by Jayne Lind
“I know, but time is short,” Josh answered in a brisk tone. “If you could arrive at your office before your receptionist and before your colleagues arrive as well, that would be best. Then you need to be ready by five o’clock this afternoon. A taxi will pick you up. It is a regular black taxi, but, let’s say, we know the driver. I’ll brief you on the plane on the way over—all right?” He rose as he said these words and reached his hand out to her. “I’ll see you on the plane, which by the way will leave from London City Airport.” He looked at her intently, then smiled once again and left.
Taylor felt as if she was in a vortex. Everything was happening terribly fast, and yet at the same time, there was a frisson of excitement. What was in store for her?
Chapter Two
Washington, D.C.
Beth Carlson awoke earlier than her husband. She lay there quietly for awhile, not wanting to get out of bed, not wanting to face another day, and most of all, not wanting to wake Sam, snoring beside her. She just wanted to go back to sleep—forever. She knew there were several important engagements today; she knew she couldn’t let people down, that she must not cancel again. And she did not want to talk to or even face her husband.
She slid out of the oversized king bed as quietly as possible, the thick carpet under her feet assuring a silent escape, and went into her bathroom to get ready to face the day. The mirror confirmed what she dreaded seeing each morning. In her reflection, with no makeup, she could see that she looked older. Her deep brown hair had little grey for her fifty years, but all the crying had formed what seemed to be permanent puffiness under her eyes. Well, at least I’m up, she reassured herself. Some days she couldn’t get out of bed, some days she would plead a headache and hibernate.
Sam was still asleep by the time she was dressed. Grateful for that, she opened the door to their bedroom and slipped out quietly. She knew Sam’s aide would wake him on time for his day to begin. She walked down the staircase to her office in the East Wing. Later it would be a bustling place, with secretaries everywhere and phones constantly ringing. Lillian, her chief of staff, was already there.
“Good morning, Mrs. Carlson,” she said, with the beginning of a smile, but when she saw the First Lady’s face, her expression changed to one of concern. “Are you all right?”
Beth shook her head. “No, Lillian, I’m not all right,” she said softly as she sat down behind her desk. This was her job. The public didn’t seem to realize that when a woman’s husband becomes the president, his wife has a full-time job, whether she wants it or not.
Lillian poured her a cup of coffee without asking; she knew her boss’s desires and habits.
Beth smiled at her and sipped the coffee. “Thank you, Lillian; you are so good to me.”
“Well, you need people to be good to you,” Lillian replied, in a firm tone. “And tomorrow the psychologist is arriving so you’ll be getting some help.”
Beth shook her head as she stared out the window. It was early October and the leaves on some of the trees were just beginning to turn. Flashes of orange, red, and yellow mixed in gaily with the green foliage. She used to look forward to the autumn; it used to be her favorite time of the year. Now she wasn’t looking forward to anything. She sighed, continuing to look out at what promised to be a beautiful day. “I’m more than a bit apprehensive about all this. I know Sam can’t find out about it, or the press. and I know it’s necessary, but I’m worried about all of it.” She looked back at Lillian, “Mostly though, I’m worried about her. How is she going to like living in those rooms upstairs and being cloistered?”
Lillian shook her head, “Well, I’m just grateful that someone agreed to come. We have to get you well, Mrs. Carlson.”
Beth knew Lillian was concerned about her and wondered if the staff was as well. “Are people, the staff talking about me?” she asked, worry lines appearing on her forehead.
Lillian, who had remained standing, now sat down in an armchair near the desk before she answered. “Mrs. Carlson, I’m sure you know how much everyone on your staff cares about you. You are always concerned about their families, about their health. So yes, they are talking about you, but it’s not gossip. They know something is wrong with you and they’re worried, that’s all. And of course, since you asked me not to, I can’t tell them that you’re depressed.”
“So what are you telling them?”
“Just that you’re not feeling well, but that you’re getting medical help and that I’m sure you will soon be well.”
“Well, I hope I soon will be,” Beth said with a deep sigh. “I’m sleeping now—the pills Frank gave me have helped a lot. I don’t know if the Prozac is working or not. I think maybe it is a bit.” She handed her cup to Lillian. “If I could have another cup of coffee, please, and then we’ll go over my engagements for the day.” Beth thought the duties of the first lady must grow with each presidency. It appeared that every women’s group in the entire country wanted to meet with her to plead their case. It also seemed to her that when there was a group or an individual who Sam was supposed to see, but he considered to be trivial, the duty was passed on to her.
At least now she knew what was wrong with her. Classic depression, Frank told her when she saw him two weeks ago. She didn’t know what depression was; she only knew she didn’t want to get out of bed most mornings, whether she had slept or not. She had problems eating, food seemed to get stuck in her throat and she had no appetite. She had lost weight. And she was so tired, so very tired.
And then there was Sam, her husband for twenty-eight years. Her charming, handsome husband whom she admired so much in the beginning. But that was long ago. He no longer seemed charming to her, though still handsome. And she no longer admired him. The tipping point had been moving into this house. This big, white house. From the day all the campaigning was over, from the day they arrived here, she began to feel trapped. The secret service accompanied her everywhere. They stood outside the door to their residence. If she wanted to get out of the White House, go for a walk, or go shopping, it was a major operation. She had lost all privacy, but worse, she had lost her identity. She was no longer Beth Carlson, mother of two children. She was the First Lady. She didn’t like it, and instead of rebelling outwardly, she shrank into herself, trying to escape that way.
She didn’t say these things out loud. Lillian had been a wonderful friend, much more than her chief of staff, but she didn’t confide in her about her marriage. She didn’t confide in anyone about Sam. And now this doctor was coming all the way from London to help her—would she confide in her? Wearily, she brought her mind back to what Lillian was saying.
“Daughters of the American Revolution at a luncheon.”
***
Later that day President Samuel Carlson was in the Oval Office talking on the phone, sitting with his feet propped up on the desk. He wasn’t talking so much as he was shouting, loudly stating his dissatisfaction with the Speaker of the House, Anthony Collins. “Listen, Tony—you get this through Congress or else, do you hear me? I’m fed up with all this wrangling, all this waiting, and all these damn committees. This bill absolutely has to go through and if it doesn’t, then I’m through with you, do you hear?” With that he slammed down the phone.
It seemed to him the entire world was just one huge frustration. He wanted what he wanted when he wanted it. And lately, when he was thwarted, he exploded. Simmer down, he told himself. He was certain his blood pressure had risen with that last explosion and Dr. Bolton had warned him about his temper. What good was it to be the President of the United States, the ruler of the world, as he privately called himself, if people didn’t do what you told them to do?
And then there was Beth. My beautiful Beth, I used to call her. She wasn’t so beautiful these days and she’d been acting strange lately. She moped around, didn’t talk to him, said she wasn’t angry at him, but he didn’t believe her. He knew she often cr
ied, although she had learned long ago not to cry in front of him. He couldn’t stand it and he told her so. “Don’t you ever cry around me, do you hear me?”
Lately he often had to say ‘do you hear me’ because people stood and looked at him rather than going to do what he told them to do. He’d gone through three secretaries in as many years, and he couldn’t seem to find one who would just obey him. That’s all he wanted—obedience.
His current secretary buzzed him on the intercom. “Dr. Bolton is here to see you, sir.”
“Let him in,” he barked. He didn’t stand up as Frank Bolton, Colonel, United States Air Force, came into the room with his not so little black bag, but then he seldom stood up when anyone came into the room. They stood up when he came in, that was the way it was supposed to be.
“Good morning, Mr. President. How are you feeling?” Dr. Bolton asked.
“Fine—never better, I don’t know why you come around so often, don’t you have anything else to do?” He didn’t really like this man; he didn’t like anyone who didn’t seem afraid of him. Dr. Bolton had been the White House physician since he became president. He barked at him as well, but it didn’t seem to faze the doctor and in some ways the doctor slightly intimidated him.
Dr. Bolton set his bag down on one of the sofas in front of the President’s desk and without answering him, took out the blood pressure cuff. “I just want to check your blood pressure if you don’t mind,” he said, as he walked toward the president.
Sam just sat there. Let him come to me, why should I cow-tow to this guy just because he’s a doctor? However, he sat quietly while the cuff was wrapped around his upper right arm.
Dr. Bolton put his finger to his lips. “Remember, don’t talk while I’m doing this. It affects the reading.” When he finished, he removed the cuff, and still standing beside the President, said, “A bit high—have you just been shouting at someone?” He smiled as he said this.
“Moi?” said Sam. “Why on earth would I do that?”
They both laughed.
“Well, all I’ll say is that we need to up your dosage of blood pressure medication, because I don’t think you are going to stop shouting at people, do you?”
Sam shook his head. “You know, Frank, I didn’t used to have to shout at people. It seemed to me I always got what I wanted by charming them, you know, making them think it was their idea in the first place, but now it seems to be the only way I can get them to pay attention. I thought that once I got here, to this place, I wouldn’t have to do it anymore. I thought everyone would just jump to, you know? But not everyone does—why is that?”
“Well, some people probably have a mind of their own. I’m not a psychiatrist, you know. You’d have to ask one of them.”
The buzzer intruded, “The secretary of state is here for his appointment, Mr. President,” said the disembodied voice.
“Send him in,” the President said, in a shade lower tone of voice.
Dr. Bolton put the blood pressure cuff back in his bag and left through the door, as the next person came in.
***
A gentle mist of rain was falling as Taylor left her flat for the short walk to the Tube, the type of rain so prevalent in London, so soft that umbrellas are barely necessary. The morning rush hour was in full swing and Taylor was crushed into a tube train along with everyone else, but she hardly noticed, her mind full of what she must do before she left her life. She arrived at her office on Wimpole Street ahead of Tina or any of her colleagues, as Josh had instructed her. Since she was supposed to be leaving on holiday today, no clients were scheduled until next week. When Tina arrived, Taylor was still in the office and looked surprised to see her.
“Good morning, Tina, there’s something I need to tell you.” Taylor hated lying to Tina, who had been with the group of psychologists and psychiatrists for years. She was more than a receptionist; she was a friend. Not one whom Taylor saw outside the office, but one who was loyal and efficient and to whom most of the other staff confided their own troubles. She knew her announcement, out of the blue, as it were, was going to sound less than true, but there was no choice.
“Tina, my mother is ill and I must fly to the States. I’m not going on holiday.”
Tina put her hands to her face, “Oh, Dr. Leigh, what’s wrong with her?”
Taylor hesitated for a brief moment, “Cancer, I’m afraid.” The lie sounded hollow in her ears. She had fabricated her story in the wee hours of the morning when she couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t that she never lied, it was just that her mother lied all the time she was growing up and she vowed she would be different. But this was justified, wasn’t it? It was for a higher cause. Telling herself that didn’t really soothe her conscience, but she didn’t see how she could get out of it. The agent told her no one must know where she was going.
“Oh, how terrible,” Tina exclaimed. And you just found out?”
“Yes, last night,” Taylor answered. “And that’s not all. I am going to stay with her until....well, until she gets better or...dies.” That last bit was made up just now. You’re getting dramatic, Taylor.
“What about your clients? And what was that about, that man who was here last evening?”
Taylor shook her head, “Oh, that had nothing to do with this. It was something I really can’t talk about. But my clients, yes, you will need to phone them today and tell them what has happened. If some of them will transfer to the others in the office, that’s fine. Otherwise, they will have to wait until I return.” Handing Tina a list, she asked her to write down the addresses of several clients to whom she intended to write a personal note. As soon as she had everything she needed, Taylor quickly left. She wanted to leave well before she would have to face any of her colleagues, whom she was afraid weren’t going to believe her story.
Back at her flat, Taylor phoned her cleaner, telling her she would have to take a leave of absence from her work and giving her the same story. She slipped a note under a few neighbor’s doors. She wouldn’t be able to phone her mother in California since it was eight hours earlier there. She wrote her an email and then, just to make sure, quickly wrote a short note to put in the post, relating the cover story Josh gave her. Her mother didn’t open her emails every day and Taylor didn’t want her to worry. Would she worry? Probably not, she thought wryly, but at least her conscience was clear.
She didn’t know what to do about her mail. Looking in her handbag, she found Josh Harmon’s card. It had only his name and a mobile number. Well, she told her- self, one doesn’t go around advertising the fact that MI6 is your employer.
Josh answered immediately. “Hello! How are you getting on?”
Taylor thought his voice sounded warm. “Hi, I forgot to ask you….what do I do about my mail?”
“Oh, sorry, I should have told you,” he said. “It’s been arranged. It will come here.”
“What do you mean here?” Taylor asked, alarmed. “Where is here?”
“To our office, to HQ,” he replied. It’s all right, Dr. Leigh, we will send you anything we think is important.”
She wished he would call her Taylor. “You mean my mail will be read?”
“Yes, but don’t worry. Anything that is handwritten, that obviously isn’t a business type notice, will be mailed to you unopened. All right?”
Taylor let out a breath of relief. She didn’t get much personal mail nowdays as everyone seemed to stick to email. Everyone except her mother.
“Yes,” she replied. “I guess I don’t have any choice.”
“Don’t worry, you are in good hands. The taxi driver will come to your door and carry everything down for you. And I’ll be there to meet you.” Josh stopped talking for a moment and there was a silence, as if he was waiting for her to say something. Then, “Taylor? Is it all right to call you Taylor?”
“Yes, please, I wish you would.”
&nbs
p; “All right Taylor, what I wanted to say was that I’m glad you’re on board with us in this. And I’ll see you soon.”
She liked his voice, his accent was Oxbridge, and mellow. As she went about her packing, she found herself looking forward to seeing him again.
It was difficult to know what to pack, but she presumed business clothes would be the essential apparel. She was glad she had most of the day to accomplish all of this. She pulled all her cases out of the closet, putting them on the bed and sorting through what she would take with her. Soon she would be leaving. Soon it would be too late to turn back, to change her mind.
She felt more than a tinge of regret as she looked around her flat one last time, remembering what a big day it had been when she was able to purchase a place of her own. London real estate is some of the priciest in the world and her flat was small, but she had lovingly decorated it to suit herself. The street market near her was the source of much of the furniture, odd bits, antiques, and other somewhat funky things, unusual touches. It was warm, inviting, and comfortable looking. The walls of the living room were painted a deep red, a common decorating style in England, and there were touches of yellow, green, and deep brown in the furnishings and accessories. It was a place of retreat, a place where she could not be intruded upon. A place where she could lock the door.
And now, what would happen? She wasn’t worried about being able to help the First Lady. She had many years of experience and had specialized in depression. It was the rest of this scenario that was frightening. She had no idea what it would be like being in the White House. Other than having watched a very few episodes of The West Wing, she was more into the politics of the U.K. than she was of the country where she was born.
Just before it was time to leave, Karl phoned. “Karl, I have to cancel our holiday....” she began.
“Oh, that’s what I was calling you about,” he said. “I’m afraid I’m the one who has to cancel—I have to go to Dubai this evening, I know you’re disappointed, but we’ll still get there, darling, don’t worry.”