Great sheets of rain teem down, bouncing off the slick black tarmac. Grey pavements fill with water, the excess trickling into the sodden suburban grass. In the distance, beyond the silhouetted rows of upper-middle-class houses, the sun is distorted by purple storm clouds darkening the remaining minutes of the evening.

Christine isn’t here yet. I’ve been waiting in our empty house for her to come home and change into her fancy silk dress. The baby blue dress that we bought at the weekend because it was on sale and she fell in love with it. It was my unspoken apology to her for nearly kissing another woman earlier in the week. Not that I’ve told her about Julianne.

I don’t know whether they’ll remember each other from university. They’ll bump into each other tonight, or I’ll be forced to introduce them. I hope Christine won’t put two and two together and realise that Julianne turning up on my doorstep (or at my office) is the reason why I’ve been in such a strange mood recently.

I pretended to be ill last week, feigning man flu, and Christine took pity on me and said that it was because I’d been working too hard. This morning she still left for her parents’ house with the kids though. And after work, and eight hours of avoiding Julianne, I returned home to a silent shell of a house. No kids dancing around my ankles, no arguing, no blare of the TV or Christine berating the kids for leaving a mess in every single room.

Half an hour ago, Christine texted to say that she was getting on the train and she should be home in twenty minutes. Now I’ve been waiting for over an hour and I’m worried. I’ve turned into a curtain twitcher, every noise or voice making me peer outside and pray that it’s Christine walking down the street. But it never is.

After changing into my tux, I munch on some toast to keep my stomach from rumbling, and text Christine: ‘Where are you?’ Has she changed her mind about coming? Has she been attacked? Is her train running late?

I give up trying to tie my bowtie and leave it dangling around my neck like a scarf. Or a noose. Has Christine found out about Julianne? No, I’m being paranoid.

Repeatedly I go over tonight’s speech in my head, glancing down at my cue cards to help me, hoping that I won’t fuck it up. My dad and all his friends will be there, my company, clients and colleagues too, their scrutinising eyes watching my every move.

My phone beeps. It’s Jamal telling me that he’s already at the gallery and everything looks great. Thank God. I want to ask him whether he’s seen Christine. But why would he?

Where is she? The taxi will be here soon. I call her. Voicemail. Shit. I try again, praying that she’ll pick up. Voicemail.

Once more I go back to my cue cards. I try to calm down. She’ll be here soon. She said that she wants to support me tonight. I’m her husband, so of course she wants to support me. But what if she’s changed her mind?

I jump when my phone rings and snatch it up. It’s her.

‘Christine?’

‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, sounding as if she’s been mauled by a zombie.

‘What’s wrong? Where are you?’

‘I think I have that thing you had last week. I got to the station and then I just chucked my guts up for an hour straight.’

Crap. Tonight of all nights she’s ill. Actually ill, not pretending like I was.

‘Do you need me to come and pick you up?’ Not that I want to. Not that I can.

‘No, I’m fine. Dad’s coming to pick me up now. I’m sorry, Thomas. I can’t come tonight.’

There it is: the huge lump of disappointment that I have to swallow down.

I’m on my own. It always seems like I’m on my own. Christine stands forever in the periphery but never fully by my side. For years, I’ve longed to be one of those happily-married couples who are practically joined at the hip, but we’ve never been that close. There’s always something that keeps us apart.

‘That’s okay... At least you’re okay. I was worried.’

Christine tears up on the other end of the phone. ‘I was really looking forward to hearing your speech. Seeing you tonight standing up there. I know how much you want this. I’m so sorry I can’t be there.’

‘That’s okay, honey. Let me know when you’re back home.’

Not that she’s coming home. She’s returning to her parents’ home, where she feels more comfortable, instead of here with me where she feels trapped.

‘Good luck,’ she says. ‘Let me know how it goes. Get someone to film your speech.’

‘Jamal’s going to. Bye.’

I hang up and feel like crying. I don’t want to do this alone. I don’t want to keep feeling alone, like no one truly understands me. But maybe loneliness is the necessary evil that I have to face. Maybe that’s what will make me a great politician: I don’t want anyone to feel alone, and I’ll listen to everyone’s views despite the fact that no one will ever be there for me in return.

A taxi pulls up outside and the driver kills his lights and looks up at my house. God, this is it. This is the start of something new and exciting and unexpected. And I feel sick to my stomach.

* * *

Is it rude to turn up to your own party late? I’m not sure what it says about me. We get held up in rush-hour traffic, red light after red light, queue after queue, roadworks and detours. This is London and the streets aren’t paved with gold but with a patchwork of shoddy road repairs.

We pull up outside the art gallery, which is lit up like a multi-coloured Christmas tree. Strangers in black tie keep arriving and I feel apprehensive about the number of people I’ll be delivering my speech to. Throwing money at the taxi driver, I thank him and leap from the black cab. And straight into a giant puddle that soaks half my legs in muddy water. I close my eyes and hope that this isn’t a bad omen.

I don’t recognise anyone as I run up the steps to the entrance. Do they know who I am?

Wriggling out of my coat, I hand it to the girl in the cloakroom, who I realise is the mousy receptionist from the other day.

‘Hi,’ I smile at her. She looks unimpressed, but does she recognise me? Maybe she’s judging me because she saw me drunk and running around the gallery with Julianne the other day. Or she knows I’m running late yet again.

Jamal walks into the hallway with Catalina and smiles widely, coming over to shake my hand. Catalina grabs me and kisses both of my cheeks, looking like a proud mother hen, and I feel as if I’ve failed Julianne when we made our pact the other day to avoid Catalina’s kisses.

‘Where’s Christine?’ asks Jamal, his face full of concern.

I try not to look sad or angry. ‘She’s really ill. I think she has what I had last week.’

Jamal looks distraught, but I can’t tell him to calm down and not worry about it with Catalina hovering in front of us.

‘That’s such a shame,’ Catalina tells me, taking my arm. ‘I was looking forward to meeting her. Julianne’s here and helped me to set up. And everything looks fabulous.’

I can’t tell whether she’s being critical about my marriage when she mentions Julianne straight after dismissing the fact that Christine’s not here. Does she think that my wife isn’t important?

We walk through to the main room of the gallery where everyone’s mingling and gorging on the drinks and canapés that we chose the other day. The room is full of familiar faces and colourful dresses, sequins and materials that shine in the low light. Over in the far corner is a huge banner of our company logo next to another banner for the children’s hospice. There’s also a banner of me shaking hands with the CEO of the hospice, the photograph taken when we announced that our company would fund tonight’s event.

I see my father standing next to my banner talking with a group of men of all different ages. They look as if they’re concentrating as hard as they can on paying attention to each other, mentally noting down the strengths and weaknesses of their colleagues. My mother stands at the far side of the room in a simple black dress chatting with a group of elderly women who have grown bored of their husbands talking shop yet again. The entire room speaks volumes about the lack of women and diversity in politics and business. We’re not promoting any cause except for traditional family values.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Catalina noticing my wet trousers, but she doesn’t comment on it.

Jamal tells her, ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got to whisk him away and introduce him to a few people.’

Catalina laughs. ‘Of course, tonight’s all about networking!’ She winks at me then says, ‘Good luck for your speech later. Not that you need it.’

I wish I had the positive energy that this wonderful lady has. I’d love to emulate her dynamism, be charismatic and have people remember me for my spirited temperament. But I know that I’ll have to fake it by downing lots of champagne first.

Jamal introduces me to various couples and groups, and I ask them the questions that I’ve been rehearsing with Jamal for weeks now. We’ve done our homework on all of our guests. They mostly love to discuss their children and grandchildren, mentioning how they’re doing in school, university or at work. They love talking about themselves too: their accomplishments, businesses, new cars, houses and renovations. I’ve always been good at memorising facts and figures, and I’m great at making small talk with these dreary materialists who live consistently boring lives.

Perhaps I learnt how to brown-nose people from dad, who hosted so many parties when I was a kid. He has a knack for it too: for listening, not coming across as superior or pompous, not talking about himself but about other people instead. He wins people over by appearing ignorant about everything, being unmemorable by not making any unexpected statements, and flattery goes a long way too. In this game, you’ve got to be as average and indifferent as possible. That’s what wins votes.

As I listen to an old lady waffle on about her daughter’s school, I sip more champagne and think back to last week when I was sitting in the park. No one was trying to force their opinions down my throat and I finally had a moment of silence and serenity, all peripheral noise drowned out. I only thought about myself and what I wanted. But then I stopped myself. Stopped myself from feeling selfish and happy, and my old familiar feelings of guilt and anguish returned.

Trying not to be obvious about it, I glance around the room, hoping to spot Julianne. Temporarily I forgot how many people are here and that I’m about to make such an important speech to this huge crowd. Trish, another partner at my company who’s dressed in a hideous plum dress with severe shoulder pads, smiles and waves across the room at me. Damn, now I’ve made eye contact and have to wave back, indicating to my group that I wasn’t fully paying attention.

Then Julianne walks into the room. Everyone else is drowned out and I only have eyes for her. She’s draped in a full-length black dress covered in little red flowers. She bumps into Millie, laughs and hugs her, then does a twirl. The dress is backless and her red hair falls in waves across her bare shoulders.

I don’t think she’s wearing a bra. Shit, I shouldn’t go there.

I can’t help but watch as my thoughts play out though. I picture her naked and in my arms again, her skin pressed against mine. I kiss her and she throws her head back and moans as she comes. This is exactly what I shouldn’t be thinking about.

Her eyes meet with mine and we smile at each other. She raises her glass in my direction, toasting me before I’ve even addressed the room. Does she notice the effect she has on me? I feel like a teenage boy lusting after the prettiest girl at school.

A group of people cross the room in search of more canapés and drinks, and I lose sight of her again. I can’t see her walking towards me. I can’t see any flash of red from her dress.

I excuse myself, saying that I just need to go over the notes for my speech. Then I grab a glass of red wine from a silver tray and run towards the room where we got drunk and ate canapés the other day. I need some time to myself.

Angus steps in front of me and blocks my exit.

‘Thomas!’ he says. ‘I’m looking forward to hearing your speech.’

He smiles and his yellow teeth have ensnared several herbs and poppy seeds.

‘Thanks, Angus. I’m a bit nervous actually. I just need to go over my notes again.’ I try to get past him.

‘It’s a shame that your wife couldn’t make it,’ says Angus, as if he’s wondering why she couldn’t come. Why is he prying for more information?

‘She’s very ill unfortunately. I had something last week and I think she’s got it now too.’ Throw him off the scent. Try not to appear vulnerable.

‘Oh, I’m sorry. Please, pass on my regards to her. I hope she gets better soon… Now, about your speech…’

Oh God, has he changed his mind about supporting me? Has the party? Will I have to change my speech entirely? Have I been cast out?

‘Make sure you mention Harvey Darling. He’s donated rather a lot of money to the party recently and I’ve seen him here tonight. I’ll introduce you later. It would be good for you if you mention his name.’

I’ve never met Harvey Darling in my life and I’ve never heard his name mentioned before either. Is this a test? It must be. ‘Okay, of course. It would be nice to meet him later.’

Angus smiles like a cat who’s toying with a mouse. ‘Excellent. I knew you’d understand. Good luck.’

Then he slimes off to talk with a poor unsuspecting stranger who made the mistake of appearing alone.

Darting into the dark little dining room, I close the door behind me and thank God that Angus was distracted by someone else. Then I turn around and see Julianne sitting on a small sofa in the corner, sipping on a full glass of champagne. For the briefest of moments there’s a sad look on her face but it disappears, replaced with a smile instead.

‘Trying to escape too?’ she asks.

I pull a face like she’s caught me out and flop down on the sofa next to her. It reminds me of the time we sat together in the park and I feel comfortable again. I like being alone with her.

‘Not long to go,’ she says. ‘Then you can relax.’

‘Yeah, sure! Relax.’ Relax with the pack of wolves outside ready to eat me alive and then spit me out when they realise that I’m not one of them.

Julianne slips her hand into mine, but she doesn’t look at me. ‘You’ll be fine. Tonight’s nearly over.’

It is nearly over, but something tugs at my heart and tells me that I probably won’t be fine afterwards. I haven’t felt fine for as long as I can remember. I feel jaded and don’t know how to stop my heart from aching.

We listen to Catalina outside telling everyone to make their way through to the auction room.

‘We should go. They’ll be looking for you,’ says Julianne.

‘I was looking for you,’ I confess, turning towards her.

I don’t know what I’ve just admitted to, but right now all I can think about is kissing her. I want her: the woman who understands me and sees me for who I am; the woman who sits beside me instead of the woman who never showed up.

Before our lips touch, Catalina swings open the door. Our hands spring apart, but I don’t think Catalina notices.

‘There you are!’ she says.

And then we’re being shepherded towards the auction room and I feel as if I’m walking the plank, edging further towards a path that I’m not sure I want to take.

Julianne smiles at me before we’re separated and I love her for not whispering, ‘Good luck.’ I hate being wished good luck, as if I’m a child about to make a stupid presentation in assembly for the first time. I don’t need good luck. I haven’t had any now for at least ten years.

As I step up on the podium with Catalina, I think this is it: my big moment; the beginning of my campaign. Julianne wanders to the back of the room and I try to forget about her and her calming influence. This is about me and my future, and every ambition I’ve ever had to achieve something in my life.

And this is about more than just me: it’s about the party and making a pledge to help my community, my future constituency, and the wider society and government. This is about thanking everyone who’s come to listen to me tonight, and how all of us have the ability to change lives and help others, starting with how we’ll help to fund the treatment centre for the children’s hospice.

I’ll sing my company’s praises for funding and organising tonight’s event and for supporting me throughout my career. I’ll thank my family: my absent wife and my parents for ‘always believing in me’, even though they’ll know that I’ll be lying. I’ll thank all of my supporters and everyone who’s offered to help me on my campaign and vote for me. And I’ll have to drop in certain names, including fucking Harvey Darling – who could be a serial killer for all I know – because that’s what I’ve been told to say and I have to toe the party line.