Just Like Family

by Kate Hilton

  “Thank you,” I said. “We’d also like to be able to rely on you for a public endorsement.”

  “Oh,” said Lillian Parker. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. I never give endorsements.”

  “You should make an exception for Peter,” I said. “I’ve known him since childhood. He is a superb candidate. He’s qualified for the job in every way. He is worthy of your trust.”

  “My dear,” she said, “very few people have that, and none of them are politicians.”

  “I would trust him with my life,” I said.

  “Without knowing either of you,” she said, “that strikes me as unwise. But I’m not inclined to give anyone that kind of power, and certainly not a man. I’ll give the same amount to every candidate with a shot at winning.”

  “You’ll give money to Roger Wozniak?” I said. I was so stunned that I tripped over my words.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “But he’s—” I stopped myself. “He doesn’t seem like your sort of person.”

  She laughed. “Oh, you might be surprised, Avery. By me, and by Roger Wozniak. He can be quite charming, in his own way.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” I said.

  “You never know, my dear,” she said. “About people, or about what the future holds. Life is full of surprises, and it produces enough enemies naturally. I’ve always taken the view that there is no need to create them on purpose. And that is why I support everyone in an election who asks for my help. So you may tell Mr. Haines that I’ll write him a cheque. You may also tell him that whether or not Roger Wozniak is my sort of person, he asked me for the donation himself.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t think. It won’t happen again.”

  “Don’t fret,” she said, patting my arm. “I’m not offended. That takes far too much energy at my age. Good luck with all this.”

  And with that, she was gone.

  I spent the rest of the morning preparing for my lunch meeting with Jenny. It wasn’t entirely a social call. It was damage control. A junior reporter covering our campaign had uncovered the family connection between Peter and Jenny, and had called her for an interview. She’d declined to comment on Peter’s candidacy, she’d said, since she wasn’t planning on voting.

  The reporter had called the office, and I’d been able to avoid a negative story by explaining that Jenny was planning to be out of the country during the election, which was why she wasn’t voting. Then I’d pulled in a few favours to give him access to some high-profile political supporters who didn’t usually agree to interviews. But still, with the Wozniaks vacuuming up the right-wing vote, we needed to lock in endorsements from every identifiable group on the left: women, environmentalists, visible minorities, urban activists, writers, food security advocates, and artists of all kinds. Jenny could hurt us if she wanted to. I needed to know if she did.

  At the restaurant, Jenny rose from the table and brushed a cool kiss on each of my cheeks. She was, as she had been since childhood, beautiful. “It’s been a long time.”

  “Since last summer, I think,” I said. “I don’t know where the time goes. The campaign has been nuts, but that’s no excuse. I am so sorry, again, for missing the opening. Matt’s been raving about it.”

  “That’s fine,” she said. “Matt explained that you had an emergency at work. It was nice to see him.”

  “He’s a fan,” I said.

  She smiled. “It’s mutual,” she said.

  “I popped in to see The Glass Ceiling last week,” I said. “Congratulations. Your work is the highlight of the show.” I knew I was on safe territory here. All of the reviews agreed on this point.

  “The art gallery did a nice job, I thought,” said Jenny.

  “It did,” I said.

  “I was pleased with the decision to hang all of my paintings together in one room,” said Jenny.

  “Yes,” I said. “It was really powerful. The paintings spoke to each other.”

  “Which one did you like best?” she asked.

  “I’d say it’s a toss-up between Charm and Stamp,” I said. The images were available on the art gallery’s website, and I’d done my research.

  Charm was a portrait of three women having lunch in the 1960s, in Chanel-style suits with tiny hats perched on the stiff waves of their hair. A glittering charm, a real one, dangled from the sleeve of one of the women, a gold Eiffel Tower. The curator’s notes explained the work as a commentary on the hidden lives of women, forced to perform according to social norms but simultaneously dreaming of escape. My mother had posed for Charm, and it was her favourite. Stamp, on the other hand, was a portrait of Jenny’s stepfather, Don, sitting at his desk, holding a stamp with a pair of tweezers and examining it with a magnifying glass. A blonde girl sat in a chair against the wall, wearing a bathing suit and holding a rolled towel in her lap. The notes for the painting observed that the girl’s agency, depicted as her ability to to go swimming, is constrained by the male figure’s attention, or “stamp of approval”; until she receives it, she, like others of her sex, is confined to the margins.

  “My mother thinks Charm is the best painting anyone has ever done.”

  Jenny laughed. “It did turn out well,” she says. “You can tell Martine that she’s a terrific model. She gave me the charm, too.”

  “She told me,” I said. “How’s your mom doing?”

  “She’s well,” said Jenny. “She’s finally talking about retirement.”

  “That’s good,” I said. After Greta and Don’s drawn-out divorce, Greta had gone back to school and completed a degree in education. Eventually, she’d become a kindergarten teacher. “She deserves a rest.”

  “She certainly does,” said Jenny. “But she worries about money. It’s hard to convince her to stop earning.”

  “Will she sell the cottage?” This had been a burning question on Berry Point for years.

  “She did,” said Jenny. “At the end of last season, to me. I’m going to build my studio up there.”

  “Oh,” I said. “That’s fantastic.” I meant it. However tortured our relationship, Jenny belonged at Berry Point.

  “So, Avery,” said Jenny. “What can I do for you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why are we here?”

  “I wanted to congratulate you.”

  “And?” said Jenny. “Nothing else?”

  “That was the main thing,” I said. “Although I thought I’d ask you about the interview you gave about Peter, if it came up.”

  “And, miraculously, it has,” said Jenny. “But I didn’t give an interview. I specifically declined to do so, when asked.”

  “You said you weren’t going to vote,” I said. The waiter hovered near our table. I waved him off.

  Jenny shrugged. “That was true. I’m not going to vote.”

  “You should!” I said. “It’s irresponsible not to vote. Are you saying that you think Roger Wozniak would be a better mayor than Peter would?”

  “I’m saying that I’m comfortable letting my fellow citizens decide,” she said.

  “You can’t believe that,” I said. “And you certainly shouldn’t say it to a reporter!”

  “Avery,” she said, “I know this will be hard, perhaps even impossible, for you to grasp, but I don’t care about this election. At. All.”

  I took a breath. It had never been a wise strategy to tell Jenny what she could and couldn’t do. “Of course, you can do whatever you like,” I said. “But Jenny, it’s beneath you to be vindictive.”

  Jenny sighed. “You seem to think that I spend all my time obsessing over Peter,” she said. “Nothing could be further from the truth. I’m over Peter. I’m over Don. I’m over the sadness and the disappointment and the regret. I’ve done a lot of therapy to get to that point. I’ve made the choice to put my energy into my art and my mother and my friends. I’ve let go of the rest.”

  “Can you promise not to say anything negative about Peter in the press
?” I said.

  “Yes,” said Jenny. “Is that what you came for?”

  “No,” I said. “I came to tell you how much I liked the exhibit.”

  “You didn’t see it,” said Jenny.

  “Of course I did,” I said.

  “No,” said Jenny. “You didn’t. And I know that because my pictures were all hanging in different rooms.”

  “Oh God,” I said. Shame washed through me. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Jenny. I was going to see the show. I was. I swear.”

  “I’m not angry,” said Jenny. “But I do have another appointment.” She rose.

  “Jenny, sit down,” I said. “We haven’t even ordered! Please. Let’s talk this through.”

  Jenny shook her head. “It’s time to let this go, too,” she said.

  {CHAPTER 19}

  Wednesday, July 19, 2017

  It’s early when all the phones in the house start ringing. The landline, both of my cellphones (personal and work), and even more ominously, Matt’s cellphone as well.

  “Jesus Christ,” says Matt. “You need a new job.”

  He picks up his phone and leaves the room while I answer the landline. It’s Bonnie. “Have you seen the news?” she says.

  “It’s five o’clock in the morning, Bonnie,” I say. “No, I haven’t.”

  “Turn on the television and meet Peter at the office as soon as you can get there,” she says. I look at my phone and see two missed calls, both from Aidan Clarke, everyone’s favourite city beat reporter.

  Matt’s returned to the bedroom and is fiddling with the remotes. “That was Will. There’s a problem at your office.”

  “Mayor Peter Haines was questioned by police last night in connection with an alleged prostitution ring,” says the voice of the news anchor.

  “What the fuck!” I shout, kicking off the covers and half-falling out of bed.

  “We go now to Aidan Clarke, our city hall reporter, for details on the incident,” says the news anchor. “Aidan?”

  “Thank you, Pam,” says Aidan. “We don’t have many details on this story as yet, but I can confirm that the mayor, Peter Haines, spent several hours at police headquarters in the early hours of this morning. We are told that he is not under arrest and has been cooperating fully with police inquiries relating to an alleged prostitution ring. The mayor exited the building several minutes ago, and made no comment to reporters. We will be following up on this story throughout the day and will provide you with updates as soon as they are available.”

  The footage shows Peter, tousled and furious, leaving police headquarters, where only last week he stood at a podium and announced a new project to redirect at-risk youth away from gang activity, and getting into a car with tinted windows.

  “Will said that it has something to do with one of your developers,” says Matt. “Adam Rothstein?”

  “Rothman,” I say. “What about him? And why would Will know anything about this? Why would he know about it before I did? Why didn’t Peter call me hours ago?”

  “I don’t know anything more than I just told you,” says Matt. “As for Will, he’s crazy connected and knows everything, and his family owns some piece of a news outlet, and he doesn’t sleep much. And as for Peter, you can probably guess why he didn’t call you better than I can.”

  “I’m his chief of staff,” I say, throwing on clothes. “He tells me everything. He trusts me.”

  “Avery,” says Matt. He puts a hand on each of my shoulders, halting my frantic activity for a moment. “Listen to me. This is important. Whatever Peter has done—”

  “Which may be nothing,” I say.

  “—it isn’t your fault. You aren’t Peter’s keeper.”

  “I am his keeper,” I say. “That’s exactly what I am. That’s my job.”

  “You might want to rethink that,” says Matt. “But for now, I’m telling you that Peter is going to be in damage-control mode. You need to have your wits about you. You don’t want to get caught in the crossfire.”

  “I don’t even know what you’re saying right now,” I say. “I need to get to the office and figure out what’s going on.”

  “I’ll drive you,” he says.

  We head out into the semi-darkness. It’s surprisingly warm already, and the sun is coming up. The streets are empty. But not at city hall. At city hall there are media trucks setting up tents and spotlights.

  “My God,” I say.

  “Call Bonnie and tell her to have security let you in the door in the laneway,” says Matt.

  I do. We pull into the lane and wait until a crack of light appears as the security door opens. Matt flashes his headlights as if we are in a spy movie. “Wait,” he says as I unbuckle my seat belt.

  I turn to him, distracted, already inside the building in my mind.

  “When this is over, I’ll still be here,” he says. “Remember that. I’m the one who’s going to be here.”

  “Hopefully, we’ll all still be here,” I say.

  Matt pats my hand. “Good luck in there,” he says.

  I slip into the darkened lobby and follow the security guard up to the mayor’s office.

  “You’re here,” says Bonnie.

  “Why didn’t you call me earlier?”

  “It was Peter’s decision not to,” says Bonnie. She doesn’t meet my eye.

  “What is going on, exactly?”

  “There was a misunderstanding. We are hopeful that it will all be resolved quickly.”

  “What sort of misunderstanding?”

  “Peter had dinner last night with Mr. Rothman at his private club, at Mr. Rothman’s request. It was a business dinner. Over the course of the meal, police arrived at the club and began arresting some of the patrons.”

  “What sort of club are we talking about here?”

  “A gentleman’s club,” says Bonnie.

  “Are we talking about a sex club?” I say.

  “No,” says Peter from behind me. I jump.

  “Let’s go into your office,” I say.

  I sit down on the couch and wait for Peter to close the door. It feels wrong to have this conversation across the mayor’s desk, as if this were official business. Peter sits down in an armchair and waits for me to speak.

  “Tell me what I need to know,” I say.

  “Adam invited me for dinner to discuss the waterfront. He suggested that we meet at his club. We met in the dining room. We had a private booth. The prime rib was excellent.”

  “Peter,” I say. “Spare me the menu, please.”

  “Around ten o’clock, there was a commotion at the entrance. We were in the back of the restaurant, so it was hard to see exactly what was happening. Adam got up to investigate and he didn’t come back. I stayed in the booth. A few minutes later, an officer approached my table and advised me that a number of guests were being arrested in connection with criminal activities occurring in the building. I was asked to come to headquarters voluntarily and assist with police inquiries. I did.”

  “What were the other activities?”

  “It now appears that the club offered other amenities.”

  “Sexual amenities?”

  “Apparently,” says Peter. “I have no direct knowledge about that.”

  “You were in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

  “Yes,” says Peter.

  “Is that what happened with Melanie, too?”

  “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Avery,” says Peter.

  “Are you kidding me, Peter?” I say. “I am killing myself trying to help you create your legacy, and you, as it turns out, are fucking interns and having dinner at sex clubs. Sorry, I mean accidentally having dinner at sex clubs. I’m in the office at the crack of dawn trying to figure out how a man as smart as you are has managed to wade into so much shit. I’m entitled to a little sarcasm.”

  Peter moves over to sit beside me on the couch. “I’m sorry, Avery. This is an incredibly unpleasant situation, and I hate that you’ve been dragged into it.�
�

  “Peter,” I say. I sound tired, and wary. “This could hurt us.”

  “I know,” he says. “And I know you’re angry. But I need your help.”

  There’s a sharp knock at the door. Bonnie steps in without waiting for Peter to answer. This is a day full of dark portents, it seems.

  “There’s a lawsuit coming,” she says.

  “From the club?” I say. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Not from the club,” says Bonnie. “From Melanie Christie. We got a courtesy call just now. The lawyer is making a statement at nine o’clock. I got the sense, though, that we weren’t the only people who received advance notice.”

  “Wrongful dismissal?” says Peter.

  “Sexual harassment,” says Bonnie. “And wrongful dismissal, although that seems like a minor point in the scheme of things.” She looks at me. “You’re named in the lawsuit too, by the way.”

  I can’t sit here any longer. “I’m going to my office,” I say. “Tell me immediately if anyone calls from the press, or serves us with documents, or if the police show up here, or anything else remotely dramatic happens. Otherwise, please leave me alone for half an hour. In the meantime, Peter, figure out what lawyer we need and call him. I’m working on the PR strategy.”

  Bonnie gives me exactly fifteen minutes, and then my phone starts ringing.

  “A friend to women?” says Doris Renaud, her voice crackling with rage over the phone. I hold it away from my ear. “I’m holding you responsible for what happened to this innocent young intern. Not to mention that the mayor was found in a sex club last night. You said women could trust Peter Haines. You must have known that he was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. It’s disgusting.”

  “The mayor will be addressing the allegations this afternoon,” I say. “Please wait to hear from him before you pass judgment.”

  “That ship has sailed,” says Doris. “The man is a sexual predator. The idea, the idea, that WAFADASS put its support behind him makes me sick to my stomach. Our women’s shelter was nothing more than a convenient disguise for him. Feminism is a sword, not a shield. Peter Haines used us, and he’ll pay the price.”