I stroked in the final dab of cream. The mirror bore the double burden of me looking at it and being looked into at the same time. My skin gleamed with its expensive lustre and my hair was satisfyingly smart and chic. A girl had grown into a woman who, among other things was a wife and mother. Making sense of what you turned out to be was as much to do with that faith and determination of the will. And, above all, I had my inner room into which I could retreat and draw breath.

I got up and turned round to face Will. ‘It was business.’ I kissed his nose and drew a heart on his chest with my fingertip. ‘Only business.’

‘I’ve had an idea,’ Will said, as he threw back the covers and got into bed. ‘If there’s any money left over from your father’s estate, I think you should make inquiries about buying Casa Rosa. We could do it up. I’ll help you. I like DIY.’

I slid in beside him, and plumped up my pillow. ‘There won’t be enough.’

He smiled conspiratorially. ‘Did I tell you Meg has left me a small amount? You can have it. You must have it.’ He reached out and snapped off the light. ‘That should do.’

23

I had been on the stump for four hours. My feet hurt, and my wretched rosette kept falling off. Our last but one stop was a block of flats down by the river where the concrete walkways were streaked with damp and corridors were littered with… best not to inquire. I knocked on a door that had once been bright blue.

A woman in a plastic apron stuck her head through the window. ‘What do you want?’

I launched into the spiel and she frowned. ‘You lot never talked to us.’

‘But I’m talking to you now.’

‘That’s what you call it.’

Behind me, the junior party apparatchik trailing in my wake sniggered and I gave up. ‘Fine,’ I said, and tried to stuff a leaflet through the letterbox, where it stuck.

I stifled a yawn, as well I might: I had been woken at five thirty a.m. by Mr Tucker, who had demanded to know if my spirit was in good working order.

Good question.

Next up was Mrs Scott, my special assignment, who, I knew, would have spent most of the afternoon preparing tea for my visit.

The apparatchik and I squeezed into her sitting room, where a tray with legs had been laid with a lace napkin and a jug with a beaded cover. In the corner, a television with the sound turned down winked and blinked. ‘I hope you use yours.’ She whipped the cover off the jug.

‘I do, Mrs Scott. I’m very fond of it.’

‘Mrs Savage and I are friends,’ Mrs Scott addressed the apparatchik, ‘she sits in for the minister.’

I glanced around the room. After much tussling, the council had replaced the glass in the front door after the violent neighbours had bashed it in. There was a patch of new plaster, too, where the window had cracked and the damp had got into it. ‘I am glad Will was able to organize to get the repairs. It’s been rather uncomfortable for you, I’m afraid.’

Mrs Scott did not see it this way. ‘If those buggers hadn’t bashed down my door, I would never have got to meet the minister.’

Polling day dawned stormy. I climbed out of our warm bed and pulled back the curtains, The rain rattled across the field, and welled into puddles on the road.

‘Sod it,’ said Will from the bed. ‘No one will go out to vote.’ He picked up the phone and rang Mannochie. While I dressed, a conversation ensued in which my name cropped up. I knew what it meant.

‘Mannochie’s ordered transport for the elderly,’ Will lay back on the pillows, already looking exhausted, ‘but we could use the second car and a driver.’

I picked up my election skirt, not a garment of great beauty but it made me look reliable and approachable, and put it on. ‘I know my duty.’

The polling station was the primary school, where, as the roof leaked, voters dodged around buckets – which, it occurred to me, was not a good advert for Will.

He and I voted, and I set myself to pilot the aged, infirm, and those with small children to and from the polling stations. Every so often I checked in at one of the twenty committee rooms scattered over the constituency for an update.

The day vanished and, after a snatched supper of a banana and yoghurt, the order came: the MP’s wife’s call to arms.

I went home and changed into a dark grey trouser suit, a silk camisole and a pair of pink, soft leather flat shoes. I was, of course, wearing tights. I looked in the mirror and checked my eyelashes. A girl… no, a woman had to consider her strategies. If it was victory, I was primed. If it was defeat, I needed to be at my feminine best. I wanted to go to the death scented, lipsticked, hair in place.

I hid the shadows beneath my eyes with foundation, outlined my mouth in lipstick, blotted it and reapplied a second coat, then brushed my hair until it fell obediently on to my shoulders.

Mannochie caught up with me as I threaded my way through the army of helpers at the party association headquarters. He looked grim, and his hair was lank and unbrushed. ‘Exit polls don’t look so good.’

‘For the party, or for Will?’

‘Hard to say,’ he said, ‘but it’s possible that Will is going to cop it.’

‘Grief, Mannochie.’ I froze on the spot. ‘I thought it might be better on the day.’

‘Politics isn’t a science, but hunches are pretty good too.’

Defeat would come hard to Mannochie as well as to Will. They were linked together like a horse and carriage.

‘We’ve been through it before,’ I said to Mannochie. ‘We’ll survive.’

‘It’s not as though there’s a real reason,’ he said miserably. ‘The economy’s OK. Inflation’s under control. Public services are ticking over.’

I am told that sea-changes in the earth’s composition take place underground in secret. We don’t know about them, but they happen, and it is not until later that the scientists can work out exactly what has happened. Meg had been correct: people get bored and they crave change just for the sake of change. There is no rhyme or reason for it, and it is bad luck on anyone caught by the short-fall.

Will broke into a smile of relief when I pushed my way through to him. ‘Thought you’d done a runner.’

Like minor royalty, he and I stood side by side as people came up to discuss, take orders, make a point. Every so often, Will felt for my hand and pressed it. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Matt Smith making a beeline towards us.

Will whispered, ‘Could you smile at Matt, Fanny?’

‘You ask me to do such terrible things.’ I forced my lips into the appropriate shape.

And so… on to the torture of the count. Keyed up and fatigued, the bystanders wandered around and made aimless conversation. The activists were best at keeping up the semblance of mad activity and, with respect to the drones, it was those from the opposite party who appeared happiest and more diligently occupied.

The ballot boxes arrived, were emptied, the papers sorted, bundled and placed in lines on the trestle tables. I knew now to watch the lines. Sometimes they creep… sometimes they rocket along and you can tell from the way the tellers glance in your direction which pile belongs to whom.

No one appeared to be looking in Will’s direction.

‘See?’ said Mannochie, in an undertone. ‘Not good.’

‘I know’

I helped myself to coffee from a Thermos. It was stewed but at least it was hot. Anyway, it gave me something on which to concentrate. No need to get the bad news before it was necessary.

At four o’clock there was a final altercation with the Natural Earth candidate over spoilt ballot papers. That sorted, the returning officer made his way to Will and me. ‘I’m sorry.’ He spoke directly to Will. ‘You win some and some you don’t.’ Will swallowed. The gaze of the returning officer drifted towards the winning candidate. ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated.

Will stood on the platform, as upright and unflinching as he had trained himself to be, and I was proud of him. The final figures were read out and he did not falter, not once, not even when he heard how his majority of 7,005 had been wiped off the face of the earth.

The victorious candidate bowed, grinned, and made a speech in which he individually thanked most people in Stanwinton.

Then Will took the microphone… and we were back to the beginning. He spoke about change, the need to rethink and recharge, and how he had fought to hold on to his ideals. He thanked his supporters and told them that nothing had been wasted.

Every word drained him, I could see that, and I willed him to the finish in this gladiatorial death. At the end, head bowed, he listened to the applause. Then he raised his eyes and sought mine.

It did not end quite there: we had to speak to so many people who required to be reassured and reminded that there was a tomorrow and it would come.

On the way home, Will said suddenly, ‘Stop the car.’

He wrenched open the door and stumbled out. I followed him.

Then he was sick.

I held him until the bout was finished. ‘Sorry,’ he managed.

After he had got his breath back, I made him walk with me as far as the oak tree at the corner of the field. The sun was just poking above the horizon and, after the heat and frenzy of the town hall, the air was fresh and cool. We leant on the gate and looked across the field to the dawn, where the light was picking out the pattern of leaves on the hedgerows. The birds were stirring in the beech trees.

Will laid his head on his folded arms. ‘I always wondered how I would deal with it when it came.’

‘The answer is, fine. In fact, more than fine.’

His voice was muffled. ‘We will have to think again about everything. How we live, all that. What we do.’

Back at the house, I made him tea which he drank thirstily. ‘Let’s see what’s happening on television,’ he said.