(1980) The Second Lady (26 page)

they’ve heard since, they believe you were lying about your husband.’

‘Ridiculous!’ Billie exploded. ‘What other sources? Who else on earth could know how my husband behaves with me in privacy? Who, else could contradict me? Other sources? Whatever does that mean?’

‘I can’t say, because I don’t know. It’s not my business to know how the KGB operates.’

Billie’s mind was still on the KGB’s possible other sources. ‘There is just no one they could have gone to,’ she said, more to herself than to Razin. ‘Unless they found some woman Andrew made love to before he met me. Or they think they’ve found someone he is making love to while married to me, some woman on the side. I doubt that. Or maybe it’s true. I don’t know. But supposing there were such a woman? He might behave differently with another woman than with me. It would tell them nothing about us.’ She became conscious of Razin. ‘Don’t you agree? They are absolute fools.’

Razin threw up his hands. ‘What can I say? I can only pass on to you, without their knowledge, that they believe you are lying, that you were untrustworthy in this matter — and therefore you may be untrustworthy in other matters. They met on this today. I heard about the meeting afterward. I made up my mind to prepare you. Billie, I care enough for you to tell you as much us I have. I must give you warning. In order to make you change your attitude, to make you truthful, they may be planning to punish you.’

‘Punish me?’ Billie said with disbelief.

‘They can be ruthless.’

‘Can you explain that?’

‘I know of other cases. Suspects are tied up, interrogated endlessly. If they refuse to speak, they are kept without food and water. If they continue to resist, they are tortured. I am sorry to tell you these things, but -‘

‘Tortured? Despite who I am?’

‘No matter who you are. They can pull out your fingernails, burn your body, beat you, whip you, break your bones, defile and brutalize you. There is no limit. They are capable

of anything, to teach their prisoner a lesson, to make their prisoner be truthful next time.’

Billie was aghast. ‘They’d do this to me?’

‘They might.’

‘Alex, what can I do?’

Her question hung in the air, as he rose and walked to the radio. He turned it on to the music station, dialled the volume higher, and went back to her side.

‘What can you do?’ he repeated. ‘There is not a thing you can do — except, perhaps, trust me. I won’t have you tortured. I care for you too much. We are, in a way, fellow Americans.’

‘Oh, Alex, you won’t be sorry if you help me.’

‘I’ve decided to take the chance. I am going to help you escape.’

She was overwhelmed with emotion. Spontaneously, she hugged him, kissed his cheek, thanked him. Embarrassed, Razin pushed her away.

‘You must realize the risk — for both of us,’ he said gravely. ‘If we are caught, and I am implicated, I will be dead — and you, you will wish you were dead.’

‘For myself, I don’t care,’ she said without hesitation. ‘It’s only you I’d —’

‘Never mind about me. It is you I am concerned about.’ He paused. ‘Are you ready to take the risk?’

‘I am, I am.’

‘Very well.’ He stood up. ‘I have a plan. I have thought it out.’

‘For when?’ she asked, rising.

‘Tomorrow. Get plenty of rest. Wear your drabbest clothes and flat-heeled shoes. Be prepared tomorrow at this time. I will see you then.’

He started to leave. As he reached the door, she hastened after him. She took him by the shoulders, looked him squarely in the eye.

‘Alex, why are you doing this?’

He met her gaze. ‘Because I love you,’ he said, and with that he was gone.

The press conference for the British print media was being held in the drawing room of Claridge’s ballroom off the hotel lobby. Nora Judson had invited twenty-four of the best-known and most influential British editors, feature writers, reporters in London, and none had declined. They were seated in the lyre-back chairs, writing pads on their knees, with Billie Bradford on a flower-bedecked platform facing them. Somewhat behind Billie, also seated in a lyre-back chair, was Nora, smiling, nodding and making notes, actually grading the First Lady (on a scale of 1 to 10, with 10 being perfect) as she responded to each question.

This encounter with members of the British press, whom most foreign visitors found snippy and snide, had proved to be as warm as a love-in. For over two years, the British journalists had been enthusiastic about the American First Lady from afar, but now, confronting her charm in person, their enthusiasm had been transformed into sheer adoration.

The proceedings were forty-five minutes old and, according to Nora’s scoring system, Billie had earned a 9 or 10 for every answer she had given. From Billie’s opening remarks (graded a perfect 10), which had been gracious and winning - really excellent, Nora decided, even if she herself had written them - to Billie’s answer to the last question, things had never gone better.

Fortunately, Billie had been well briefed on the questions to expect, and every question up to this point had been anticipated. Nora flipped back through the pages of her notebook, reviewing some of those that had been posed. Had Mrs Bradford even been to London before? What had been her impressions the other times as contrasted with this visit? Did she play any role in the President’s decision-making? Had she enjoyed her reunion with the Soviet Premier’s wife? How did Mrs Bradford hope to spend her spare time in London? Would she be doing any sightseeing on her own? Would she be shopping? For what? Had all her new wardrobe been done by Ladbury? What would she be wearing for tomorrow’s reception at the Soviet embassy?

Nora beamed at Billie’s grades. Her extemporaneous replies had been smooth as silk, yet lively, colourful, anecdotal, modest. Wonderful, wonderful, and in short minutes it would be done with, and Billie would have carried the day.

Nora raised her head from her notebook in time to see a tall, round-shouldered man in a brown suit, rising to his feet in the second row and introducing himself. ‘- of the Observer,’ he was saying. ‘A personal question, if I may?’

‘Please,’ said Billie Bradford.

‘Since I know of your long friendship with her,’ said the Observer feature writer, ‘I’d like to know how you feel about Janet Farleigh?’

Nora’s head swung toward Billie. To her surprise, Billie was smiling, as she embarked on her answer.

‘I love her,’ Billie was saying. ‘I regard Janet Farleigh as I do members of my immediate family. As you remarked, ours is a long friendship. I met her on my first visit to London as a teenager. She was so kind to me, so wise. I was proud of Janet when she began writing her young adult novels and they caught on in the UK. I’ll never understand why they’ve remained virtually unknown in the United States. I hope to change that, if I can. Anyway, I can’t wait to see Janet Farleigh again. I hope to do so next week.’

Nora winced, and shut her eyes.

A ripple had gone through the press corps, followed by a low buzz of voices. Nora opened her eyes, and saw the journalists looking at one another in confusion.

A bosomy British lady in the back row had sprung up and introduced herself as the representative of the Tatler. She went on. ‘Mrs Bradford, I’m not sure we heard you correctly. You said that you hope to see Janet Farleigh next week. Surely, you heard that Mrs Farleigh died of cancer two weeks ago?’

A hush had fallen on the room. Every eye was on Billie Bradford. The smile had left had face, instantly supplanted by a mournful expression. Nora watched her intently. Not an eyelash flickered.

‘Forgive my unfortunate phrasing,’ said the First Lady coolly. ‘It is just that I can’t accept Janet’s passing. For me

she continues to live. Of course, I was one of the first to be informed by her family of her untimely death. When I told you I hoped to see her — I meant I hope to see her last resting place — her grave - next week.’

A caustic voice was heard from the press corps, ‘Don’t waste your time looking for her grave, Mrs Bradford. There is none. What’s left of her rests in an urn on the mantlepiece of the family flat in St James’s Place. She was cremated.’

‘Of course,’ said Billie firmly. ‘I was referring to that. I intend to pay a condolence call on the family next week. Any more questions?’

Listening, Nora was deeply shaken. She licked her lips and realized that her upper lip was damp. She searched her purse for a handkerchief, found one, dabbed at her upper lip. She stared down at her open notebook, quickly recorded the question on Janet Farleigh, and after a moment, marked Billie’s grade. The grade was 0.

As Nora heard Billie winding up her answer to the last question, she leaped to her feet.

‘Thank you, Mrs Bradford!’ Nora called out loudly. To the press, she added, ‘And thank you, one and all.’

As the journalists rose to leave, Nora grasped Billie by the arm and steered her toward the lobby. ‘I’ll be right with you. Let me get rid of them first.’

She waited until Billie had disappeared into the elevator, then stationed herself near the front door to say good-bye to many of the press members. In less than five minutes the drawing room had been emptied. Before shutting the door, Nora could overhear two of the male journalists, who had lagged behind the others, talking.

‘Awkward little moment there, near the end, wasn’t it?’ one said.

‘Strange,’ said the other. ‘Inexplicable.’

Nora pressed the door closed, and leaned back against it, trying to regain her equilibrium.

Inexplicable, she thought. Maybe, she thought.

Pulling herself together, she left the room, passed through

the lobby, hurried up the stairs, and entered the Royal Suite. She knocked on the bedroom door, and went inside.

Billie Bradford was seated before the mirror of her dressing table, fussing with her hair. She saw Nora materialize in the mirror, and spoke to her.

‘Well, what do you say? How did I do?’

‘You were never better,’ said Nora, enthusiastically. ‘Almost perfect.’

‘Almost. Yes, almost.’

‘No, really, you were on top of it, except for -‘

Billie held up the palm of her hand. ‘I know. The Janet Farleigh answer. My fault. I was inattentive. I let my mind wander. That’ll never happen again. But not entirely my fault. The bastard tried to throw me with his question.’

‘It was an innocent enough question, Billie.’

‘You’re being naive. None of their questions were innocent. They’re all bitches and bastards, the British press. The worst. I’ve heard about them. Don’t ever get me into this again, Nora. No more press conferences.’

‘No more, I promise,’ said Nora.

Nora stood by lamely, watching Billie apply fresh makeup. She was bewildered. She wanted to tell Billie that the British press members this afternoon had been anything but bitches and bastards. They had been kind and loving. But Nora held her tongue. Billie was clearly upset and in no mood to be contradicted. She had even, indirectly, tried to blame Nora for the press conference. It was so unlike Billie.

‘If you need me for anything —’ she began.

‘I don’t,’ said Billie. ‘You can go. One thing. You can cancel my meeting with Guy. I’ve done enough talking for one day. I intend to treat myself to some shopping. Tell the Secret Service I’ll be on my way to Harrod’s in a few minutes.’

Although dismissed, Nora could not help but stare at Billie’s face reflected in the mirror.

The face seemed hardened.

Billie looked in the mirror. ‘What are you staring at?’

Flustered, Nora said, ‘I — I was only admiring you.’

With that, she retreated and left.

In the corridor, she remembered to notify the Secret Service agent posted outside the door that Mrs Bradford would be out shortly to do some shopping. Then she walked slowly down the corridor, to the very end, to Guy Parker’s single room. Lost in thought, she rapped on his door.

After a few seconds, the door opened and Parker filled it. His hair was rumpled and wet, not yet combed, apparently after a shower. He was bare-chested, a towel thrown over his shoulders. His handsomeness was not unexpected. She had found him attractive from the day they had first met in the White House. It was the reason she had always tried to avoid him.

He pretended shock. ‘The elusive Miss Universe,’ he said.

‘With a message from Garcia,’ she said. ‘I’m to tell you the First Lady is cancelling you out for this afternoon. You’re on your own.’

‘How come?’

‘Well, therein lies a story. It can wait.’ About to turn away, she reconsidered. ‘Or maybe it shouldn’t. Hey, you want to earn some Brownie points? What about treating a colleague to a drink?’

‘You’ve got a deal.’

‘I’ll be waiting in the bar,’ she said.

‘Claridge.‘s has no bar. But they serve in the lounge off the lobby.’

‘Put on your shirt,’ she said. ‘I’ll be there.’

Fifteen minutes later, Nora was seated at a small table in a secluded corner of Claridge’s lounge, half listening to the Hungarian orchestra which had just begun to play, when Guy Parker arrived to join her. He was wearing a tie and striped shirt and a suit now — definitely attractive - and she realized how glad she was to see him.

She held up her empty glass. ‘Another — for a damsel in distress. Gin on the rocks. Make it a double.’

Parker beckoned the nearby uniformed waiter. ‘Gin on ice, double portion. Scotch, J & B, on ice, also double.’

He studied her. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Nora. What’s wrong?’

‘Who’s says anything wrong?’

‘You identified yourself as a damsel in distress.’

‘Figure of speech.’

He examined her face again. ‘Something’s going on. Upstairs, when you told me Billie was cancelling, you added that therein lies a story. You also told me the story could wait, but maybe it shouldn’t. What story, Nora?’

‘Let a girl have a drink first, will you?’ She indicated the waiter, with two glasses on a tray, advancing toward them. He served them and withdrew. Nora picked up her glass in two hands and gulped down the gin as though it were ninety degrees in the shade.

She set aside what was left of the gin, not much, she could see, and met Parker’s steady gaze.