Open Arms Page 2

  Appearances defined these respective factions. Kate was exceptionally tall, with long, comfortably unruly and naturally blonde hair; proud of her well-honed physique; and always shown to advantage in fashionable and expensive clothes. Stella’s army of elderly volunteers, with permed grey and white hair, were uniformly attired in dresses that reflected M&S fashions of a decade earlier.

  Kate had never really felt she belonged to or understood the party, though her matching blue outfit and diligent work for The Cause might suggest otherwise. Her well-heeled, middle class parents – her late father had been a successful surgeon; her mother a pillar of the WI – had always voted Tory out of habit, though their broadly liberal views had sat uncomfortably with the content of their morning Telegraph. Kate had actually voted for Tony Blair in the noughties and at the last general election had turned up at the polling station sporting a large blue rosette and voted for the Lib Dem who seemed so much more interesting than the useless local MP. She had been further alienated by the Brexit vote, which she regarded as a disaster, one caused in part by the likes of Stella terrifying the pensioners of Surrey Heights by telling them that eighty million Turks were on their way. But a competent Prime Minister had arrived just in time to keep her in the party.

  Still, she asked herself why on earth she was spending time here rather than with her daughters, her friends or her business. She had a seriously rich husband and what were rich husbands for if not to sign large cheques? His annual cheque to the association was worth at least ten times the amounts raised at this fundraiser, which had been planned over three months with as much detail as the Normandy landings. Unfortunately, he also had a tendency to treat his trophy wife as part of his successful property portfolio and had volunteered Kate’s services to the association without her knowledge or approval, leading to a considerable row in a marriage increasingly characterised by lows rather than highs.

  Kate realised that money wasn’t really the point. The event was all about bonding, and nothing bonded the activists together more closely, short of an election, than gossip. An audible buzz rose and fell as Stella moved around like a bumble bee sucking nectar on its journey from stall to stall, while also injecting a little poison along the way. Stella was over fifty, blue rinse and twinset in imitation of her idol. She had a fathomless collection of stories from the highest sources – ‘absolutely true’ – about gay orgies, paedophile rings and fraud involving everybody she disliked. Kate had a firm policy of not being bitchy about other women, but those with acute hearing would have heard her mutter: ‘What an absolute cow.’

  This year Stella was almost out of control, such was the pitch of her excitement. The rumour mill was working flat out, fed by the story that the veteran MP, Sir Terence Watts, was about to step down. His appearances in the constituency were infrequent and embarrassing. Today he had opened the fete, not an onerous feat, but had muffed his lines, got the name of the village wrong and thanked the wrong hostess for the loan of her beautiful garden. Perhaps he was distracted by the recent press revelations that he had seriously overclaimed for his parliamentary expenses, including three properties, one in Jamaica. He would be unlikely to survive the weekend.

  Kate had never understood how he had managed to cling on like a limpet through a quarter of a century of inactivity. Her husband explained that the whips valued his uncritical loyalty and many older voters liked his military bearing and beautifully tailored three-piece suit worn in all weathers. Moreover, Stella had provided him with a formidable Praetorian Guard. Her devotion may have been grounded in an ancient passion but he was also the source of her local power. Now her loyalties had moved on and she was telling her geriatric army that the party of Mrs Thatcher, with the new female PM, needed more mature women MPs and fewer ‘bright young men’. Her profile of the ideal MP fitted herself perfectly. But had she been better at interpreting body language she would have realised that her enthusiasm was not widely shared.

  The name on everyone’s lips was Jonathan Thompson, Kate’s husband: very rich, very handsome in a louche way, clever, capable, personable and well connected, a man who would inexorably rise to the top. Knowing her husband better than the party faithful, Kate could have added to the list of his attributes an insatiable appetite for serial philandering, a major deficit in emotional intelligence, and political convictions that mainly centred on the sanctity of his private property, particularly the parts of the property market that generated his fortune. She had, however, learnt to balance the bad with the good. But when she heard herself being addressed as the MP presumptive’s wife, something inside her rebelled.

  She flushed with annoyance and struggled to concentrate against the competing claims of fussy customers, securing change for depleting floats, polite repartee and approaching rain clouds. Although she had never publicly articulated the thought, she had long felt that she would be a far better MP than many of the men she saw, and encountered, trying to do the job, not least the useless Sir Terence. The material comforts of life with Jonathan and family duties had dulled her ambition. But there was an ambitious woman waiting to emerge and this afternoon had stirred up what she had long suppressed. Her incoherent thoughts were crystallised when she was approached by one of the few local Conservatives she actually liked. Len Cooper was a long-serving county councillor, now the leader of the council. He was highly competent, unpretentious and modest: a successful local businessman in the building trade who believed in public service and practised it. They enjoyed a good friendship, uncomplicated by any emotional undertones. Her only discomfort was that at six foot without heels she towered over his small and totally spherical body. This didn’t seem to faze him; he was a man comfortable in his own skin and especially comfortable in the company of his equally spherical wife, Doris. As they started to talk they soon got around to the runners and riders and the short odds being offered on Jonathan. Len Cooper was non-committal but, after a long pause, said: ‘I am surprised that you haven’t considered standing yourself.’ Since Len didn’t do flattery, she took the comment seriously and was pleased as it reinforced a thought that had already crossed her mind.

  It hadn’t crossed the mind of her husband, however. They had a rare evening at home together that night, as the girls were staying with family friends while competing in a gymkhana. Over dinner he set out the pros and cons of his own candidacy and various alternative scenarios in none of which Kate featured. He saw himself as the ideal candidate but had done the maths. They had three daughters at expensive schools; horses and paddock; a ‘cottage’ (actually a small château) in Burgundy; Kate’s Land Rover and his Maserati; the annual pilgrimage to the ski slopes at Klosters; membership of an exclusive golf club; and that was after cutting out some of the luxuries. An MP’s salary would reduce them to wretched poverty if he was forced into being a full-time MP – as the party High Command was now demanding – and to hand over the property business to his partners. Kate reminded him of the contribution she made from the profits on her business and could see a ‘p’ word forming on his lips – ‘pin money’ or ‘peanuts’ – before he stopped himself. He had a better idea: ‘The High Command is keen to find a bright young man. Ex-Oxford. Special adviser to the Foreign Secretary. The next David Cameron. Surrey Heights would be perfect.’ He – and possibly the High Command – seemed not to have noticed that posh boys were no longer the darlings of local constituency associations.

  By now Kate was becoming seriously irritated. ‘If you don’t want the seat, why are you spending your money and my time bailing out the local Tories?’ she asked.

  He thought for a while, hurt by his wife’s cynicism. ‘Because I care. The Labour Party has been taken over by Marxist-Leninist revolutionaries. If they get into power at the next election our heads will be on spikes. They hate us. The politics of envy.’

  Kate shared the more conventional view reflected in the polls that the chances of Labour winning were roughly comparable to Elvis Presley being found on Mars. But this passionate outburst
reminded her that while she and her husband agreed on some things – Remain being one – they disagreed on most others. She was privately relieved that her husband wasn’t going to be her next MP.

  She then braced herself for a difficult exchange.

  ‘It may surprise you, Jonathan, but my name also came up in the chatter this afternoon.’

  ‘Who from?’

  ‘Never mind who. It did. And I am thinking about it.’

  She knew him well enough to know that the words ‘don’t be ridiculous, woman’ were forming in his mind, but he knew her well enough not to utter them. He opted for soft soap instead.

  ‘You are a brilliant mother. Don’t the girls need our continued attention?’ (But apparently not his!) ‘Your business is doing well. Are you going to let it go?’ (This from someone who prided himself on not getting out of bed for a business deal worth under a million pounds.) And then the coup de grâce: ‘We have had our differences but you have been a wonderfully supportive wife. I need you.’ She cursed her lack of foresight in not having set up a tape recorder.

  She kept going. ‘The children are no longer babies. There is a commuter train from the station down the road. I have a plan for my business. I can cope. And it might help you with your business to have an MP for a wife, close to the centre of power.’

  He grunted in acknowledgement. ‘OK, you have a point. Let’s think about it.’ With that he disappeared to attend to his emails. Kate called after him: ‘I take that as a “yes”. Thank you, Jonathan.’ There was no reply. The ‘thank you’ was sincere. She would win the hearts and minds of the local association only as part of a happy, smiling family. And she would need Jonathan’s money.

  The following morning, she rang Len Cooper. ‘I have been thinking about your suggestion. The answer is positive. Jonathan isn’t wild about it but he’s on board.’ Len expressed no surprise but took her through the practicalities. First, shortlisting by the executive committee. He would speak to Stella and assure her that her job was safe, but insist that she drop her ridiculous candidacy. He would tell HQ that after a quarter of a century of an absentee MP there had to be a strong local candidate. The ‘next Cameron’ should try elsewhere. And could they suggest a few other names of aspiring MPs who wanted experience of a selection meeting? ‘Then you have the hustings meeting in front of three or four hundred members. It will be a bit of an ordeal. Our Brexit militants will be out in force. You must put on a good show, but I know you will. A few of us will prep you properly.’

  Reassured, Kate started to think about what she was letting herself in for. The girls were not babies, but not adults either. She had firmly resisted pressure from Jonathan to pack them off to a ‘character building’ boarding school (like his). She took mothering seriously, and it showed; the girls were close to each other and to her. Kate assembled them when they had returned from the gymkhana and had calmed down after telling her about their heroics in the saddle. When she explained her plans their faces lit up with excitement and they were soon texting their friends to tell them Mum was going to be the next Prime Minister. A good start.

  Then there was her business: the product of twenty years’ hard work and a lot of emotional investment. On the surface it was just a fancy clothes and fabrics shop on the high street specialising in high-end Indian fashion. But it also housed a strongly growing internet sales operation. And behind it all was a small army of Indian suppliers: maybe a hundred women, mainly widows, whose livelihoods depended on being able to sell their beautiful, handcrafted embroidery to Yummy Mummies in Surrey. But as a Yummy Mummy herself she understood the market better than her competitors. Jonathan had been dismissive early on, seeing her shop as a hobby business to keep her out of mischief. But to be fair to him, he had put up some cash to help her acquire the freehold. And he had pulled some effective strings when an inflexible local bank manager tried to put her out of business during the credit crunch.

  It had all started when she went off to India aged eighteen, with her girlfriend, Sasha, to ‘see the world’ in a gap year between leaving St Paul’s Girls’ School and going on to study medieval history at Oxford. Her parents were nervous but reassured that they were travelling as a pair. Shortly after arriving in India Sasha was laid low by Delhi Belly, which turned out to be a severe case of amoebic dysentery, and flew back home. Kate lied to her parents and told them she had teamed up with another girl and would stay. The truth was that she was utterly captivated by India. Walking around Old Delhi constantly assailed by new sounds, sights and smells, she felt as if a door was opening up to an utterly different world she needed to explore.

  Kate’s academically stretching but chaste education at St Paul’s had equipped her with an impressive understanding of dynastic politics in the Plantagenet era but hadn’t educated her in the various species of predatory men. In Delhi’s coffee shops, in Connaught Circus frequented by Westerners, she bumped into a friendly Australian, Jack (or as she discovered later, he had contrived to bump into her). He was seriously scruffy with a tangled beard and unkempt long black hair and clearly hadn’t washed for some time. But beneath the grime he had an open, welcoming smile and a reassuring, generous manner. He listened sympathetically to her anxieties and adventures and offered – without, he hastened to add, any obligations – to let her tag along with him. Travelling would be safer. He explained that he was in search of true enlightenment, discovering his transcendental soul, and was finding in the poverty of India a genuine richness of spirit. His spiel was thoroughly convincing and Kate was entranced.

  Needless to say, his search for enlightenment soon led to her bed, in the cheap and dirty hotels they passed through along the Gangetic plain. The experience was neither physically nor emotionally satisfying but Kate was persuaded that she was getting ever closer to her inner being. He also introduced her to pot, which made her violently sick and provided none of the mystical wonders she had read about. They finally parted company when he took her to an ashram presided over by a naked sadhu, His Holiness the Guru Aditya, who preached the renunciation of bodily needs but actively solicited sexual favours and money from his Western acolytes. Kate fled back to Delhi, alone.

  She could hardly wait to get on the next plane home. But before leaving she headed into Delhi’s profusion of handicraft emporia to buy presents for family and friends. She was attracted to a modest stall offering exquisitely embroidered garments and furnishings – at modest fixed prices. She spent her remaining money and, as she left, the owner, Anjuli, ran after her in some distress explaining that she had accidentally overcharged. This novel experience led to a conversation and an invitation to visit her workshop, a room off an alley nearby, where a dozen women worked, barely pausing to greet her. An idea began to form that was later to become the basis for Kate’s business. The pair exchanged addresses; Kate placed an advance order for goods to sell to her friends; they worked out how she could send the money to India. Two decades later, she had established a flourishing high street and internet business on the back of Anjuli’s crafts, which never failed in quality, quantity or delivery. They won other customers including a leading UK fashion brand. And when Kate had last seen Anjuli she was a little greyer but, by now, a leading social entrepreneur whose network of cooperatives was an obligatory feature of development agency reports. Together they had achieved something. Kate was now ready to hand the running of her business to others and move on to a new challenge.

  The Conservative Association hired a large hall to accommodate the five hundred members who wanted to attend the selection hustings. Kate had never spoken to a big meeting before and was extremely nervous despite intensive preparation and the presence of Jonathan and her daughters in the front row. She sensed that the meeting was cheering her on, though some of the questions were hostile. ‘What are you going to do about immigration?’ ‘… standing room only… overcrowded island… swamped’ etc. She struggled to reconcile these questions with the local village of five thousand souls whose immigrant population co
nsisted of Mr Shah and his family at the post office and the largely invisible owner of the Chinese restaurant. She had been advised, however, not to appear too condescending but to show, at least, a willingness to listen to heartfelt concerns. Her unsound social liberalism on gay marriage lost a few votes. But it didn’t matter. She was overwhelmingly adopted on the first ballot.

  Three months later the party machine swung into action for the general election, which the Prime Minister called early when her Brexit programme ran into serious trouble in parliament and before rising unemployment dented her popularity. Since the constituency had returned Conservatives with massive majorities, even in 1945 and 1997, there was little basis for anxiety.

  Kate was required only to put in a few days’ work shaking hands and being photographed. The Tory machine did the rest. The sole ripple of controversy in the campaign was her initial refusal to put her family in front of the cameras when she worried that this old-fashioned public display of traditional family values might prove a hostage to fortune. Stella led the opposition, arguing that the members would not countenance such a display of metropolitan liberalism so soon after the demise of Sir Terence.

  Such interest as her campaign excited centred on her appearance. Her height and figure would have qualified her to be a professional model. Her face was very handsome rather than conventionally beautiful, and with her naturally blonde hair, she had the classical good looks of a well-bred, upper middle class English family whence she came. All of this would have been reserved for the electors of Surrey Heights, had an earnest Labour shadow minister not chosen to enliven the election campaign with an attack on the ‘objectification of women’ by the right-wing media deterring talented young women from coming forward into public life. The press, which had been bored to death by the opposition leader’s lectures on the evils of capitalism, at last had a serious subject to get their teeth into. The Sun retaliated with a headline and two-page spread. Prominently featured was a photo of Kate taken half a lifetime earlier when she had tried modelling in her gap year, posing in a minimalist bikini. She was one of several ‘Gorgeous Girls’ who would be banished to an appalling Gulag if Manchester’s Madame Mao and her Loony Left Labour friends got within a million miles of Downing Street. Kate was rather relieved that the Sun was not more widely read in Surrey Heights.