Power Games

by Victoria Fox

  ‘Let me, Kevin, please,’ she begged. ‘I promise it’ll be good—’

  ‘No—’

  ‘I’ll swallow. I promise to swallow—’

  ‘Stop!’ Kevin pushed her away. Marie stood, helpless, attempting to cover her modesty now the glow of their union was off the cards.

  Her bottom lip wobbled. She was about to cry. Great.

  ‘Get dressed,’ he told her, as kindly as he could. This wasn’t her fault.

  ‘But …’

  ‘Just do it!’ he roared. ‘Get dressed and get out. Now!’

  With a series of whimpers, Marie took her time pulling on her clothes, waiting for him to change his mind and ask her to stay. When he didn’t, she miserably hauled open the door and slunk outside, her eyes brimming with tears.

  Kevin closed the door. He sank to the floor, his head in his hands, trembling.

  He felt awful. What a fucking disaster.

  12

  Eve Harley paced her Kensington apartment and decided that she would do just about anything right now for a glass of wine. Scratch that, a bottle.

  Orlando was due in thirty minutes. She was trying everything she could to distract herself, tidying things pointlessly, rearranging possessions, even attempting to settle down with her item on Mitch Corrigan, but nothing could train her mind.

  Their encounter hurtled towards her like a nuclear explosion.

  It wasn’t Eve’s style to be nervous. Her job landed her in dozens of compromising positions and she knew how to handle herself. But this wasn’t work.

  For once, her private life was centre stage. It was an uncomfortable spotlight.

  Her anxiety at seeing him wasn’t helped when she flicked on the TV and caught him live at his London engagement. Orlando was opening a restaurant in Chelsea with a popular TV chef, out on the carpet shaking hands, cameras scattering the night with stars, and his pristine, moneyed grin flashing white in the storm.

  In the end, he was late. An hour passed before the buzzer sounded.

  Eve had never invited him to her home before. Personal space was off limits, always had been with her boyfriends (not that he was one of those), and the arrangement with Orlando was no exception. As if she was giving something away by letting him see where she’d come from. There wasn’t a great deal of personal memorabilia about the place, and certainly no family photographs, but even so.

  Predictably he grabbed her as soon as he walked through the door.

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ he said, gathering her into his arms and nuzzling her neck. He smelled expensive, of leather and cashmere scarves, of warm winter coats.

  She pushed against him, went to begin, but he stopped her with a kiss.

  ‘So this is new,’ Orlando murmured, enjoying the game, ‘calling me up out of the blue—what’s going on?’

  Eve stepped away. He mimicked her frown before realising she was serious.

  ‘Is everything cool?’ he asked.

  ‘Not really.’ A beat. ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘Sounds serious.’ He kissed her forehead. ‘OK if I take off my coat?’

  She nodded, watching him shrug out of his jacket and hang it on the back of a chair. At last his eyes roamed over her flat, refined by nature of its postcode but still scant compared with the opulence to which he was accustomed. The entirety of it amounted to his en-suite bathroom. Nevertheless, he broke the tension:

  ‘Nice place.’

  Eve wanted to blurt it. Knew she shouldn’t.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘A beer would be good.’

  She returned with the bottle, cracked the cap and sat down.

  ‘Look,’ Orlando said, joining her, ‘if this is about Angela I can’t help. I don’t know what she’s doing in Vegas and my father won’t tell us a damn thing. So if it’s that you want then you’ve come to the wrong—’

  ‘It isn’t.’ Eve waited until he had taken a sip of his beer, wiped his hand across his mouth and then she said: ‘Orlando, I’m pregnant.’

  His expression didn’t change.

  Eve remembered his teasing on the phone. What was the deal? Couldn’t it wait? He wasn’t planning to be in town for a couple of weeks, couldn’t she hold off having him till then? She would have to; she went in on the joke, acted like it was nothing but every hour since the news had been agony. She had consulted her GP and conception was cited as the New Year. That meant she was coming up for nine weeks.

  Eve hadn’t thought anything when she’d skipped her first period—she had never been one of those women who could count it by the day.

  ‘Well?’ she ventured.

  His face was steady and she wondered if this had happened to him before. What was earth-moving to her was another pain in the ass for him. That stung.

  ‘How?’ Orlando asked.

  ‘I’ve got a pretty good idea.’

  He nicked his chin, the shadow of a beard. ‘We’ve always used protection.’

  ‘It can still happen.’

  Eve looked down to her lap. She hated that she had to cut the apologetic figure. It wasn’t Orlando making her feel that way, just the role the woman had to fill. This was happening to her. It was her body and therefore her problem.

  The chair scraped back. Orlando stood. ‘How long?’

  ‘Nearly three months.’

  ‘And you just found out?’

  ‘I did a test in Italy. I called you straight away. I wanted you to know but I felt it was important to tell you face to face.’

  ‘Why didn’t you do it sooner?’

  She chose not to react against the note of accusation in his voice. He was in shock, just as she had been. Just as she still was.

  ‘First month it was nothing unusual. Second month, it was. That’s when I did the test. The weeks add up. So do the days. Every minute that passes …’

  ‘What next?’ He turned to the window, put his hands in his pockets. His back was taut, the muscles beneath his shirt strained. She wished she could tell what he was thinking, but at the same time dreaded it. Supposing he wanted to keep this baby?

  Eve wasn’t ready to become a parent. Analysing it, she didn’t expect she would ever feel ready. Her own experience had been enough to put her off for life. Her father had been a terrible, violent man. All her memories were riddled with his vile disease.

  Who was to say that Eve wouldn’t mess it up as spectacularly as he had? That the damage she had been subjected to wouldn’t be transferred to her own child?

  Who could promise, really promise, that that wouldn’t happen?

  She dreamed of her baby. It had the eyes of her father and she hated it on sight.

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’ Orlando asked, turning to her.

  At first she didn’t understand. Then, when she did, relief hit—but it was tinged with an unexpected shiver of resentment. He had assumed, albeit correctly, that she was set on abortion. Was she that obvious? Could he read it in her face?

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  She was definite. She didn’t need Orlando tagging along, holding her hand and saying all the wrong things. It would be a cold contract, not dissimilar to their relationship, in and out in a day and she would deal with it by herself.

  She couldn’t think of it as a person, just a thing inside her that wasn’t yet born.

  What kind of life could she give it? She wasn’t fit to be a mother, and as for her situation with Orlando—they could never provide their child with anything stable.

  ‘I’m glad you feel the same,’ she said. It sounded hollow.

  Orlando nodded. Out on the street, car horns blared. Normal life continued; it was only their bubble that had burst. Eve didn’t recognise the serious, dark-eyed man in front of her. Their relationship so far had been defined by sex and secrets, by the thrill of the chase and a no-strings respect that left both their consciences clean.

  All that had been severed. Always a string would
now bind them, the cord of this misfortune, and it would throttle anything they had.

  The ending made her sadder than she expected.

  ‘Is it mine?’

  His question came out of the blue. It hit her like a slap, cold and sharp.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘How dare you. You arsehole.’

  ‘I had to ask.’

  ‘No, you didn’t. You didn’t have to at all.’

  Orlando sat down, but she pushed her own seat away.

  ‘You have to admit,’ he said softly, ‘we don’t know each other. I’m checking.’

  ‘You’re insulting.’

  ‘So there’s been no one else?’ His voice was quiet. Different.

  To her mortification Eve blinked back the hot stem of tears.

  Don’t cry! She never cried. It was the sheer injustice of his accusation, this lead weight she had been carrying around, the fear she had faced all alone, no one to share it with until now—and now she had, he had treated her as little more than a slut.

  ‘Yes,’ she lied. She didn’t know why. She wanted him to be jealous, maybe, or simply to prove him right, to drive him away for good. ‘But it isn’t his.’

  Orlando stayed quiet a while before he said: ‘Who?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It does to me.’

  ‘The timing’s yours. It’s definitely yours.’

  But when she looked up she could see that she had lost him.

  Fine—if that’s what you think, think it!

  She wanted him to hurt. She was hurt, why should he get off free?

  ‘I need you to go,’ she said.

  Orlando looked like he was about to say something, then he changed his mind.

  ‘You’ll let me know?’ he said, slipping on his coat and making for the door. His bearing was cool, professional, playing out the motions.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I guess that’s it, then.’

  ‘I guess.’

  The door opened. ‘Goodbye, Eve.’

  Eve didn’t say it back. She waited until she heard the door close, a soft, final hush, and his footsteps travel down the stairs. Only then did she let the tears fall.

  13

  Washington, D.C.

  MITCH CORRIGAN: WHO IS THE MAN BEHIND THE MASK?

  In spite of the blonde head plunging determinedly up and down in his lap, Republican senator Mitch Corrigan couldn’t stop staring worriedly at the article that had landed on his desk that morning. He squinted at the byline.

  Eve Harley.

  Vaguely he recalled her. She had talked to him here at the Farley Senate Building, before he had left for Italy. Tenacious. Persistent. Borderline rude. And now she had published a piece on his ‘hidden persona’. Exactly what he didn’t need.

  Mitch squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on the mouth clamped around his dick. His wife’s gem-laden fingers were spread across his thighs, her lips going methodically to work with as much eroticism as a fundraiser bobbing for apples.

  Seated at his mahogany bureau, from the waist up Mitch Corrigan was any ordinary politician—tie neat, collar pressed and cufflinks polished. Only his flushed face was a clue to what was going on beneath: pants down by his ankles, shirt untucked, and his wife’s tongue catching and flicking his struggling dick as if it were a melting ice-pop. Finally, Mitch came. It was a ragged, unsettled climax.

  He couldn’t stop staring at that venomous write-up.

  Mitch Corrigan made me uneasy … He might have been a film star, but the time for acting is over … How can he convince a nation if he can’t convince me?

  Melinda sat back and flipped open a compact from her Louis Vuitton purse.

  ‘Stop looking at it: it’s just some witch out to grab a headline.’

  Mitch tucked his shirt and zipped his flies. ‘For a man in my position I’d say that headline was a substantial concern, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Our marriage is also a substantial concern,’ Melinda complained, shooting him her best martyred expression, ‘but I don’t see you caring half as much about that.’

  Mitch gulped his guilt like a lump of cotton wool. He shuffled the papers on his desk, moving Eve Harley’s Examiner piece to the bottom of the pile. The Melinda he had married two decades ago had been a sweet, innocent girl, unimpressed by money or fame. She had always kept his feet on the ground, stuck with him through the drugs, the drink, the partying and the depression. Now that girl was gone.

  ‘Don’t you care, Mitch?’ she spat. ‘Go on, have the guts to tell me the truth.’

  Truth. The word shivered between them, a caped stranger.

  The world would never believe the truth. It could never understand.

  His phone buzzed. ‘They’re ready for you, Senator Corrigan.’

  ‘We’ll talk about this later,’ he told Melinda, clicking his briefcase shut.

  His speech went down a storm. Mitch was unsurpassed when it came to putting on a show. He was master of the persuasive address, the loaded pause and the witty riposte. His years in Hollywood had served him well.

  He might have been a film star, but the time for acting is over …

  Eve Harley was a clueless hack whose job it was to sniff out heat, even when there was nothing to back it up. Mitch was careful. The press would never get to him.

  Afterwards, a posse of reporters was lobbying for a word. Microphones lunged as he paced through the foyer. ‘What’s next, Senator Corrigan? Is 2014 your year?’

  Mitch turned at the door to his committee, winning smile resolutely in place. After feeding them their quota of practised lines, he slipped into his antechamber.

  Checking there was no one else around, he located the bathroom.

  Mitch had a diehard bathroom routine. He could not do the business unless any and all cubicles behind him were vacant. The stalls had to be open, wide open, so he could see into them. He refused to have his back to a closed door.

  If you want my ass so bad you’ll have to damn well find it first!

  But they had found it last time, hadn’t they?

  No way was he laying his ruined rump bare. He might as well put a tablecloth under it, give them a knife and fork and invite them to pull up a chair. Christ!

  Today, Mitch was in luck. The restroom was empty. After a quick inspection in the bank of mirrors, comprising a swift adjustment to his chestnut-coloured toupee and a reassuring thumbs-up, he unfastened his pants. As he emptied himself into the urinal, he prayed that Melinda had scarpered back to the apartment. Mitch was grateful for tonight’s TV slot—with any luck his wife might have gone to bed by the time he returned. Occasionally she would grope for him in the dark, murmur something enticing like, ‘Have you showered? If you’ve showered you can put it in me,’ but if he left it long enough she would have her eye mask on and her earplugs in.

  If Melinda only knew where he’d been, what he’d seen …

  Images from the house at Veroli came rushing back: the elderly couple, the shed in the courtyard, the driving rain … Part of Mitch wished he had never gone, had never laid eyes on the terrible reality. But there had been no choice.

  Now he knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that these creatures were out there, biding their time, preparing to strike, their skills and machinery eclipsing anything this planet had to offer. Rome had confirmed their existence once and for all.

  The invasion was nigh—and Mitch was its target.

  Signor Rossetti had explained. ‘They want you, Senator Corrigan. You are a special man. You will soon run America, the most powerful country on Earth …’

  Mitch would never forget those words as long as he lived. Them.

  One probe was all it took. Fiercely he yanked up his pants.

  Trembling, Mitch Corrigan bolted for the door.

  The car arrived on the dot of six to escort him to the studio. Mitch was due live on America Tonight in an hour. He couldn’t be less set for a public airing if he tried.

/>   ‘Remember our focus is the campaign,’ Oliver, his PR guy, chattered, stabbing keys on his BlackBerry. ‘I’ve briefed the producer on what we will and won’t say. I’m not sitting through a Who’s Who of Mitch Corrigan movies like we did last time.’

  Mitch’s knee started to shudder as the downtown traffic rushed past. ‘It’s what they’re interested in,’ he conceded. After eight years in politics, people still hankered after morsels from his showbiz past: instead of hearing his views on a proposed health reform or a controversial rule on education, what they really wanted was a rendition of a celebrated catchphrase from his best-known flick, nineties action-fest A Good Day to Die. In it, Mitch’s character Blaine, a stunt driver, tells his arch-enemy to: ‘Side with me if you want to ride with me.’ Those ten words had haunted him the majority of his adult life. They got yelled at him in the street, at party conferences, on beach vacations, in restaurants when he was halfway through his shrimp appetiser …

  ‘Wrong,’ corrected Oliver, ‘we tell them what to be interested in. Once we confirm our White House campaign, they’ll soon see where our priorities lie.’

  Mitch felt exhausted by the whole thing. Along the line he guessed he must have signed up for this demented full-throttle ride, first Hollywood, then Washington, then a fucking presidential bid. Why was he doing it to himself? Fame was a cruel mistress. She had brought him notoriety, but she hadn’t brought him happiness.

  In the vehicle’s wing mirror he spied the same black car he had noticed trailing them on to the freeway. Mitch narrowed his eyes. His knee juddered.

  Quietly he eased back in his seat.

  ‘Everything OK?’ asked Oliver.

  ‘Fine,’ he replied.

  Mitch couldn’t confide in Oliver. He couldn’t confide in anyone. They would pour scorn on his revelations: Too many drugs with the Screw Crew? That had been the name of his actor clique, years ago when the A-listers had stalked Sunset for babes and tallied up their victories. Maybe he had taken too many drugs. Maybe he had lost his shit at too many parties. Maybe the whole thing was a delusion brought about by his longevity at the top of a precipitous fame mountain: a gradual decline.

  Mitch could forget all about a White House campaign if the world uncovered a breath of what he knew. Who would have thought it? This was the man who, back in his heyday, had been king of the silver screen; he had wrestled crocodiles, battled felons, shot at hijackers from a swooping chopper and flown missiles into Vietnam …