Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(21)
She’d been awake until the wee hours, wired on espresso, her head buzzing with images of the Chief Government Whip and his dominatrix, wrestling with the moral dilemma of sweet vengeance versus fair-mindedness to a man who’d known unhappiness in early life. But surely forgiveness ends at bribery . . .
Somehow, she’d polished off the bottle of Malbec before finally falling into a tossing sleep.
Arthur had unsettled her as well during last evening’s tense phonathon, first with his unaccountably mirthful mood, then quizzing her like she was a reluctant witness. Add to that his blithe assumption that she was prone to reckless acts.
And then the room phone ringing and ringing. And half an hour later ringing again. Thank God he never came to the door — he was just down the hall.
Earrings, necklace, a touch of colour on those pallid lips, and she grabbed her coat and shot out of her room, hung over, unready, feeling beastly. She was beyond grateful that Jennie Withers would be beside her, backed up by their two other MPs. But it was the heiress apparent who would get the starring role — Jennie would relish that. Pierette would be there too, to help with the tough questions.
It was a Q and A, so they had to be ready for anything. At least they’d be playing before a home crowd. The other opposition parties had already done similar events, but the governing Conservatives, anticipating catcalls and walkouts, had declined the WWF’s invitation, with some blather about the event offering undue prominence to “extremist” views.
She had not looked out her draped window, so found herself blinking as she stepped outside into warm sunshine, mists rising from puddles. A pleasant turn in the weather seemed a good omen.
Pierette was waiting anxiously outside the conference room, its doors open, the room filling. “Honey, you look like you just stumbled out of a clothes dryer.” She took her aside, found a comb, and attacked a few askew wisps. “For God’s sake, what have you been up to? Your meeting with Sabatino — was it a disaster?”
“Anything but.”
They were interrupted by two young autograph seekers. Margaret tried to be bright and bouncy as she engaged these eager supporters. They admired her for telling it like it was. They wanted to campaign for the Greens. Margaret told them they could run for the Greens. There were still holes to fill among the 338 ridings, they might enjoy the experience.
Pierette led her inside, where the podium table stood empty, with six chairs. There was Jennie Withers at the coffee bar, exchanging pleasantries with her two fellow MPs . . . and with Dr. Lloyd Chalmers. Him laughing, bestowing on Jennie that boyish grin that claimed, “I’m harmless.”
Margaret hurried toward the front, up a few steps, and plunked herself down at the end of the long table. Pierette slid into the chair beside hers, leaning in, asking how Margaret’s meeting had gone.
“Wow,” Margaret said.
“Wow?”
“Emil Farquist. The sanctimonious prick, he’s into S and M.” She got what she wanted, a totally stunned look, mouth agape.
Pierette struggled for words, finally recovered: “S and M. I got it. It’s a metaphor. As in Sour and Malicious, right?”
“Wrong. As in ‘Spank me, Mother, I’ve been a bad boy.’ Weekends with a Russian dominatrix. Svetlana something. Farquist likes giving her pony rides while she swats his ass with a riding whip.”
“Freak out!”
That was loud, and was heard by Jennie as she strode toward them. “Hey, you guys, be careful.”
Margaret hadn’t paid heed to the nearby table microphone, and was startled to see a small LED light glowing green on it. Green. Jennie flicked a switch, and the light faded.
Margaret felt her guts heave. She glanced behind her, at the simultaneous translation booth. A young woman and an older man, neither in headphones, just chatting. Wireless headphones were also available to conference-goers, but she saw no one using them. No stricken looks coming her way. Just smiles.
Then she spotted a blonde, curly-haired imp rise from the press table, quickly gather up her phone, notes, and bag, and slip from the room. A pair of headphones remained, hooked on the back of her chair. Margaret had duelled with the imp many times: Christie Montieth, a political blogger and columnist for the Ottawa Sun. No friend of the Greens. She exchanged a glance with Pierette, who’d also seen Montieth leave. Probably a bathroom break. Early for that. A quick cigarette?
Jennie was hovering with a puzzled frown. “You guys look like kids caught stealing from the candy shop.”
“I had a bad night,” Margaret said. “You’re going to have to save my ass in here, Jen.”
Jennie nodded — she couldn’t have missed seeing Margaret’s red and tired eyes. “I’ll do my best.”
The moderator had joined them, and was urging them to take their places mid-table. Margaret could not avoid the encouraging gaze of Lloyd Chalmers, front row centre. She returned a tired smile. She was going to get through this if it killed her.
Christie Montieth returned to her seat just as the session began. No expression. Must have been a smoke break after all.
§
It was warm outside, the late afternoon sun beaming down on the three women sitting at a cloth-covered table on the patio of a small restaurant below Vieux-Port. Lebanese. Lamb on skewers. Pickled veggies. Flatbread. Pierette and Jennie were drinking wine, but Margaret was sticking to tea.