The Magnificent Mrs Mayhew

The top five Sunday Times bestseller - discover the magic of Milly

Milly Johnson

• Publisher: Simon & Schuster UK
• Year: 2019
• Print ISBN: 9781471178474
• eBook ISBN: 9781471178467
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Women in Fiction
• Index: Literature

A gorgeous read full of love, life and laughter from the Sunday Times bestselling author

'A warm hug of a book' S Magazine

Behind every successful man is a woman.
Behind the fall of a successful man is usually another woman.

Sophie Mayhew looks like she has the perfect life. Wife of rising political star John F Mayhew, a man who is one step away from the top job in the government, her glamour matches his looks, power, breeding and money. But John has made some stupid mistakes along the way, some of which are threatening to emerge. Still, all this can still be swept under the carpet as long as Sophie 'the trophy' plays her part in front of the cameras.

But the words that come out of Sophie’s mouth one morning on the doorstep of their country house are not the words the spin doctors put in there. Bursting out of the restrictive mould she has been in since birth, Sophie flees to a place that was special to her as a child, a small village on the coast where she intends to be alone.

But once there, she finds she becomes part of a community that warms her soul and makes her feel as if she is breathing properly for the first time. Sophie knows she won't be left in peace for long. Now she must decide: where does her real future lie? 

Praise for Milly Johnson:
‘The feeling you get when you read a Milly Johnson book should be bottled and made available on the NHS’ Debbie Johnson
'Every time you discover a new Milly book, it’s like finding a pot of gold' heat
'Must read' Express
'A glorious, heartfelt novel' Rowan Coleman
‘Absolutely loved it. Milly's writing is like getting a big hug with just the right amount of bite underneath. I was rooting for Bonnie from the start' Jane Fallon
‘Bursting with warmth and joie de vivre’ Jill Mansell
‘Warm, optimistic and romantic’ Katie Fforde

Pom

Chapter 18

Sophie was soaked by the time she got into the back of a taxi and she’d barely been waiting above five minutes. Packing an umbrella as well as a coat might have been a good idea, but hindsight was a wonderful thing. The taxi driver had to go slowly because his windscreen wipers were working at full pelt and still his vision was impaired.

‘Coming down a treat tonight,’ he said in his broad Yorkshire accent.

‘Yes, it is very wet,’ she said, trying her best to sound authentically French; anything to further disassociate herself from the posh politician’s wife in all the newspapers. Elise had said she looked like a Frenchwoman, maybe she could convince other people that that’s what she was too.

‘You’re not from round here, are you?’

‘No. I am from France.’

‘I love France. Me and the wife have a little holiday home over there. In Barfleur, do you know it?’

‘I know it, yes.’

‘Bloody hell, what a small world.’ And the driver chattered on until they reached their destination.

Little Loste looked tiny: a couple of streets full of houses and three-quarters of the way up a hill, the Little Loste Inn with a car park to the side.

‘Here you go, love. Four pounds fifty please.’

The rain wasn’t letting up. Sophie darted from the car into the building hoping that the black dye on her hair wasn’t leaving rivulets all over her face. The woman behind the darkened bar seemed more than surprised to see her. It looked as if she had started to close up.

‘Oh, am I too late?’ asked Sophie.

‘No, not at all. Let me put the lights back on,’ said the woman. She had mid-length curly brown hair and pretty blue eyes and was roughly the same age as herself. ‘I didn’t think anyone would be in tonight, what with the weather, so I was going to shut up early, but happy to serve you.’

‘I don’t suppose you sell food?’

‘Got some crisps and nuts, that’s it.’

‘Just a glass of red wine in that case, please.’

‘Coming up.’

‘Do you have any rooms available?’

‘Sorry, no.’

Sophie’s heart sank. She’d have to get a taxi to Whitby then. As if able to see into her brain the woman then said:

‘You’ll not find anywhere around here if you haven’t booked. There’s a massive music festival on in Whitby and everywhere’s been booked for a while.’

‘I didn’t know I would need to find anywhere.’

‘Oh that’s a shame,’ said the woman. ‘Five pounds sixty, please.’

Sophie’s hands were shaking as she took the money out of her purse, which the woman assumed was because she was cold. Sophie picked up her glass and went to sit next to the small fire burning out in the grate in the corner of the pub. The woman came out from behind the bar and put another log on it from a basket at the side.

‘You look frozen,’ she said.

‘I am,’ replied Sophie. Frozen and beat and more than a little lost, a big lost. A huge fat enormous massive lost.

‘Where’ve you journeyed from?’

‘London,’ lied Sophie.

‘What for? I’m presuming not the music festival, seeing as you didn’t know it was on.’

‘I . . . er . . .’ I’ve run away from my husband who is trying to have me committed to an asylum. A sob escaped her, shocking her with its suddenness.

‘Sorry, it’s none of my business,’ said the woman, looking embarrassed.

‘I ’ave left my ’usband,’ said Sophie, sounding less subtle and more like Fifi from ’Allo ’Allo. ‘I didn’t have the chance to think ahead.’

‘Oh, bless you,’ said the woman.

The tears were raining down Sophie’s cheeks now. One Yorkshire accent and a bit of sympathy and the dam walls had crumbled. She didn’t have a handkerchief and so mopped at her face with her sleeve, which was soaked from rain so not the best item for drying.

The woman went back behind the bar then, brought over a wine bottle and tilted it over Sophie’s glass, filling it to the top. ‘Here, get that down you. I’ll be back in a minute.’

She disappeared into a room to the right of the bar whilst Sophie sipped the wine. How could so much have happened in thirty-six hours? Yesterday morning she was a blonde English woman living in a huge house. Now she was French, black-haired and homeless.

The wine wasn’t the best but it was palatable and warmed her inside. She had no idea what she was going to do now. None at all. When the barlady came back she’d have to ask her if she could recommend somewhere that would have a vacant room, however far away. She should have stayed in York, she thought. There had to be a room free somewhere in the North of England. She was so tired she was starting to hallucinate. The smell of toast curled up her nostrils.

Then the woman reappeared with a stack of buttered toast which she set down in front of Sophie.

‘Here you go,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t see you starving. And I’ve got you somewhere to stay for the night or the weekend if you need it. Don’t get too excited. My brother is the local vicar and there’s an almshouse. It was left to the church by the old lady who owned it. I’ve rung him, he says it’s okay, there’s hardly a rush for the place.’

No, she’d misheard, she couldn’t be that lucky.

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’ The landlady smiled gently.

‘Oh my goodness. Thank you, thank you, I can pay,’ gushed Sophie. ‘Tell me how—’

‘It’s a church house,’ said the woman. ‘You don’t pay. Trust me, when you see it, you’ll be asking me to pay you for staying in it.’ She laughed. ‘I’m Tracey by the way. Tracey Green.’

‘Pom,’ said Sophie, without even having to think about it. She was Pom again. Pom who had no surname. It was like finding an old favourite coat in a wardrobe, slipping it on and realising it still fitted.

‘Isn’t that a potato in French?’

Sophie smiled. ‘An apple. But I’m a P-O-M. It’s spelled differently.’

‘Unusual, does it mean anything?’

It meant a lot.

‘It’s just a name that my mother liked.’ Another fib.

The toast was delicious and Sophie gobbled it all up whilst Tracey bustled around closing up the bar. Eventually she came out of the room at the side with a carrier bag and a set of keys.

‘There’s some newspapers in here so you can start a fire if you need to warm the place up. It’s been standing empty for a while so I imagine it’ll be quite cold tonight. And I’ve made you up a flask of soup.’

Her kindness humbled Sophie, who felt weakened by it.

‘Thank you,’ she said, her voice scraped dry with emotion.

‘Let’s just say I left my husband in much the same way, so I have every sympathy,’ said Tracey. ‘Come on, I’ll take you there.’

*

Whatever Sophie was expecting was not this. The almshouse was enormous. A huge double-fronted building with deep bay windows.

‘This is it,’ said Tracey, opening the sort of front door that would have featured happily on the Addams’ Family residence, complete with haunted-house creak. ‘It’s a shame it’s so run down, but it would cost a fortune to do up and the church doesn’t have the money. There’s only the front left part of the house that is liveable in. Don’t go up the stairs, they aren’t safe. We should seal them off really but – again – money. So fall and break your neck at your own peril. Plus none of the lights work anywhere but in the bedsit.’

‘I will stay in the bottom,’ said Sophie. ‘I am so grateful.’

The sight that greeted her when they stepped inside was of a grand staircase and a white-and-black tiled floor that had seen much better days.

‘My brother has some photos of the house in its heyday,’ said Tracey. ‘There was a massive chandelier that hung there.’ She pointed to a gaping wound in the ceiling. ‘And the tiles shone like a dance floor.’

‘What happened to the last owner?’ asked Sophie.

‘It’s quite romantic in a tragic way. Kitty came to the house seeking sanctuary on a very stormy night after being thrown out of her maid’s position. She’d been used and abused by her boss, turfed out pregnant and Mr Henshaw, who lived here – a confirmed bachelor surgeon – nursed her back to health. Sadly she lost her baby and couldn’t have any more, but he fell madly in love with her and married her. They were incredibly happy for many years until he died. It sent her slightly mad and she was convinced that he was still around, which is quite a nice sort of mad, don’t you think? It’s said that she . . .’ Tracey cut off her words and made an awkward face.

‘She what?’ asked Sophie, taking in the hallway, not finding it difficult to imagine the former grandeur of the place despite its present state.

‘Oh, er, that she . . . er . . . loved this place so much and didn’t want to . . . er . . . leave it . . .’

‘She haunts it? Is that what you are trying to say?’

Tracey cringed. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t want to freak you out.’

Sophie smiled. ‘You haven’t freaked me out. I don’t believe in . . .’ She shut up. Maybe not the best time to say that she didn’t believe in ghosts, ghoulies or gods. Not when it was the church who had come to her rescue tonight.

‘You’ll be okay, anyway. She likes having guests. No one who has stayed here has run off screaming. Not yet, anyway.’

‘I am happy to make your acquaintance, Kitty,’ Sophie spoke into the air. There was no response, as she expected.

‘Come through,’ said Tracey, unlocking the door to her left.

What used to be a parlour was now a bedsit. It had a single unmade bed in the window bay, a wooden ottoman standing at the bottom of it; a couch facing an open fireplace, complete with grate; a table and two chairs in the middle of the room and, against the far wall, a run of cheap kitchen units. An old Baby Belling oven sat on the work surface.

‘Bathroom’s through there,’ said Tracey, pointing to a door in the far corner. ‘Those two switches to the left of it, one is for the light and the other’s for the immersion heater. It turns itself off after an hour but that’ll give you enough for a nice bath. There’s towels and bedding in the ottoman there. They’ll be clean but lord knows the last time anyone stayed here. Must be at least a year so they might smell a bit musty.’

‘It’s very trusting of you.’

‘Ha! There’s nothing to nick,’ laughed Tracey. ‘The kettle maybe. We’ve had to replace a couple of those over the years, which is why it’s a ten quid thing from Argos and not a Smeg.’

‘I won’t steal your kettle,’ smiled Sophie. ‘I promise.’

Tracey handed over the carrier bag. ‘There’s a couple of teabags in there too, although if you’re French you probably prefer coffee.’

‘No, I like English tea,’ replied Sophie. ‘Thank you. Again.’

‘It’s Yorkshire tea, the best sort,’ said Tracey. ‘Right. Here’s the key. I’ll call around tomorrow and check on you. Have a good night. Don’t let the bed bugs bite. Do you say that in France?’

‘Not really. We say, bonne nuit, dors bien, fais de beaux rêves. Sleep well, sweet dreams.’

‘Sleep well, eh?’ replied Tracey. ‘I hope you do. Oh and the only stipulation if you stay here for any length of time is that you attend the church service on Sunday morning. You won’t find it a hardship, even if the vicar is my brother.’ She gave Sophie a wonky grin as she turned to go, but no explanation of what she meant by that.

Sophie made up the bed and considered waiting for the water to heat up for a bath, but she was too tired even to brush her teeth. She slipped off her tracksuit bottoms and snuggled down under the quilt. She was asleep in minutes, the deep restful sleep of someone who felt safe.

Chapter 19

Sophie awoke the next morning with a brass band playing in her head, a throbbing painful drum beat in her temple. A class A bona fide stress headache that had taken up residence in her skull with the sure and certain knowledge that it had the right to be there. She had no tablets to combat it, so she decided to see if she could try and run it off. The rain hadn’t let up and, judging from how the trees were blowing, the wind was pissed off about something. Perfect weather for blasting a headache to smithereens.

She put on her tracksuit and her running shoes and it was only when she reached the end of the front garden that she realised how close the beach was. There was a curling path that led down to the sand. The beach was deserted, but then no one but madmen and women pretending to be French would be out in this.

Her ‘spidey senses’ picked up that something had changed when she got back. Something wasn’t quite as she left it. She leapt to her suitcase in a wild panic, angry at herself that she hadn’t secreted the money somewhere, but it was still there in the zipped compartment. Nothing seemed to be missing, but there was an imprint on her bed as if someone had sat down on the quilt and it hadn’t been her. She didn’t know if ghosts made bottom prints, though she doubted it. Maybe her imagination just needed to calm down, but then again, she was sure she hadn’t left her make-up bag on the edge of the table like that. She walked into the hallway. ‘Hello,’ she called. She tried the door on the opposite side, but it was locked securely, as were all the other downstairs doors. The one underneath the stairs wasn’t, however. She opened it and peered down into the inky darkness because the light switch didn’t work. A shiver rippled down the full length of her back. It wasn’t ghosts who could hurt her though, it was people who did that.

She stripped off her tracksuit and changed into dry jeans and a sweatshirt. She needed to buy some clothes if she was going to be away from Cherlgrove for any length of time, because her packing had been panicked and absolutely rubbish: tracksuits, too many bras, not enough pants or socks, no coat, smart trousers, a silk shirt that was hideously creased, and a pair of Christian Louboutins – as if she’d need those. Then she knelt by the grate in order to make a fire. She reached into the bag of newspapers, pulled out yesterday’s News of the Day and was confronted by her own face. And John’s and Rebecca Robinson’s. She felt a sudden physical ache inside her as if her heart had been pinged with an elastic band.

She didn’t want to read it, but she couldn’t stop herself. Rebecca’s story. This was the newspaper she had given the exclusive to, sold her soul ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Dedication
• Epigraph
• Prologue
• Mrs Mayhew
• Pom
• Sophie
• The Magnificent (Ex-)Mrs Mayhew Revisited
• Acknowledgements
• About the Author
• Copyright