Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(79)
She perused once again her advance copy of tomorrow’s Throne Speech. A lot of brave words, nothing hard, vague blather about tackling climate change. Coast Mountains didn’t rate a mention. She would have something to say to Marcus Yates about this. To the House, to the press.
Or she would if she could find the words. She hoped her stress wasn’t showing too obviously, her strenuously composed expression, her tight, sappy smile. Her anxiety had been compounded by Arthur’s own stress, she’d fed off it. His mood swings, his clipped way of issuing his many cautions during their long-distance calls, then, alarmingly, waxing poetic about the sweetness of life. Jekyll and Hyde. Leave the worrying to me, he would say at those moments, causing her to worry more — about him.
It was her fault for having strong-armed him into taking on this damnable case. She should never have torn him away from his idyllic life on little Garibaldi while she played the distraught victim of an assault by writ and statement of claim. Arthur insisted the plaintiff’s claim for fifty million was preposterous, but what was never mentioned between them was the fact that an award of even 15 percent of that would render them penniless. They would have to sell the farm.
This was pitiful: here she was, anticipating the worst, preparing herself for disaster. She must stop being such a weak sister. She told herself to buck up.
Across the way, taking her seat in the government’s fourth row, was pretty Francine Lafontaine, Chalmers’s current squeeze. She was scanning the Opposition bleachers, beaming a smile in Margaret’s direction. She twisted around and saw Chalmers grinning back at Francine, then offering Margaret an apologetic shrug. He’d convinced himself, if not his confidants, that he could woo her over to the Greens. What a generous man, sacrificing his body to recruit for the Party. Francine, a textile designer, wasn’t known to have green leanings.
There in the press gallery was Christie Montieth, the author of Margaret’s misfortunes while disguised as BDSmother. A charade no doubt enacted with the connivance of her editor and her publisher. Why weren’t they being sued? But of course Farquist wasn’t about to bankrupt his fawning friends in that media group.
Pierette was in the Opposition gallery, and beside her was Francisco Sierra — Margaret wasn’t sure why he’d wanted a gallery pass. He was supposed to seek out CSIS agent McGilroy today — Arthur had decided to let him to have a go at the spy.
Sierra had returned yesterday from the Gatineaus with hopeful news, though maybe of dubious value: the groundskeeper at Lac Vert had seen a blue Miata tucked beside Farquist’s carport sometime last winter, maybe January. Or at least he thought it might have been a Miata, thought it might have been blue. A drinking man who considered Farquist un snob, Sierra said.
Pierette nudged him, directed his attention to the public gallery above the Speaker’s chair. McGilroy had just taken a seat there. He acknowledged Sierra with a slight nod of his head. Moments later, Sierra rose, departed. After a few beats, so did McGilroy. Their little pas de deux meant Sierra’s invitation for a quiet rendezvous had been accepted.
Meanwhile, the House was in session. A round of applause as Orvil Legault was acclaimed Speaker. Now to be enacted was the nutty ceremony of wrestling the new Speaker to his station at the front of the chamber. A tradition with roots in antiquity, when English kings might have demanded the head of a luckless Speaker who arrived bearing bad news.
The ritual required the Prime Minister and Opposition leader to drag the Speaker toward his high-backed, ornately carved chair. Orvil, a roly-poly fellow in a black silk robe and a tri-cornered hat, had some experience in amateur theatre and was taking his performance seriously. As he resisted, his robe slipped off, and Marcus Yates had to grab him by his suspenders to prevent a fall. Those suspenders snapped, propelling Orvil forward into the arms of Clara Gracey, who was forced to grasp him around the middle to push him upright, rather like an inflated clown.
Margaret joined in the general laughter. Not smiling, though, was Emil Farquist, who turned to look at Margaret with cold hate.
PART FOUR
A VERY UNMERRY CHRISTMAS
It was the morning before Christmas and not a creature was stirring but Rob O’Brien, who was shovelling a path to his car through nearly four feet of freshly fallen snow. It was half past seven, still dark, the snow still coming down in great gobs. It had been an epic enterprise just getting the front screen door open.
Lou’s new home came with a small garage, but he’d left the Cavalier outside, plugged in, so he could get a fast start this morning. He huffed and swore as he whaled away with the snow shovel in the dim glow of his yard light, finally opening a channel to the car.
Listlessly, giving in to the sheer impossibility of going anywhere today, he brushed the snow from the windows and peered inside at the two big canvas bags packed with gift-wrapped boxes: games, books, electronic toys, a massive panda for Lisa, who was not too old for that. She loved her bears. Logan’s new bicycle was lying on top. It had come with training wheels, but Lou thought that might be insulting and had taken them off.
Much of this bounty he’d got just across the border in Havre, Montana. No problem there, he whizzed across the border both ways — though it helped that the Canadian customs guy, who lived near Porc Plain, had bought a router from Lou. From a jeweller, Lou had scored a beautiful necklace for Celeste, silver with a diamond pendant. It was still in the house, unwrapped, to be enclosed with a loving note he’d yet to write.