‘Poor Emmy,’ George Wylie said when William Dobbin slapped a copy of The Globe down on his desk in his office in the Houses of Parliament. ‘But, Dobs, do you really think she’s become one of those awful people who sit on park benches in the middle of the day, swigging cheap lager?’
It was a small desk in a small office that George shared with another newly minted MP, but everyone had to start somewhere. He was already sniffing around for a couple of select committees that might need a man of his calibre, and the PM’s speechwriter, whose younger brother had been at Eton with George, had offered to help him with his maiden speech. George didn’t envisage having to share office space for long, particularly not with a lower-middle-class, middle-aged woman from Essex who’d spent years working her way up through local politics before she was finally selected as a candidate.
‘No, I don’t,’ Dobbin bit out and he wanted to say something cutting about how MPs sat in the House of Commons bars in the middle of the day drinking alcohol that was heavily subsidised by the tax-paying public, but he managed to restrain himself. ‘You know how the press makes things up. They doctor photos, that sort of thing.’
‘True. They said I was chair of the Oxford Debating Society when everyone knows that to be chair of the Debating Society isn’t anything that one would aspire to.’ He allowed himself a small, congratulatory smile. ‘Though I did excel in more than a couple of debates.’
‘George!’ Dobbin slammed the paper down again. ‘What about Emmy? I said that you’d reach out to her once the dust has settled.’
‘I don’t know why you’d say that,’ George muttered and it might have been because the office was small and Dobbin was very large and he did tend to loom, but George felt uncomfortably hot, so much so that he even had to loosen his tie. ‘What Charles did … well, it’s not the sort of thing that will ever settle, is it? Doesn’t look good for anyone associated with him either. The whiff of impropriety and all that.’
‘But it’s Emmy,’ Dobbin said through gritted teeth. He rather wished himself back in Helmand Province having to clear out Taliban insurgents from rugged terrain liberally set with landmines, than wrestle with the perhaps-non-existent conscience of one of his oldest, and at this moment, undearest friends. ‘Poor, lovely Emmy.’
George sat up straighter. ‘Did you just call her lovely?’
Dobbin put a hand to each of his burning cheeks. ‘Little. I said “Poor, little Emmy.” George, she’s living in a shoebox in Burnt Oak. Luckily Jos has come through for them, though the Official Receiver is being very sniffy about how much he’s allowed to contribute, but Emmy gets laughed out of every job she interviews for and she doesn’t qualify for benefits.’
Finally, Dobbin had George’s attention. ‘Emmy, get a job? Are things really that bad?’ He glanced around the cluttered office then leaned in closer. ‘Surely Charles has a few mill tucked away in an off-shore account or two?’
‘He declared everything,’ Dobbin said.
‘Well, more fool him.’ George picked up the paper and peered at the girl who adored him without rhyme or reason. She’d been caught mid-sob. Amelia had never been a pretty crier but apart from that, misery and destitution rather agreed with her. She’d lost an awful lot of weight. Had quite the figure now, George thought as he looked at Amelia’s legs, clad in shorts and trainers. Not a patch on the legs of Becky Sharp, but still, nice legs. And though Charles’s fall from grace had been very unfortunate, especially as George had hoped to rely on him for further contributions, at least he wouldn’t be beholden to him any more and Emmy would be very grateful if … ‘I wonder what the results of this poll are?’
‘You what?’ Dobbin grunted as George slammed the paper back at him.
‘This poll asking the public if they feel sorry for Amelia? God, where’s a junior researcher when you need one? I’ll do it myself,’ George said, looking up the newspaper website on his phone to discover that, as he suspected, the tide was turning: 52 per cent of the readership felt sorry for Amelia. Which wasn’t a clear majority but what was good enough for a hard Brexit was surely good enough in this case. ‘You’re right, Dobbin. Poor Emmy. And I am elected now, aren’t I? It’s not as if they can suddenly unelect me for getting in touch with an old friend?’
Just when Dobbin wondered why he was still friends with George Wylie, George always managed to surprise him by doing the right thing.
‘So, you’ll reach out to her?’ he clarified.
George groaned. ‘Don’t use that awful expression “reach out”, Dobs. You really do spend too much time hanging out with the lower orders. But yes, I’ll get in touch with Emmy. I’ll arrange to see her. Not in Burnt Oak though.’ George wasn’t sure exactly where Burnt Oak was but he had a strong suspicion that he wouldn’t like it very much. ‘I’ll call her, take her out to dinner maybe.’
‘Good man,’ Dobbin said, clapping George enthusiastically on the shoulder and earning himself a furious look.
‘Don’t ever do that again. You nearly punctured my lung. I hope you’re more gentle with any terrorists that you round up.’
In that moment, Dobbin didn’t know whether he wanted to hug or punch his oldest friend. As usual, he decided that it was probably a combination of both. Of course, what he really wanted was to hug Amelia, to take her away from Burnt Oak, to make all her problems disappear and give her the life she deserved. But Amelia didn’t want that from Dobbin. She loved George and always would, so Dobbin would give her George instead. That was how much he loved her.
*
For weeks, months, all Amelia had wanted was some small sign to show that, no matter how far she’d fallen, George would be there to catch her.
But it turned out that signs from George Wylie were like buses, a mode of transport which Amelia had become very familiar with. You waited and waited and waited and then two came along at once.
It was a hot, sticky, late-summer afternoon and Amelia couldn’t even sit in the concreted patch of yard that she tried to pretend was a back garden. Mrs Bawler next door, who’d come round on the Sedleys’ first day in their new house to say, ‘Your sort aren’t welcome here,’ would stare angrily at Amelia from her bedroom window and elderly Mr Binny on the other side was a staunch member of the Revolutionary Communist Party and liked to lecture Amelia over the fence about the dangers of capitalism.
So, she’d been sweltering indoors, without even a fan on, because it simply ate through the money in the electricity meter. Mummy was upstairs with one of her heads, Daddy was in town for yet another meeting with his lawyers and Amelia was going through job ads in the local free sheet when her phone rang.
The only people who ever seemed to ring her were journalists, especially after the silly story in The Globe, where they’d made it seem as if she was one can of super-strong lager away from suicide. She steeled herself not to answer it – who knew that the day would ever come when Amelia Sedley could ignore her ringing phone? – but then she looked down and saw George’s number and his lovely face flashing on the screen.
She answered in an instant. ‘Oh, George,’ she murmured brokenly and through sheer force of will, managed not to burst into tears.
‘Emmy, little Emmy, how the devil are you?’ George drawled as if the horrid, horrid months since he’d last spoken to her hadn’t happened and they were just picking up from where they’d left off.
‘I’m fine,’ Amelia said. ‘Well, not fine, not exactly. I’ve been better, but then I’ve been worse too.’
‘Well, let’s concentrate on the being better part,’ George said smoothly and actually, to have George be George, not smothering her with uncharacteristic kindness, but being as flippant as he ever was, felt very comforting. ‘It’s been an age since I last saw you,’ he added as if the terse email he’d sent, practically severing all ties, had never happened.
‘You’ve been busy,’ Amelia noted. ‘Congratulations on winning your seat, by the way.’
‘You sweet girl, always thinking of others before yourself. Now, let’s go out to celebrate my rise to power and we can drown your sorrows at the same time. Champagne I thought, unless you’d prefer Tennent’s Extra,’ he said with a laugh, and Amelia couldn’t believe that George was joking about that at a time like this, but she was laughing too.
Gosh, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed. ‘I’d much rather have champagne,’ she said firmly. ‘And the story, it twisted everything. I’m not on suicide watch, not at all.’
‘Glad to hear it, because I’d rather miss you if you did top yourself,’ George murmured and then he made arrangements for dinner the next week, even said he’d send a car all the way to Burnt Oak, and asked if she would mind if they dined somewhere quiet and out of the way. ‘Obviously I don’t give a hoot what people think, but I’m in the public eye now, and all that rot.’
Amelia didn’t mind at all. She was floating on air as George said goodbye then she floated all the way to the front door when the doorbell rang, not even tensing in case it was another bailiff (who were awfully persistent even though all claims were meant to be going through the lawyers).
It wasn’t a bailiff or one of the neighbours popping round to tell Mr Sedley that he wanted shooting. It was a courier with an envelope addressed to Amelia, which she rashly signed for even though it was most probably a court summons or something equally ghastly.
It wasn’t though. It was something perfectly lovely. Three photos of a roan pony with a dark mane and tail and a roguish look in his eye, not looking the least bit like a horse that had been withdrawn from auction due to ill health. And there was a card too.
Dear Emmy,
Dictating this to you, as my hooves make it quite difficult to hold a pen or deal with a computer keyboard.
Rumours of my condition have been greatly exaggerated. I am quite well. A little tear in the cruciate ligament, which will heal quite nicely with rest and physio, but scuppered any chances of being sold to the highest bidder at auction.
Instead a very nice young man arranged for me to move to a riding school where I’ll be nursed back to health then earn my keep by being ridden by pony-mad youngsters. Apparently, I’ll get lots of hugs, all the apples I can eat and will never have to do anything more vigorous than a canter.
The best news is that my new digs are in Totteridge, which isn’t far from you. Being a horse, I’ve never taken a bus but I understand you can catch the 251 from the top of your road and it will take you door to door. That is, if you fancy hanging out with …
Your old friend
Pianoforte
Amelia had stopped floating in favour of crying. But they were happy tears. Rather than being sold to a cruel-looking lottery winner or sent off to the knacker’s yard, Pianoforte would have a lovely retirement just a bus ride away.
And it was George (so like him to mockingly describe himself as ‘a very nice young man’) who had made it happen, even going so far as to forge Pianoforte’s ‘signature’. Yes, he could be careless and selfish sometimes, but underneath it all, he was the kindest, most caring, most wonderful man that Amelia had ever met, and she couldn’t wait to show him how grateful she was.