The Good Wife aka The Good Wife Strikes Back

At three o’clock in the morning, I stood beside Will on the platform as the returning officer read out the votes and Will was declared the new Member for the constituency of Stanwinton. We stood side by side, both of us light- headed and almost incoherent. There was pleasure and pride – and an explosion of joy in my chest. The future seemed as if it could be tackled.

Down below, the indomitable Pearl sat down suddenly and pressed a handkerchief to her mouth. Mannochie was clapping, and a couple of the party workers danced.

Will slid his arm round my shoulders and kissed me, and I promised silently to give him what I had and more. I promised to do my best for him.

‘Will…’ Meg pushed her way up to the platform, her red dress a bright blur, and linked her arm through his. ‘Darling Will…’

The photographers flashed away, someone else cheered, Mannochie continued to clap.

Later that day the official photograph was published in the Stanwinton Echo. It had that grainy, blurred look that local papers sometimes have and it was hard to make out some of the figures crowded on to the platform. A smiling Will stood tall and straight. He looked young, happy and full of promise. Beside him was a slender, fair-haired figure, wreathed in smiles. It was not me. It was Meg.

I set about my first task as Mrs MP of sorting out Will’s tiny one-bedroom London flat. This involved wresting an extra inch in Will’s cupboard to hang up my clothes, winnowing out boxes and papers, and rearranging the sitting room to accommodate my antique chair. I gritted my teeth and searched for a space to stack my business files.

I made the bed and my foot nudged one of Will’s abandoned shoes. I picked it up and my heart melted. It was part of Will, the man I loved. I slipped my hand inside. Burnt into the inner sole, was the private imprint of a person. My shoes held one too. Will’s second toe was longer than the first and I rubbed my finger over the indentation in the leather. It was my secret, and my secret knowledge.

The phone rang. ‘Fanny Savage? My name is Amy Greene.’ She went on to explain that her husband was a backbencher and she was organizing a get-together in Westminster for the new wives. ‘We oldies like to take care of you infants.’

For all the briskness, an underlying note of depression was detectable. I asked her politely how long her husband had been in Parliament. ‘How long as an MP as opposed to a sod? Twenty-five years, three months and two days.’

‘Oh.’

She gave a smoker’s cough. ‘You might as well know that Parliament hates women. Hates them. Be warned.’

Will made his maiden speech in October when Parliament reassembled after the long vacation. The night before, we argued over which colour suit he should wear. I opted for the grey. He preferred the blue. Did it matter? Apparently. Colours (or so the apparatchiks had suggested) conveyed subtle meanings. This was, I felt, a little puzzling for I had assumed it was the message that was the important thing.

‘I know it’s nonsense,’ he maintained stoutly, ‘but just this once, I think I ought to listen to what the advisers advise.’

I rubbed his shoulders which felt like tensed steel. ‘Hey, take a few deep breaths. Loosen those muscles.’

I did not tell him that my own nerves were conducting a nauseous dance in the pit of my stomach. All I had to do was to watch Will get to his feet and talk about the social benefits of cheaper housing, and impress his peers. But this first showing would affect his future – and mine.

‘I must not muck this up, Fanny,’ Will said.

‘Spare a thought for your sister and me,’ I pointed out. ‘We get to look down at all the bald spots where we sit in the strangers’ gallery.’

He gave a muffled snort.

Will’s speech went off well.

At least, I think it did for, when he got to his feet, cleared his throat and began to speak easily and fluently, my attention veered off into another sphere.

It was nerves, I know, but I found myself thinking about trees. Tall ones, like the sycamore, whose stout uncompromising leader branches emphasize its winter nudity. I thought of poplars swaying in the summer breeze, and feathery acacias and the astonishing reds of the maple. But the trees that speak to me most particularly have always been the cypress, the Cupressus sempervirens, the dark exclamations dotted over medieval and Renaissance Italian paintings. And the box, which is not strictly a tree. Box was probably introduced to this country by the Romans and its stems and roots are so heavy that they sink in water.

Meg caught my eye, and I coloured up guiltily. I had promised to hang on Will’s every word, in order to assemble a useful Situation Report.

You spoke too quickly. Your hands were too busy, they distracted the listener. Don’t look at your feet.

Etc.

‘To the manner born,’ whispered Meg.

Meg misinterpreted my lack of response as lack of control. Furthermore she would be thinking of Will: indeed, I suspected, that she thought of little else. Her Situation Report would be immaculate and very helpful.

She laid one small hand with its exquisitely shaped nails on my arm. Today, they were painted pink to match her lipstick. ‘You have to learn to lighten up, Fanny,’ she advised in a low, concerned voice. ‘Develop a sense of humour. Then you will cope better.’

I gritted my teeth. Quite apart from the insult to my perfectly operational sense of humour, did she consider I was that lacking in the requisite qualifications? Was my ignorance and inexperience obvious? ‘I will bear it in mind,’ I muttered.

Meg pressed on. ‘Please don’t be offended,’ she said. ‘You are so nice, Fanny, and I am only trying to help.’ She smiled understandingly. ‘I’ve been at it a bit longer than you.’

Outside the House of Commons, a photographer was on the prowl for a national newspaper and he inveigled Will and I to pose for him and we were snapped, hand in hand, framed in the doorway.

‘Parliament’s newest Golden Couple,’ ran the caption in a weekend paper. The camera had caught Will looking grave but irresistible. I less so, I concluded, after glancing briefly at the photo, for I had a wary look on my face, startled almost.

At any rate, Mannochie, who had bedded down overnight on the sofa in the flat, pronounced himself pleased. ‘This will go down well in the constituency.’

Will studied the photograph for longer, it seemed to me, than was decent. ‘Better of me than you,’ he pronounced.

‘That’s what I think.’ I concentrated on frying up the bacon. ‘But I’ll pass.’

‘Certainly you do,’ said Mannochie.

Will still had his teeth into the subject. ‘I can’t afford to photograph badly. Ever. Back me up, Mannochie. One bad showing and it takes years to eradicate.’

We perched on the sofa and chair in the sitting room, ate bacon, egg and toast, drank coffee, and rifled through the morning papers. Will and Mannochie discussed tactics and, at great length, diary commitments.

I looked up from the paper and tossed a fact into the date discussion. ‘I shall be in Australia in December.’

As one, both men turned in my direction.

Will said: ‘You didn’t mention it to me, Fanny.’

‘Yes, I did. You’ve forgotten.’

Mannochie brushed the crumbs surrounding his plate into a tidy little heap. ‘Stanwinton is big on Christmas. It’s part of the civic pride. There’s a frenzy of fund raising which the sitting MP always supports. Then there are parties for the local children’s homes, the evergreens and the disabled.’ He smiled apologetically. Attendance really is compulsory.’

I addressed Will. ‘Fine. You will be there.’

Will fumbled for a second piece of toast and buttered it. ‘Fanny. I am not sure how to put this, but I need you with me.’ He looked especially desirable: slightly rumpled, boyish and pleading. It made me want him very badly.