Loving Susie (2 page)
‘Mo will be after you,’ Karen predicts when she arrives prompt at nine. She is the picture of efficiency and smartness from her tailored jacket and pencil skirt to her eminently stylish heels. She puts her large cardboard beaker of coffee down on the desk and turns to look at Susie, a hint of amusement in her intelligent grey eyes.
‘I know,’ Susie agrees. ‘Mo and Tom both. I’m ready for it.’
Karen White, Susie’s Parliamentary Assistant, is also her oldest friend. With her business degree and her guaranteed loyalty, she was the obvious choice of aide when Susie won her election battle.
The voice from the doorway, cutting in on their conversation, is rasping. ‘So what did we talk about yesterday?’ Maureen Armstrong, the party’s chief press officer, launches herself through the door like a heat-seeking missile, red head ablaze.
‘Hmm?’ Susie looks up from her computer and pretends innocence. ‘Weren’t we going to do a release on—’
‘Press matters later,’ Mo cuts her off roughly. ‘What did we say about talking to the media about arts funding?’
Susie is unrepentant. ‘They called last night. It was too good an opportunity to miss.’
‘No off-message briefings and certainly no off-message interviews,’ Mo says sternly, her lips tight, her expression irate. At five foot ten and with hair that even the kindest description could not have promoted up the colour spectrum from ginger to copper, she presents a formidable front.
‘Sorry,’ Susie’s tone barely conveys regret.
‘Tom’ll be after you.’
‘Probably,’ she agrees, her voice meek but her thoughts rebellious.
Mo appears ready to dig in, but her mobile rings in her pocket and she turns away, talking in a low, urgent voice to the caller.
Saved again, Susie thinks, the feeling of relief deeper than her unruffled exterior has conveyed. A training in acting, she finds, is the best tool a politician can have.
Karen winks meaningfully at her and says, her voice businesslike, ‘Can we check diaries? And you’re remembering you’ve got guests in half an hour?’
The Parliament’s entrance lobby is a large, low-ceilinged and rather dark space. Susie considers it the least attractive space in the building, but at least visitors usually become more and more impressed as they penetrate the beating heart of the building. She usually leaves the main debating Chamber till last when she’s conducting tours, for that reason. This morning, the lobby is busy already. She scans the throng for a grandmother and two small children.
‘Susie? Is it you?’
Behind her, a small woman is clutching the hands of two quite young children. Nine perhaps, Susie thinks, and six?
‘Mrs Proudfoot? How lovely to see you after all this time.’
‘Do call me Elsie, dear. I wouldn’t have recognised you, but for the hair.’
Elsie Proudfoot had been a neighbour and a close friend of Susie’s mother. Susie scans the watery blue eyes, the pale, wrinkled skin, and the thin gray hair. If her own mother was still alive, she’d be ninety-five now, but Elsie is in her early eighties – either that or she’s wearing extremely well.
‘You’re looking fantastic, Elsie.’ The name jars on her lips. A lifetime of schooling in old-fashioned manners is hard to abandon. ‘How lovely to see you. It’s been – how long?’
‘Probably your mother’s funeral, dear. Ten years ago.’
‘Ten years! Heavens, you haven’t changed a bit,’ she lies valiantly.
‘You always were a charmer.’
Susie studies the children, two girls. The older is fair skinned and fair haired, the younger has black hair and a dark complexion that suggests mixed blood.
Elsie bends down to the younger child, who is staring up at Susie with wide eyes, her face serious. ‘This lady is just like you, Indira,’ she says chattily.
Susie waits, curious to find what point of similarity the old woman is going to draw in an attempt to pull the overawed child into the conversation.
‘Why?’ The little girl’s question is little more than the softest of whispers.
‘She’s adopted too.’
The word makes no sense. Susie looks round. Someone must be standing behind her, someone else.
Indira looks relieved, as if, in this strangest of places, she can find a way of feeling at home.
There’s no-one behind her. Only the ferret-faced journalist, Justin Thorneloe (who is not one of the tribe of Parliamentary news hounds in whom Susie cares to confide) hurrying to the exit.
Adopted? The word makes no sense.
Adopted?
Way off beam. A touch of dementia possibly.
‘Well,’ she says brightly, adopting her brightest Joyce Grenfell manner, as if she’s about to address an unruly infant class. ‘Well, how lovely you could make it, shall we start over here?’
She can do the tour off pat, without having to think. That’s just as well, because however much she tries to dismiss Elsie Proudfoot’s remark, she can’t put the word out of her mind.
Adopted.
The confusion of the elderly, she thinks again, though the woman actually seems rather bright and is asking good questions.
‘Heavens, you can see why it was so expensive. I haven’t seen a right-angle yet. You know what a right-angle is, Jemma, don’t you?’
‘It means, like, two corners of a square box, doesn’t it Granny?’
‘That’s right, good. Can you imagine that, Indira?’
The small girl nods solemnly and clings to Elsie’s hand. Her hair is plaited tightly and decorated at the ends with little pink ribbons. With her free hand she holds onto the end of one pigtail, her fingers playing with the bow. A kind of comfort blanket, Susie thinks.
She swipes her pass and leads them through to the interior of the building. They climb the few steps up to the Garden Lobby, Elsie exclaiming in delight at the flooding of sunlight into the top-lit space. ‘Oh, how beautiful. Look, Jemma, look up there. Are those leaves?’ She indicates the windows on the ceiling.
‘If you like. I think the architect thought of them as boats.’
Adopted. It doesn’t make any sense at all.
‘Are those cameras?’ Jemma asks. She’s pointing at the television cameras directed at the stairway up to the chamber, a favourite place for media interviews.
‘Yes indeed. They tend to leave them there, ready for a quick shot if needed.’
This lady’s adopted, just like you.
Susie shakes her head impatiently, trying to clear the thoughts. No. The thing’s impossible. Elsie Proudfoot has got it all wrong. Her memory is clearly at fault. Maybe she has mixed her up with someone else, another neighbour perhaps?
‘I think we’ll be able to get into the main chamber,’ she says brightly. ‘Shall we go and look?’
‘I’ve been so looking forward to this,’ Elsie says as they walk. ‘You see it on the telly. You’ve seen it, haven’t you, Jemma?’
‘We’ve done a project at school. My class might be coming to the Parliament next term.’
‘That’s nice,’ Susie beams with forced gaiety. ‘If you do come, make sure you get your Gran to let me know beforehand, won’t you? Then I can come and talk to your class. Here we are.’
Somehow, she keeps talking.
‘This is my desk. I put my pass in here—’ she slots it into a device on the desktop, ‘—like this, and that allows me to vote.’
... television cameras ...
... allowed to speak for four minutes ...
... the mace presented by the Queen ...
How can she do this? How can she carry on as if everything is normal, when all the time this word is boomeranging around her mind like a crazy beast allowed free. ‘Do you have any more questions?’
She longs to get rid of them. Once they are out of the building, everything will go back to normal. She can put the word out of her mind. Puff. Away. Like a dandelion head in the wind, scattered.
But dandelion seeds have a knack of planting themselves and growing, with ferocious vigour, wherever they fall and Susie has a deep sense of misgiving.
Most days in the Parliament building are filled end to end. If it isn’t a debate in the Chamber, it’s Committee time, or attendance is required at one of the many Cross-Party Groups in which Susie has registered an interest. She might be hosting a visiting delegation, or spending time with some of the many parties of schoolchildren who come to visit the Parliament and see how it functions. Today it’s with great relief that she heads for the front desk again, this time to sign in her daughter, Margaret-Anne.
‘Hi Mum!’
She spots Mannie right away, across the heads of a couple of dozen over-excited schoolchildren. She’s looking radiant, her lime-green coat a breath of freshness in the dark space, her often-pale cheeks rosy from hurrying, her shoulder-length dark hair falling straight and thick to her shoulders. Not my hair, she thinks, my caramel-gold cloud trademark. Not Archie’s either, brown (now grey) and wiry. As Susie crosses the entrance lobby to hug her daughter, she wonders, not for the first time, where her daughter’s hazel eyes have come from; or the focus and drive that shoehorned her through school and propelled her meteoric rise through the hotel trade.
‘Hello, darling.’ She folds Mannie in her arms, her own cloud of curls eclipsing the dark, straight locks for a few seconds. ‘So lovely you’re here.’
Mannie grins. ‘Saved you from a grilling, have I? I heard the interview.’
‘Don’t. I’ve been dodging behind pillars all morning.’
‘Coopie after you, is he?’
‘It’s just a matter of time.’
‘Can we get a salad in peace, do you think?’
‘Oh sure, he won’t tear a strip off me in public. There are too many other Members around to ogle.’
‘Happy Anniversary, by the way.’
‘Thank you.’ Susie smiles warmly at Mannie as they weave through the throngs towards the Garden Lobby and the staff canteen. ‘Okay if we slum it? I would have booked the Members’ restaurant but I’m a bit pushed for time.’
‘Course. I’ve got to get back to work myself.’
‘Good. What do you fancy?’
They survey the fare on offer and plump for salad and fresh fruit.
Susie says, ‘Dad’s buying me dinner at The Shore later.’
‘I know.’
Susie looks at Mannie suspiciously. ‘Was that your doing?’
‘Not at all,’ Mannie says, the corners of her mouth lifting mischievously so that Susie can’t read whether she’s telling the truth. ‘All his own idea.’
They sit near the glass wall overlooking the small garden in front of the Members’ office block and settle down for a gossip amid the hum and hubbub of the canteen. Susie longs to share Elsie Proudfoot’s remark with her daughter, to laugh about its absurdity with her, but some instinct makes her hold back. She needs to talk to Archie first.
‘How’s Cal?’ Mannie has a tendency to trade in her men for a new model once every couple of years. Susie likes her current boyfriend, Callum McMaster, who works in information technology in one of the big banks. What he actually does is a mystery to Susie, but he seems dependable. Where Mannie is always building up a head of steam for a new challenge, Callum is content to work his way steadily up the rungs on the ladder he has started climbing. Anyway, he clearly adores her.
Mannie sweeps back her hair and attempts to keep it out of her way by pushing it behind her ear, where it sits, obediently, for ten seconds before slipping forwards again, the slightness of the ear defeated by the thickness of the locks. She says, ‘Fine,’ through a crunch of celery, dismissing the question of her boyfriend with one airy word.
‘What does that mean? Fine? Fine is all right. Fine is okay so far as it goes. Fine is—‘
‘Cal’s fine, Mum. He’s off skiing with his mates next week, to Courcheval.’
‘Aren’t you going with them?’
‘No, no, blokey thing. It does us good to have some time apart.’
Susie longs to ask, aren’t you thinking of marriage yet? Aren’t you even moving in together? Her daughter shares a house with a couple of girlfriends, insisting that ‘We like girly gossip’ – but Callum has outlasted all her other boyfriends by eight months clear. Surely it’s time for a step further in their relationship? When she was twenty-eight she’d been married for three years. Mannie was already born when she was twenty-eight.
Still, Susie hesitates at being so intrusive. Mannie is just as likely to take umbrage and choose the opposite course of action if she tries to interfere. If there’s one thing Archie has taught her, it’s prudence when it comes to her children – flouting your Party line is one thing, running your children’s lives is quite simply unacceptable. She moves the conversation on. ‘How’s the job?’
‘Yeah, it’s all right.’ Mannie looks up, laughs and elaborates. ‘Our targets have been raised, again. I’ve got to find another four big conferences this year and increase the number of weddings by twenty percent.’
‘Won’t that be difficult?’
‘In the current business climate, yes.’ Mannie, naturally positive and cheerful, is articulate – Jonathan always ribs her that she can talk for Scotland. Now, though, she’s clearly not inclined to elaborate. She changes the subject. ‘Tell me how Dad is? And Jonno? Seems ages since I was home.’
‘Six weeks.’ As soon as she says it Susie realises it sounds petulant, so she adds hastily, ‘Jon’s birthday, don’t you remember?’
‘Yeah, sure. So how is he?’
Susie sighs. ‘Still job hunting. He’s got the shift at the bar, of course, but how long can he go on doing temp work? He needs to get something in graphic design.’
‘Nothing’s come up?’
‘Not yet, no. What would you advise him to do, Mannie?’
Mannie lays down her fork and knife and reaches for the small glass of fresh fruit salad. ‘He’s doing everything he can, Mum. It’ll come good.’
‘I hope so. I hate to see him down. And however nice he tries to be about it, I know he hates living at home with us. He’s such an independent soul.’
They finish with a quick coffee. ‘I mustn’t forget to give you this.’ Mannie reaches into her bag and pulls out a card. ‘It’s from me and Jonno.’
Susie opens the card. ‘How lovely. Oh sweetheart, you shouldn’t have. Really. You can’t afford ... and Jon certainly can’t—’ The card contains a voucher for a night at one of the hotels in the chain Mannie works for, giving them a choice of four in Scotland alone.
