She glances up and her eyes are knowing; she’s guessed what I want to ask.
“You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to…” I start lamely.
She sighs. “They won. Actually, the government scraped through with a majority so thin, you could floss your teeth with it.”
“Is this good or bad?”
“I don’t know, it makes their position insecure.”
“And…” I want to know about him, about what it means for her. “Your MP?”
She turns slightly away so I can’t see her expression. “Clive has just been appointed the new Minister for Sport, a considerable promotion. An actual cabinet position.”
This doesn’t mean much to me; who cares if he gets a promotion? Well, she cares of course, but what does this mean? Will she go to him now that he is an important member of the Cabinet?
I’m not going to ask. Change of subject.
“Shouldn’t you go and get dressed?”
“Why?” She looks down at her gardening clothes. “Am I naked?”
“Stop being difficult.” I nudge her with my shoulder. “Or did you want to attend this wedding in your denim overalls and muddy Wellies.”
“You need to get ready, too. And you take longer because you have to polish your oboe.”
This has become an in joke about me and my oboe. “If you’re not careful, I’ll make you polish it for me.”
“You wish.” She laughs and runs back inside.
It’s true. I’m performing this afternoon for Pierre and Gabriel’s ceremony, but it’s not as formal as the church.
I stand in the back garden and look at the horizon and think about sitting on a swing to watch the sunset with her, and the many things I could do to her if only she wanted to polish my oboe.
Her phone is still in my hand, and it vibrates like a tiny electric shock. I look down and there’s an alert.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:Zoom in 15 minutes.
Another message follows almost immediately with the Zoom meeting ID and passcode. No prizes for guessing who this is.
I follow her inside and after giving her the phone, I take the stairs two at a time and go to shower. When I’m dressed and ready and on my way down, I pass Lessa’s room.
Her door is open and she’s sitting at her desk, laptop screen open, Zoom call already in progress. I’m about to turn back to my room to give her privacy, when the conversation stops me.
“Of all the times to get yourself pregnant, this is the absolute worst.” Says a grating, bad-tempered voice.
“I didn’t do it on purpose.” Lessa’s own voice is calm but tight, as if she’s trying to keep her temper.
“It’s not too late for a termination.”
Nothing can make me walk away, now. It’s all I can do not to rush in and slap the laptop screen down on the bastard. In fact, I must have taken a couple of steps closer to her door because the screen becomes visible. The man on camera isn’t Clive Smith, MP. Not unless there’s been some serious photoshopping. This one is older, sixty perhaps, with a buzz-cut white hair on a large square head.
“It was too late five months ago,” Lessa says. “I’d never do that even if–”
“Fine, fine.” He interrupts. “But we have to find a way to manage this. We might have won the elections, but it’s the worst possible result. The government’s position is so precarious, any mishap can just destroy them.”
Realisation dawns. This must be the Sir Alan, Lessa mentioned before. The mover and shaker who pays the bills and pulls the strings. Glancing at him now, he is not easy to look at, his face, his entire head, looks craggy, puffy, and bumpy at the same time.
“Does Clive even know about–?”
