Authors: Chris Wimpress
He hasn’t noticed me, he’s paying attention to the opposition MP who’s on his feet speaking.
‘I would like to congratulate and thank the prime minister.’ Hear, hears from all sides. ‘He should rightly be proud of his achievements, having solved the most acute and pressing crisis to affect this country in a generation. He’ll be remembered forever as the prime minister who brought us out of the darkness of fear, and into the light of hope.’ Once again hear, hears all round as the MP sits down.
Everyone’s looking at Rav with respect and admiration. The atmosphere of the Commons is so different from anything I’ve experienced before, the tension and brinkmanship replaced with an oddly convivial atmosphere. The adversarial nature of it is missing – no, not missing, unnecessary; it doesn’t seem that there’s really an opposition to speak of.
I look up to the large lights hanging from the ceiling above us, notice they’re not glowing dimly as they’d been for years, but turned up full. I look down at the bench to my left where order papers have been placed in their little holders in front of each seat. I’ve seen these plenty of times before, often discarded by James in the footwell of the car or lurking in the recycling. They detailed the order MPs get to ask questions, plus the votes due to take place each day. Normally they ran to about ten pages, but the one I pick up has just one printed side, because there’s just a single motion.
For resolving the United Kingdom’s energy crisis, this House agrees Rav Malik is the greatest person ever to hold the office of Prime Minister.
I smile to myself, not wryly but with pleasure. Who would make a better PM than Rav, after all?
‘Prime Minister,’ intones the Speaker, and Rav rises to the dispatch box to universal cheers.
‘Mr. Speaker, it is with humility and a profound sense of gratitude that I rise to conclude this debate. I believe it was Thatcher who once described this place as the cockpit of the nation, a phrase I must say I found peculiar coming from the first female prime minister.’ There’s some scattered laughter, which I don’t much like considering the all-male makeup of the chamber. Some of these people must’ve predated her, surely?
‘It is perhaps inevitable that I would be reminded of the first woman to hold that office,’ Rav went on, ‘And I think it is worth reflecting on just how long it has taken for another social barrier to be broken in this way.’
It’s curious hearing Rav talk like this. Not just because it doesn’t sound like him, but because I’ve never heard him talk publicly before. At least not in such a setting and in front of so many people. There are none of his contemporaries, Rav’s the only person in the chamber who’s familiar. I reflect on the absence of women, doubt any female MP I’ve ever met would want to spend eternity in the Commons; this place was originally built by men, for men. As such it’s hardly surprising that no woman ever elected to it wants to make it her domicile in death.
James doesn’t seem to be here, either, but that doesn’t surprise me much. When I’d stepped into Central Lobby from the conduit to Casa Amanhã, I’d been quite surprised to think the House of Commons would be his place. Parliament had never really held much fascination for him, it was just a means to an end. No, this is clearly Rav’s place, but it’s quite different in nature to mine; this situation never existed in life. It must be Rav’s ultimate desire given form. He’s finishing his remarks, now.
‘And so, the task ahead of us is surely to transform this country,’ he declares. ‘We will create a new nation, where there are no barriers, no glass ceilings, no idle prejudice.’
I look across at the opposition benches, they’re all transfixed by Rav. No, not all of them; as I scan their faces I nearly jump when I catch one of them looking directly at me; a young man with bright eyes and large sideburns. He looks away as soon as our eyes meet.
‘That is the country which has elected me,’ continues Rav. ‘That is the country I want to see for every man woman and child, and I commend this motion to the House.’
The Commons goes wild with cheers as the Speaker rises. ‘The question is as on the order paper, all those in favour will say aye.’
A unanimous baritone of ‘Aye’ fills the chamber.
‘Of the contrary, no,’ continues the Speaker. There’s silence. I feel that I should say something, be the solitary cry of ‘No’. Because it’s not true, Rav isn’t the greatest prime minister, he’s never been elected. This is a lie, and surely Rav must know it! But I don’t say anything; as ever, I don’t want to be the one to burst the bubble.
The Speaker smiles. ‘I think the ayes have it, the ayes have it.’ A loud cheer goes up from both sides of the Commons. I look across to the man I’d caught staring at me earlier, he’s looking at me again. He’s not smiling, looks alarmed, in fact. Above us the lights flicker briefly, but no-one seems to notice but me. Rav stands, smiling as MPs wave their order papers. Slowly he makes his way behind the Speaker’s chair, shaking hands with MPs on the government benches. Then he disappears from my view. It’s not really possible to follow him because many MPs are also slowly leaving the chamber by the same route, crowding around the exit. The Speaker’s also getting down from his chair, intent on leaving by the same door. The sitting of the Commons appears to be finished.
‘Well,’ says Lottie, squeezing next to me as men push past her. ‘I certainly don’t remember it being anything like this.’
‘It never was,’ I reply, disturbed by what I’ve just witnessed, particularly Rav’s total acceptance of it. ‘Something’s not right here. We need to go and find him. Come on, we can go round the chamber through the division lobby.’
We join the throng of MPs pouring out the front doors of the Commons. I overhear two MPs. ‘He really is extraordinary,’ one says. ‘The most dynamic prime minister I’ve ever seen.’
‘I just find him such a breath of fresh air, such a man of principle.’
‘Oh I agree, he’s decent. A decent fellow.’
Once we’re through the doors I take Lottie’s hand and we turn right, heading down the voting lobby. The Aye lobby, as it’s officially known. I’ve always found these corridors winding around the sides of the chamber bizarre. MPs spent hours of their lives shuffling through them to vote, an incredibly inefficient way of doing things and subject to physical coercion. During his brief time as an opposition whip when votes had been close, James had sometimes tried to physically stop rebel MPs from going into the ‘wrong’ lobby. He’d bragged about it once, when he’d practically restrained a would-be rebel and persuaded them to change their mind.
The division lobby’s empty, and somehow more sparse than I remember it being. The wood-panelled walls are there but there aren’t any paintings hanging from them, I’m sure they existed before. I let go of Lottie’s hand.
‘There was a man back there in the Commons chamber, he kept looking at us,’ I say. ‘He didn’t seem at all pleased.’
‘Why didn’t you say something, darling?’
‘I was just shocked, because everyone else had been ignoring us. But he could definitely see me, and didn’t like what he saw. There’s something wrong about this place.’
‘I’m starting to agree with you,’ replies Lottie. ‘I mean, if they pass a law here, does that apply to everyone back in the village? People won’t stand for it, certainly I won’t. Is your friend the Prime Minister of everywhere, including my house?’
‘I don’t know,’ We turn the corner and the area outside the door to the PM’s office comes into view. I expect Luis will be quite disturbed to learn there’s a conduit to Parliament lurking underneath Casa Amanhã. I tell myself I should go back to him, once we’ve had a proper conversation with prime minister Rav.
‘Perhaps he’ll come with us, Rav I mean,’ I say. Lottie doesn’t reply because she’s no longer standing next to me. I look around, then stop, turn back and walk back to the corner. She’s gone, the corridor behind me is empty. I call her name, quietly at first then more loudly. Funny, I think, how I was just getting used to her being here. I can’t feel scared, even though I know I’m supposed to. I can’t connect events to their proper emotion, and haven’t been able to for some time.
I’ve come this far, I think, and continue down the corridor.
The door to the Prime Minister’s office is closed, but I hear two voices talking behind it. I place my ear next to the door, one of the voices is Rav’s, but I can’t quite make out clearly what he’s saying. Then there’s another voice, a laugh, one that I’ve heard hundreds of times. Not a real laugh but a perfected one, the moderated guffaw James had always used for work.
Without knocking I push the door open, and it’s like I’ve become liquid. The door seems to pull back of its own accord away from my hand, and I drop through the frame sideways, as though gravity’s shifted by ninety degrees. It isn’t painful or violent, it’s like becoming a drop of water, passing through the skin of the surface of a pond.
I’m not in the PM’s office; I’m outside staring at mountains, huge peaks covered in snow. From the nearest summit a series of pylons runs in a straight line up the mountainside, the bottommost one about fifty yards ahead of me and much shorter than the rest. Underneath it there’s a base station, where little pods are arriving and departing – gondolas I suppose they’re properly called. They slowly meander their way towards the top of the mountain, where in the mid-distance I see little dots of people, skiing back down.
A strong breeze whips my hair back and rumbles in my ears, but even though I’m still in my bikini and sarong I don’t shiver or get goosebumps. It’s not cold at all, just fresh, maybe.
I turn around to find a door, but not the one I’ve just tried to walk through. I’m standing outside a log cabin; a bungalow, with square cross-framed window on each side of the door. They’ve got pretty yellow and blue checked curtains behind them.
There’s snow on the ground, snow everywhere in fact. To my right a path of sorts, an area where the snow’s been compacted down, with tramlines made by skis snaking across the ground. The makeshift path leads down the hill where there’s a small cluster of cabins; some of them similar to the one I’m standing next to, others a bit larger, more like chalets and on two floors. Behind them there’s what looks like a large hotel, a two-storey building with a large balcony upstairs. I can just make out people standing there, their bright skiwear contrasting with the dark wooden building.
Between the cabins and the gondola station there’s a proper road, lined with slush. It winds downhill towards the rest of the resort, but it’s impossible to see any further because it’s obscured by low cloud. The sky’s also partly cloudy, but the sun shines through the gaps onto the mountains, making them seem almost a polkadot of pale grey and yellowy-white.
The door to the cabin I’ve just apparently walked through is closed, though I don’t recall hearing it shut, just as I don’t remember taking steps forward – there’re no footprints in the snow behind me - yet I’m standing about two feet from the door. It’s as though I’ve just materialised here.
The door has a large ring for a handle which I have to twist, it opens inward to reveal the cabin’s interior, completely empty. Nothing else, the House of Commons has vanished.
When Casa Amanhã’s sprinkler system kicked in I quickly stood up and put my knickers back on, scanning the garden for any sign James and I had been seen. It seemed we’d got away with it, the nectarine sun had only just risen and no-one was about. My watch told me it was just before seven o’clock. I roused James, who smelt like a distillery. The alcohol fumes reminded me of Dad, which was a turgid thought to have so early in the morning.
We walked back into the guesthouse through the main doors, supporting each other up the staircase. We kissed each other outside James’s room, I then climbed up to the next floor and threw myself on my bed fully clothed and slept for a further three hours.
Gail came to wake me up, helpfully she’d brought me a large glass of water which I gulped down. She told me I’d missed breakfast, which apparently had been delicious. I wasn’t particularly hungry anyway, I said. I felt revolting, and as I sat up on the bed I saw streaks of light brown dirt running up my legs.
Gail said the best thing to do was head for the beach and get some sunshine. The shower in the en-suite was old-fashioned but fairly powerful, though I nearly did the splits when I slipped on the bathroom floor getting out.
Once dressed I went to Gail’s room, where it looked like a clothes-bomb had gone off. I pointed to the condom poking out from underneath the bed and she cackled before picking it up and disposing of it down the toilet in her bathroom.
Casa Amanhã seemed deserted as we staggered down the staircase, the stag party were either asleep or elsewhere. We bumped into Luis at the end of the driveway. He smirked as he observed our condition. ‘One day your bodies will remind you that you’re not immortal,’ he said. ‘It kicks in just after you turn thirty.’
‘Maybe for men,’ Gail shot back. ‘But look at Ellie, still going with the best of them.’ It certainly wasn’t how I felt, in fact I could feel my internal organs berating me, begging for the onslaught of toxins to stop.
Luis said he had to look after his daughter for most of the day. If he’d known we’d been cavorting with two of the stag party he didn’t let on. We said we’d probably see him later and walked down the travessa to the square, then down to the beach.
After a quick dip in the cold ocean we spread our towels out on the sand and quickly dried off in the spring sunshine. Gail had been to bed with Rav, of course, but as I lay on the beach with her she recounted in graphic detail how Rav had been too drunk to perform, not just the night before but again that morning.
‘It’s not an problem,’ Gail had said casually, as she was spraying herself with sun block. ‘I made sure I had a good time, eventually. After he left.’ She laughed at herself.
I’d been quite euphoric in the morning, happily sharing with Gail the details of my night of fun on the lawn of Casa Amanhã with James. But as I lay sunbathing, the still-drunk hysterics slowly replaced with yet another hangover, I began to worry. There’d been no point me being on the pill, so infrequent were my sexual encounters. There was no doctor or chemist in Naviras, the nearest were a twenty minute drive up the coast. That we learned from the Portuguese lady in the small shop between Casa Amanhã and the beach. In the end a combination of inertia and the laxadasical whateverness of Naviras meant I simply didn’t bother. As it turned out, I’d have nothing to worry about.
We didn’t run into any of the stag party that day, Lottie told me they’d gone down the coast to surf. ‘They’re staying another night,’ she said, ‘I suspect your presence may have influenced that decision.’
Gail and I shared a fish stew on the veranda of La Roda that evening, the first time we’d eaten one. She’d been wary of it but we quickly agreed the squid, clams and creamy tomato sauce had amazing restorative powers. The stag party came up the steps halfway through our meal. They were considering joining us but Rav was keen to eat down at the beach bar. He wouldn’t look at us. James wanted to join us for dinner but was quickly outvoted. He left reluctantly, asking me if we’d join them when our meals were finished?
We considered going down, but once we were full of seafood both of us felt quite tired. For the first time that holiday Gail appeared to be beaten. ‘Maybe a night off the booze will do us some good,’ she said. ‘We’ve got a lot of driving to do, after all.’
I suggested that we could stay in Naviras an extra day but Gail shook her head. ‘We’re already late, Ellie, and anyway, what else is there to do here?’ What indeed. We slowly walked back up to Lottie’s, going straight through the front door and climbing the stairs to our rooms. I was asleep within minutes.
The next morning it was time for the stag party to pack up and go, they’d also had a quiet night, seemingly. James and I swapped email addresses and phone numbers before they drove off down the driveway of Casa Amanhã, Rav at the wheel, James in the passenger seat. Rav honked the horn and James stuck his head out the window, giving us a wave.
I don’t know how Lottie knew that Gail and I had been with Rav and James, but later that morning she raised the subject when she came out to see us off.
‘You’ll have to get this wing mirror fixed or the police will pull you over.’ She said this quite merrily, as though it wasn’t likely. ‘Now ladies,’ she added, more severely. ‘Will you be seeing those two when you get back to London?’
‘Oh, God, no,’ said Gail. ‘It’s bad enough I kissed a Tory. What happens on tour, and all that, Ellie?’ she prodded me with her elbow.
‘You be careful,’ Lottie was still being fairly light-hearted, ‘They’re going to be politicians one day, and I’ve met enough of them to know they’re always, always trouble.’
‘It’s good advice,’ I replied.
‘And you’ll be coming back to see us again, of course.’ It was one of Lottie’s non-questions.
‘Oh definitely. Some day,’ I said.
‘Absolutely, Lottie,’ said Gail. ‘You’ve been fantastic.’
‘Good luck,’ she said, kissing us both on each cheek before turning around and walking up the stone steps to the front door of Casa Amanhã, where she was out of the sun.
The rest of our holiday had a different feel. Straight down to the Algarve, a few drunken nights in Albufiera where Gail kissed a few toads, just for the sheer hell of it, she admitted. Over the border to Seville, which neither of us particularly took to. Being back in a Spanish city seemed too brash and noisy, and it was there that Gail had a shock when she visited the ATM and her all cards were declined. She’d mentioned she’d been overspending, but the full extent of her finances became clear when she phoned first her bank then her credit card firm, all maxxed out. I offered to sub her for the rest of the trip but Gail was already in debt. We’d already been stung with a massive penalty in Albufiera when we’d exchanged the damaged car for a less glamourous one. Gail said she wanted to go home and privately I’d been thinking about my career, keen to get back to apply for more pupilages. We looked online to see if we could get a cheap flight home from Seville. We were in luck, and flew back to London the following afternoon for a hundred euro each, bags included. I think we were both secretly glad to get home to give our livers a rest.
It was quite late by the time I got back to my flat in Fulham, but I found it hard to get off to sleep. I checked my email to find message from James - sent, I worked out, on the night he’d returned to London. It wasn’t flowery, it just said how nice it had all been, and would I meet him once I was back? I replied, by the end of that week we were having dinner in Covent Garden.
I’d always found dating in London fraught with difficulty; a constant battle to present only the good side of myself. Yet with James things were always different, perhaps because we had Naviras as recourse, a common shared interest. I could relax because James had first met me hungover with scraggly hair and no make-up on, still it hadn’t mattered. It took almost all of the neurosis out of getting ready for our meets. We had other things in common – both middle class, although James proudly described himself as ‘working-middle class’. The fact neither of us had brothers or sisters may have been a critical thing although I’m not sure exactly why. Certainly both of us were good at keeping our own counsel, not needing to share things with anybody.
I still found myself struggling to get even interviews for pupilages but at the time didn’t really care; I probably failed to take the applications seriously because I was too obsessed with James. I thought it was love; actually it was something else, infatuation most likely. He was certainly the most interesting person I’d met in a long time, and he introduced me to a world far more engaging than law, more colourful and controversial.
Two months after we returned from Naviras he was promoted to deputy head of the Tory research department and was eyeing up a few constituencies, even though the one he really wanted was his home seat in Eppingham. He’d made good on his threat to distance himself from many of his old university friends. ‘Feckless under-achievers,’ as he described them. We were taking steps into our respective new worlds together, Rav saying that having me in his life gave him a newfound confidence. For my part I was delighted, this was the first man I’d met with whom I could see a real future. Just the possibility of that was a tonic.
I knew Gail was a bit disappointed at my dating him, she never said it to my face but it got back to me through a mutual friend.
She’s just worried about you, thinks you could do better.
I had to laugh; men had hardly been queuing up outside my flat brandishing posies before. My father on the other hand seemed pleased I was dating with a man like James, a man with prospects. That didn’t stop me from being nervous ahead of their first meeting, though. Dad and I went to see a matinee in the West End one Saturday, something we did about four times a year. It was normal for us to go for a drink afterwards, unfortunately as we watched the play I could smell that Dad had already been imbibing earlier in the day.
I suppose that postcard I’d picked up in Naviras had been meant for Dad, but once it had languished in my luggage all the way to Seville and then back to London there seemed no point sending it. But then I never got round to giving it to him either, he’d ended up with some Spanish brandy picked up in the airport for a souvenir. It’s hard to know what to do, when someone’s only obvious pleasure is alcohol; I bought it for him despite my concerns.
After the play we sat in a touristy cocktail bar in the West End. James was late and I felt so conflicted, worried he wouldn’t show up but almost wishing he wouldn’t at the same time. Dad was tucking into a bourbon on the rocks, I was worried he’d be inebriated by the time James appeared. When he finally showed up he got on well with Dad straight away. James did most of the talking; mostly about politics but not in a boring way, he described his brushes with former prime ministers – ‘He obviously didn’t like my shoes…’ – and some of the Cabinet – ‘Clearly still carrying on behind his wife’s back…’
Dad seemed transfixed, and although James politely asked him about his work Dad always seemed to want to talk more about politics. The two of them had rugby in common, too, as well as a love of red wine and bourbon. Everything seemed to slot in so nicely, a new feeling for me. At the time Dad had been concerned that I was failing to advance my career, but stopped prying about it once he’d met James. I think Dad saw the possibility of grandchildren, a reversal in our family’s emotional fortunes. Who could begrudge him that?
After a few months of dating it became obvious that James was hardly ever sleeping in his own flat. The crunch came just after Christmas, when unfortunately James’s live-in landlord lost his phone and all the contacts inside it. He became concerned when James didn’t come home for two weeks straight and called the police, who then called James’s parents. It was a funny but salutary experience, and since I still couldn’t find gainful employment and was starting to worry about eating into Mum’s money, the next step seemed practical, as much as anything else.
We rented a place together near Gloucester Road tube station, handy for both of us work-wise. It was trying at times, both of us adjusting to each other’s habits as all couples have to. I was still out of work, but unwilling to go back to being a solicitor. It would’ve meant admitting defeat, but more importantly would’ve meant me being effectively disbarred. I kept applying, filling out the gargantuan forms and printing them off, James taking them to work and posting them from there. ‘Saves on stamps,’ he would say.
I kept myself busy - it was hard to be bored in London, after all - but I did feel quite stuck. Doors were not opening for me in the way I’d hoped, and I started to feel ashamed at my unemployment, seeing less of my friends whose careers were all advancing rapidly. I started cooking a lot; big projects that took hours of preparation. Then I enrolled on a cookery course at the local college, all the other women there twice my age. Then I joined a gym and started to put in ten hours a week there. I stopped applying for jobs in chambers, sick of the rejection. Deep down I knew what I was on the verge of becoming, but honestly couldn’t see a way out of it.
A few months into that existence I explained my worries to Gail over dinner when James was at the Tory conference and we had the flat to ourselves. ‘Are you happy, though, Ellie? That’s what counts.’ She’d become hard to meet up with, blaming it on her ridiculous hours in chambers.
‘I am,’ I said, ‘But it does make me feel a bit antiquated. Victorian.’
‘Something’ll come up,’ Gail replied. People were often giving me that stock response.