Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(101)

Margaret did her best, and when things settled down, she tried to focus on the speech. She must come up with something to say to the press. No mention so far of the Coast Mountains Pipeline — she could comment on that.

“Let’s talk after the scrums,” Jennie whispered. She handed Margaret a scarf. “Put that over your head.”

§

Out in the foyer, Margaret didn’t have to wait her turn — she was top chicken in today’s pecking order, Miss Popularity. She smiled hard, but it wasn’t easy to look like a winner with her rat’s-nest hairdo peeking from the scarf and her slinky pantsuit. Who will return looking rueful and who triumphant?

“How was your holiday, Ms. Blake?”

“Blissful.”

“Lovely outfit.”

“I just grabbed it. I’ve been on a plane for two nights and a day. Missed connection, I got maybe two hours’ sleep.”

There were smaller groups around the PM and Clara Gracey, the acting Opposition leader. No sign of Farquist.

A microphone was thrust at her. “Are you satisfied with the settlement, Ms. Blake?”

“You know I can’t talk about that. I will talk about an annoying gap in the Throne Speech. The Coast Mountains Pipeline didn’t merit a whisper.”

“Excuse me, if I heard right they’re calling for a full review.”

That must have come early in the speech. She hoped she didn’t look as flustered as she felt. She bluffed: “We need more action than a review. That has all the earmarks of a rubber stamp.”

“Ms. Blake, can you say why you agreed to settle the court action?”

“No, I can’t. Ask Mr. Farquist, and I’m sure you’ll get the same answer.” She looked around. “But I don’t see him here.” Making a point of it. Jennie was nearby, though, listening in as Margaret continued to deflect questions.

“Can you at least confirm you settled for less than fifty million?” Laughter all around. “Seriously, I understand you were never questioned during discovery. What are we to make of that?”

“What you will. I’d prefer to talk about the government’s wimpy approach to the crisis of climate change. Their so-called action plan offers more brave words than action.”

“The court case must have been strenuous — any likelihood you’ll be stepping down?”

“We have our leadership review in three months.” She took a deep breath. “We’ll see what the membership has to say.”

§

The pleasure of a long hot shower. The bliss of a hair blower on clean, damp hair. Flannel pyjamas and a big fuzzy robe to crawl into. Now all Margaret needed was twenty hours of sleep.

But first she had to contend with Jennie. “We’ll talk when we get there,” she’d said in the taxi. They had slipped away cleanly after picking up the suitcase and grovelling to security, and were now in Margaret’s converted coach house in Rockcliffe Park.

She found Jennie in the study, at the window with its grand overlook of the Rideau River, frozen solid, occasional skaters racing back and forth. Tea brewed in a pot. Jennie poured.

“Sorry about that scrum. A disaster.”

“I’m glad you’ve abandoned the notion of stepping down. Announcing it would have sent the wrong signal. Losers quit. You need to look more like a winner, not the scared rabbit you were in the Foyer.”

“Jennie, if you’re talking about the settlement, you know my lips are tied.” Was that right? “Sealed. I’m a space case, sorry.”

“I’m a special case. You can tell me in confidence.”

“Did you talk to Pierette?”

“I didn’t want to make it awkward for her. She couldn’t hide the goofy smile, though.”

“It’s just as awkward for me. There’s a huge penalty for disclosure. Arthur would divorce me.”

“Come on. Did Emil cave completely?”

“Jennie . . .”

“Nod or shake your head.”

“Honestly, I can’t do it. You’re my best friend, but . . .”

“Thank you, I’m honoured, but I’m also a lawyer. I’m your lawyer. Give me a loonie, and you have retained me to interpret your confidentiality clause.”

“Are you sure that’s okay?”

“Of course. Solicitor-client privilege trumps everything.”

Margaret found a dollar coin in her purse and handed it over. The fact is she was dying to tell all. “Second left drawer of my desk. It’s not locked.”

Jennie retrieved the signed agreement, read it quickly, broke into a smile. “Nice. Very nice.” Then: “Wow. Five hundred big ones.”

“And we could lose it all.”

“My lips are tied.”

Margaret forgot she was exhausted, and the words spilled out — she unloaded everything: Sierra’s interception of Lou Sabatino, the speedy assembling of expert reports, playing the video at discovery, Farquist’s dissembling denials.

“Have you got the half-mil yet?”

“Funds are being processed. Farquist was saved by his angel, Jack O’Reilly.”

“Man, somehow this has got to get out.” She grabbed her phone. “An anonymous tweet should do it.”