Charles placed the file on the table by the side of his chair and waited patiently for the call. He knew exactly where she was at that moment and just the thought of it made him sick to his stomach. The phone rang.
“The subject left five minutes ago,” said a voice.
“Thank you,” said Charles and replaced the receiver. He knew it would take her about twenty minutes to reach home.
“Why do you think she walks home instead of taking a taxi?” he had once asked Mr. Cruddick.
“Gets rid of any smells,” Mr. Cruddick had replied quite matter-of-factly.
Charles shuddered. “And what about him? What does he do?” He never could refer to him as Alexander, or even Dalglish; or as anything but “him.”
“He goes to the Lansdowne Club, swims ten lengths or plays a game of squash before returning home. Swimming and squash both solve the problem,” Mr. Cruddick explained cheerily.
The key turned in the lock. Charles braced himself and picked up the file. Fiona came straight into the drawing room and was visibly shaken to discover her husband sitting in an armchair with a small suitcase by his side.
She recovered quickly, walked over, and kissed him on the cheek. “What brings you home so early, darling? The Socialists taken the day off?” She laughed nervously at her joke.
“This,” he said, standing up and holding the file out to her.
She took off her coat and dropped it over the sofa. Then she opened the buff folder and started to read. He watched her carefully. First the color drained from her cheeks, then her legs gave way and she collapsed onto the sofa. Finally she started to sob.
“It’s not true, none of it,” she protested.
“You know very well that every detail is accurate.”
“Charles, it’s you I love, I don’t care about him, you must believe that.”
“I believe nothing of the sort,” said Charles. “You’re no longer someone I could live with.”
“Live with? I’ve been living on my own since the day you entered Parliament.”
“Perhaps I might have come home more often if you had showed some interest in starting a family.”
“And do you imagine I am to blame for that inadequacy?” she said.
Charles ignored the innuendo and continued. “In a few moments I am going to my club where I shall spend the night. I expect you to be out of this house within seven days. When I return I want there to be no sign of you or any of your goods or chattels, to quote the original agreement.”
“Where will I go?” she cried.
“You could try your lover first, but no doubt his wife might object. Failing that, you can camp down at your feather’s place.”
“What if I refuse to go?” said Fiona, turning to defiance.
“Then I shall throw you out, as one should a whore, and cite Alexander Dalglish in a very messy divorce case.”
“Give me another chance. I’ll never look at him again,” begged Fiona, starting to cry once more.
“I seem to remember your telling me that once before, and indeed I did give you another chance. The results have been all too plain to sec.” He pointed to the file where it had fallen to the floor.
Fiona stopped weeping when she realized that Charles remained unmoved.
“I shall not see you again. We shall be separated for at least two years, when we will carry through as quiet a divorce as possible in the circumstances. If you cause me a moment of embarrassment I shall drag you both through the mire. Believe me.”
“You’ll regret your decision, Charles. I promise you. I’ll not be pushed aside quite that easily.”
“They’ve done what?” said Joyce.
“Two Communists have put their names forward for election to the General Purposes Committee,” repeated Fred Padgett.
“Over my dead body.” Joyce’s voice was unusually sharp.
“I thought that would be your attitude,” said Fred.
Joyce searched for the pencil and paper that were normally on the table by the phone.
“When’s the meeting?” she asked.
“Next Thursday.”
“Have we got reliable people to stand against them?”
“Of course,” said Fred. “Councillor Reg Illingworth and Jenny Simpkins from the Co-op.”
“They’re both sensible enough but between them they couldn’t knock the skin off a rice pudding.”
“Shall I phone Raymond at the House and get him to come up for the meeting?”
“No,” said Joyce, “He’s got enough to worry about now that he’s in the Cabinet without piling up trouble for him in Leeds. Leave it to me.”
She replaced the receiver and sat down to compose her thoughts. A few minutes later she went over to her desk and rummaged about for the full list of the G.P. Committee. She checked the sixteen names carefully, realizing that if two Communists were to get themselves elected this time within five years they could control the committee — and then even remove Raymond. She knew how these people worked. With any luck, if they got bloody noses now they might slink off to another constituency.
She checked the sixteen names once more before putting on a pair of sensible walking shoes. During the next four days she visited several homes in the area. “I was just passing,” she explained to nine of the wives who had husbands on the committee. The four men who never listened to a word their wives said were visited by Joyce after work. The three who had never cared for Raymond were left well alone.
By Thursday afternoon thirteen people knew only too well what was expected of them. Joyce sat alone hoping he would call that evening. She cooked herself a Lancashire hotpot but only picked at it, then later fell asleep in front of the television when she tried to watch the final episode of Roots. The phone woke her at five past eleven.
“Raymond?”
“Hope I didn’t wake you,” said Fred.
“No, no,” said Joyce, now impatient to learn the outcome of the meeting. “What happened?”
“Reg and Jenny walked it. Those two Communist bastards only managed three votes between them.”
“Well done,” said Joyce.
“I did nothing,” said Fred, “except count the votes. Shall I tell Raymond what’s been happening?”
“No,” said Joyce. “No need to let him think we’ve had any trouble.”
Joyce fell back into the chair by the phone, kicked off her walking shoes, and went back to sleep.
She knew she had to plan the whole operation so that her husband would never find out. She sat alone in the house considering the several alternative ways in which she could deceive him. After hours of unproductive thought the idea finally came in a flash. She went over the problems and repercussions again and again until she was convinced that nothing could go wrong. She leafed through the Yellow Pages and made an appointment for the following morning.
The saleslady helped her to try on several wigs, but only one was bearable.
“I think it makes Modom look most elegant, I must say.”
She knew that it didn’t — it made Modom look awful — but she hoped it would serve its purpose.
She then applied the eye makeup and lipstick she had acquired at Harrods, and pulled out from the back of her cupboard a floral dress she had never liked. She stood in front of the mirror and checked herself. Surely no one would recognize her in Sussex and she prayed that if he found out he would be forgiving.
She left and drove slowly toward the outskirts of London. How would she explain herself if she was caught? Would he remain understanding when he discovered the truth? When she reached the constituency she parked the car in a side road and walked up and down the high street. No one showed any sign of recognition which gave her the confidence to go through with it. And then she saw him.