‘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 cont
radicted. 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.
‘Guy,’ she said, ‘a question.’
‘Yes?’
‘Tell me why you’ve been suspicious that well, that Billie Bradford has changed. Why?’
‘Oh?’ He appeared surprised. ‘I didn’t know you were interested.’
‘Maybe I am, maybe I’m not. Suddenly, I am.’
He was cautious. ‘If you really want to know -‘
‘I do.’
‘You won’t bite my head off?’
‘Not if you make sense.’ Impulsively, she touched his cheek with her fingers. ‘I’ll be sweet to your head.’
‘Okay. Here goes.’ His suspicions, or at least his curiosity, had first been aroused after the return from Moscow, when they had been on the plane to Los Angeles. On her trial job at the Los Angeles Times, Billie had claimed to have talked to a newspaperman named Steve Woods. Parker had known that Steve Woods was non-existent. At the luncheon in Los Angeles, Billie was to be seated between one of her oldest women friends, Agnes Ingstrup, and the president of the Women’s Clubs of the United States, and Billie had addressed the president as Agnes Ingstrup. At the luncheon, Billie had
enjoyed oysters, which Nora herself said she never ate. At the baseball game in Dodger Stadium, Billie, a baseball fan, had spent most of her time listening to a grandfather explain the game to his granddaughter. At her’ father’s house in Malibu, Billie had not remembered that she had seen her nephew the month before, had seen her pet dog, Hamlet, turn against her. Earlier, Billie had pledged to Parker that she would discuss her personal relationship with the President and would also relate a funny incident about running into an actress that Bradford had been dating. And, as Nora already knew, a few days ago on the flight to London she had flatly refused to discuss either subject with Parker.
‘Any single one of those instances might be explained as human frailty,’ said Parker, ‘but when taken all together, they add up to suspicious. What do you think?’
‘I think I need another drink,’ said Nora. ‘Another double.’
Parker ordered refills for both of them. He turned back to Nora. ‘Well? Any reaction to my recital?’
‘What does it all mean tc you, Guy?’
‘That, somehow, at least since Moscow, Billie’s not been herself.’
He was waiting for some comment from her. She made no response. She pretended to listen to the music, but her mind was occupied with Billie. Their drinks came, the waiter went, and Nora began to down her gin.
After a silent half-minute more, Nora shakily put her drink on the table, spilling part of it. With great deliberation, using her napkin, Nora cleaned up the spillage.
Abruptly, Nora said, ‘Billie had a press conference today, a little while ago, with the British press.’
‘How’d it go?’
‘She was in fine form, until near the end. Someone asked her about Janet Farleigh -‘
‘Janet Farleigh? Yes, I remember. Her old friend, the children’s writer, here in London. The one who died a few weeks ago.’
‘The one who died,’ said Nora. ‘Only Billie didn’t know she was dead. Billie told them she was going to see Janet
next week. When a member of the press reminded her that Janet was dead, Billie wriggled out of it, saying she meant she was going to see Janet’s grave. One fresh reporter told her there was no grave, only Janet’s ashes in an urn on the mantelpiece of the family flat. She wriggled some more and the conference was adjourned.’
Parker emitted a low whistle. ‘What a doozy -‘
‘Double doozy, like double gin.’ Nora lifted her glass and almost drained it.
‘And the British press people, what was their reponse?’
‘Like I told you, she got out of it. Well enough for the press. Not well enough for me. She’s slick all right.’
He studied her once more. ‘Nora, why did this one shake you up more than the incidents I had been reporting to you?’
‘I don’t know. I do know. Not only because this one just happened in front of me, but because the morning before we went to Moscow, in the White House - a few hours before she told you that you were coming along - remember?’
‘Yes.’
‘- she had got word of Janet Farleigh’s death. She really came apart. It was a big thing, emotionally, not something she would be apt to forget.’
‘Umm. How did she hear about Janet’s death? A letter? Wire?’
‘Not regular channels. The British ambassador sent over a personal note, hand-delivered.’
‘Private.’
‘Private, by hand. Just Billie knew and you and I knew.’
‘None. Janet meant nothing in the United States.’
‘But Billie herself knew.’
‘Of course.’
‘So how could she not know an hour ago?’ Parker puzzled about it. He saw Nora finishing the last of her gin. ‘Have another.’
Nora pushed away the glass. ‘No, thanks. I’m a mile high.’ She stood up woozily. ‘Let’s go up to your room.’
Parker signed the check, took Nora firmly by the arm, and led her to the elevator.
A few minutes later they reached his room. He unlocked the door, was about to turn on the light, when she pulled back his arm. ‘No. Lamp’s enough.’
He turned up the standing lamp near the bed. Nora shut his door, secured the chain. He watched her uncertainly. She walked toward him with care, so as not to lose her balance.
She looked up at him. ‘I’m a little drunk, Guy. I admit it. Before I do anything foolish, answer me one thing honest honestly. Do you have a letch for me?’
‘A big one, Nora.’
‘A serious one?’
‘Real serious.’
‘All right. I liked your face and body from the start. But I thought you were maybe kind of maybe egotistical - self-centred expecting all women to have round heels for you. Later, I thought you were kind of a kook. Understand?’
He didn’t, but he nodded.
She went on. ‘I couldn’t get involved with anyone that flawed. Guy, I had a husband. It was bad. He was selfish and spoiled. I finally shook him off. But everyone needs someone. So there was Billie. I could be devoted to her. But now - I don’t know - now suddenly Billie’s not there. Then you, you’re there. I could see you better, a whole person. Nice, sensible, even sexy. I need someone I can believe in right now, Guy. Can I believe in you?’
He took her in his arms and kissed her. She felt the heat in her breasts, in her thighs. She felt his fingers unbuttoning her blouse.
With effort, she pushed away. ‘You take off your things. I can take care of mine.’
He hesitated. ‘Do you want to wait until you’re sober?’
She had her blouse off. ‘I don’t want to be sober. I want to be high, higher than I am.’
(1980) The Second Lady Page 21