event?”
“My turn to buy,” I said. I stood and picked up our cups. Then I heard a familiar voice coming through the PA system. I looked at the stage; then back at Keith. “What’s Sean Barton doing up there?”
“He appears to be introducing Ginny,” Keith said.
“When did he join your campaign?”
“Last night. Another sign that we’re going to win. When smart young lawyers sign on this close to E-Day, you suspect the breaks are coming your way.” Keith’s gaze was appraising. “I take it this will be news to your husband.”
“News, but not a surprise. Sean hasn’t been happy at Falconer Shreve lately, so he may be looking in another direction.”
“If he’s looking in our direction, I’d appreciate knowing if he comes with baggage.”
“No, I don’t think he does. He’s smart and he’s charming. Zack just thinks he doesn’t have the right feeling for the law. He says Sean is less concerned about people than he is about moving the pieces around so he can win.”
Keith raised an eyebrow. “If Sean wants a career in Ottawa, that won’t be a liability.”
I looked across the room at Ginny, surrounded by well-wishers pushing one another to get closer. I thought of the actress Elizabeth Taylor’s wry observation: “There’s no deodorant like success.” Seemingly, the peccadilloes that had so alarmed Ginny’s political base just days ago had become insignificant. “Keith, if Ginny wins Palliser again, what’s next for her?”
“She goes after the leadership.”
“Character will no longer be an issue?”
“It can be handled,” Keith said. “People’s memories are short, and Ginny does have custody of her daughters.”
“And you’d support her?”
Keith nodded. “It’s time for a woman prime minister – not just somebody dropped into the shark tank to finish out a term but a person who can really lead the country. Ginny has a vision of what Canada can be that’s genuinely compelling. All this talk about her private life has obscured it, but she’s smart and she’s thoughtful. Most importantly, with those girls by her side, she’d be a dynamite candidate.”
“So if Ginny wins Monday night, Tuesday morning you start sharpening the knives and go after the current tenant of 24 Sussex Drive.”
Keith nodded. “That’s the way it works,” he said.
I picked up our empty cups. “I forgot to get our refill. I’ll buy you fresh and better at Mieka’s.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” Keith said, and we sat back and listened to Sean do a masterful job of being grateful, humble, and excited about introducing Ginny, and Ginny do an equally masterful job of being grateful, humble, and excited about the challenge of winning the election and serving Palliser again. Neither Keith nor I responded to the financial appeal. Keith was already a maxed-out donor, and, as a woman who’d spent her adult life working for the party that opposed Keith’s, I would have had a Dr. Strangelove moment if I’d attempted to contribute a single loonie to the Conservative Party.
The room cleared out quickly, but Keith wanted to talk to Ginny, so I stayed behind at our table. I was reading through Ginny’s new campaign brochure, when I spotted Francesca Pope at the bottom of the stairs to the stage. Ginny and Sean were still at the podium, chatting with supporters, and Francesca was staring at Ginny with an intensity that I found unsettling.
I walked across the room to Milo. “Get Ginny out of here,” I said.
“What’s going on?”
“Probably nothing,” I said. “But I’m spooked. That woman over there has a history of mental problems. Her name is Francesca Pope, and something about Ginny sets her off. During the custody suit, she saw Ginny in the lobby of the courthouse and she started yelling at her.”
Milo licked a dab of chocolate off his finger. “Thanks for the heads-up,” he said. “I guess even Trojan horses have their uses.” He moved past Francesca quickly, took the stairs two at a time, whispered something in Ginny’s ear, and steered her towards the exit at the back of the stage. As always these days, Sean was close behind. Francesca scanned the room, using her hand as a visor. Finally, her eyes rested on me and she came over.
“I remember you,” she said. “You’re my lawyer’s wife.”
“Joanne Shreve,” I said.
She adjusted the straps of her backpack. “It’s hard to do the right thing when everybody thinks you’re crazy,” she said. Then without elaborating, she covered her hair with a plastic grocery bag and walked through the doors into the rain.
Ed Mariani had arranged for me to have my meeting with Vera Wang in the garden of the home he shared with his partner, Barry. Ed met me at the door, took my umbrella, and hustled me inside. “God, has there ever been a spring this wet? It may be time for the prudent to build an ark. Anyway, dishing among the daffodils is definitely out. Too bad too, I was longing to peer out my kitchen window and watch you and Vera speak tete-a-tete in the gazebo.”
“You could hide behind that shoji screen in the living room.”
Ed patted his girth. “I’d crash through it like an elephant. I’m just going to have to trust you to share every delicious detail.”
“Ed, how do you think I should approach Vera? I don’t want her to feel that I’m using her.”
“But you are using her. She understands that. She’s using you too.”
“For what?”
Ed slipped my jacket onto a hanger. “Like all of us, Vera wants to be respected, and she wants to be valued. Her occupation has pretty much put her beyond the pale. She’s sixty-seven – not old, but certainly at an age where a person wants to set the record straight.”
“What is the record?”
Ed’s smile was enigmatic. “I’ll let her tell you.” He peered out his living-room window. “You won’t have to wait long. The lady is on her way.”
I gazed past him. “Is that her with the stunning umbrella?”
“It is, and I’m glad you’ll have a chance to watch her make her entrance,” Ed said. “Vera has learned the secret of the royal family: the more slowly you move, the more people pay attention.”
Indeed, there was something regal about the way in which Vera moved up the suburban street. Although the rain had stopped, the wind was shaking drops from the new leaves and Vera kept her umbrella raised against them. She was dressed, head to toe, in the softest grey, but her umbrella was flamboyant – huge red poppies in a sea of green.
When Ed opened the door, she shook the rain from the umbrella’s canopy and the poppies danced. Ed took her umbrella and looked at the handle admiringly. “Solid hickory,” he said. “Very nice.”
Vera’s smile was satisfied. “I always told my clients, you get what you pay for.”
“Oh, good,” Ed said. “We’re not going to waste time on pleasantries. Right down to business.”
“Time is money,” Vera said evenly.
When Ed introduced us, she held out her hand to me. She was wearing gloves of the softest kid, and she took charge of the interview immediately. “I know you have questions, Joanne, but Ed has promised us a cup of his excellent cappuccino, and I’ve been looking forward to it.”
“I’ve set you up in the breakfast nook, so you can look out at the daffodils while you chat,” Ed said. “Follow me.”
Vera was one of those rare beings who feels no compunction to make small talk in a social situation. As she gazed at the garden, I fixed my eyes on her. She was a small, softly contoured woman who’d made no attempt to compromise the natural process of aging. Her grey hair curled gently away from her face. Her skin was exquisite, but there were lines around her eyes and at the corners of her lips, and her chin and neck were no longer taut. She was clearly comfortable with her appearance, but her reputation was apparently another matter.
Ed presented our cappuccinos with a flourish. “Among his many talents, my Barry is a skilled barista,” Ed said. “He has taught me how to pour the milk in a pattern on the espresso. As you can see, I’m a beginner: all I can do are swirls and hearts. Barry, of course, can pour out the entire
“That is impressive,” I said.
