Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(48)

“A personal note to you, Margaret.”

She turned off the speaker, braced herself for the requisite stern advisory about her notorious tendency to shoot off her mouth. “Yes, dear?”

“I love you, Margaret. Truly. Deeply. And I . . . I will just leave you with Alexander Pope’s eternal advice: ‘To err is human; to forgive, divine.’ Omnia vincit amor.”

She found that tender and warming, if not altogether clear. Tears came, and she looked out the window to hide them. The storm seemed to be letting up.

§

Margaret woke up disoriented. She was slightly hungover. In her pyjamas but in a strange bed. She heard a plane taking off and blinked away the haze of sleep. She was in a bedroom of an airport hotel suite.

She peeked at the bedside clock: almost eight — Arthur would have landed by now. Pierette would be at arrivals to meet him. To err is human, he’d said. What error had he meant? Her careless fling? Yet it almost felt he was seeking forgiveness for some transgression. Omnia vincit amor. Their love would heal all wounds?

Arthur the Obscure.

She twisted to her left, saw her door was open — maybe so Jennie could guard against her jumping out the window. She was at a desk, bent over her laptop. Two empty bottles of Cabernet on the counter.

They’d gone through those last night while morbidly watching the tweets roll in. There was advice on the proper way to do the pony ride. A link to an S&M consumer study of riding whips. An occasional semi-supportive message: Wouldn’t it be lovely if true? Some crudities. Svetlana was lucky that big-ass Farquist didn’t mount her, she’d be flattened.

Margaret was about to launch herself toward the bathroom, but heard Jennie on her phone, cooling someone out. “Hey, Charmer, chill, we’ve got it under control. Very important strategy session going on. Keep smiling. Arrivederci.”

“Charmer?”

“Chalmers. I gave him my personal number. Mistake.”

“I’ll say.” Margaret was sure Jennie knew about their fling. She could picture Lloyd making a casual hint over too many drinks. Frankly, she was coming on to me. I’d rather not say more. Maybe he’d told his buddies too. Keep it under your hat, but I scored with the Green leader.

Margaret felt sticky — maybe from the mention of his name — and rushed to the shower. Lloyd Chalmers was the mistake, that was what she should tell Jennie. He was all about himself. A narcissist. An obsessive user of women. She should warn Jennie about that — though thankfully she seemed to be cooling on him.

After drying her hair and doing what she could with her wan, white face, Margaret joined Jennie, snapping on her bra, pulling on jeans, pausing to peruse the front page of the Globe. “Racy Political Voice Clip Goes Viral” — a brief, carefully worded piece in which this decorous daily avoided quoting from the clip, naming the parties, or elaborating on its raciness, other than referring to alleged unusual sexual practices. The source of the clip, which had “lit up” the internet, was not known. Voice analysis was underway. The publisher was studying legal options before “fleshing out” the story.

“Other mainstream media are being just as coy,” Jennie said. “But it’s all over the internet, the blogosphere, Reddit. Don’t even look at Facebook.”

Margaret put her shirt aside and tried to work on her hair. “How do I look?”

“You always look good.” Studying her. “Sexy. Do you want some time alone with him?”

Margaret flushed. “Well, I . . . no. That will have to wait.” An awkward response to a kind offer. Casting about for a quick change of subject, she fumbled with words. “Jennie, I think we have to consider . . . for the good of the party . . .”

“Ill-advised,” said Jennie. Then added, “Right now.” Even a hint that Margaret might resign would be an admission of wrongdoing. That matter, as with everything, must await Arthur’s counsel.

As tense as she was glum, Margaret started at the sound of the door opening, and there was Pierette ushering in Arthur and another man, whom she could not immediately place. She was focussed on her husband, his rumpled suit and tired eyes, his grin on seeing her doing up her shirt. They kissed, then held each other. Margaret did want to take this man to bed, and was dismayed she couldn’t. Not now.

Standing by, looking extremely awkward, in a contrastingly unrumpled suit, was the small rotund man she now remembered as a dinner guest at Blunder Bay: Francisco Sierra, the courtly private eye, who bowed before shaking her hand.

“But what about your roses, Frank?” she said.

“There will always be roses. I’ve left Bolivar with friends.” His dog.

“You’re the best news we’ve had all day. I’m so happy you’ve come.”

“My pleasure, madam.” He too had flown overnight, but showed no signs of wear or weariness.

There was little time for pleasantries. Sierra was introduced to Jennie, who brought him up to date on the media coverage while Pierette took orders for room service. For the next hour, Sierra meticulously questioned the three women, taking notes.

Afterwards, he sat back with a cup of after-breakfast tea, musing, polishing his glasses as if that would improve his view of the matter. Margaret settled beside Arthur on a couch, curling against him like a cat needing comfort. Jennie returned to her laptop.

“Speak, Oracle,” said Arthur.