securing into place. Charles stood, lifeless and submissive, and let his wife alter his collar and tie.
‘There – much better,’ Elaine declared triumphantly, patting down the collar with her freshly painted nails.
‘Come on now, dear, try and look less tired. What did the doctor say?’
‘More tablets,’ Charles said absently. He had tried every medicine known to mankind in his attempt to sleep through the night but Lorna’s ghost was persistent, being able to penetrate through the thickest drug-induced fog to find him and torment him; forever placing her last kiss upon his cheek before collapsing to her untimely death.
‘What are your plans for today?’ Charles asked, wanting to divert the conversation away from his ongoing fatigue, wary that his wife might continue to pry. He would have enough awkward questions to answer at the press conference; he did not wish to answer them in his own home.
‘Today,’ Elaine said with a hint of grandeur, clearly excited by her impending plans, ‘today I shall be choosing colours for the dining room as we are redecorating it, remember?’
‘Didn’t we decorate the dining room last summer?’
‘And then I’ve been asked to chair a book club somewhere over in Mayfair, which is exciting,’ Elaine continued, ignoring Charles’ question.
‘You do love your books.’
‘Oh yes, today we are discussing Wuthering Heights. Ah, I used to love that book as a girl. It’s all so turbulent and dark. I hate how Heathcliff ends up being haunted by Catherine’s ghost. I remember reading that bit as a young girl and being terrified!’
‘I can imagine.’
‘Well, writers love to dramatise things, don’t they. Love, in most cases, is simple. Look at us. It’s when you don’t go for your own kind, which is what happened in the book, that you end up in trouble.’
Charles frowned at the implications of his wife’s comment, but she had left the room, calling to him as she left about various shades of beige. He pondered on what she had said. Was he possibly now being punished for loving someone he shouldn’t have? Did all those who commit adultery suffer similarly?
‘Good morning, sir,’ Faye handed Charles his messages as he strode past her, heading for his office.
‘Good morning,’ he managed to smile at his assistant before thankfully entering the solitude of his office. For a brief moment, he would enjoy the quiet, but then the memories of Lorna would begin to surface and he would long to be released from what had started to feel more like a prison than a retreat.
Charles tried to occupy his mind with the papers left on his desk but everything in them felt superfluous to him. He tried to engage himself in the news stories but it was hopeless. His mind was already sinking into the pit of despair it did every morning. Clearly, the papers were not a strong enough distraction, so he turned his attention to his handful of messages.
There was nothing of note; a few calls he had to return, nothing more. As he was about to return to the papers he noticed the final note Faye had wrote down for him in her tidy, cursive hand and his heart sunk. In his eagerness to be more proactive at work in an attempt to place a plaster over the wound Lorna’s death had left upon him, he had agreed to a meet and greet session with the latest intake of interns.
The Prime Minister was always far too busy for such meetings and so in his role as Deputy he had the responsibility of being the face of the ruling political party, to be available for hospital openings, charity balls and any other relevant events.
As he sat behind the desk, which had once nearly been burnt to the ground by the fires of his own passion, he knew that he could not do it. Not enough time had elapsed. He was not strong enough to face a room full of interns, because any of them could be Lorna, young and eager to make their mark upon the world, and he did not want any further reminders of the one woman he had loved and lost.
He considered cancelling the meeting, but Charles knew that Faye would be aware of his reasoning which made him feel ashamed. The meeting was not until three that afternoon; hopefully something would come up before then relieving him of his requirement to attend. Until then, he needed to focus on his press conference, which meant, more than anything, perfecting his smile. He didn’t want the people to look at him and his tired, sad eyes and believe that it was because their country was beyond hope. In reality, everything was fine, more than fine. He had some very clever men in his Cabinet that had reduced benefits to the unemployed to the bare minimum, which meant that there would be additional funding for the health service, leaving the country in an even greater position than it had been for many years. But Charles knew that he needed to represent these positive changes in himself. People would not believe his good words if he delivered them from a haggard face.
‘Heavy is the head which wears the crown,’ his mother had said to him warningly when he had told her of his decision to accept the position of Deputy Prime Minister. It was a rare moment when she had spoken her mind to him. Usually, she kept herself in the background when it came to these sorts of decisions, leaving the men to plan out the future of the family.
‘I’m not trying to be king, mother,’ Charles had joked.
‘You know what I mean,’ she had said stubbornly, her always quiet voice still barely above a whisper. ‘I just don’t want you to end up unhappy.’
‘What, like you?’ Charles’ comment was cruel and it was the adolescent who still dwelled in him who did not prevent it being vocalised. His mother physically shuddered from the infliction of his words and she wrapped her arms protectively around her tiny, frail frame.
‘Yes, like me,’ she said bitterly, pools of tears forming in her grey eyes. ‘Your father is not always right. If you continue to let him make all your choices, you will never be happy.’
‘Then why do you let him dictate to you the way he does?’
‘The same reason you do, Charles. Because for some sadistic reason we want nothing more than to please him, and in doing so, sacrifice so much of ourselves.’
‘But I want to be Deputy Prime Minister, I want to make a change in this country,’ Charles said, still filled with the optimistic hope which only the young possess.
‘Okay, my son. I have no doubt that you will be a wonderful Deputy Prime Minister. But just be careful, as it can be lonely at the top.’ The ice between them had thawed. She had embraced Charles and he remembered thinking how she felt like a skeleton in his arms. The cancer had taken her before he had been appointed, so she never lived to see him become the Deputy Prime Minister and it bothered Charles to know that deep down she disapproved of his decision, because it was born of his father’s agenda.
Charles practiced his smile once more, his facial muscles already aching. He was lonely at the top, but with Lorna in his life, he had not been. Like the literary character Heathcliff, he was tormented by the loss of the woman he loved and trapped in an empty marriage. Sighing, Charles read through his speech for the press conference, determined to instil hope in the people of Britain even though all hope within him had died with Lorna.
The morning sped by in a blur of questions faster than Charles would have liked. It was soon afternoon and his meet and greet with the interns was creeping ever closer. All Charles wanted to do was hide in his office. He could not bear to face his past mistakes; not yet, not like this with Lorna gone.
Alone
