“To be upset, you have to have expected better, and I didn’t. Not from him.” I close my laptop.
Sir Alan doesn’t matter, but I had expected better of Clive.
Claire Shaw MP had also called Clive Smith a beautiful mirror. The kind of politician that everyone loves. Like a mirror, he reflects back to the people whatever they think and say, so of course they like him. He, himself, doesn’t believe in anything.
At the time I thought myself in love with him, so I defended him vehemently. Now I know that I only saw my own beliefs, my own commitment, my own hopes reflected back at me. He is an empty vessel that needs someone else to fill it. With me out of the picture, Sir Alan did all Clive’s thinking for him. No wonder he was so quick to manoeuvre me out of the picture last year. This scheme to send me to some village in the Austrian mountains was another exile.
Viv and Clive’s marriage has been a sham because it never had a chance; the real marriage is Clive and Sir Alan. And their marriage is going to last because Clive wants it to last; he will always be faithful to Sir Alan.
Brandon drops down to sit beside me and rubs my back. “Are you really leaving that minister?”
I turn to look at him. “You never use his name, you always call him, that minister, that MP.”
“Yeah.” He scoffs. “He’s lucky I don’t call him something else.”
We move to the kitchen, and I put the kettle on.
“Coffee?” Brandon asks. “Or will the caffeine be a problem?” He flicks a glance upwards where Malinara will be due another feed soon.
“Look at you becoming an expert in baby matters.”
“This is her home too and she gets a vote in what we cook.”
“You might not feel the same when she cries all night, which everyone warns me will happen as she gets bigger, and there’s teething still to come.”
Then I remember he won’t be here when she starts teething, will he?
Chapter Thirty-six
Brandon
Lessa is fretting. She paces the kitchen, picking things up then putting them down again. She has that nervous energy I’ve come to recognise as wrestling with a decision.
I put down the reeds I was in the middle of scraping. “Are you going to tell me what’s worrying you before you wear a groove into the floor tiles?”
She stops her pacing and scrunches her face into a grimace. “It’s the Lady Isobel Centre.”
“What’s wrong with them?”
“They’re having a tea party.”
“A tea party? That only makes me think of Boston.”
If I was hoping to make her laugh, it doesn’t work.
She flops into a chair and parks her elbows on the table. “They do this from time to time, encourage women to plan and organise a tea or a brunch to make them feel more engaged. I really want to go.” She lifts anxious eyes towards the ceiling, and that tells me what’s worrying her.
“You don’t want to wake Malinara just yet?”
“It’s not that. The party will go on too long and she’ll get restless just when I want to catch Philomena Hill for a quiet discussion.”
I look towards the purple list on the wall, it has the feeding schedule and the steps needed for each feed in case I’m doing it. Occasionally, when Lessa is desperate for a shower or a nap, I take overpomegranateduties.
“Go. I’ll look after her.”
“I can’t do that.” She jumps up and starts tidying up, wiping countertops which were already clean.
“You do trust me to look after her, don’t you?”
