The church hall was packed when we got there. Sonia took off her sunglasses as we emerged from the car. “People actually care about politics?” she said.
“I know, it’s a crazy concept, Son,” I said. We would educate Sonia about a citizen’s responsibility and civic duty another time.
We walked into the hall, probably tipping the scales from none to more than one in ten people without grey hair. The room was full, with little white heads floating about in sensible pantsuits across the space. At the front – difficult not to see – was a woman whose naturally jet-black hair reflected in the summer sunshine that was streaming in from the windows.
“There’s Gella,” I said.
“Is she going to be nice to me this time?” Sonia asked.
Gella clearly decided she would be as she gave Sonia a kiss on the cheek when we arrived.
Nigella was, of course, a keen follower of politics. She’d worked in Westminster in some advisory capacity back in her high-flying career woman days, along with several other impressive jobs in PR and think tanks that painted a picture of some late-Thatcherite feminist revolutionary against the boys’ club. “Sonia, you look lovely, darling,” she said with a wry smile.
Not sure if she was being insulted, Sonia looked herself up and down to make sure her outfit was presentable and then gave a tight smile in response, taking her seat.
“Oh, Arden, it’s so nice of you to bring a friend. But she’s not even a voter here,” said a familiar voice. Nigella had been leaning forward to give me a kiss on the cheek when the comment was made, but paused and then gave a small sigh.
“Odette,” she said, turning to the woman. “Just because Sonia doesn’t live in Lilbury doesn’t mean she isn’t in the constituency. The area is quite large, yes?”
Odette appeared shocked by this. I honestly wouldn’t have been surprised if she really had thought her MP was so hyper-local that they just represented Lilbury.
“Also, anyone can come to a husting, Odette,” I added. “They don’t have to be a constituent.”
She laughed. “Arden, it’s so nice of you to act like you know about these things.” She waved her hand at me in an “Oh, you!” manner.
I gave Nigella a look only to discover she was already giving me the same one. “I’m sorry, she jumped in my car when I was leaving. I thought it was a stray dog for a minute.”
Nigella shifted to the end of the row. I sat next to her, with Sonia following me. Odette took the last seat in the row and leaned over Sonia to speak to me. “So nice to see you out and about again. No one is even talking about you harbouring a murderer anymore.”
I shrank in my seat.
“Odette, you bloody muppet, would you shut your gob?” Nigella snapped, sounding more Dagenham than Dorset for a second.
She went to respond – presumably in outrage – but a woman with a haircut that would make the 1980s cry banged a gavel on the table set up on the stage. “Ladies and gents, it is my pleasure, as the head of the Compney Parva Small Business Association, to welcome you to this, the first hustings for the by-election of the Central Dorset constituency.”
There was a polite smattering of applause.
Nigella leaned over. “Hetty Carter-Bowles. Owns the haberdashery with her husband on Compney Parva High Street. Rumour is they run a BDSM club in the backroom every second Thursday.”
Hetty was still talking. “Now, please join me in giving a round of applause for our five candidates.” She shuffled her cards and cleared her throat. “In alphabetical order by party name, please welcome: the candidate for the Conservative Party, Guy Frobisher.”
There was a solid amount of applause, and my jaw dropped to the floor.
Nigella nudged me. “Told you that you’d want to be here.”
Guy walked out onto the stage in a light blue suit, with his blond hair flattened more than usual. He wasn’t wearing a tie. Looking very much the part of a gentleman farmer who had put on his only suit for a special occasion. Except the suit was tailored and must have cost well over £1,000.
The last time I’d seen him, I had just shot someone.
I gulped. “You knew?” I whispered to Nigella.
“Darling, of course, they don’t keep their candidacies a secret … would rather defeat the purpose. And Guy has always had ambitions for Parliament. We all thought he’d be another ten years or so, but apparently, this was his shot.”
“God, I can’t believe a Tory asked me out.”
Guy took his seat at the far end of the table and poured himself a glass of water.
“Next up, the candidate for the Green Party of England and Wales is Marjorie Potsdam,” Hetty said, barely able to hold the disdain from her voice. A less enthusiastic level of applause welcomed a woman in her late forties onto the stage. Guy jumped up to shake her hand.
