A Few Little Lies. Sue Welfare
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Sheila took her coat off the back of the door. ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right? You can come home with me if you like. It wouldn’t be any trouble.’
Dora stared at the shadowy ghosts of the graffiti on the kitchen wall. She wasn’t sure whether she could bear to stay in the flat another minute and at the same time couldn’t bear the idea of leaving. Even the air felt raw and hurt. She wanted Sheila gone so that she could start to make everything better again.
‘I’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘Really.’
Sheila nodded. ‘Good. Funny thing about that Catiana Moran woman, bit of a coincidence you liking her and it turning out she used to live here. Did you know about that?’
Dora hurried across to the door. ‘Thank you for all your help, Sheila. I really don’t know what I would have done without you.’
‘You ought to ring the TV programme up and complain though, I would. I’d give them a real piece of my mind, if I were you.’ She sniffed. ‘Have you rung Kate yet?’
Dora shook her head. ‘Not yet. I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks for everything you’ve done. I won’t be here in the morning, I’m going to Jack Rees’ funeral.’
Her sister pulled a face but said nothing.
When Sheila finally went home, Dora left a message for Calvin on his machine, then unplugged the phone and crawled into bed. Oscar claimed the lion’s share, which was strangely comforting – not everything had changed.
Alicia Markham, chair of Fairbeach Conservative Association, adjusted her hat, tugging down the veil over the discreet brim so it emphasised her eyes. She smiled at her reflection; she had always looked good in a hat, and her carefully composed expression, from long practice, conveyed a perfect balance of interest and unapproachability.
‘Guy really ought to travel in one of the main funeral cars. After all, he is our new candidate.’
Beside her, Harry Dobbs, the party secretary, coughed. ‘It really wouldn’t be right, Alicia. It’s not official yet. Let’s at least get Jack Rees decently buried.’
Alicia turned away in exasperation. Across the oak-panelled function room in the local party headquarters she caught Guy Phelps’ eye and found herself smiling. He was sitting with his wife and two members of the selection committee. She lifted her glass in a silent salute. Charming man. He should do them very well. She turned her attention back to her reflection in the mirror above the fireplace and tipped her hat a little further forward.
‘We have to wait for the official announcement,’ continued Harry in his unfortunate monotone.
Alicia Markham snorted and glanced at her watch. Time for another sherry before Edwin Halliday arrived from Westminster with his entourage. She was pleased that they had sent one of the more popular cabinet ministers to represent the government. The Fairbeach by-election was crucial. The PM had sent his condolences. She ran a smoothing finger over her eyebrows. Pity he couldn’t have made the effort to come himself, but then again that might look like an act of desperation, so this, presumably, was his idea of a double bluff.
Just inside the door the tables had been set for the buffet lunch. Two pubescent waitresses were arranging glasses on trays for the sherry. She pouted; best remind them that the good bottles near the bust of Churchill were for the VIPs.
Alicia would have preferred some of the more senior party ladies to have officiated, but she could hardly expect them to don pinafores today, though there were at least half a dozen who would willingly have thrown themselves on the sword for party honour. The girls shuffled backwards and forwards with trays of vol-au-vents and smoked salmon canapés. Alicia fought the temptation to tell them to pull their shoulders back. The large blonde one had the most appalling skin – where did the agency get these girls?
‘Besides, I’ve already arranged for Guy to go with Lawrence Rawlings. A discreet statement of intent,’ said Harry, to her reflection.
Alicia had quite forgotten about Harry Dobbs. He was now wringing his hands with considerable conviction. Presumably the gnashing of teeth came later.
‘Every newspaper in the country has leaked Guy’s name, Harry. What do you propose we do, unveil him at a fête?’ she snapped. She stared at Jack Rees’ wreath-topped coffin. ‘At least Guy Phelps has some degree of decorum. We won’t have to show him which knife and fork to use.’ She sucked her teeth. ‘And I’m hoping we’ve finally seen the end of our MP ignoring a three-line whip because he’s pissed, and then having to try to convince everyone it was a point of principle.’ She shuddered. ‘What we need to consider now is who the other parties have got lining up against us.’
Across the room, the club steward, resplendent in his morning coat, opened the double doors for Jack’s widow, Caroline. Alicia tidied her jacket and glided across the parquet to greet her. She took Caroline’s hand in hers and pressed an inaccurate airy kiss to each cheek.
‘Caroline, my dear. How are you?’
Caroline snorted. ‘Cut the crap, Alicia, and no, before you offer, I don’t want a bloody sherry. Can we go to your office? Jack told me you keep a decent single malt stashed away for big occasions.’
Alicia glanced around to ensure no-one had overheard the grieving widow’s outburst. ‘Of course, my dear,’ she said, in a carefully stage-managed voice, and led Caroline to the inner sanctum. They were no sooner inside than Caroline Rees dragged off her hat and threw it onto the desk.
‘My daughter, Lucy, wants to sing “Pie Jesu” during the service.’
Alicia smiled benignly. ‘That will be nice, dear,’ she said, in her most soothing voice, pouring two stiff scotches.
Caroline grimaced. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Mawkish little cow.’ She took a long pull on the glass Alicia offered her. ‘You know, when I first met Jack, everyone said he’d make the cabinet. Tipped for a top job. And the honours list – selfish little bastard – awkward to his last breath. Trust him to die before he picked up his knighthood.’ She paused for a second or two, staring unfocused into the middle distance. ‘He was tipped for one, you know – they always give them to the mavericks.’ She gathered up her lips with a drawstring of old resentments. ‘But he didn’t know how to say yes sir or kiss arses, did he, Alicia? Our Jack, good old Jack, was born without an arse-licking gene in his entire body.’
Alicia wondered how many scotches Caroline Rees had had before she left home.
‘Have you met Guy Phelps yet?’ Alicia asked, trying hard to steer the conversation back to safer ground.
Caroline Rees rounded on her. ‘We’re going to lose the seat you know, Alicia.’
Alicia Markham reddened and squared her shoulders. ‘Guy Phelps –’
Caroline sighed. ‘Is a complete and utter dickhead. Everyone knows you’ve selected Phelps because he’s a yes man. Do you think you’re going to be able to persuade people that he’s Jack reincarnated just because he’s a local boy? Come on, Alicia, get a grip. People loved Jack Rees because he was a complete rogue. Bastard.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘He must have been the most unsuitable Conservative MP in living history.’ A sad, single hot tear ran down her elegant face. She sniffed, pulling herself upright. ‘Can I have another scotch?’
Alicia swallowed hard. ‘I rather think you’ve had enough, Caroline. Everyone will be here soon.’
Caroline lifted an eyebrow. ‘They’ll find out about Jack, you know, splash his little indiscretions all over the front page. Probably do something on BBC2, fallen heroes.’ She sniffed again and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. ‘Nothing people like better than shooting a folk hero down, once they’re dead, of course. The dead are fair game –’
There was a knock at the door. Alicia was relieved and hurried across to answer it. The steward nodded. ‘Mr Edwin Halliday is here, Mrs Markham.’
Alicia