by Mary Whitney
“Do you have any idea what the results might be?”
“He’s been in a lot of pain, so that might mean something bad.” Mum shook her head. “It’s better for me if I don’t try to guess.”
“I can understand that.” I didn’t want to guess the worst either. Pushing back my empty plate, I announced, “I’m tired, Mum. You must be as well. Let’s get to bed.”
The following morning, I let Dad hold my arm as we made our way into his oncologist’s office. The pain and exhaustion had crippled him so much that he normally used a walker. I think he wanted to use a walking stick to put up a front for me, but he still gladly took my arm.
The news from the oncologist was grim. The cancer had spread past the pancreas and lymph nodes into his stomach. It was only a touch, but the cancer had become more aggressive. “So we will be more aggressive with our treatment,” the doctor responded in kind. Mum and Dad found that reassuring, but I kept my mouth shut. It sounded like a bunch of medical spin to me.
In the house, it was a surreal dynamic. Everyone spoke matter-of-factly about the cancer like it wasn’t going to eventually lead to Dad’s demise. We all talked about his illness as if he had a nasty sinus infection, which the doctors were working their hardest to control but couldn’t quite pinpoint the allergen. Even when Dad was down for a nap and not listening, Mum kept a stiff upper lip, always being resolute and upbeat as she made her round of calls to Sylvia and the rest of the family. The house was a living, modern example of the propaganda “Keep Calm and Carry On.”
Dad and I fell into our normal routine of watching football together when I was at home. During the highlights of the match between Spurs and Arsenal, he announced, “I see Nicki Johnson on the TV almost every day. She’s a clever girl—quite lovely looking, too. She’s very accomplished to be working in the White House.”
My conversation with Nicki the day before came back to me. Blanquita. I wondered if Juan Carlos’s father gave a toss if Nicki worked in the White House. He probably liked her simply because she was pleasant and loved his son.
I turned from the TV to see Dad staring at me, awaiting my response. I kept it short. “She is.”
“Whatever was it that happened between you two?”
No doubt the cancer and the drugs had muddled his mind. Had he really forgotten? Or did he want to forget?
An old jumper that had fit him well his entire life was now baggy on his shoulders. He seemed so gaunt and fragile. Who was I, then, to question the motives of a dying man? I muttered, “We were too young. We lived too far apart.”
“Well, neither of those is true anymore.” He turned his attention back to the match.
Late that night, I was reading in bed in my old room, which Mum had partially converted into a storage room. There wasn’t much left in it that was mine, but the space still felt like home.
Long past the workday, even in DC, I was surprised when my phone rang. Then I saw the name that I’d entered into my contacts just the day before. My heart leapt. I had to control the excitement in my voice as I answered, “Well, hello, Nicki.”
“Hi, Adam. I hope I’m not calling too late.”
“Not at all. It’s good to hear from you.”
“I’m sorry it’s so late. It was a long day, but I wanted to see how you’re doing.”
“I’m fine. How are you?”
“Oh, you know.” She laughed. “You’ve probably read what I was working on today.”
“Indeed, I have. Logan has received great press.”
“It’s been an amazing day. Nigeria is fascinating, and the visit has gone really smoothly so far. There’s a great American grad student helping us with logistics. She’s here doing research for her dissertation on the Nigerian government. Her name is Funmbi. She’s a big fan of yours, by the way. She asked me if you were traveling with us.”
“Is that why you’re calling me?” I chuckled.
“If I spent my time informing you about all your legions of female fans, I wouldn’t be able to get my work done.”
“Rubbish.”
Then all the sarcasm left her voice. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” Worried that I sounded like an arse, I added, “Don’t misunderstand me. I’m happy that you called.”
“I know what it’s like to be with someone who’s really sick. You may not know this, but I went and lived with my grandmother when she had cancer…before she died. So when you told me you were seeing your dad, I was worried about you.”
She garbled the last part so badly that I could barely understand it. But when I did, I smiled and ran my hand through my hair, absorbing the moment. Nicki had called me because she was worried about me. I was elated but also melancholy. It was incredibly kind that she was concerned how I was doing around my dying father, but it also brought home the seriousness of Dad’s condition—not to mention I wanted her to call because of me, not my dad.
“That’s nice of you,” I said. “It’s been a rough day.”
“I’m so sorry. Is Felicity there?”
“Er. No.” I looked over at an old Liverpool poster behind where Dad’s walker now stood. I’d never thought to ask Felicity to come to Cambridge. This was a part of me where she was not invited. “Why do you ask?”
“I was just wondering. I thought she might be able to help.”
Was Nicki jealous? I hoped she was. I’d talk up Felicity in that event. At the very least, Felicity could shield my pride against Juan Carlos.
“No,” I said. “She’s in London working. I’ll see her before I leave.” Usually when I was in London, I did more with Felicity than just see her—I wasn’t a monk for Christ’s sake—but this was a short trip, and I owed Felicity a call…or two. The truth was, I’d become even less interested in her since Nicki had come back on the scene.
Nicki seemed to perk up, however, as she said, “So tell me what’s going on.”
For the next hour, we talked about Dad. Until that conversation, I hadn’t told anyone outside my family as much as I told her. I ended up giving Nicki more information than I’d even told David. I gave her the details that were the hardest for me to utter aloud—like how Dad was so riddled with pain that his hand shook while he popped another pill to quell it or how he was literally shrinking before my eyes as his body deteriorated. She listened to everything and was both helpful and understanding of all I was going through.
And somewhere along the way, the conversation shifted to everyday life and became lighter. She teased me, saying I didn’t curse like I used to, which had the effect of me then saying “fuck” about ten times. I was so engrossed in our discussion that I looked at the clock twice when I noticed it was two in the morning.
Reluctantly, I said, “Nicki, I’m so sorry. I’ve been talking your ear off, and I didn’t notice the time.” I then remembered my place. “You probably want to call Juan Carlos.”
“No. I already talked to him earlier today. He’s on a cross-country flight tonight.”
I smiled to myself, thinking that Nicki spoke with me last before going to bed. Had she saved the conversation? Did she know it would run late?
She continued, “But I should go to sleep. I’m not getting much of it these days.”
“Well, thank you for calling…and listening. I really appreciate it.”
“Don’t thank me. I wanted to.”
A warm feeling came over me. I didn’t want it to end, but I knew it had to. “I suppose I’ll talk to you in a few days when we’re back in DC.”
“No, I’ll check in with you tomorrow. Night, Adam.”
Before I could even comprehend what she had said, she hung up. I spent the next day wondering what it might mean that she’d reached out to me like she had. I also watched the clock, waiting for nightfall and hoping that she would phone again.
She rang me that night and then the next two nights. I dutifully updated her on Dad’s health, during which she was a great emotional support, bu
t that was only a fraction of the time on the calls. Most of our conversation concerned our lives, our work, and what was going on in the world. We avoided uncomfortable topics from our past and instead stayed in the present, where we could tease each other and laugh.
My last night in Cambridge, it was in the wee hours of the morning when I realized this was most likely the last long talk I’d have with her. We’d both be back in DC the following night. With Juan Carlos around, there was no way she’d be calling me before bed. Seeing the clock, I begrudgingly said, “It’s quite late, Nicki. You need to get to bed.”
“It’s okay. I’m in bed.”
An image of Nicki under the covers popped in my mind. “Are you now?”
“Of course. It’s after three.”
“You’re in bed.” A wisp of a memory floated through my mind. There was Nicki lying on her mattress, wearing cotton knickers with little flowers. I spoke my thoughts aloud. “Now, that’s something I’d like to see…again.”
“Uh…it’s not very exciting. I’m staying at the Lagos Sheraton. I might as well be in Phoenix.”
“What are you wearing?”
“A T-shirt.”
I felt David channeling through me. “Anything else?”
“Adam…” she playfully admonished me.
“You can’t blame me for trying.”
When she was quiet on the line, I seized the moment to finally say what I felt. “Nicki…you must know by now how much you mean to me. I adore you. I always have.”
The line remained silent, and I braced for the worst. After a moment, she softly declared, “And you mean…the world to me, Adam, but I don’t know if…and then there’s…” She sighed. “We should probably have this conversation in person.”
“Probably so.”
“I want you to know our talks have been the highlight of my trip.”
“Mine, too.”
Our declarations hung in the air. Eventually, she sighed again. “I should go now. Good night. Have a safe trip back home.”
“I’d tell you to have a safe trip, but I think Air Force One is pretty secure.”
“That’s true. It’s the only time I’m not scared at all to be on a plane.”
“Well, go get some sleep…in your T-shirt and what little else you’re wearing.”
“Adam…” She giggled.
“Oh, don’t mind me.” I snickered. “Good night. We can talk next week.”
After placing the phone back on the bedside table, I put my arms underneath my head on the pillow. Staring at the ceiling, I smiled.
I believe I’ve made some progress.
The next morning, I headed into BBC TV Centre in London for a few quick meetings before my flight that afternoon. As I was walking down the hall to visit one of the higher-ups, I heard a call from behind.
“Oh, Adam!”
I turned to the voice. There was Felicity—statuesque, stunning with her green eyes and fair skin, and always conniving.
“Hello, Felicity,” I said.
Her tone lowered as she sauntered over. “Why haven’t you called me?”
“Busy. Sorry about that.”
“So Mr. White House Correspondent is too busy. Is it the glamour of it all that’s kept you away?”
Felicity really could be a pain in the arse, but usually her looks and other talents made up for it. That day, though, I saw nothing redeeming about her. “I’ve been in Cambridge with my father. Not really the glamorous life.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Her expression became sympathetic, and she touched my arm. “Do you ever want me to drop by and help?”
“Thank you, but sadly there’s not much to do.”
“Come, come,” she said, waving me toward her office down the hall. “We should talk.”
Good God. Whenever a woman said, “We should talk,” a bloke was in for it. Yet I couldn’t say no. I’d kept her in the dark for weeks now.
“All right,” I said. “Though I don’t have much time.”
She sauntered ahead of me, saying, “We’ve done amazing things before in a short period of time.”
Flashes of late-night sex in a dark closet—or on my desk or in her car—came to mind. We hadn’t exactly had a deep relationship since I’d left England, but I followed her along all the same. When we arrived in her exquisitely decorated office, I sat down on her sofa. If only I could have sunk further into the throw pillows to cushion the beating I was sure to get.
After she shut the door and, with a flick of her wrist, closed her blinds, she took her seat opposite me on the sofa. Crossing her long legs, she patted my knee. “There, now. It’s been too long.”
“Not so long,” I said, racking my brain trying to remember the last time we’d shagged. November?
“Long enough,” she said with a toss of her hair.
“Sorry about that,” I mumbled.
“Have you been giving me the silent treatment?” She eyed me like I was a junior government official standing in between her and an interview with the prime minister.
“Of course not.” It was the truth. My silence hadn’t been intentional, just a byproduct of my lack of interest in her now that Nicki was around.
The corners of her mouth set into a prim line. She must’ve had more to say on the subject, but she stopped herself. We’d had a long-standing agreement not to delve into each other’s private lives so as not to spoil our time together. I prayed she would continue to honor our pact.
Slowly, she conjured up a superficial smile, which was, no doubt, more comfortable for both of us. “So tell me all about Washington with a new president. It must be so exciting.”
I scratched my head. “I don’t know if I’d call it exciting. It’s certainly interesting.”
“And are you enjoying being at the White House?”
“It’s nice to be in the middle of it all. Getting to know the new administration from the inside. I like that.”
“But I heard that you actually know one of Logan’s staffers. What’s her name? Nicole Johnson? The mousy one.”
I blinked once—the only discernible sign that Felicity had hit upon something. “Yes, we were school chums.”
“How is it that you were school chums with an American?”
“I told you I spent time in the States when I was a teenager. My father worked there for a bit.”
“I know, but I always imagined you at a posh private school, not in class with the hoi polloi.” She tipped her head, remembering. “You’d mentioned you’d had a girlfriend.”
“I dated a few girls.”
“One wasn’t Nicole Johnson, was it?” Her expression became aghast. “I wouldn’t think you’d have been friends with someone like her.”
Ignoring her actual question, I actually welcomed Felicity’s hostility because it was so plainly rooted in her snobbery, which was a continuing row of ours. We’d had plenty of conversations where I had taken her down a notch. Even though Nicki was at the center of this one, there was nothing out of the ordinary about it, so I could speak freely. “What do you mean ‘like her’? She’s quite clever, you know.”
“Oh, I’m sure she’s bright in her own way.”
“Felicity…really. Nicole Johnson is very well-respected and a close aid of the president of the United States.”
She looked down at the lapel of her jacket and smoothed the worsted wool as if she were speaking absentmindedly, which she clearly was not. “I know I’m a bit harsh. She’s just so different. I think there’s something manly about her, and her accent is just so jarring. What sort of people does she come from?”
“Her father is a barrister, and I believe her mother is a lawyer of some sort as well. There was nothing odd about them at all.” I checked my watch, sensing an opportunity. “I really should run.”
“No, not yet,” she said, resting her hand on my thigh.
“Fel…”
“Just a moment. I have an idea.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ll
be in Washington in a few weeks, doing some research on a story.”
“Really?”
“I’ll be there for the White House Correspondents’ Dinner, then.” She raised her eyebrows expectantly. “You should take me as your plus-one.”
Fuck. She was the last person I wanted to take on a date. “I’m not sure if I’m going.”
“Rubbish. Of course you are. Why would you miss it?”
I scowled. I’d already thought of the dinner, and I knew I didn’t want to attend. I didn’t want to see Nicki on Juan Carlos’s arm.
“I may have plans. It’s not my sort of thing, really.” Just in case Felicity planned on crashing at my place while she was in town, I added, “My cousin David will probably be visiting regardless.”
“What does he have to do with this dinner? You go every year.” She then tugged at my tie suggestively. “And this year, I’m in town, so you’ll take me.”
When I shook my head, she switched her tune. Now smoothing my tie, which she’d ruffled, she had an equally soothing voice, “Don’t worry. I’ll let you and David have your lad time together, and you and I can be friends. Just as you are with all your female friends.”
“Goodbye, Felicity,” I said, quickly standing up. “We can talk about it later.”
“See you soon, Adam,” she said with a sly smile. She opened the door with one hand while still lounging on the sofa.
I fled her office, saying under my breath, “Yes, soon.”
After that, I was in a terrible mood, yet I had a big meeting. One of my bosses, George Kent, who’d always been helpful to me in my career, called me into his office. I wasn’t sure what he wanted, so I started with another friendly thank-you.
“Kent, I want to thank you again for agreeing to let me work the White House post. It’s been very rewarding.”
Kent was a shrewd, seasoned man who held his cards close to his chest. When he did speak, his words were chosen so carefully, you knew he meant them. And I never knew him to be wrong. He fiddled with his tie and said, “Well, you know I was reluctant. Whilst I admit we miss your supervision of the Washington office, your reporting has been stellar. There’s something to your stories—they have a very nice narrative to them.”
