket to shop at, which car to drive and even names for thy children, to be endlessly dissected and analysed by a focus group which will tell thee precisely how to do absolutely everything.

  5. Thou shalt gaze adoringly at thy husband at all times whilst in public – even when he is making the most boring speech in Christendom. Actually, especially then. And no yawning. Ever.

  6. Thou shalt cheerfully attend an endless series of constituency fundraising events – where members of thy husband’s constituency and team will talk about thee as though thou aren’t there.

  7. Thou shalt deputise for thy husband at all the constituency surgeries that he can’t be arsed to go to himself – even though this involves sitting for hours in draughty village halls listening to old people moaning about waiting lists for hip replacements, the solution for which is entirely beyond thy power.

  8. Thou shalt not beat thy children – as thou art required to be a far more perfect parent than anyone else in the world. This is mainly in case thy husband is called upon to speak in support of a smacking ban or some other entirely unrealistic parenting policy thought up by people who don’t have children.

  9. Thou shalt not allow thy children to misbehave in public – a particularly difficult commandment given the restrictions imposed by commandment number eight. By the way, thou needn’t think drugging them into submission is an option either because this is also frowned upon by those pesky childfree policymakers.

  10. Thou shalt believe that the end justifies the means – in practice this translates to a devout and unquestioning acceptance that how things look is considerably more important than how things are.

  And this is the word of the Party.

  Amen.

  Chapter One

  Even the combination of tiger face-paint and a generous coating of chocolate spread failed to disguise Alfie’s gorgeousness.

  ‘Daddy,’ he announced, ‘is a poo-poo head.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Emily muttered. ‘I know you’re disappointed sweetie,’ she said, ruffling Alfie’s hair. ‘Daddy wouldn’t have missed your party for the world if he didn’t have to.’

  He had still had a fabulous birthday, she mused. As a sociable four-year-old, his idea of heaven was a crowd of mates, opportunities to run around screaming like a banshee and endless supplies of party food made primarily out of artificial colouring. He had had all these since three o’clock that afternoon and fifteen pre-schoolers had trailed home two hours later, off their heads on sugar and additives and primed to put their parents through hell until bedtime.

  The house had not escaped unscathed and, once a
gain, Emily rued her lack of forethought in not giving birth to her children in the summer. How did the other parents of children with winter birthdays cope without the garden party option? Her husband Ralph – pronounced Raif, but frequently mispronounced, to his irritation – had thought the same. He’d had little patience for her in the first mind-numbing weeks when she was caring for the new-born Alfie who had arrived when Tash, then four, was at the height of her despotic infant powers.

  ‘You should have waited for summer recess,’ he had said, creating the impression that, in his view, Emily could have extended gestation to fifteen months rather than thoughtlessly sticking with the usual nine.

  He missed the birth of course. A three line whip had kept him in the House to vote. Then he had turned up at the hospital, not with flowers and champagne but with his agent TJ along with Saul, TJ’s celebrity photographer boyfriend. Saul’s sleeveless leather jacket, worn over a naked torso, attracted even more interest in the maternity ward than Ralph, who was irritated at not being the centre of attention. The resulting arty black and white shots of father gazing into the eyes of his new-born son had been sold hard into the national newspapers. Columnists had twittered at length about the family-friendly face of the Party, edging ahead in the polls with their young, dynamic team of shadow ministers, of which Ralph was the newest and shiniest. He was Shadow Secretary of State for Children and Families at the time, being elevated to the top of the party at just thirty-eight, only four years into his career as an MP.

  She gazed wearily at the post-party mess. If only she’d organised a press call along with the crisps and sausage rolls, he might have made an appearance. Mind you, as Alfie was a lot more vocal and less co-operative than he had been, it suited Ralph to play the sanctimonious ‘my family life is private’ card more often nowadays.

  ‘Give us a kiss, gorgeous,’ she sighed, holding out her arms.

  Alfie’s eyes narrowed. ‘Okay, just one,’ he said, offering a cheek, ‘but no spit.’

  Nessa and Emily were having a cup of own-brand instant coffee, the best the kitchen cupboards at the village hall had to offer. It was an unappealing reward for finishing the clothes sorting.

  ‘Who donates their pants to a jumble sale?’ asked Emily again.

  ‘I know darling. Too ghastly,’ agreed Nessa with a shudder. ‘Never mind,’ she added, ‘just the books to go – thank heaven. Must be my millionth time …’

  ‘More, I should have thought. You’re so kind to help, you know. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  The last words came out with a barely perceptible tremor and Nessa knew Emily wasn’t just talking about gruesome jumble sale preparations.

  ‘Darling, I wouldn’t be anywhere else,’ she replied, giving Emily a little squeeze and then busying herself with the coffee cups so they could both regain their composure. ‘God knows, I’d still be doing this as an MP’s wife if Arthur hadn’t so selfishly dropped dead on us all,’ she continued over her shoulder as she rinsed the cups and put them on the draining board. ‘Mind you, it’s been forty-six years of jumble sales and coffee mornings I worked out the other day. Horrifying isn’t it? The truth is – despite it all – I’m not ready to hang up my constituency boots just yet.’

  Emily could hardly believe her friend was in her sixties. She wore her age with an ease that made the thirty year age gap irrelevant. ‘I didn’t have a clue what I was doing when Ralph took Arthur’s seat,’ she reminisced. ‘Thank goodness you were prepared to stick around.’

  Nessa smiled. ‘I was thinking the other day I’ve gone from MP’s wife to a kind of honorary MP’s wife’s mother-in-law.’

  ‘I can assure you, you couldn’t be less like a mother-in-law.’

  ‘You say the sweetest things. Also, the very thought of being Ralph’s mother! I don’t know who would be more horrified – him or me … ooh look, porn!’ she exclaimed, distracted by a grubby paperback with a naked woman on the front.

  ‘So it is. Much pored over by the look of it too. Ugh. Shall I chuck it?’

  ‘Absolutely not. I’ll keep it under the counter and whip it out when the vicar gets to me. He likes a bit of smut.’

  ‘No he doesn’t,’ giggled Emily. ‘You are naughty. He’s a clean cut young man with a gorgeous wife and three children, as you know perfectly well.’

  ‘Ah, but appearances can be deceptive,’ said Nessa, tapping the side of her nose. ‘Now this really is interesting,’ she exclaimed holding up a fat red volume with gold tooling on the spine. ‘How to Run the Perfect Household by Felicity Wainwright,’ she read. ‘It looks like – oh yes, look at this publication date – 1953. Now those were the days,’ she reminisced. ‘It was only the mid-sixties that Arthur and I were married – I was a child bride obviously – and my, what a shock it was, too! I could have done with something like this.’

  ‘Must be hopelessly old-fashioned nowadays though,’ said Emily, holding out her hand for it. ‘For goodness’ sake, look at this, for example. Page one, chapter one, “A young woman of refinement entering marriage today is likely to find herself running a household with the bare minimum of staffing. She will therefore be likely to have to take on the role of housekeeper herself, taking a close interest in the work of the maid and cook, to ensure standards are kept to a respectable level. This is essential if she is to do her wifely duty of maintaining the dignity of her husband amongst his peers.”’

  She blew a sigh. ‘It was another world wasn’t it! Pipes and slippers for the men and domestic slavery for the women, albeit with “help”. Thank goodness we made it to the twenty-first century before Ralph and I tied the knot.’

  ‘Hello ladies,’ announced TJ as he marched into the village hall, looking more than usually brisk and efficient. Behind him followed a bespectacled grey-haired man in pinstripes. ‘Right,’ said TJ rubbing his hands together, ‘let’s talk tactics.’

  ‘Great,’ said Nessa. ‘They’re my favourite … Only the mint ones of course, those orange and lime things they brought out are just too horrid for words.’

  Emily giggled. ‘Tactics, Nessa, not tic tacs.’

  TJ looked cross. He raised his chin and continued, ‘In light of the … er … developments of this morning, central office are keen to ensure we are optimising the opportunities presented to us by the inevitable increase in media interest.’

  Nessa shot Emily a look.

  ‘What developments, TJ?’ asked Emily, ‘only whatever massive news has been announced, we’ve missed it.’

  ‘True,’ agreed Nessa. ‘We’ve been buried in dirty underpants and porn all morning. Haven’t heard a thing,’ she added innocently.

  TJ and pinstripes looked pained and astonished in turn.

  TJ sighed. When Arthur had died, a tiny glimmer of hope in the general bleakness of the situation was that Nessa would be replaced by an altogether more amenable MP’s wife that he could boss around. It had worked out, to a point. He was secretly and devotedly in love with Ralph, as well as being extremely fond of Emily, but Nessa’s continued presence led her frequently into insurrection that TJ, as agent and therefore lynchpin in the constituency, could do without. Now, more than ever, unquestioning compliance would be helpful.

  ‘So, he hasn’t contacted you?’ he asked Emily, incredulously.

  She shook her head. Although he had been in the London flat since Tuesday night and it was now Thursday afternoon, they no longer called each other several times a day, just to hear each other’s voices.

  ‘Well,’ TJ continued, flustered, ‘I am sure he would have done if he could. It’s been really mental. I happen to know he’s in a shadow cabinet meeting as we speak.’

  ‘So anyway,’ said Nessa, ‘cutting the crap – as it were – what the bloody hell is this huge news, TJ?’

  ‘Oh, right. Well, in a nutshell, the government have done it. They’ve called a general election.’

  Emily whistled. ‘Ralph must be beside himself,’ she said with awe.

  ‘Well, we’re all p
retty excited, that’s true enough,’ conceded pinstripes, coming forward to shake the women’s hands. ‘I’m Gerald Mortimer, from central office as TJ said. Basically, I’ve been asked to come out and help get everyone on message, help out with profile management, that sort of thing.’

  Emily nodded and Nessa looked amused.

  ‘The thing is,’ he continued, ‘Ralph is obviously a pretty key person as far as the presentation of the party is concerned. We will want to be using him – and you,’ he flashed a grin at Emily, ‘to show the electorate what we represent.’

  ‘Which is …?’ queried Nessa.

  Gerald looked as if it was the pinnacle of his life’s ambition to be asked such a question. ‘Well,’ he began, ‘the main thing to get across is probably going to be the whole traditional family values thing.’

  Emily threw him an enquiring look.

  ‘You know,’ he continued, ‘like supporting the nuclear family with the introduction of a tax framework that rewards the single wage earner, allowing the other parent the choice to manage home and childcare meaning better educational attainment and a future workforce with inherent personal social responsibility and a valuable skill set …’

  Nessa yawned extravagantly. Emily was sure she was putting it on. ‘So, my role is …?’ she queried.

  ‘Ah,’ smirked Gerald, ‘You would be the go-getting, ball-breaking alpha woman, with the high-flying career and the househusband, obviously …’

  ‘Really?’ said Emily, flattered that her gossipy column in the local lifestyle magazine plus the odd feature article in a national broadsheet was considered ‘high-flying’.

  ‘Erm, no – sorry – I was joking,’ he replied, embarrassed. ‘We rather had you down as the “perfect home-maker, photogenic family, dedicated wife, charming consort to the powerful man” type of role actually.’

  ‘Sounds like not much has changed,’ Nessa observed. ‘I’ve done rather too much “charming consort” stuff myself over the years.’

  ‘Really?’ said Gerald, a little too incredulously for Nessa’s liking.