Chapter 3 #2
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.
Marjorie had short hair with a blue streak in her fringe. She wore linen trousers and clogs, with a peasant-style shirt and knitted waistcoat over it.
“I can smell the hemp from here,” Nigella muttered. “She’s lovely, though. She and her wife run an organic strawberry farm out the back of Brimborne Upon Wylde. They’ve adopted two dyslexic Azerbaijani orphan girls.”
Marjorie gave a polite wave.
“Our next candidate is for the Labour Party, Dr Riz Patel,” Hetty said. If she had disdain in her voice for the Greens, she basically threw the card away that announced this guy.
“An Indian doctor, ground-breaking,” Nigella whispered, and I snorted despite myself.
Guy once again jumped up to greet the latest candidate. Dr Patel was … oh, actually … Dr Patel was pretty alright looking. In his late thirties with a surprisingly muscular build underneath his linen dress shirt and blue chinos. He bounded onto the stage with a sharp beard and dazzling smile.
“Well, I’d do him,” Sonia said to no one in particular.
There was a rustling beside me, and suddenly, I felt Nigella’s weight change as she turned in her seat. “You made it!” she said.
I turned to see who she was talking to and felt my lip curl out of instinct. My mortal enemy slash former lover, Simon Anson, slightly flushed from having to rush here, was taking his seat beside her at the end of our row.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” he answered. He gave me a look. “Arden,” he said in a tone that was devoid of emotion.
“Simon,” I replied, keeping my eyes looking forward.
“You’re here, Simon. I was so worried you’d miss it, now that you’re off spying on people again,” Odette said, piping up.
“For fuck’s sake,” Nigella muttered and rolled her eyes.
“I don’t spy on people,” Simon said, giving a laugh.
Odette nodded and tapped her nose. “Course not.”
Sonia looked at me in want of an explanation. I shrugged. Posh people. Ain’t like I understand them either.
Nigella was in a matchmaking mood. “I wish you two would try being friends again,” she said to me and Simon. “If you got to know each other properly, I’m sure this … tension would break.”
Little did Nigella know we’d broken quite a lot of tension on my living room floor a few months back. The kind that involved me having carpet burns on my knees afterwards.
We both gave a non-committal noise in response.
Hetty was shuffling her cards on stage. “Our penultimate candidate is from the Liberal Democrat party, please welcome Ms Suzy Rabbit.”
Once again, there was applause as Ms Rabbit joined the others on stage.
I saw Simon grimace as Guy did his recurrent jump up to greet her.
Suzy Rabbit was a busty woman of about fifty with sandy blond hair.
She wore a sensible dress and court shoes with a chunky beaded necklace that showed she was toning down her normally more acerbic style for today’s baby boomer audience.
“She’s good, she is.” Odette leaned over to tell us.
“Her daughter was head girl at Tatiana’s school a few years ago.
And she worked at the hospital in Warminster as an administrator, before that a nurse.
She has that inside knowledge. Which means she’s very good at whipping those other lazy nurses into shape from what I hear – they’re so overpaid and spoiled—”
“The Lib Dems have come second in every election in this area since the end of the SDP,” Nigella informed me, speaking over Odette, thankfully. “But the gap has been narrowing every election. Last time they came within five points.”
“She’s in with a solid chance if Frobisher screws it up,” Simon said.
“But Guy will do well,” Odette said. “He’s so smart and is the natural choice.”
“Yeah, people around here will vote Tory rain or shine,” Sonia added.
“Our final candidate,” Hetty was saying, “is from the UKIP Party” – there were cheers and a few boos – “Mr Bob Thrall.”
Bob Thrall was a red-faced man in a pinstriped suit who shook Guy’s hand heartily as he stepped up and then instantly whipped out a hankie to wipe his perspiring brow. He hesitated before shaking Riz’s hand.
“Yikes,” I whispered.
“Runs a construction company in Blandford,” Nigella said. “Small bit of trouble with the taxman a few years ago, but I think he’s got used to living in the caravan now.”
The hustings began with Hetty asking each candidate to introduce themselves fully.
Guy went first: “I am passionate about the community, that’s why I sit on the parish council, the Chamber of Commerce and volunteer. My family has lived in this area for hundreds of years. I intend to go to Westminster and get them to listen to real, honest people.”
I applauded politely. Simon didn’t. Nigella elbowed him sharply, and he gave a few half-hearted claps.
Marjorie Potsdam went next. “THE BEES ARE DYING!” she yelled at the top of her lungs. “DORSET COUNTY COUNCIL WANT TO BUILD A NEW DUAL CARRIAGEWAY. JOIN ME, AND WE’LL LIE IN FRONT OF THE BULLDOZERS.”
There was shocked silence. This was the most public emotion shown in Dorset in years.
“Are the bees really dying?” Sonia whispered to me.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Oh my God, I swatted one the other day. Wait, no, it was definitely a wasp. Are they dying too?”
I shushed her.
Riz stood up to introduce himself. “I was born in this country to immigrants who came here for a better life, so I understand what it is to want to help your family. I’m an anaesthetist at the Royal Salisbury Hospital, so I know what challenges our NHS is under and I have ideas for how to fix them.
Send me to Westminster to fix the country, not the guy from the party who actually created them.
” There were a few jeers at this and some polite applause. Simon clapped for him.
Suzy Rabbit gave the most polished introduction; she cracked a joke, asked the audience how they were, complimented Hetty, and did so well that you could see Guy and Riz rebuking themselves for not doing better.