(1980) The Second Lady (3 page)

United States was still the best one conceived by the minds of men and the best one around anywhere. This conclusion was neither juvenile nor seen through red, white and blue filters. It was pragmatic. It was mature. If people were meant to live together in a society, this system was the best one to live under. The trouble was that the fat, sluggish giant was so flawed, and no outsider could do anything about improving it except by voting, which in itself offered few choices. But here, in Los Angeles, he had been give a rare opportunity to cease being a helpless outsider and step inside closer, much closer, to the main machinery.

Without giving it so much as a second thought, Parker quit the Associated Press and became a full-time political writer.

Preparing the book, he had met Andrew Bradford three times, once for dinner with his wife, twice for superficial research interviews. The book itself was more or less a pasteup job. He liked Bradford immediately, a man just under his own height, sturdier built, graceful. Bradford was forty-eight years old. He possessed a finely chiselled, handsome face, sincere, serious, attentive, direct. A fleck of greying at the temples, horn-rimmed spectacles, a clipped manner of speaking, all enhanced his authority. He also had a brain devoid of clicheing and stereotyping, quick, original, much superior to what one would expect from a politician.

Parker finished the book on time. It sold well at party rallies and banquets, and the paperback edition exceeded projected sales among curious independents. Parker’s stock was fairly high. He was no longer a party drone. He had some visibility. Wayne Gibbs kept him attached to the election committee to lend a hand in preparing press releases.

The election came and went. After a nip and tuck beginning, the major polls had given Bradford a 6 per cent lead over his Republican opponent. Bradford won by 7 per cent. As President-elect, and before the inauguration, Bradford began to assemble his permanent staff. He remembered Guy Parker and the book. From San Francisco, he sent for Parker, just to be sure he was thinking of the right man. Before their

interview was over, he hired Parker, and two months later installed him in the West Wing of the White House as one of three speech writers.

That had been two-and-a-half years ago. Parker enjoyed his role. He was in the centre of the action, an invisible man behind the movers and shakers, but he was there. Then, overnight, he wasn’t there. Several prestigious New York book publishers, who were also party regulars, had suggested to the President that an autobiography by his wife might find a wide audience and enhance his own image as he headed toward reelection year. Billie Bradford had proved to be a colourful and enchanting First Lady. Somewhat reluctantly, a little embarrassed - she was only thirty-six years old - she consented to undertake the autobiography, on one condition. She wanted Guy Parker to work on it with her. At first Parker had resisted. He had regarded it as a demotion. To move from hard policy-making speeches for the leader of the free world to a frivolous, gossipy, tea-room confessional seemed a letdown. What convinced Parker that it was a good move was the half-million dollar share of the advance that would be his - and Billie Bradford herself. She was anything but frivolous, he learned fast. She was as serious as her husband, brighter perhaps, and never dull. She was a joy to be with. He respected her, adored her, and finally made the move from the West Wing to the East Wing with minimal resistance.

And there had been a bonus. Parker was placed in an office next to Nora Judson’s office suite. She was the First Lady’s press secretary who also had a hand in her social life and public appearances. To be able to undertake so many lobs, and do them well, was a measure of the young woman’s energy and gifts. Parker guessed that she was about twenty-nine. He would have liked to regard her as a sex object. From her glossy dark hair, green eyes, pert nose, generous lips, to her bountiful breasts and shapely legs, she was a delight to the male eye. But the intellect was formidable. One rarely finished a sentence with her before she had concluded the task. She did things two at a time, to perfection. She

could go from a press briefing to a hospital dedication to a state dinner without a fumble and without complaint. The problem had been her remoteness. She was always busy, or made herself busy, and she was otherwise a private person and preferred life that way. Parker had hinted at drinks or dinner together. She had ignored him. In five months he had not been able to penetrate the wall that separated their offices and persons. She had been correct. She had been pleasant. She had remained aloof. It was maddening, but her existence and nearness had been the bonus.

Parker had been busy, too. Laying the groundwork for the First Lady’s much-touted autobiography had been a ten-hour-a-day occupation. The beginning of the assignment had been collecting material to read. He had located and read everything that had ever appeared in print on Billie Bradford. He had gone through a mountain range of newspaper and magazine clippings, making countless pages of notes. Then he had begun to travel outside of Washington, meeting and interviewing her relatives, friends, private school and college instructors, and classmates. He had even flown to California to spend two days with her father Clarence Lane, her sister Kit, her brother-in-law Norris Weinstein, and a nephew named Richie.

At last, lately, with hundreds of questions to ask, he had got to the flesh of the book. He had begun to interview Billie Bradford herself. She had set up a daily routine. One hour, usually every afternoon, to reply to his questions into his tape recorder. He had found her professional, forthright, fun, and the work wasn’t work at all, except as he made it so in his absolute obsessive need for detail.

And here he was, this steaming afternoon in late August, heading for another interview session with - but no, not another today. He remembered. Billie Bradford had just cancelled today’s session. She was too busy. This confused him, this cancellation, only the second one since they had begun. Yet Nora had made it clear the First Lady wanted to see him as soon as possible about something else. He wondered what else it could be.

He had come out of Lafayette Park, crossed Pennsylvania Avenue, approached the guard house, routinely flipped open his wallet to display his White House identification card. He passed through, went up the curving driveway to the North Portico entrance. He reached the red-carpeted main stairway, and with a nod to the portrait of Herbert Hoover on trie landing, continued up the steps two at a time, past the portraits of Woodrow Wilson and Franklin D. Roosevelt. At the top, he was greeted by the person of Nora Judson.

‘Did I make it in fifteen minutes?’ asked Parker, winded. ‘I hurried. I knew you couldn’t wait to set eyes on me.’

‘I was eaten up by worry,’ said Nora. ‘I was afraid you’d been hit by a truck — or your big ego.’

‘What ego? It always shrivels in m’lady’s presence.’

‘We’ll talk about that some other time.’

‘Can we make a date?’

‘No,’ she said briskly, leading him toward the Yellow Oval Room. ‘Anyway, you’re right on time. Her press conference wound up ten minutes ago. The print media people have already gone. The television people are about through packing up.’

‘She really couldn’t keep our date?’

‘She already had a tight schedule, what with leaving for Moscow tomorrow afternoon. Then Ladbury arrived from London - he was supposed to have been here yesterday -and insisted on being worked in for a last fitting before the London Summit next week. So I had to shift everything around. She still has the layout for House Beautiful to do. We couldn’t postpone it again. She has to accompany the new French ambassador on his tour of the National Gallery. After that, Fred Willis insists on seeing her personally for a protocol briefing on the Moscow visit. Then she has packing to do. She won’t let Sarah do it alone.’

‘What does she want to see me about?’ Parker asked.

‘I have no idea,’ said Nora. ‘She wanted five minutes with you after the press conference and before the fitting. Here we are.’

They had arrived at the entrance to the Yellow Oval

Room, then stood aside as three members of a network television crew emerged carrying their equipment. When they had gone, Nora started inside, followed by Parker.

There was no one in the room except Billie Bradford. Her back was to them, her blonde hair down to her shoulders, as she reached for an arm of the sofa and slumped into it. Kicking off her shoes, she saw them.

‘Oh, Nora, I wondered where you were. Hello, Guy —’ She patted the sofa next to her. ‘Here.’

Parker advanced and dutifully sat down. ‘Hello, Mrs Bradford -‘

‘Guy, please,’ she interrupted, making a face. ‘For the tenth time, will you stop Mrs Bradfording me? I mean it. Here I am, seeing you every day on intimate terms, practically disrobing in front of you, baring psyche and soul, letting you see every skeleton in every closet - and you’re still being formal. Let’s change that right now, especially considering what I have to tell you. From this moment on, it’s good-bye Mrs Bradford, hello Billie.’

She offered him her cheek. ‘Seal it’, she said.

He leaned over and awkwardly kissed her cheek. ‘Hello, Billie,’ he said.

She addressed Nora Judson, seated across from them.

‘How did it go, Nora? How was it, the press conference?’

‘You were wonderful, frank and open, no equivocating. They simply loved you.’

‘I hope so. For Andrew’s sake. I suppose I should do it more often.’

‘You really should,’ said Nora.

Billie turned toward Parker. ‘I’m sorry about skipping today’s exciting episode in the life and times of a First Lady. Where did we leave our heroine? Tied to a railroad track?’

‘No, Pearl White, not quite,’ Parker said with a grin. ‘At the end of yesterday’s session, you were in your third year of college and leaving for a school-sponsored literary tour of England.’

Billie’s face suddenly fell. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That was the

trip when I met Janet Farleigh. You’ve come across her name in your research’

‘Yes, of course. The English children’s novelist. She’s one of your best friends, according to what I read.’

‘She was,’ said Billie sadly. ‘She died last night. Cancer. And I never knew. The British ambassador sent over a hand-delivered note this morning, informing me. The ambassador was one of the few who knew how close we were. It was quite a jolt, I tell you.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Parker.

‘I met Janet Farleigh on that student trip. I stayed with her. She’was my hostess in London. She was ten years older than me, but we became the closest of friends. I hadn’t seen her in some time. This White House stuff gets in the way of everything. I hoped to see her in London next week, but now — well, I will call on her husband and son.’

Nora was tapping the crystal of her wristwatch. ‘Billie, I bate to bring it up, but we’re running short.’

Billie aroused herself. ‘Very well. I hadn’t thought of it all day, running around like this.’ She smiled at Parker. ‘What were we talking about before, when you came in? Yes. About skipping today’s session. I’m going to make it up to you.

That’s really why I wanted to see you.’

Guy Parker waited.

After a beat, Billie Bradford resumed more cheerfully. ‘Tomorrow afternoon we’re taking Air Force One to Moscow. It could be a long, dull flight. I have the choice of rereading Tolstoi all the way or talking about myself. It’s Anna Kar-enina those eight hours or Billie Bradford. No contest. I won. On the flight, I want to talk about myself to you. In other lords, Guy, I’m inviting you to come along on Air Force One to Moscow. We can talk all the way there and back. Have you ever been to Moscow?’

Parker was flabbergasted. ‘Why, no, but - well, thank you but this is kind of sudden - I mean, I’d need time to get ready — get a passport —’

‘Guy, really,’ she chided him. ‘What’s the big deal? I know vour background - Vietnam intelligence, detectiving — all

that — you must be used to quick changes, moves. As to your diplomatic passport, we’ll take care of that. Just pack up and let’s go. You’ll be occupied the entire trip. When I’m not keeping you company, Nora will. How’s that?’

Parker glanced at Nora. ‘That’s fine Mrs - Billie,’ he said. ‘I’d better scramble and get my rucksack together.’

As he came to his feet, Billie said, ‘Nora will give you details on takeoff time, and so forth. See you tomorrow.’

There had been a knocking on the door, and Nora moved quickly to open it. The chief usher took a half-step in. ‘Mr Ladbury and Miss Quarles have arrived,’ he announced.

Parker had just come up beside Nora, when the pair whirled into the room. Each was carrying an armload of clothes boxes. Hardly acknowledging the presence of Nora, ignoring Parker, Ladbury flitted straight for the First Lady, with Rowena Quarles at his heels. Parker had only a glimpse of them in their passage. Ladbury appeared a resurrected Aubrey Beardsley, straw-coloured fringe, hawkish nose, pale pinched features, lithe, slender, young, greeting Billie with a high-pitched, ‘Darling! Countless goodies for you!’ Behind him was the Quarles woman, his assistant apparently, definitely dyke, mean plump face, short and square body, tweeds (in this weather!).

Nora had Parker in the corridor and guided him toward the stairway. He gestured behind them, ‘How come she’s using a British couturier?’

‘Oh, Billie knew him and liked him before she ever came to the White House. But once she was First Lady, it was political to Buy American, so she shifted to several New York designers. Actually, taking Ladbury on again was Fred Willis’s idea. He thought the British would appreciate such a gesture for her London visit. Naturally, her Manhattan designers howled their protest, but Billie stuck to Ladbury for this time out.’ As they neared the stairway, Nora added, ‘I’ll have your schedule, passport, everything in your hands by dinnertime.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You should be happy about the trip. Nice of her. She

won’t sleep much, so you’ll get a chance to talk to her most of the way to Moscow.’

‘And to you,’ Parker said.