Ife started to breathe easy as soon as the plane was in the air, well, easy is putting it lightly because take off is her least favourite part of flying. However, in relation to everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours, she is breathing easy. Her life had been blown to bits and she just buried the ashes in acid to make sure none of it ever comes back to life again. Talk about a self-inflicted annihilation.
…
Ife and Rellie had been at the fundraiser for one of their charities two nights ago when she got the call from Blythe Gunta the political journalist whose words had ruined many a political career. Getting a call from Blythe was never a good sign, but she answered the call anyway because the other side of that coin- an unanswered phone call from Blythe- was catastrophic because you did not know what story would show up the next morning in the papers with the appendage that calls to respond went unanswered. You had no one to blame but yourself.
‘This is Ife.’
‘Mrs Walden this is-’
‘I know who you are Blythe, let’s drop the act like we don’t know each other.’
They knew each other from way back when having gone to Vassar together, they didn’t traipse the same circles, Blythe was that annoying self-righteous person who always had a cause to fight, like a professional protestor with a placard for every cause on every day of the week. The woman never met a cause she didn’t immediately latch on to and at her Vassar, the independent and alternative college newspaper she worked on gave her the platform to spout her self-righteousness bilge on everything from Daylight savings to why steak was the food of choice of people with limited vocabulary. To say she was a lot was putting it mildly; she was a whole lot and them some more. When she graduated, with the help of her father, she got a job at a national newspaper and nepotism saw her climb all the way up the industry. Her knack for getting politicians off their game had garnered her a notorious reputation and the nickname, Blythe the knife.
Ife had her saved on her phone as knife.
‘I don’t have any comment for whatever story you are about to run so you might as well run it with the usual appendage.’ Ife didn’t waste time with pleasantries, whatever story Blythe was about to break would have to make the splash without her pithy comment. As co-host of the charity dinner tonight, alongside Tristan, she could not be absent for too long.
‘I’m running a story but… can we meet?’
‘Why?’ Okay, that’s new. Something about Blythe’s tone catches her off-guard, she had a hint of… something. Was that pity? Blythe never does pity. Ever. The woman is a shark, one whiff of blood in the water and the entire ocean was her prey and she would not stop until every single fish was gutted.
‘Look, Ife, we have never seen eye to eye on anything, I am not one of your posse I get it, this is a story I am going to run, but I would like to meet you in person.’ Blythe dropped the act; this was a courtesy call she did not have to make because she has all the facts and evidence.
‘I cannot meet with you, I’m at the-’
‘Yes, I know, the charity dinner. I can wait but it must be tonight.’
‘Why do you want to meet with me? You normally write what you want anyway without bothering to call for comment.’
‘And that should tell you, this is different.’
Her tone was unsettling. Ife wanted to turn her down and be damned but thought better of it.
‘I’ll be done here in an hour. Text me your location.’
Ife left the gala before the final speeches of the night, but no one would miss her, she’d done her job anyway and Tristan was on proper schmooze alert with his father as his wingman, Tristan II, the elder statesman who was grooming his son for office of Prime Minister. Tristan was the darling of the Labour party, they called him the second coming of Tony Blair only sexier, with the boyish charm of an English gentleman but that all-American quintessence of a global statesman that some English politicians never seem able to project. He had the youth vote firmly in his pocket, women too, half of whom had a crush on him and the other half supportive of his policies on maternity care and safety for women. When he talked people listen, he is going to be the leader of the party in the next round of the leadership campaign, they as much as conferred the office on him, and he is going to become the Prime Minister of the country. Such is the destiny of Tristan Christopher Walden III; son of Lord Tristan Christopher Walden II, grandson of Lord Tristan Christopher Walden I, all who have held the seat for a century and Tristan, her Tristan, will be taking the seat come the election. The Waldens are political giants, his grandfather, a national treasure, well respected and regarded and no one would dare challenge the legacy set-in stone. The whole thing had always made Ife a little uncomfortable, the power absolute gave them carte blanche right to rule almost but she makes no bones about it. The locals absolutely love the family, and the nation is under the spell of Tristan, it also helps that finally the Labour party can lay claim to the fact that its next leader and Prime Minister will be a man of colour. Tristian is half English on his father’s side and half Montserratian on his mother’s side. Add to that the nation’s future PM’s wife is Black British born to Nigerian parents. It was all finally coming up roses for the Labour party, they were finally going to beat those allegations. You know the ones.
Ife’s role was to play the politician’s wife and she did that ever so exquisitely, always poised, aloof but charming when she ought to be. She did not speak out of turn, did not offer up opinions to put her at odds with her husband’s. Hers was to be in the background but only just, her style was impeccable, her pedigree undeniable, from a long line of scholars, aristocrats, and entrepreneurs. Her family own half of London in real estate and land, and she stands to inherit wealth in the billions of pounds, and is already worth that much together with Tristan.
She is the envy of the upper-class in society; besides her husband’s legacy she is the mother of four children; two sets of twins at varying stages of adulthood, forging their own paths, is the Co-Chair of her family’s vast portfolio and by all understanding is a supremely intelligent businesswoman. She is not simply a politician’s wife, although the tabloids would rather that was all she was. She has mastered the art of walking a fraction of a step behind her husband in a sense, nothing she did ever overshadowed him except when they were on a red carpet and her fashion dominated the coverage the next day. She has mastered the art of being both politician’s wife, a mother, and a businesswoman without either role eclipsing his career and by extension, the Walden family legacy. Oh, she walked that rope tightly.
…
Ife walked towards the car that flashed its light in the car park; Blythe’s beat up old Volvo which was part of her schtick; she comes from a wealthy family, her husband is ennobled so she can easily afford a Maybach if she wants one; her husband is chauffeured around town in one, but if she is taking down politicians she has to do it looking like an outsider. The car door is open from the inside and Ife lets herself into the passenger’s seat in front.
‘I see you’re still trying to keep up appearances.’
Blythe laughed shortly, ‘you never miss a trick do you.’
‘Not likely. Why do you have me walking into car parks in the dead of the night Blythe.’
‘I’m running a story tomorrow. I have two stories to run, one would most certainly get more clicks and the other would simply be another day in the life of a Tory.’
‘Okay.’
‘Your husband is having an affair.’ Blythe said without the need for preamble.
Ife rolled her eyes, this is it? This was the story she got her to come all this way for. ‘He’s not. Whatever you think you found-’
‘With Aurelia. One of your best friends.’
‘Are you mad?’
‘I promise you I’m not. That is why I had to see you because this is not something I relish. I take down politicians who are no good for the country, Tristan, despite his legacy, is our next great hope, he will win, he will become PM, and I believe in him. I really do and I do not want to be party to the downfall of a man or the ruination of his family.’
‘You’re wrong.’ Ife had not moved past the news that Blythe broke. Rellie is one of her best friends, they have been friends for all their lives practically; her, Zainab and Jacob, grew up in the same village in Oxfordshire, went to the same kindergarten and by some stroke of madness have remained friends, for all their lives. Rellie is Tristian’s campaign director. What is she saying? ‘Blythe it’s been a long day and-’
‘I have them on video.’
The words of denial Ife wanted to speak stayed stuck in her throat.
‘I am sorry. This is the last thing I wanted-’
Ife let herself out of the car and bolts to her waiting one. ‘Take me to the headquarters please.’
‘Yes ma’am.’ The chauffeur turns them back round in the direction they just came.
Her heart is pounding so fast it wants to run away from her. Blythe is lying; that is the only thing that makes sense. This is her best friend; her children are like her children. She is godmother to them. They are all god parents to each other’s children except Jacob who has remained the eternal bachelor. Why would Blythe do this?
Twenty minutes later, Ife bursts through the door of Tristan’s office where they all are, for the debrief post event. Her people. These are her people, her moments in life that were indelibly theirs. Together.
‘Darling are you-’
‘Are you fucking her?’ She had to tear those words out of her mouth, spit them out and never swallow them back because it surely must be a lie.
‘What?’
‘Answer the fucking question, Tristan. Are you fucking one of my best friends? Because it cannot be true that you would be so cruel in this way. I refuse to believe that the reporter who just told me this is telling the truth.’
It wasn’t so much the look on her husband’s face, that look of guilt and shame that settled in, it was the looks on all the other faces looking back at her. Her best friends. FUCK!
‘You all knew.’
‘Ife-’
‘Don’t.’ She shirked away from Jacob’s reach, his face contorted in grief and guilt already mourning this loss.
Oh, dear God. Her heart is breaking. These are her people and they had been in cahoots behind her back in the worst way possible. In the absolute worst way. Her world was in this room; besides her children and her brother, this was her world, her friends, and her husband, who knew her in a way the world outside did not. Where the world thought of her as cold; comment sections lamented the fact that she did not tap-dance on demand like some sort of minstrel show, but in here were the people who knew her best, better than she knew herself sometimes, and it had all been a lie.
Ife turned on her heels and ran out of the room. She placed a call to Blythe. ‘Publish your stupid story I don’t care.’
…
This morning she woke up at the crack of dawn, Tristan hadn’t come home, he wouldn’t dare. She wrote two letters, packed a bag, and left the home she’d called hers for over twenty years. She is running away from a life that no longer felt like hers. Was it ever hers to being with? Secrets; they all have them.