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scurried around in my head like mice.
    A couple of weeks ago, I had won a freelance contract with a gardening magazine and my assignment was due, so I worked on the illustrations. But my heart wasn’t in it. After an hour or so, I found myself clicking through television channels looking for any news of the election, but only found daytime soaps and a program about obesity.
    I made some tea, sat at the coffee table with my laptop, and ran more searches on Simon Scott. I soon found what I was looking for. He was appearing in Kensington that evening, speaking to the public in a grammar school gymnasium. I wasn’t totally sure what I expected to get out of seeing him again, but having a plan made me feel better. I went back to my art assignment.
    At six o’ clock, I dressed warmly against the arctic wind that had swept in to replace the rain. The biting cold was a stark warning to those foolish enough to think that spring was anywhere in our future. At the last minute, I grabbed a press pass given to me by Gardener’s Monthly for an event at Kew Gardens. It had my photo on it and hung from a lanyard that I put round my neck.
    The gym was packed when I got there, but was barely any warmer than it was outside. People sat on benches and beige foldout chairs, with their coats and scarves still tightly wrapped around them. Standing at the back, I could see that a stage had been set up at the far end, draped with banners and posters bearing the logo of the Labor Party. Spotting a table where several women were handing out cups of tea and slices of cake on paper plates, I pushed my way over. If I had to stand for the evening, I needed some sustenance. It seemed that everyone at the back had the same idea, however, and I queued for some time with little hope of achieving my goal before the speeches began.
    A woman walked past me, eyeing my press pass. “You should be at the front, love,” she said. “Press is up there and there are a few empty chairs.”
    I hesitated just for a second and then walked up an aisle to the front, taking a seat in the second row. A dark-haired man with glasses glanced over at me when I sat down, but he didn’t speak. He had a notebook and a pencil ready. I retrieved my iPhone from my purse; I didn’t really plan on taking any notes, but I should at least look as though I was. My neighbor eyed the phone before turning to talk to a middle-aged woman who sat on the other side of him.
    Rather like a concert, there were some warm-up acts before the party leader took the stage, a series of speakers who varied in their delivery from hectoring to droning. I was sure Anita would have been enthralled, but I was perilously close to nodding off. Finally, a good-looking young man with gelled hair and a large red rosette pinned to his chest ran on to the stage and raised his arms to encourage the audience to applaud. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he shouted. “Please welcome your party leader, Simon Scott!”
    As the gymnasium erupted into a storm of cheers and clapping, I realized that this was an event for the already-converted. The applause went on for some time, while the young man stood on stage absorbing it all as though it was meant for him. Finally he held up both hands, palms out, until the echoing hall began to fall quiet. “Thank you, thank you,” he said, stepping to one side, throwing one arm out like a vaudeville performer to summon Scott to the stage. Simon Scott walked on to a renewed burst of applause. He waited patiently for silence. From where I sat, his aura was very pronounced, with the air rippling around his head and shoulders fast enough to blur the photograph of himself on the wall behind him.
    Something about him reminded me of Josh. He was older, of course, but he had that same boyish look and floppy hair, light-colored eyes and lean figure. The similarity made the fact of his aura even harder to accept. I felt protective of him just as I would be of Josh. He was far too young to