The Good Wife aka The Good Wife Strikes Back

Of course I was. I made the mistake of taking a bath and, as I soaked, the phone rang twice. The first was a journalist from a broadsheet saying they were planning a piece on possible future senior figures in the party and could they interview my husband? I told him to contact Will’s office. The second was Will’s private secretary, warning me that if I spoke to anyone from the Italian delegation I should steer clear of anything remotely political. The word had been passed round all the wives. What do I steer on to? I wanted to know.

‘There has been a recent find of Etruscan bronzes that are considered very fine,’ he replied.

I traced a pattern of hearts on the steamed-up mirror in the bathroom. ‘Talk me through the bronzes.’

‘Unfortunately, Mrs Savage, they’re well… rather erotic. But you can keep off the detail. And… Mrs Savage… if you could avoid the words “car” and “tax”… the negotiations are at a rather tricky stage.’

Hobbled conversationally, and late setting out, I took a taxi to where Will was waiting for me. He smiled and kissed my cheek, but his grip on my arm was almost painful. ‘You’re late.’

‘Traffic.’ I laced my fingers through his and made sure I got in with my list of topics to discuss. ‘We must talk about Chloe.’

He squeezed my fingers and then dropped them. ‘What about her?’

‘Her and Sacha. I’m a bit concerned.’

‘Meg says that’s nonsense. They’re just very close, as cousins sometimes are.’

‘You’ve talked to Meg? I’ve been trying to ring you all week, but you were always busy…’

‘Hallo, Ted.’ Will transferred his attention smoothly to one of his fellow ministers.

A good champagne was served in a long, narrow reception room. Obedient to my briefing, I talked about weather and flora to an ambassador who was dressed in a multi-coloured tie, and about wines to a junior consul, who informed me he had been brought up on beer. I took Antonio Pasquale aside and astounded him with my grasp of Italian and Italian wine. When we said goodbye he kissed my hand and I knew I had done a good job.

Back in the flat, Will made straight for the drinks tray, which was unusual, and poured himself a glass of whisky. ‘I’m whacked. Pasquale’s wife was a nightmare.’

‘We ought to eat something.’

‘Too tired.’

‘So am I.’ I kicked off my shoes and curled up on the sofa. ‘Tell me what’s happening.’

Will sighed. ‘Haven’t the energy.’

‘Oh.’ I studied my feet, encased in their light, evening tights.

‘I’m sorry, darling.’

I reached for the cushion and hugged it. ‘How would you feel if Dad and I went on a trip to Italy?’

Will snapped to attention. ‘When?’

‘While Chloe’s away. September probably. We haven’t settled on anything yet.’

‘Without me?’

‘Yes.’

Will put down his glass and came and sat down beside me. ‘Of course you must go. I know what it would mean to you.’ He paused. ‘But do you have to go this year? There is so much on…’ He took away the cushion and put his arm around me. ‘I need you on board.’ I sensed the energy flowing back into him as he concentrated on bringing me back into the fold. ‘Just at the moment, I’m not sure I could manage without you.’ He took another gulp of the whisky. ‘Perhaps I’m being selfish.’ When I did not reply, he said sharply, ‘Fanny, are you listening?’

I raised my eyes and saw my old Will: the clever, funny, passionate, committed man with whom I had fallen in love, and I wondered what he could see in me, and whether or not he was looking.

‘Ours is becoming a curious marriage,’ I heard myself say. ‘I’ve been trying all week to talk to you about your daughter… where do I come in the queue?’

‘Don’t be silly.’ This was said with a flash of irritation.

‘It’s true.’

He caught my chin. ‘Is this because I talked to Meg? She just happened to phone at the right time, you idiot.’

‘Partly.’ I shook his hand away and started to pick at the braid on the discarded cushion. ‘I mind about that.’

He sighed. ‘I honestly don’t think there’s any need to worry about Chloe.’

‘But I do worry about her. And I worry that I have to worry about her on my own.’

‘When she goes to Australia, she’ll forget Sacha; she’ll meet other people. It’s not so odd at her age to have a passion – if she does – for someone unsuitable.’

He was probably right, but I’d had enough politician’s answers for one evening. I heaved myself to my feet and went over to the window and looked out at the dull summer night. ‘I would like to go away with my father, Will. I don’t think he is all that well, and I’d like to spend some time with him.’

‘Rather than with me…’

I turned round and glared at him. ‘I’m going to forget you said that.’

Will set his glass down on the table with a snap. ‘Did you really suggest to Meg that she move out?’

‘Not exactly,’ I replied. ‘The idea was proposed, but not voted upon.’

‘Don’t you think you should have discussed it with me first? She’s upset and unsettled, and it can’t be good for her.’

‘Discuss things with you? What an excellent idea. I’ve being trying all week. Shall I see if Mannochie can squeeze me into your schedule at some point? Perhaps during one of your surgeries – between erroneous gas bills and the violent neighbours…’ I made for the door. ‘But right now I’m going to bed.’

As I walked down the corridor, he called after me, ‘I can’t hurt her, Fanny. I can’t abandon her.’

6

Will and I arrived back at Ember House from our curtailed French honeymoon in the small hours, smelling of the melons I had insisted we buy, which had filled the car with their sweet, ripe aroma.

Early next morning, we stumbled out of bed, hoicked clean clothes out of the unpacked suitcases, and drove into Stanwinton. Mannochie met us at the party headquarters on the high street.

Will was immediately claimed by a party apparatchik and Mannochie materialized at my elbow. ‘You must meet the chairman of the association and you must get on with her.’

‘Will I be put in the stocks if I don’t?’ I asked, and realizing that it did not sound very amusing, wished I hadn’t.

The headquarters seethed with people, and was stuffed with chairs, photocopiers and baskets overflowing with brown envelopes. The persistent sound of telephones piped above the movement and activity. Mannochie piloted me towards a table where a woman was directing an elderly couple on the sorting of pamphlets. ‘No slacking,’ she addressed them collectively. ‘No mistakes.’

‘Pearl, this is Fanny.’

A heavy woman, she pulled herself to her feet. ‘About time.’

Did she always speak in such staccato sentences? A gust of nervous hilarity threatened but I said, ‘Will and I got here as fast as possible. We drove through the night.’

Pearl Veriker should have met me before – wives have to be vetted - but at the time she had been in hospital. Tall and long-nosed, she did not trouble with fashion. Her cotton shirt clashed with her skirt and she wore flesh-coloured tights with white fretworked leather lace-ups. Her scrutiny, however, was clever and merciless. Eventually, she held out her hand. ‘I’ll call you Fanny since we’ll have a lot to do with each other.’

If I had hoped for consolation over my ruined honeymoon, I was wrong. ‘As you can imagine, it’s battle stations here. I hope you’re wearing comfortable shoes.’ She glanced down at my bare legs under a short denim skirt. ‘I’m sorry, but it would be better if you wore tights and a longer skirt. The more far-reaching and revolutionary our ideas, the more non-threatening and respectable our appearance should be. You should have been told that.’

She meant: You should have known. I flushed at my ignorance.

A young woman carrying a pile of envelopes pushed her way past us. Pearl Veriker’s hand shot out and