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Authors: Edwina Currie
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costume jewellery and red lipstick, though the ring finger was left painfully bare.
Only the dolls had been lovingly unpacked, and arranged over the living room, their glass eyes twinkling-brown or blue under the electric light. The computer still sat in its box; it presented a challenge and a reproof, for Gail had never felt confident using it. But her skills would improve with time, Mr Maxwell had assured her, and he urged her to take a course, to master the damn thing, to become a thoroughly modern single woman. Like thousands of others in London, this God-forsaken hole.
It was horrible being alone. Not the same as waiting for Frank on the tedious evenings when he was at a meeting. Then, there was the certainty that he would soon breeze in, bang the door, fling his briefcase on the stairs, forget to hang up his coat, and give her a kiss. After his election as an MP, if she got fed up during weekdays when he was at Westminster, she could take the train to London and potter round, go to an exhibition or to an afternoon matinee. She had never been one for socialising and did not have a coterie of friends to gossip or have lunch with. The wife of a busy political man had to be circumspect in what she said, but that had suited Gail’s shy nature – she had found the noisier public affairs rather a trial.
This was different. The room was empty except for herself, and it would remain empty. The flat had been chosen for its convenience and price, not for its proximity to any acquaintances or family. Without a supreme effort, she would stay alone.
The letter-box rattled. The sound inside her head was of jailers’ keys, metallic and threatening. The post would be smaller now, no longer the dozens of fat brown envelopes addressed to Frank that would absorb his entire attention over breakfast and had so irritated her. Some post was still being sent on; these days, the main items were junk mail, from companies that never bothered to update their mailing list. They followed the bottle into the overflowing bin.
Two white envelopes were addressed to her, both with printed addresses. One was from the bank. A reminder, courteous for the moment, to pay an overdue credit card bill. She would have to concede defeat on that one soon, cut the card across, put it in the envelope and mail it back to them. The money dear Mr Maxwell was arranging for her would be needed for expenses, or a rainy day. Frank, she felt bleakly, could not be relied upon to keep up his payments, not with That Woman guarding the cheque book. The other was from the council, asking coolly whether she would confirm that she lived alone since it would entitle her to a discount on her council-tax payments. Gail stared at it, biting her lip. Its thoughtless cruelty took her breath away. She hid it under the wizened apples in the fruit basket.
She filled the coffee machine with water, listlessly folded a filter paper, measured stale ground coffee into the container. To distract herself she flicked once more through the pile of newspapers that lay in a disorganised heap next to it. The headlines ‘CABINET MINISTER’S EX-WIFE IN DESPERATE STRAITS’ and ‘THE PUBLIC SHOULD KNOW WHAT A CREEP MY HUSBAND IS’ – should have pleased her, but instead intensified her sense of loss.
Perhaps this furious tirade against her husband and his new wife was a mistake. The old Gail would not have indulged in such petty attempts at revenge. She should never have sunk so low. Maybe those who said she should have borne her humiliation in mute dignity had had a point. But the campaign had its own momentum and was virtually unstoppable. It gave her grim satisfaction when interviewers expressed their sympathy. Besides, it filled her days.
A brown envelope and a small package remained. The first contained a note from the library in Cheshire about an overdue book. That went under the apples also. The package was a battered Jiffy-bag, re-used, the old lettering covered in obliterating
Only the dolls had been lovingly unpacked, and arranged over the living room, their glass eyes twinkling-brown or blue under the electric light. The computer still sat in its box; it presented a challenge and a reproof, for Gail had never felt confident using it. But her skills would improve with time, Mr Maxwell had assured her, and he urged her to take a course, to master the damn thing, to become a thoroughly modern single woman. Like thousands of others in London, this God-forsaken hole.
It was horrible being alone. Not the same as waiting for Frank on the tedious evenings when he was at a meeting. Then, there was the certainty that he would soon breeze in, bang the door, fling his briefcase on the stairs, forget to hang up his coat, and give her a kiss. After his election as an MP, if she got fed up during weekdays when he was at Westminster, she could take the train to London and potter round, go to an exhibition or to an afternoon matinee. She had never been one for socialising and did not have a coterie of friends to gossip or have lunch with. The wife of a busy political man had to be circumspect in what she said, but that had suited Gail’s shy nature – she had found the noisier public affairs rather a trial.
This was different. The room was empty except for herself, and it would remain empty. The flat had been chosen for its convenience and price, not for its proximity to any acquaintances or family. Without a supreme effort, she would stay alone.
The letter-box rattled. The sound inside her head was of jailers’ keys, metallic and threatening. The post would be smaller now, no longer the dozens of fat brown envelopes addressed to Frank that would absorb his entire attention over breakfast and had so irritated her. Some post was still being sent on; these days, the main items were junk mail, from companies that never bothered to update their mailing list. They followed the bottle into the overflowing bin.
Two white envelopes were addressed to her, both with printed addresses. One was from the bank. A reminder, courteous for the moment, to pay an overdue credit card bill. She would have to concede defeat on that one soon, cut the card across, put it in the envelope and mail it back to them. The money dear Mr Maxwell was arranging for her would be needed for expenses, or a rainy day. Frank, she felt bleakly, could not be relied upon to keep up his payments, not with That Woman guarding the cheque book. The other was from the council, asking coolly whether she would confirm that she lived alone since it would entitle her to a discount on her council-tax payments. Gail stared at it, biting her lip. Its thoughtless cruelty took her breath away. She hid it under the wizened apples in the fruit basket.
She filled the coffee machine with water, listlessly folded a filter paper, measured stale ground coffee into the container. To distract herself she flicked once more through the pile of newspapers that lay in a disorganised heap next to it. The headlines ‘CABINET MINISTER’S EX-WIFE IN DESPERATE STRAITS’ and ‘THE PUBLIC SHOULD KNOW WHAT A CREEP MY HUSBAND IS’ – should have pleased her, but instead intensified her sense of loss.
Perhaps this furious tirade against her husband and his new wife was a mistake. The old Gail would not have indulged in such petty attempts at revenge. She should never have sunk so low. Maybe those who said she should have borne her humiliation in mute dignity had had a point. But the campaign had its own momentum and was virtually unstoppable. It gave her grim satisfaction when interviewers expressed their sympathy. Besides, it filled her days.
A brown envelope and a small package remained. The first contained a note from the library in Cheshire about an overdue book. That went under the apples also. The package was a battered Jiffy-bag, re-used, the old lettering covered in obliterating
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