Long Live the Queen (33 page)

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Authors: Ellen Emerson White

BOOK: Long Live the Queen
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Finally, Meg broke the silence. “Well.”
“Yeah.” Beth stood up. “Let's go watch a movie.”
She hadn't attempted to sit through anything with
any
kind of violence so far. No matter how minor. “Want to watch some
Buffy
?”
“Do you?” Beth asked.
“Yeah,” Meg said. “Let's give it a try.”
 
AFTER BETH WAS gone, the house seemed extremely quiet. Much more so than usual. They had watched three
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
episodes the night before, and after Beth left that morning, Meg spent the afternoon and evening watching more episodes—all from the second and third seasons, sometimes alone, sometimes not.
At about eleven, her mother came in, looking very tired.
“Working all this time?” Meg asked—since she had only been with them briefly at dinner, before hurrying back downstairs.
Her mother studied her before answering. “Things are busy.”
Especially since the President hadn't exactly been working at full capacity recently.
“Did Beth get home all right?” her mother asked.
Meg nodded.
“It was good to have her here,” her mother said.
Christ, yeah. Meg nodded again.
“Well.” Her mother poured some fresh ice water into the glass on the bedside table. “Is there anything you—?”
“Thank you for calling her,” Meg said. “I guess I
did
need to see her.”
Despite the fact that she was a politician and spent most of her life putting on smiles, her mother's
happy
smile was always a special surprise. “I'm glad you feel better.”
“Yeah,” Meg said. “I think I do.”
Her mother's smile was more like a
beam
. “I'm glad.”
Since the water was right there, handy, Meg drank some, and after checking the clock, took a pain pill, too. “How's, um, everything going?” she asked. “With the country and all.”
Her mother shrugged. “It looks like they're holding their own.”
Which was probably about all a President could expect, most of the time. “Well, that's good. I mean—” Meg patted Vanessa,
who was curled up next to her bad leg. “I like knowing who's in charge. It makes me feel—safe.”
“I
do
think we're much safer now,” her mother said. “They're working very hard.”
Yeah. The Secret Service seemed to be nothing, if not driven in its current efforts to protect all of them. “Beth and I were talking about, you know, rising above,” she said.
Her mother's nod was cautious.
“Like, that I've got to do something, and not just—I don't know.” Meg tried to think of the right word. “
Languish
.” Close enough.
Her mother sat down in the rocking chair, looking very attentive.
“I want to try and go away to school in January. Give them time to get things set up, and for me to—” She gestured towards her knee and hand.
“Okay,” her mother said, her voice less than enthusiastic.
“I
want
to,” Meg said. “I want to be normal.”
Her mother nodded. “And I
want
you to be.”
“Are Steven and Neal going to be able to do all their normal stuff again, too?” Meg asked.
“Your father and I have been spending a lot of time meeting with Thomas and his people, and planning how they're going to handle all of this,” her mother said. Thomas was Mr. Gabler, the head of the PPD.
“Think he can arrange for some security at GW?” Meg asked. “So I can take a couple of classes this fall, maybe?”
“Another decision,” her mother said.
“Yeah,” Meg said, her voice purposely calm. Confident. More so than she felt—but, that was something she could keep to herself. “I don't want to get too far behind.” Of course, there was also the little problem of her not being registered there. “Can you arrange to have them
admit
me, too?”
Her mother smiled. “Maybe I can pull a couple of strings.”
Just maybe. Meg took a deep breath. “One more thing. I want—”
Did
she? “I think I want to have a press conference.”
Her mother looked surprised. “You
do
?”
“Yeah,” Meg said. “Try to get the story—or, you know,
a
story—out there, so after that, maybe they'll leave me the hell alone.”
Her mother moved her jaw, considering that. “The idea has merit.”
Meg nodded. “Yeah. I mean, I know they'll keep bugging me, but if I answer everything
once,
I don't have to again, if I don't want to.” Ever.
“It makes sense,” her mother said. “Your father and I can—”
“How about just Preston?” Meg said. “You know, so I can do it by myself.”
“Okay.” Her mother smiled. “Sure.”
“Thanks,” Meg said. And, hey, while her mother was in such a generous mood—“Can I have a car, too?” So what if she didn't drive. “And an apartment in New York, and—”
“How about apartments in Paris and London, too?” her mother said. “And—I don't know—maybe your own movie studio, while we're at it.”
“Thanks.” Meg grinned. “I'll let you know if there's anything else.”
“You do that,” her mother said.
PRESTON PROMISED TO set up the press conference for Tuesday morning, and most of the television news outlets were planning to carry it live.
Live
. Jesus. She hadn't thought that the whole thing would get so major, but when she called Beth to get her opinion, Beth said that she should go for it. Take a trip to the Cosmetology Room right before going on the air, even.
Josh came over on Monday afternoon—it was raining, so she knew he wouldn't be working—and helped her pick out an outfit. Actually, he didn't help much at all, saying things like, “
That's
pretty,” and “Yeah, that's pretty, too.” Preston made the final decision, choosing a dress that he thought would look especially nice against the background in the Briefing Room. And, he assured her, with a splash of color at her neck, she would “knock 'em silly.”
That night, Meg watched part of the Red Sox game in the solarium with her father and brothers, but started feeling so nervous that she excused herself and went to her room to rest. Her father came down after her, tucking her in, bringing her a Coke, and being generally supportive.
“Big day tomorrow,” he said.
Meg nodded, sipping Coke.
“Sure you don't want your mother and me in there with you?” he asked.
She nodded. “I want to do it myself.”
“Okay,” he said, and patted her shoulder. “But, don't be afraid to change your mind—even once it starts.”
“What,” she said, “get up in the middle of it?”
He shook his head. “We could have a code word.”
Which struck her funny. “What,” she grinned, “say, ‘Gosh, it's
hot
in here,' and you guys'll come running in?”
He nodded seriously. “Something like that, sure.”
The image was so funny—her parents bursting in—live—that it was hard not to laugh. “I think I'll pass, Dad,” she said.
“Well, as long as you know the option is always there,” he said.
She nodded, still wanting to laugh.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, and looked at her. “Been a pretty tough summer.”
God, yeah. “It's been a pretty tough
year
,” she said.
He nodded.
“Do you think things are going to be all right from now on?” she asked.
“It seems only fair,” he said.
Well, they were all certainly
due
for a good spell.
“I really am proud of you,” he said. “More than you'll ever know.”
“Uh, thank you,” Meg said, managing
not
to do her patented cough of embarrassment.
“If you want,” he said, “maybe tomorrow night, we can sit down and look over the GW catalog. See what sort of classes you might want to take.”
What a nice idea. She smiled at him. “I'd like that, Dad. I'd like that a lot.”
 
THE SWITCHBOARD WOKE her up early the next morning, and after she hung up, she lay in bed without moving, feeling very tired, and a little sick to her stomach. She had had a few nightmares—none, luckily, that woke her up screaming—and this press conference idea was beginning to seem like a big mistake.
However.
“What do you think?” she asked Vanessa, who yawned a big yawn—a
squeaky
yawn—and stretched.
Well,
that
was a clear “no comment,” if she'd ever heard one.
She sat up, stretching a little herself. Like the saying went, she was
already
on the damn merry-go-round, so she might as well try and enjoy the ride.
Then, she went into the bathroom and sat on her shower bench, doing her best to wash her hair, and shave her good leg, and all. Not that it would really matter—Preston was going to have a cloth-covered table set up so she could sit down the whole time, and her brace wouldn't show. She also had
no
intention of wearing her sling, or calling attention to her hand, in any way.
The dress was beautiful—a deep, rich red linen. A little Republican, but what the hell. The collar probably
would
look better with a scarf, but she was pretty sure she didn't have the nerve to wear one. Or the élan. Maybe she would just go the New England route, and settle for some discreet pearls. She
did
like her pearls, which she had gotten for her sixteenth birthday.
Finally dressed, and feeling very self-conscious, she crutched her way down to the Presidential Dining Room. The crutch, she suspected, spoiled the line of her dress, but there wasn't much she could do about that. She paused in the doorway, seeing her family and Trudy already in there—and they all looked up with the usual concern.
“Good morning, peasants,” she said, magnanimously.
That
got their attention. “Yes. It is I. The Queen.”
“You look beautiful,” her father said.
Well, she looked
presentable
, at least. And—she hoped—somewhat dignified.
“You change parties or something?” Steven asked, eating some toast.
How nice to share a sense of humor with someone. “Yes,” she
said. “In fact, I'll be announcing my candidacy today.” She crutched—clumsily—into the room and sat down. “No, it's okay,” she said, as Trudy started to get up. “I'm just going to have some cereal.”
Neal came over with a box of Captain Crunch.
“Well, thank you, youngster,” she said. “Will you pour it for me, please?”
He did, uncertainly.
“Thank you.” She handed him her napkin ring. “Here's a prize.” Her stomach felt much too uncertain for her to try eating anything, but she nodded as Trudy poured her a glass of orange juice. “Thank you.”
“Would you like some toast?” her mother asked. “An English muffin?”
“What I
really
want is some clotted cream.” She picked up her spoon, then decided that she didn't have any appetite at all, and tried some juice, instead.
“Would you like a different kind of cereal?” Trudy asked.
Meg shook her head. “Actually, um, the Queen doesn't have much appetite.”
“That is so cool,” Steven said. “Talking in the third person and all.”
Meg grinned. “If you're lucky, maybe I'll teach you how.”
“
Ex
cellent,” he said, and bit into a Danish.
After finishing breakfast—well, half of her juice—she
did
make a little visit to the Cosmetology Room. Let them go crazy with mousse and such. When they were finished—television makeup tricks galore—she thanked them, and pretended to look in the mirror and admire their work. Actually, though, she would much rather
not
know how she looked.
It was getting late—the press conference was supposed to start at eleven—and Preston was out in the Center Hall, waiting for her. When he saw her, he pretended to faint.
“Is that good or bad?” she asked.
“It's
very
good.” He brought over her wheelchair. “Come on, I'll give you a lift down there.”
“I'm going to
walk
in,” she said.
He nodded, and she sat down, holding her crutch across her lap.
Her family was in the West Sitting Hall; her parents looking tense, Neal curious, Steven bored.
“Aren't you supposed to be working?” Meg asked her mother.
“Later,” her mother said.
Meg put on a very stern frown. “Well—
all right
.”
“Break a leg,” her father said, then winced.
Meg, however, was amused. “Wouldn't
that
be a disaster.” Then, she looked at her family, feeling sort of like she was going on a very long—and difficult—journey. “Well. See you later.”
Steven looked up from patting Kirby. “Yo, we'll watch the Cubs game this afternoon.”
“Sounds good,” Meg said.
When she and Preston were in the elevator, she let out her breath. “Think my parents are really going to stay up there?”
He grinned. “Maybe.”
“No one'll know they came downstairs, though, right?” she asked.
He shook his head.
Good. She looked at him for a minute. “You
don't
remind me of him.”
He smiled at her. “I'm glad.”
Feeling very nervous, she decided to check out his outfit. A slim-cut, chalk-striped dark grey suit, a light pink shirt with a matching pocket handkerchief, and his tie—silk-foulard—was
magenta
.
“I know,” he said, seeing her expression. “You think the tie's a little much.”
“Well, Jesus, Preston,” she said. “You don't want to be a
fop
.”
He laughed.
“I hope your socks aren't pink,” she said.
He lifted his pants leg and she saw that they were grey. And his shoes were conservative wingtips.
“Well,
good
,” she said.
They were downstairs now, a small squad of agents joining them as Preston pushed her wheelchair through the Ground Floor Corridor, towards the Palm Room, and out to the West Colonnade, heading for the Press Briefing Room.
She looked at the agents, trying to think of something pleasant to say. A way to break the tension. “What do you think,” she asked one of them, “is his tie over the top?”
The agent laughed, but didn't—she noticed—answer.
“That means yes,” she said to Preston.
As they headed down along the Colonnade, Meg started to find it hard to get her breath. There were people everywhere—mostly press and communications aides and assistants, and the best she could do was try to smile when they spoke to her.
Linda came out to meet them, looking intense—and anxious. As ever.
“Good,” she said, sounding unreasonably relieved. “You're here. Are you all set?” she asked, turning away before Meg had a chance to answer. “Good. Good luck. I'll go open it up, Preston.” She disappeared into the Briefing Room.
Preston grinned, resting his hands on her shoulders. “You're going to knock them silly, Meg.”
She swallowed, regretting ever getting into this. She had practically never even
been
in the Briefing Room before, let alone up in front of everybody. “How many people are going to be in there?”
“Not as many as it'll look like,” he said.
Meaning
a lot
. The entire White House press corps, she assumed. “An FBI guy'll be there, right?” she asked. “In case there's something I'm not supposed to answer?”
Preston nodded.
She wanted to reach up and move some hair over the scar on her forehead—but she didn't want to screw up the make-up or anything. “Are you ever nervous before you go in there?”
“Almost always,” he said. “But, you
look
beautiful.”
The sounds of conversation in the room had abruptly ceased, indicating that Linda was behind the podium, speaking to the press. It seemed much brighter, too, which meant that the television cameras were rolling, their lights on.
Oh, boy.
Preston smiled at her, a nice, encouraging smile. “Ready to go?”
Meg took a deep breath, and lifted herself up onto her crutch. “Yeah,” she said. “I'm ready to go.”

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