INSIDE WESTMINSTER: TALES OF HUBRIS AND BETRAYAL
1
PYRAMID OF PIFFLE
Sophia awoke, as usual, to the clank of heating pipes reverberating around her.
'Damn and blast; another winter and still the heating's not been fixed.'
She got out of bed, feeling the icy parquet flooring beneath her tired feet.
'Fuck that bloody bastard! Why is it always me who has to pick up the pieces, pretend to enjoy my 'brilliant' career, keep his sodding 'pile' clean, bring up his ungrateful bastard children…'
She blushed and halted her thoughts. No, that really was a step to far. She did actually adore her progeny and they certainly weren't the bastards in her sad, sorry life.
'A bed and board arrangement.'
How they'd laughed at that pronouncement of his idea of the marriage contract. Not much of either these days, though according to the gossips, Potty was 'getting his end away' left right and centre and was most probably being fed by those tarts too!
She knew the rumours to be true; most probably only half of it was getting leaked to the Press. She'd managed to always put on a brave face, battle through, weather the storm and all that crap, but this was the final straw.
His communications secretary, the pair of them copulating on the bonnet one of the Secretary of State's Bentleys-and caught on a security camera. She couldn't get the picture of his rotund white arse flailing around out of control out of her mind.
'Like an albino rutting chimpanzee,' someone had commented. And she couldn't disagree.
'Oh the boundless hubris of these self-loving male politicians. Loners who, ironically, demand endless admiration from everyone-voters, party members, their personal staff, lovers…everyone. And she, a peer's daughter, who could have had her pick of any eligible beau of her generation. Was there a female equivalent to being 'cuckolded'?
Why had she fallen for Ptolomy all those years ago? After all, as far as her earliest memories could stretch, Potty's father was only ever spoken of at home in hushed tones, behind cupped hands or when she and her sisters had gone to bed. Vague ideas of 'mistresses' and 'falling on his sword' swirled around the Mowbray-Dick household whenever Somerset Trudge-Jones's name was mentioned.
'Is Potty's behaviour inherited from his ghastly father?'
She had asked herself that unanswerable question a million times over. With her brilliant mind, supreme self-confidence and moneyed background, how had she landed herself with such a self-serving, shallow idiot?
'IDIOT!' She shouted out loud, both referring to herself and HIM! Why couldn't he just be discreet, careful, considerate. After all, it wasn't just her whose life was being trashed and laughed at. What about the children, now old enough to understand everything that was going on?
Thinking of the children spurred her on to furiously pack the wicker picnic hamper. In the maelstrom of her thoughts, she'd nearly forgotten that today was part of the school's May Day celebrations.
She arrived at school, God knows how, given the circumstances, and bravely set out towards the playing fields where she had arranged to join forces with the de P Longton Smyths. Cassie met her with open arms and, hugging the life out of her, said, 'We've heard. Don't worry, we're here if you need us.'
Sophia was actually grateful to her oldest and dearest friends. She'd often sniggered at their impecunious way of life; their cost-cutting to save for the school fees, foregoing the annual summer month in Rock with the crowd of like-minded families. This followed by a further few weeks for the parents' hols in Ibiza when nannies were hired to look after the children at home and later, when old enough, the adolescents were farmed out to yoga retreats or sent across Europe on railcards. Anything to give the hardworking parents a break. The de Ps had ended up on the 'hard up' list and been allowed to keep their two boys at school on reduced fees. But the shame of it! And now it was Sophia's turn to blush at the thought that she hadn't offered that same simple token of friendship: I'm here if you need me.
Was it karma or just that that bastard husband of hers couldn't resist a tart? She had to control her breathing as she felt she was actually hyper-ventilating. Under control once more, she chatted breezily to Cassie about what, she couldn't remember-like being on auto-pilot-unconsciously performing tasks such as dishing out bowls of quinoa…'chargrilled vegetables anyone?' bundles of monogrammed silver cutlery (Potty had insisted that only weighty, preferably inherited family silver was to be used on ALL occasions). 'God, what a fucking SNOB,' she thought.
As a young teenager, Ptolomy had been such fun, such a rebel with his mop of white blond hair. The two families, Mowbray-Dicks and Trudge-Joneses, had been ex-pats together in Paris for several years, both fathers working for different international organisations and then going their separate ways at the end of the two fathers' tenures; Sophia's father onto the prestigious ambassador circuit and Potty's less securely, working for yet another newspaper. Somerset had already blown it with Artemis, who'd thrown him out-finally- after leaving Paris. Life for the Trudge-Joneses was tough thereafter, but at least the large brood was 'well educated'.
Over the years, Sophia had become convinced that the sense of entitlement engendered by the school had exacerbated Potty's inherent sense of privilege. This, coupled with an outright opportunistic streak, bordering on the criminal, had led to their current debacle.
Once again she groaned aloud, 'Bastard, bastard, bastard!'
No one heard, but it brought a slight relief to Sophia. Her heart rate calmed slightly as she wedged the hamper into the boot of their Range Rover.
She talked calmly to herself on the journey home to Penn, a technique she'd learnt from her aesthetic mother. 'Diffuse, not confuse. Diplomatic…smile. Always 'smile.'' Sophia had thus been schooled in the arts of being the perfect diplomat's wife.
But not for her the pourer of tea, the provider of succour for all those foreign visitors. From an early age, it was clear that Sophia was destined for higher things. She'd won a full scholarship to the country's leading girls' public school, followed by an illustrious 4 years at Malvern College, Cambridge. Articles ensued and, of course, she was brilliant and had the pick of chambers. So far so good. And then, one fateful night, she'd bumped into Ptolomy in town.
'Heading for divorce,' he'd said self-pityingly.
Why had her guard been down? Why had she clean forgotten her mother's number one mantra: don't tamper with soiled goods? Why, oh why had she ended up in his bed? Why had she thrown caution to the wind and got herself pregnant to boot? For all her brilliance she had behaved like a complete and utter fool.
And she was finally to pay a terrible price.
Meanwhile Mandy Swinton-Eagle (Spread-Eagle to her friends and her many conquests) was hardly able to concentrate. She'd finally achieved her number one goal: fame…and she was having so much fun too! She didn't care what people thought. Oh, and the parents? Well they took the blame for everything.
'You see, your selfishness at sending me away to school is why I'm so off the rails.'
They had no answer. Guilt ran through their veins like a seaside town's name through its sickly sweet rock. They also didn't want to confront Mandy as she had such a temper, the sort of temper that was totally over the top. So, by subtle means of blackmail, Mandy had never been checked. She hadn't worked at school-what was the point, she had other plans. She'd once heard a friend of her father's state that all a woman had to be in life was beautiful to get on. That had been the sort of lesson Mandy had wanted to have and she'd never forgotten it.
She also liked sex-lots of it. Anywhere and, frankly, with anyone.
'You've finally done it.'
'Done what?' said Potty sullenly.
'Met your match. She's you in drag. Why is there no male equivalent for 'slut'? That's what you both are! At least your other whores were vaguely personable. I mean, mummy might have considered inviting them for tea. But this one. My God, you've scraped the barrel! She's going to be trouble and please don't tell me you love her. You don't know the meaning of the word!'
With that, Sophia threw Potty's unwashed clothes through the door and slammed it in his face.
'Fuck the hell off!' he heard her yell. And with that he finally realised that his 20 year marriage was over.
He knew he'd face a bruising time ahead. Sophia wasn't called 'Ice Maiden' for nothing in legal circles. She'd screw him for every penny and he felt she'd enjoy every moment of his discomfort.
He sought refuge at his neighbour's, Willoughby Knight-Johnston's, fellow dormie in whose arms-as a boy-he'd sought refuge on many a cold and lonely night, for comfort rather than pleasure.
Even at 55 and, in spite of bringing his own house crashing down about his head, Potty still felt sorry for himself. In his mind he wanted to be enveloped in someone's arm, comforted, forgiven.
'KJ's nanny's bound to have some spare food I can scrounge and KJ will understand,' were Potty's thoughts as he swaggered up the drive to KJ's out of town mansion.
KJ did understand; he'd been witness to Potty's reckless behaviour since early childhood. Always the clown and 'up for anything', Potty had entertained all his schoolmates, getting into the 'tardy' book too many times to count. With his parents' divorce and tightened financial circumstances, it's a miracle he hadn't been expelled, though he had been rusticated many times.
At Oxford, naturally, he had chosen to study Classics at a time when thinking people were beginning to wonder about the very point of studying languages that no one had spoken for millennia. At least it was one up from the ClassCiv he'd been forced to study at school. Real Latin and Greek wasn't for the lazy.
'Well, old boy, she's finally thrown you out. Can't say I blame her. I mean, on camera…couldn't you at least have checked before you let rip?'
Potty bumbled some feeble excuse but the truth was he'd been shagging her for months, in many and varied locations, and her desperation for a good fucking had really got to him. He simply couldn't resist her advances and was completely under her spell. He was aware he was firming up even at the thought and realised he might have to go and relieve himself right there and then.
'Where's the nearest loo?' he asked trying to look innocent.
When he returned, Nanny had put out enough leftover roast to satiate him and he ravenously devoured the lot.
'Crikey Potty! When did you last eat?
Life for Ptolomy Trudge-Jones would, indeed, never be the same. He and Sophia underwent a messy and, unfortunately, very public divorce with accounts from his many mistresses who stepped forward during the sorry proceedings, revealing yet more unsavoury aspects to the man: he liked smoking weed after sex and farted endlessly whilst 'performing'. He had become known as 'skunk'. Which rather hurt Potty's feelings. He wouldn't have minded 'stallion' or 'lion' but 'skunk'? There was no possibility of spinning that in a positive fashion!