Friday
Friday
“What on earth made you think I would be okay with this ?”
Carol Ross Aird was not amused and it showed. Liberating her feet from the black heels that had tortured her the entire afternoon, she immediately made her way to the low cupboard where she kept a bottle of rye for emergencies.
“I will not voluntarily let some photographer stalk me for an entire week just so you can charm your way into the Senate. It’s bad as it is with all those mosquitos buzzing around us ever since you announced you would run for a seat in Washington.”
With a sigh she took a sip of her drink, looking at her husband, who stood in front of her, his hands in the pockets of his tailor made, dark blue trousers. He had thrown his jacket on a chair, together with his tie. The upper buttons of his shirt were undone, showing his muscular chest.
“Carol, for God’s sake. It was Richard’s idea and I didn’t want to let him down again after I had vetoed most of his other ideas for the campaign,” Harge pleaded.
Carol shot him an angry look.
“I don’t understand why you still stick with that boy. He’s a nitwit with no talents whatsoever.”
Harge sighed. Richard Semco was the youngest son of David Semco, one of the chief donors of his campaign. Getting rid of him would be very unwise, if not political suicide. Surely Carol would understand that ? He took her glass and downed it in one gulp.
“I’m stuck with him, whether we like it or not. The photographer will arrive here tomorrow. I called Fred Wilson and he promised to send me one of his best people. I think it’s a good thing to have someone around who doesn’t know anything about us, coming from New York.”
He put his hand on his wife’s arm.
“Darling. It will only be for a week, you’ll live. And you can make all the arrangements with her, if you want.”
“Her ?” Carol sounded surprised.
“Yes. She’ll call you when she arrives at the airport tomorrow. Her name is Therese Belivet.”
___________________
Therese shot awake from a restless sleep just when the plane started to descend. Looking out of the window she saw snow topped mountains under a clear blue sky. Born and raised in New York, she had never ventured this far West. Her arrival was set at 11.00 AM, local time, which meant she had left her apartment that morning at an ungodly early hour. Genevieve had offered to drive her to the airport, but she had taken a cab, wanting to let her sleep after what had been an unusually stressful evening.
Genevieve had been very disappointed when Therese had told her she had to cancel their trip at the very last minute. They had not been able to be together for an entire weekend for quite some time and Genevieve had obviously been looking forward to it. After Genevieve’s departure to MIT, where she worked as a lecturer at the Program in Women’s and Gender Studies, their relationship had changed. Up till then their life together had been a partnership without many obligations, defined by a lightness that left room for other friendships and even lovers. Genevieve had asked Therese to come with her to Cambridge, but she had declined, saying she was not ready to become a lecturer’s wife in the province. Genevieve had been hurt, but had accepted Therese’s decision, hoping that someday she would change her mind. But somehow the balance in their relationship had shifted, leaving Therese with the growing feeling that Genevieve wanted too much from her.
Leaning back in her chair, Therese now admitted to herself that she was actually relieved that she had had to go to Salt Lake City. When she arrived at her apartment after leaving the Times, Genevieve had already been there. She had not been understanding, reproaching her that she had not been able to persuade Fred to send someone else.
“Actually, I don’t even think you want me here.” Genevieve’s words betrayed the hurt hidden beneath her disappointment.
“That’s not true. Whatever makes you think that ?” Therese sounded indignant. “I have been looking forward to this as much as you. But Fred left me no other choice.” But even in her own ears this didn’t sound very convincing.
They were both silent, standing face to face, looking into each other’s eyes. Genevieve was the first to avert her gaze. She sighed, turned and walked to the bedroom door.
“Let me help you to get your things.”
After packing they had gone to their favourite Japanese restaurant, trying to brighten up what had now become their only evening together. And somehow they had managed to find the casual, loving tone that had always coloured their conversations. Later, in the bed they still considered to be theirs, Genevieve had taken Therese in her arms and had kissed her until they both felt the familiar want growing in their bodies. Their lovemaking had been slow and intimate, but with a new, melancholy feel to it. Afterwards they had both cried.
The other passengers were already collecting their bags, when Therese unclasped her seatbelt. She reached for her camera bag under her seat, pulled it up and opened one of its small compartments. In it was the note that Claire, Fred’s secretary, had given her when she came out of his office. There was a name on it, together with a phone number.
“Call this number when you land,” Claire said. “You won’t need a cab. Someone will pick you up at the airport.”
Therese once again felt that strange excitement in her stomach when she recognized the name scribbled on the note: Carol Ross Aird. Of course.