Jasmine knows Pamela loves her work. It gives added meaning to her life beyond being someone’s wife and someone’s mother. For some women, her own mother included, that is sufficient. For others, a sense of place in the world is more important. Pamela’s views may change post-op but Jasmine doubts it. She remembers one late night conversation where Pamela had admitted what she feared most about old age was becoming irrelevant. If Ben wins tonight, Pamela’s future is assured, thanks to Ben’s promise. If he doesn’t, the family may well get their wish for her early retirement.
Jasmine shakes herself and enters the small hall where the verification of the postal votes will take place. All the ballot boxes from the hundred odd polling stations will be brought here and checked before the votes are hand-counted in the large hall. She finally locates Ben and moves to his side. He is talking to an official and she waits patiently until they are finished, taking time to look around. Pamela has hand-picked the Labour Party observers from people she trusts and they are already here and waiting. Lou and Dave are with them, not as observers but as guests. Ben had maintained it should be a reward for their hardworking efforts on his behalf, but Jasmine’s stomach soured when she was given the two names. She doesn’t doubt their efforts, but she wonders if it was the true motivation for including Lou and whether Dave is just camouflage. Still, she had vetoed Ben’s mother being a guest – she believes it is crucial Ben is seen as his own man from the start and this would have been hard if his mother had been present. The press would have focused on her, not him. And that veto of one guest had to be balanced by her acceptance of another, Lou.
Ben finishes and turns to her.
“What are the tellers saying?” he asks quietly.
“Close. But they think you might just have it. At the very least, no one is reporting major swings to the minor parties.”
Ben closes his eyes. They both know the dangers of extrapolating from those willing to give information on exit to the entire cohort of voters, but it is a good sign. When Ben opens his eyes again, they are shining and his grin is infectious. Jasmine smiles too. She cannot help herself. It had always been this way. Naturally serious and occasionally dour, Ben’s energy and zest had always lifted her spirits.
“Turnout?”
“Down. Seriously down.” She grimaces. Again, they both know, all it takes to lose is for your voters to stay at home and the opposing candidate’s voters to go to the polling station.
“Jasmine,” he starts, a soft tinge to his voice, a greater warmth than she has heard in years. But his words are lost as a reporter barges between them and blocks her out. A by-election gets more press coverage than a normal election and the story can end up being an entire segment on the evening news. Or it can be a fifteen-second mention at the end depending on the vagaries of world events and celebrity love lives.
She stands to one side reluctantly. What had Ben been about to say? She agonises for a moment and then gives herself a mental kick for her foolishness. At best he wanted to thank her. At worst, he would try to persuade her to stay on as his researcher, sacrificing her own career for his. What else might he say? A declaration of love? An apology for the wasted years? The last two were just another fantasy from the depths of her mind, impossible with his girlfriend standing in the corner watching the two of them.
Except Lou’s back is turned as she talks to Dave. Her body is shaking, like she is laughing at a joke. He does have a dry wit. Jasmine has often found herself nodding blankly and only belatedly twigging his humour. He must think her simple.
Then the Returning Officer enters and the count begins.
As soon as the postal votes are verified, she and Ben, together with the other candidates and their agents and guests, move to the large hall. The count assistants are lined along tables, ready to start unfolding the voting slips as they are unloaded from ballot boxes. They will then sort them into bundles of votes for the candidates marking the bundles up with their totals, binding them into a hundred each. Observers are already stationed at points, eyes open for any irregularities. Chairs are available for the candidates and their guests, and Jasmine makes a beeline for a seat. It will be a long and fairly tedious night. The count will probably take six excruciating hours. Six hours with only the low murmur of the count assistants exchanging queries, the rustle of voting slips being collated and the rattle of rain on the roof. Jasmine had a strong coffee before she left their campaign headquarters but already she feels the late hour and the background hum making her sleepy.
Lou and Dave come over. Dave takes one of the seats next to Jasmine and Lou settles on his other side.
“What happens now?” Dave asks.
“We wait.” Jasmine wonders if Dave still thinks coming to the count is a reward or if he is secretly wishing he had gone to the pub with his mates. She watches two police officers mooching in the corner. No one expects trouble here and their slumped shoulders and generally bored demeanour indicate they would prefer to be elsewhere. Jasmine finds it ironic that an event with so much potential to alter the course of both her life and Ben’s can be quite so mundane. Ben shakes off another reporter and takes the seat beside her, but immediately begins to chat with the person on his other side.
As the evening progresses, it is clear it is a two-horse race. Two roughly equal bundles are being collated on desks all over. Even after the tellers’ reports, the fear Jasmine had of the green vote undermining Ben’s support is finally laid to rest by the physical evidence of her own eyes.
“It’s between us and the Tories,” she notes to Ben when he finally sits back.
“Looks like it,” he says. Their bodies are not touching but she can feel the tension in him. She is more relaxed. If there is one thing Petey’s death has taught her, it is that sometimes there is absolutely nothing which can be done. And if that is the case, you are better off saving your energy for later. You will probably need it. She ventures to put her hand on his forearm and feels him jerk as he twists to stare at her hand in shock.
“Relax,” she orders and shakes his arm gently. “It will be a long night. You will burn out too quickly if you keep this up. Perhaps you should mentally practise your victory speech.”
“That might be a bit pre-emptive.”
“Perhaps.” She shrugs. “But if youdowin, you don’t want your first speech as Member of Parliament to make you look like a numpty. You want to look and sound like their trust in you is well-placed.”
“Good point,” he says and reaches into his jacket to unfold a piece of paper.
Jasmine leaves him to it. Sometime around midnight, she gets up and wanders around, stopping for a quick word with the Labour observers. She doesn’t want to distract them, so she keeps it brief and moves off quickly. She nods to any council officers running the count that she recognises but soon returns to her seat. Ben has loosened his tie but is otherwise unchanged. She sits down and tries to keep her eyes open. She is exhausted from nights spent fretting or planning and the early start to this never ending day.
She and Ben are together in a lecture theatre. The lecturer is droning on but she is paying no attention. She is revelling in the feel of Ben’s lips, warm on her temple, his body hard against hers. She is in love and she is loved and all is right with the world. Everything is golden.
It is only when she feels his hand on her head, she realises it is a dream, not a memory.
“Jasmine!” His whisper is urgent.
She lifts her head. A small dark stain at the top of the sleeve of his jacket testifies to her drooling, her head resting against his shoulder as she slept. She is mortified.
“We’ve got to go.”
She looks around. Most of the count assistants are sitting with their hands folded, their tables empty. A group of people are standing around one table across the room and an official with a lanyard is standing beside Ben.
