Chapter 3 #3
Bob Thrall stood up. “No more red tape! No more immigrants! No more lefties bleating on about bees! No more French people! No more Poles taking English jobs! No more members of the homosexual community asking for pronouns and to be referred to as a goat, no more―”
“And time for the first question,” Hetty said, cutting him off. This question is from Mr Grant A. Wish, the editor of the Sittingston Citizen, who wants to know about improving train connections to Bristol.”
The next hour, let me tell you, reader, flew by.
There’s barely a moment I’ve been happier to lose than that one in the swelteringly hot church hall listening to racism and conspiracy theories (and those were just the questions), while Sonia asked me questions such as “Do the Greens like other colours?” and “Why don’t Labour call themselves ‘Work!’? ”.
There was some proper discussion: what to do about the comprehensive in Sittingston needing more funding to renovate its crumbling buildings, the need for a bypass through some of the villages, whether enough was being done to attract people of working age to live here, and what opportunities there were to keep those from the area from moving away.
A screaming match between Bob Thrall and Marjorie’s wife was the highlight, though. “Fascist demagogue!” she yelled as she was asked to leave. “Commie pinkeye!” he shouted back.
“I think he meant ‘pinko’,” Nigella whispered as Marjorie’s wife was escorted out.
The meeting broke up, and most people began to leave, while some made a beeline for the candidates for overtime. Riz, however, jumped off the stage and made his way to our group.
“How’d I do, babe?” he said.
“You were great,” Simon answered and planted a kiss on him.
Nigella’s eyebrows going heavenwards informed me she had been unaware of this development, too. Odette went bright red and began to make a “hhhmm” noise.
“Everyone,” Simon said, turning away from Riz, but holding his hand, “this is Riz. My … uh … well, shall we tell ’em?” he asked Riz.
“Fiancé!” Riz answered for him.
“Guess we’re telling them,” Simon said.
“Oh my … Oh my goodness!” Nigella exclaimed. “Come here and give me a hug, both of you.” She turned to me over the shoulders of both Simon and Riz and mouthed, “Oh my God.”
A woman came over to our group. She was forty-ish with dark hair that had patches of red in the sun and a pinched face.
“Riz, I thought we agreed to keep it under wraps.”
“Everyone, this is Marina Holt, my campaign manager. Normally, she’s not quite so strict and boring,” Riz said, gesturing to the woman like she was the bane of his existence.
Marina tried to arrange her face in a friendly smile.
She gave up and looked at her phone instead.
Nigella managed to give a greeting. But I was unable.
I felt like the world was spinning a bit too fast.
“Sonia, we should go,” I said.
But she was busy congratulating them as well. “What lovely news! How long have you been together?”
“About a year,” Riz answered. Was I imagining it, or was Simon staring straight at me? Wait, a year. That meant …
“Yeah, we had a brief break-up over Christmas, but Simon came pounding on my door to win me back,” Riz said, continuing his explanation.
“We didn’t even know you were seeing anyone!” Odette said.
“Sorry, you broke up at Christmas?” I asked.
“Uh, yeah,” Riz said falteringly. “I was working too much; Simon was working too much.” He gave me a look. Simon, however, was definitely not looking in my direction.
Oh, Christ.
“And when did you get back together?” Sonia said, as if this was the most natural question in the world.
“It was sadly after Simon’s friend Arabella died. I understand you all knew her, too? Yeah, what was it you said, sweetheart? That ‘life was too short for regrets’?”
“Something like that,” Simon said stiffly.
Oh my God. I was a whore. I was everything I’d broken up with Ollie because of. I was a homewrecking slut.
“Sorry to intrude, but I couldn’t help but overhear, Riz, are you getting married?”
Everyone looked to me as Suzy Rabbit appeared at my shoulder.
“Yes, I am. Everyone, this is Sooz. She may be a filthy radical centrist, but she’s also a dear friend,” Riz told us.
She shook everyone’s hands and then hugged Riz and Simon.
A man came up and stood next to me. Apparently, we were attracting all sorts. “He’s getting hitched? Damn, that’s a good backstory. But to a man, that might cancel out any goodwill from that around here.”
I looked at the man and then looked again. “Oh.”
He was a tall Black man who appeared to be somewhere in his late thirties but was probably well into his forties. He was dressed in a nice suit and even nicer shoes, and held all the easy charm that Marina Holt did not.
“Errol Mottley,” he said, holding out his hand to me. “Suzy’s campaign manager.”
I shook his hand. “Arden Forrest, local swing voter.”
“Oh, I think that’s a lie.”
“Sorry?” I asked.
He laughed. “I don’t mean to offend, but I think Mr Patel can safely count on your vote. C’mon, you’re clearly one of those London types who’ve moved down to the countryside.”
“I’m not sure if I should be offended.”
“I mean no offence,” he said, holding up his hands. “Just stating the obvious.”
“Is that so? And what about you – that suit tells me you stepped off the train from London about fifteen minutes before this kicked off and you’re racing back to the station now.”
Errol laughed – it was a nice sound – but shook his head. “I’m based in Bristol; I manage our campaigns here in the South West.”
I nodded. “Right, right, I stand corrected.”
A photographer from the local paper called out to the candidates, and both Suzy and Riz made their apologies to join the others.
Riz gave Simon a kiss before he was dragged back by an anxious Marina.
Errol nodded towards the assembling potential-MPs.
“I need to babysit; she only photographs well from her right. A pleasure to meet you, Arden. Hopefully, I’ll see more of you on the campaign trail.
” He left to join Suzy, and I felt myself flush.
Nigella and Sonia were preoccupied with Odette, who was convinced the baby was kicking. Simon took his opportunity while they were busy and grabbed my elbow. “Can I have a word outside?”
“You’re not giving me much of an option.”
We went out into the blazing sunshine where, thankfully, most of the crowd had dispersed.
“You’re getting married?” I yelled as soon as we were outside.
“Please don’t make a scene.” As always, it was someone else’s fault with Simon.
“We slept together when you had a boyfriend.”
“No! No, that’s not right, we had broken up, we only got back together after—”
“So, sleeping with me convinced you to go back to your ex, and then you proposed?”
“Listen—”
“No, you listen,” I snapped. “I don’t care what you’re up to, you’ve made it clear you don’t like me, and I was just a tumble in the hay, but don’t act like you’re innocent-Mr-High-and-Mighty like you always do.”
“Just don’t tell Riz, okay? That’s all I ask.”
I scoffed. “I’m not getting involved in your life any more than I have to.”
There was a silence. “You promise you won’t say anything?” he asked.
“Promise. None of my business, besides, you’re adamant that we did nothing wrong, so why would I?” Look at me being brave. Usually, when it came to being accused of wrongdoing, I panicked and worried I’d be made the suspect regardless of any guilt.
“That’s right. I got back in touch with Riz the day of Arabella’s funeral.” He paused and looked at me for a moment. “I was drunk and upset, and I wanted someone to talk to. And one thing led to another, and now three months later, we’re engaged.”
“How romantic.”
Before Simon could answer – or deck me – Sonia joined us outside. “Odette is crying because Nigella said she’s a stupid cow for going on about the baby kicking when it’s too soon for it to be doing that. She’s locked herself in the toilets.”