Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(100)
Cowper had no response. He looked more puzzled than shocked. “How do you imagine my client will come up with that kind of money?”
Arthur had a clear memory from Friday’s dinner at the Q: the warm hug between Farquist and his billionaire bankroller.
“Emil’s hand is already in Jack O’Reilly’s pocket. He just has to dig a little deeper.”
SCRUM FLUSTER
Margaret had grabbed a taxi at the Ottawa airport, and it was speeding her to Parliament Hill, where the Speech from the Throne was about to be delivered.
She was travel-weary and disoriented — ten hours ahead of Melbourne or ten hours behind, she wasn’t sure, couldn’t do the math. Her hair was an unwashed mess; otherwise, she’d done what repairs she could between flights, in the washroom of the VIP lounge in Vancouver, stripping, washing, deodorizing, changing into a too-elegant silky pantsuit that she’d already worn twice — to a ritzy restaurant, then a concert. It looked odd but would have to do.
She had missed the ceremonial opening of Parliament on Monday, thanks to a screw-up on reservations. Then a failed connection in Vancouver. Arthur had left her at the airport there, in an apologetic rush to make the last ferry to Garibaldi.
The trip was inspired by a New Year’s call from Arthur’s daughter, Deborah, a high-school principal in Melbourne, on summer holidays. The slander action had been settled. Arthur, her hero, had slayed the dragon. What better way to celebrate than enjoying two stolen weeks of summer.
They had stayed four nights in the wooded northeast suburbs, in the home Deborah shared with her husband, an ocean scientist. Arthur and Margaret then rented a car and drove to the heritage town of Port Fairy, where they stayed in a seaside cottage. Reading, wandering, swimming, birding, taking drives to nowhere, cocktails at sunset.
As the pressures of politics and litigation faded away, thoughts of retiring had exerted their pull on Margaret again. For the entire two weeks she’d fought valiantly to break her enslavement to the political life. Aside from a text to Jennie asking her to hold the fort until she got back, Margaret had not touched her BlackBerry. Nor had she brought her iPad or laptop.
But she’d done a whirlwind job of catching up during her long trip back, poring through texts and emails and missed phone calls. The orgy of speculation about the settlement terms had cooled; the confidentiality clause was holding up. It was strict — any disclosure by the defendant or her lawyers would mean forfeiting the $500,000 settlement Arthur had negotiated. The other side had insisted that Pierette, who knew everything, be bound to silence too.
Lou Sabatino had not yet gone public. He was saving the goodies for his book — he’d apparently got a handsome advance from a major publisher. Nor had the Calgary police acted on his revelations. Bondage was not a crime. Bribery was, but the evidence was circumstantial and weak.
It annoyed Margaret that the public had no idea how badly Farquist had been whipped, as it were. In fact, according to Pierette, the right-wing media were being fed hints that Farquist had come out of it unscathed, even with a comfortable settlement.
She had attached a link to a Christie Montieth column about the coming session of Parliament. Several paragraphs down: “Don’t expect a lot of electricity to pass between Farquist and Blake when the House sits. They’ll be avoiding each other like the plague. Both have been away on vacation — who will return looking rueful and who triumphant?”
Margaret was not going to look her triumphant best. In the taxi, she fussed with her confusion of hair, tied it, pinned it, swore at it. She daubed herself with makeup, applied lipstick. In her chic outfit, she looked like she’d just weathered a wild night on the town.
They were in the city centre now, Wellington Street just ahead, the Peace Tower urgently beckoning her. The Governor General would now be well into the Throne Speech, which, by annoying tradition, was held in the Senate Chamber, that so-called council of sober second thought: unelected, undemocratic, infected with political parasites.
Margaret managed to talk their way into the restricted driveway to the Peace Tower, and tipped her driver generously for helping her with her heavy suitcase. Inside, she was slowed by security personnel, who were in a conundrum over that suitcase. She abandoned it to them, ignoring their protests, and sped to the Rotunda and down the east wing to the Senate Chamber.
The Governor General was holding forth as she cautiously entered, ducking and dodging too obviously as she tried to hide behind a mass of MPs standing at the bar of the Chamber.
But her hopes of going unnoticed were soundly defeated. There was much stirring and nudging, murmured voices, everyone craning to see her: the GG, the Speakers of both houses, the entire Supreme Court bench, everyone except an aged Tory senator snoring in his chair.
The Sergeant-at-Arms called out: “Order in the chamber!”
Beyond, just behind the bar, was Emil Farquist, who twisted around to look at her, then quickly turned his broad backside to her.
Others were slower to disengage — including the minister of Lands, Forests, and Rivers. Chalmers grinned at her, and she felt a swell of anger and shame. She would forever feel mortified by their affair. Her betrayal of a loving and perfectly faithful husband.
As the GG picked up where he’d left off, Jennie whispered from behind her, “Welcome back.”
“Do I look awful?”
“Just smile. Look like a winner.”