Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(68)

Arthur encouraged her, of course, but both knew that a decision had to await the outcome of the defamation action. A loss, and the issue would become moot. Margaret’s political career would be in the gutter.

§

Outside the bar and general store, the local guru’s Mercedes convertible sat regally among a dozen beaters, one of them Reverend Al’s old Civic — he would be enjoying his traditional post-service tot of rum, and maybe campaigning, pressing flesh. Parked across the road, causing Arthur a spasm of distress, was Taba’s GM pickup.

Arthur stalled for time — he hoped Taba was just picking up some items from the store, a quick in-and-out. “Shall we wander down to the dock? Oh, there’s Gomer’s crab boat — maybe we can buy a couple of fat ones for dinner.”

“Let’s go up for a drink first. Al and Zo? are here.”

He saw them at a window seat in the Brig — talking with . . . yes, the island’s bold-breasted potter. Margaret forged ahead up the ramp to the patio, and Arthur hurried to catch up, proposing instead an outside table, in the fresh air.

“It’s a bit nippy, dear. Come on, they’ll be offended if we ignore them.” Waving to the threesome by the window. “Oh, and there’s Taba. I missed seeing her last summer.”

“They seem to be in deep discussion, so maybe you’d like —”

“A drink.”

She pulled him inside, past the three Pasadena hipsters, who were knocking back shooters while enjoying the ribald rhymes of the louche poet, Cudworth Brown, looking cool in a beret, on his enduring quest to make out. Xantha had been filming him, but swivelled to Arthur and Margaret, capturing his stiff smile and her wide one, practised, camera-ready.

Al and Zo? greeted Margaret with hugs as Arthur and Taba studiously avoided eye contact. Margaret took the one empty chair while Al dragged another over, depositing Arthur beside his seducer, too close to her. Their knees touched, and Arthur quickly withdrew his.

Al gestured at the starlets’ table. “Cud is giving the Transformettes one more chance. He’s determined to believe they’re not lesbians.”

“This is their farewell,” Zo? added. “They’re driving that pricey gas guzzler back to Hollywood.”

Arthur found that odd. They’d brought it up for Silverson, who’d rarely driven it. Maybe he felt it reflected poorly on his image as a back-to-the-land conservationist.

“God has answered my prayers,” Al said. “Taba is taking one for the team. She’s agreed to run for Trust. We’re filing our papers tomorrow.”

“Good on you, Taba,” said Margaret.

“I need to have my sanity tested,” Taba said. “I already have nightmares of being strangled in red tape.”

Al beamed. “We’re hoping you’ll both lend your names to our campaign.”

Margaret clapped her hands. “We’d be honoured.”

Al called to Emily LeMay at the bar: “Pop a cork, old girl, and a coffee for Arthur.” Turning to him, he said, “I know you’re busy fighting the good fight for your loving client, but if you could spare a little time to be Taba’s Official Agent . . .”

“Well, I, um . . . I’m not sure.”

“No work involved. Just help her through a few technicalities, sign her papers, merely a matter of holding her hand.”

Words failed Arthur. He flushed.

“It’s the least you can do, darling,” said Margaret.

“It’s done, then,” Al said, then pulled the nomination papers from a satchel. “Sign here, old boy.”

§

Arthur was in bed, reading then rereading the first few pages of a historical novel, retaining nothing, starting anew, distracted by his old enemy, performance anxiety. He and Margaret had been apart for three months; she had come all this way to be with him and deserved better than going to bed with a lifeless lump.

She was still downstairs on the phone, strategizing with Pierette: the recount in Halifax, the new Parliament about to go into session, a new cabinet, new challenges. The never-ending toils of a party leader. Maybe she would be too exhausted . . . But that deep and tender kiss before he went up to shower said otherwise. He sought peace, mindlessness. Let what comes come; let what goes go.

But the tension-laden afternoon in the Brig was still with him — they’d stayed for a painful two hours, Arthur somehow maintaining a pretence of normality and, after Taba slipped away, making an effort at bonhomie.

Abandoned early by the Hollywood sprites, Cud Brown had remained stuck to his chair, descending into a state of muttering intoxication by the time Arthur and Margaret left. There sat the hairy goat, alone, abandoned to his masturbatory fantasies, and here was Arthur, wimpily waiting in the connubial bed for the woman he loved.

What was the matter with him? It was ridiculous to feel so torn up by a careless, impulsive moment of desire. Margaret need never know. Get over it. Vincit qui se vincit. He conquers who conquers himself.

He was pretending to read as Margaret came in, but looked up as she greeted him, and smiled bravely. She examined him with her penetrating grey eyes. It was as if she saw through him, and she let him off the hook. “We’re both under a strain. I just need you to hold me.”

She looked quite lovely, really, her hair down, her slim, trim body casually revealed to him as she stripped. A peek at him, as if for reaction. Then strolling gracefully, nakedly, to the shower.