This Honourable House Read Online Free Page B

as he was, with political intrigue as his baby. Perhaps it had been better for them both that the pregnancy had proved false.
    This house had been sold. Her belongings were already half in, half out of packing cases. Of course, it was too big for her, with five bedrooms and an acre of garden. Gail could not recall now why such a mansion had ever seemed desirable; perhaps they had been showing off to each other when he was first elected, back in the days when housing was cheap. The bathrooms had impressed her relatives, while the neighbours were much more refined than she was used to. They, in turn, basked in the reflected glory of an MP in their midst and had been cordial. But even with the promised fees from the magazine column and the proposed book, she would have been hard pressed to keep it up, and in fact she didn’t want to. It reminded her too much of weekends when Frank had been pleased to come home to her, and had talked long into the night about his ambitions for the future, until the drone had sent her to sleep.
    She had humoured him, never thinking that a person from such a limited background could have got nearly as far. This was a man who was hard-pressed to write a letter for himself and whose tortured syntax on the public platform still drew sneering comment. A man who had to rely on other people, such as herself, to fill in forms and to ensure that the television licence and the car tax were paid on time. Her post-school education, it was true, ran only to the college of commerce, but it was more than his. Without secretaries his obvious lacunae would have tripped him up long ago. Secretaries including That Woman.
    But give him an issue – especially a row where attitudes had become entrenched – and Frank was the master. He could grasp what each faction needed, their fears and bottom lines, better than anyone. He could negotiate a deal in which everyone came out on top – or, at least, felt they did. Even as a police officer that had been his forte. And Frank, dear Frank, would be shaking hands all round, the centre of an admiring band of former enemies. Frank was always surrounded by friends. He didn’t need kids, or family. He was never alone. But she was.
    And now … now didn’t bear thinking about. Gail cuddled a doll and blinked away tears as Benedict and his new wife, confident and smiling, stepped out of the church under a hail of rice. Confetti was banned in Parliament Square, but pigeons and seagulls were free cleansing agents. What a handsome pair, she could not stop herself admitting. It would be churlish to wish them anything other than a full and happy married life.
    Frank had probably considered getting married in the same fashion, this time. Deprived of awhite wedding on the first occasion because of the rush and expense, he would have discussed with That Woman how they might flaunt their relationship. Some churches would do it, despite the divorce. An ecclesiastical blessing, perhaps, some time after the register office. She would not have put it past the Usurper to lead Frank by the nose to the nearest altar in a flurry of Brussels lace and posh headgear. Frank in a topper would cut quite a dash.
    Gail’s chin came up. She needed to consult her adviser. If he said she should attend and wait outside the church, then that was what she would do, however horrible the experience. If he told her to stay at home and arranged for a sympathetic woman journalist and photographer or TV crew to record her anguish, then she would grit her teeth and do that, too. Mr Clifford Maxwell was a godsend. Nobody else had been as considerate. No one else had come up with so many smart wheezes that had enabled her to put across her point of view. No longer the sad silent little wife – ex-wife, soon, when the decree absolute came through – she was now a person in her own right. Frank had treated her badly, dropped her like a hot potato in two minutes flat after decades of loyal marriage. Expected her to