Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(72)
An element of queasiness was now in play among the many repellent feelings Margaret held for Farquist. Arthur, ever cautious on the phone, had dispatched Frank Sierra to confide the shocking but plausible surmise of an incestuous relationship between Farquist and his mother. It was not demonstrably relevant, said Arthur, nor easily proved — unless Sierra dug up a witness to bedroom taboos being broken a few decades ago. A neighbour, a housekeeper, an unexpected visitor.
Everything would be so easy if Lou Sabatino somehow found the grit to do the right thing. The cowardly little bugger.
The door squeaked open, and Jennie Withers sidled in with a wine bottle and two glasses. “Interrupting?”
“Not at all. Lock the door, Jen.”
She did, then poured. “The fawning was making me ill. Pinot okay? The bubbly ran out.”
Margaret nodded. She was already high; one more drink wasn’t going to do any damage. Jennie seemed a little tight too, her voice teasing. “He likes you better,” she said.
Margaret’s smile froze. “What does that mean?”
“Sorry. Don’t mean to be flippant. I felt you should know. Lloyd told me about . . . This is awkward.”
“About sleeping with me.”
“Pillow talk. Charmer couldn’t resist.” Jennie rolled her eyes. “He said you were great in bed. I felt fucking insulted, not to mention appalled. The guy has a mouth disorder. That’s when I decided to get out of his gravitational field. Sorry, honey, it was bugging me, I had to tell you.” She gave Margaret a hug, and she returned it, and kissed her.
Jennie refilled their glasses. “You heard he’s moved on to Francine Lafontaine?” The rookie Liberal. “He claims he can bring her over.”
“He expects us to believe that? Damn his big mouth.”
“Mine is shut.”
“It’s okay, Jen. I totally trust you.”
She did not trust Chalmers, however, whose mouth was clearly not shut. His need to boast about his conquests could prove horribly awkward — while hiding behind their Twitter usernames, Farquist’s troops would gleefully mock the adulterous Green leader. Though she had long regretted her confession to Arthur, she now realized she’d been wise to be honest, to cleanse her marriage of secrets that could poison it.
A tapping on the door. She opened it to Pierette. “Excuse. Marcus Yates just sent an emissary with a note. The PM wants an audience with you.”
Margaret looked down at her empty glass of Pinot — she hadn’t remembered finishing it. She was feeling very light-headed.
§
After two coffees and a liberal dose of Listerine, Margaret found herself in the horseshoe-shaped lobby of the Prime Minister’s office in the Centre Block, trying not to wobble on her heels as Marcus Yates’s personal secretary opened a door and ushered her in.
A commodious office, regally done in carved oak throughout, blinds open to an overlook of the West Annex and the Hill’s frost-seared lawn, with its usual cluster of grumps with placards — anti-abortion diehards today, huddled under umbrellas. Dominating one wall was a portrait of Sir John A. Macdonald, Canada’s first prime minister and arguably its most famous drunk. He gazed fondly upon his tipsy visitor, with the merest hint of a smile.
Yates rose from a capacious oak desk piled with files and binders and greeted her with outstretched hand. Graceful, trim, clean-cut, a boyish smile. Margaret couldn’t shake off a more youthful rendition from the attack ads: Yates in a cannabis-leaf T-shirt at a pro-pot rally. But those ads had boomeranged on the Conservatives — they’d merely encouraged young voters to shake off their torpor and actually vote this time.
“Thank you for coming, Margaret.” He pulled out a chair for her. “Can we get you anything? A coffee, a juice?”
“I’m fine, thanks.” Just a little hammered.
Yates dismissed his secretary, settled into his padded leather desk chair. They began by exchanging complaints about the unending toil of political life. That segued briefly into mention of Farquist’s slander suit, Yates expressing sympathy over the strain she must be under. “May the best woman win,” he said.
She laughed, a little hoarsely.
He talked about the mess left behind by the outgoing administration, and the long task ahead to clean it up. The former social worker had a genial, confiding manner that nibbled away at one’s defences. A clever fellow, and she reminded herself to be on guard. Commit to nothing, she told herself. Wait until sober second thought kicks in.
Finally he got to the point. “We assume you have a wish list.”
She had rehearsed for this, and spoke slowly, fearful of slurring: “Let’s start with our twelve-point election platform, and see if we can build on that.”
He nodded, smiled. “Proportional rep, Senate reform, pulling the plug on the Extended Police Powers bill — a definite on that — repairing the Species at Risk Act, curtailing energy subsidies, tackling carbon pricing — we can go along with a lot of that. I think you’ll be pleased with the Throne Speech. Much of it has to be done incrementally, of course.”
Margaret didn’t like that imprecise afterword, but this was sounding not too bad. If he was being honest. “I hope Dr. Lecourt has enough gumph to stand up to the Goliaths.” Diane Lecourt, his environment minister. A political novice.
“She’s a fast learner and a tough cookie.”