(1980) The Second Lady (23 page)

That instant, he caught the expression on her face, and stopped in mid-sentence. She was aghast.

‘Guy, are you crazy?’ she said. ‘You know better. Under no circumstances will I discuss anything intimate about

Andrew and myself. Not on your life. I thought that was understood from the start.’

Parker was taken aback. ‘But you once —’

‘No,’ she said emphatically. ‘Forget it.’

‘Billie, I don’t mean -‘

‘Please don’t argue with me’ She shook a cigarette loose from the pack on the table. ‘Better move on to something else.’

Bewildered, he put a light to her cigarette, and finally settled back. ‘All right, something else. Your husband’s personality, as you see it.’

‘You mean, like his moods and so forth?’

‘His temperament, his humour, whatever comes to mind.’

She exhaled a stream of smoke. ‘Let me think -‘

She began to recall things about her husband. All of it was flattering, most of it puerile. Parker half listened. The tape spun on.

Dull stuff, he thought. She was usually brighter, more insightful than this. She talked for ten minutes, while he waited patiently for a cue that he could pick up to lead her back to where she had side-tracked him.

‘That’s interesting,’ Parker interrupted, ‘about the President’s being such a movie fan. He used to hang out with some of the movie crowd, didn’t he?’

‘A few were his friends.’

‘I believe he was even dating an actress, a movie star, when he met you and began going out with you - and then, if I remember, he took you to a party, and the star was there, and the two of you met —’

‘Not so, Guy. He had been going with this movie star, but she and I — no, we never met.’

‘I thought I’d heard -‘

‘No matter what you heard, we never met.’ The First Lady wriggled free of the easy chair and came to her feet. She stretched. ‘Enough talking for now,’ she said. She indicated the bedroom with its two single beds. ‘I’m going to lie down for a while. We’d all better be rested for London. Thanks, Guy.’

Dismissed, he quickly shut off his tape recorder, picked it up, and made for the door.

‘I’ll try to find some time for us in London,’ she called after him.

‘I’d appreciate that.’

Outside the presidential suite, Parker moved from the forward part of the plane, past the next compartment where the four Secret Service agents, the four Air Force security guards, and the Navy nurse were seated, into the roomy compartment which was reserved for the White House staff. Across from the Xerox machine, Parker saw that one of the two electric typewriters was not in use. He considered using it to make some notes, then decided against it. He wasn’t in. the mood. He had too much on his mind.

He glanced about the compartment. Most of the oversized seats were occupied by staff members either dozing or reading. The chairs faced each other, separated by tables, and in one pair sat presidential adviser Wayne Gibbs and protocol chief Fred Willis engrossed in a game of gin rummy. Just beyond them sat Nora Judson, busily making notes on a pad at her table. The chair opposite her was empty. Parker thought of taking it. He had to unburden himself to someone from the East Wing. Perhaps Nora wasn’t the best choice, the way she seemed to avoid him and be uncommunicative in his presence, but there was no other choice. Besides, he liked to look at her bosom.

Parker took the chair across from Nora. She did not raise her head. She kept on writing.

‘Mind if I smoke?’ he asked.

‘It’s a free country,’ she said, continuing to scribble away.

He pulled his crusted brown pipe out of his pocket, filled it with tobacco, and applied a light with a match from the book of matches bearing the presidential seal on one side and imprinted Air Force One on the other. He sat listening to the hum of the plane’s turbofans, reviewing his meeting with Billie, and in doing so he could feel his face set in a frown.

He considered opening up a conversation with the beautiful icicle across from him, and had just reconsidered and decided against it, when she looked up at him.

‘What’s got into you?’ she said. ‘You don’t look too happy. Anything wrong?’

Her interest encouraged him. ‘I’m confused,’ he said. ‘Your Billie is very confusing.’

Nora threw down her pencil and sat back, fingertips touching. ‘Now what?’

‘I just had a session with her. I wanted to go into her personal life with the President. You would have thought I insulted her. She wouldn’t discuss it. Not a word. Not a thing. Yet — listen to this, Nora — when we started our talks two months ago, one of the first things she told me was that she would discuss her private life with the President freely with me, providing she could see it later. She promised she’d go as far as possible to spice up the book, try to make them both look human. That was two months ago. Now, a half-hour ago, she says no soap, she’d never dream of discussing their personal life. She tells me I should have known that all along.’ He removed the pipe from his mouth. ‘Don’t you find that pretty odd?’

Nora gave a small shrug of her shoulders. ‘What’s so odd? In two months she could have changed her mind.’

‘But so completely? And acting like we’d never discussed it before? I don’t get it.’ Since he had Nora’s ear, he made up his mind to go on. He pressed against the table. ‘Another thing. Maybe you can explain this one. Early on, when we first started our talks and were skipping around from this to that, I told Billie I’d read somewhere in my research that when Andrew Bradford met her, he was going out pretty steady with a famous movie actress. He started dating Billie, too. He escorted Billie to a dinner party and they bumped into the actress. A sticky moment. I asked Billie whether it was true, and, if it was, would she talk about things like that. I remember how she reacted. She laughed and said yes, it had happened, and it was a funny thing and she’d tell me about it when we got to it in the book. So okay, just now in the presidential suite, when it seemed appropriate, I brought

up the whole incident, and she went cold on me. She insisted that she had never run into that actress at a party, had never met the actress at all, and just shut me off.’ He put a light to his pipe. ‘I tell you, Nora, I don’t know what to make of it, such a blatant contradiction.’

Nora eyed him curiously. ‘Do you have those so-called contradictory statements by her on tape?’

‘Not exactly. This one I have.’ He rapped his tape recorder. ‘But not the first one. We weren’t taping things in the beginning. Just talked away, feeling each other out.’ ‘I see. So you’re simply trusting your memory.’ This annoyed him. ‘I’m hardly senile, Nora.’ ‘No, but you’re human. We all get mixed up sometimes.’ ‘I’m not mixed up. She contradicted herself badly. And while we’re at it, let me tell you something else. Ever since she got back from Moscow, she’s like another person, as far as I’m concerned. Our sessions used to be a pleasure. She was funny, lively, clever. Now — now she’s simply dull — just blah. You wouldn’t know it was the same person. I mean, there was one Billie I got to know. Then off she goes to Moscow for a few days, and now she seems a different Billie.’ ‘Oh, she’s just worn out, that’s all. Look the way the President has been running her around. She’s whipped.’

Parker started shaking his head. ‘No, it’s more than that, Nora. It’s as if she was brainwashed while she was in Moscow. I could give you at least a half-dozen other examples of her odd behaviour recently -‘

Nora cut in on him. ‘Don’t bother Guy. I don’t want to hear any more, because it’s utter nonsense. I like you, Guy, in many ways, but when you become suspicious, fanciful, obsessive, it can be tiresome. I suggest you jettison that hugger-mugger stuff before we land in London. Stick to reality and to your job, and save the rest of your imaginings for a novel. I promise you I’ll buy the novel. But I won’t buy this. Now excuse me, I’ve got to go to the bathroom.’

This was the evening of their official welcome to England, the reception and dinner hosted by Prime Minister Dudley

Heaton and his wife Penelope for Premier Dmitri Kirechenko of the USSR and President Andrew Bradford of the USA and their wives.

This would have also been one of the most exciting evenings in her life, Vera thought, if she weren’t so deeply worried. The knowledge that three nights from now she would be having sexual intercourse — or whatever he expected — with the President haunted Vera. Unless she heard from her KGB contacts in the next seventy-two hours, she would be in serious trouble. Fear of the unknown gnawed at Vera, and destroyed any prospect of pleasure.

When they had touched down at Northolt Airport last night, she should have been brimming with anticipation. She had never been to London, as Billie Bradford had, but Alex had thoroughly prepared her for what to expect. It was an experience she had looked forward to throughout her training period. But, despite all the pomp and ceremony in the floodlighted area at the air terminal, apprehension tagged along at her heels.

Ensconced in one of a fleet of gleaming Rolls-Royces, she tried to appear excited and curious the entire fifteen miles to London’s West End, but inside she brooded. When her Rolls entered Brook Street, and pulled up before the revolving door of the reserved and majestic Claridge’s Hotel, she made an effort at showing interest. In the richly carpeted lobby, surrounded by Secret Service men and British security officers, she had no more than a glimpse of the ground floor. To her left a small porter’s desk and beyond it some sort of key counter, across from the porter’s desk a single elegant elevator, straight ahead a broad lounge with a costumed orchestra and people drinking and waiters in knee breeches, and to her right the lobby sitting area next to a wide sweeping staircase.

The hotel manager, in tails, had guided the President and his wife from the ground floor up the carpeted stairs to the first floor. He directed them to the immediate left. ‘Of course, you have the Royal Suite,’ he had informed the President.

In the entry hall of the corner suite, the manager had been

eager to show her about their quarters. Tired as she was, Vera followed him. The entry hall led to the dining room, straight ahead, and to the living room to the right. They went into the dining room. The manager tapped the oval table. ‘Regency,’ he said. ‘There are eight chairs. You may have more if you desire.’ He indicated the brown double doors with gilt doorknobs behind him. ‘These lead to a rather large adjoining suite of three bedrooms and two sitting rooms. We converted it into offices before your arrival, Mr President. When you have time to inspect it, you will find a small vestibule that leads into a sitting room which we have divided into a series of small offices, including one for your personal secretary. This leads into another sitting room which has been designated as your private office. The bedrooms in the suite, of course, have also been made into offices. Now, if you’ll follow me, I’ll show you your personal quarters.’

An opposite set of double doors, standing open, gave them access to the sitting room of the Royal Suite. It was magnificent, Vera could see. At her feet, soothing green carpeting. Above, a Wedgwood white ceiling with a single chandelier. She scanned the room. Armchairs, one red, one green. A curved green sofa, shielding an old, light brown grand piano, ‘once owned by D’Oyly Carte, producer for Gilbert and Sullivan as well as chairman of our Savoy Group’, the manager had explained. Floor-length windows would brighten the area in daytime. Vera’s eyes continued to roam across the flower-filled room, held on a Victorian desk holding two telephones, moved to a white fireplace topped by a mirror. The manager was opening a brown door next to the fireplace. ‘If you please, the bedroom.’

Vera preceded the President with trepidation. Two twin beds nestled side by side, each with its bedstand and lamp, one stand holding two grey telephones, the other a single phone. The footboards of the bed were one. The bedroom was pleasant, green shell-decorated ceiling and walls. A love seat. A gracious dressing table with two white lamps and a triple mirror. On the table rested a tray holding a bucket of

ice and champagne and glasses. The President tested a bed and approved. Vera tried to smile.

Ahead, the bathroom, huge by any standard. All marble and more marble. In an alcove a bidet across from the toilet. In an opposite alcove, a graceful bathtub with inlaid trim. In between, a double sink. Tiberius would have been at home here, Vera decided.

‘I hope everything is to your satisfaction,’ the manager had said, ready to take his leave.

‘Beautiful,’ Vera had replied. ‘Thank you.’

She had meant it, but the beauty did not alleviate the uneasiness that adhered to her.

The manager’s parting words had been to the President. ‘I remind you, your party will be occupying the rest of the first floor.’

After that, the President had wanted to see his personal office, and then left Vera to inspect the entire first floor, to make certain everything had been properly arranged and that the members of his staff were well situated. By midnight, with Sarah’s help, Vera had unpacked, and shortly after finishing she and the President had gone to sleep, she restlessly. That had been yesterday.

Most of this day, while the President stayed behind to confer with his advisers, Vera had devoted to a scheduled sightseeing tour of London conducted by their British hosts. A great deal of it - the British Museum, Westminster Abbey, a brief pause outside the Dorchester Hotel (where the Soviet delegation was housed), the Tower of London - was supposed to be familiar to Billie Bradford from her visit here as a student, and stay here as a public relations representative. Vera had been forced to pretend nostalgia. But it had been all new to her and had diverted the dark thoughts in her mind.

As Sarah had helped her dress in their Claridge’s bedroom for the formal dinner, Vera kept visualizing the cosy twin beds as her Waterloo, and her moodiness returned. Soon, in the official Humber, seated between the President and the secretary of state for foreign and commonwealth affairs, the

dapper, prattling, Right Honourable Ian Enslow, she had tried to be attentive to the historic sights Enslow was pointing out and explaining to them.