Sussex Drive: A Novel (27 page)

Lt.-Colonel Aisha K.:
War does not make sense.

The Chair:
Thirty seconds, Mr. Hedge.

Hon. Bibbo Hedge:
The last time I heard testimony like this in Special Committee was—

The Chair:
I’m going to make an executive decision here. Let’s break for lunch.

April 2009
 

17
 

A
PRIL WAS THE CRUELLEST MONTH
and therefore optimal for a G20 in London—hosted by British PM Gordon Brown and his wife, Sarah. They were Labour. Becky and Greg had been chauffeured in the early morning English gloom, past baton-waving Met police and frazzled cherry blossoms, to the conference site at Docklands, where Becky would make sweet and Greg would rub brains and elbows with Angela Merkel, Cristina Fernández de Kirchner, Nicolas Sarkozy and others, including that rabid Kevin Rudd and American newbie and infidel Barack Hussein Obama, still on his global honeymoon. As fate would have it, as soon as Greg had tactically bolted to the reception area washroom, Becky bumped into the
FLOTUS
.

“Becky!” said Michelle Obama, as if they were sorority sisters.

“Michelle!” Becky had to look up to her—everybody did, because the First Lady was Tall. And clearly extremely
intelligent—a lawyer, after all. Harvard. And a proactively parenting Chicago mom, which made her cunning. Yet dressed in a poodle skirt, peasant blouse and Crayola pink cardigan, she resembled the teacher, super-sized, on
Magic School Bus
.

Plain Sarah Brown, her name an onomatopoeia, sashayed between them, resting a cold hand on Becky’s shoulder. “Meesh,” she said to Michelle. “I see you’ve met Becky.”

Michelle smiled graciously. “Heya, Sarah. Yeah.”

“If our countries, Meesh, the U.S. and Britain, have this so-called ‘special relationship,’ how would you characterize relations between you and Canada?”

“That’s easy,” said the
POTUS
, playfully inserting himself into the troika. “Friends with benefits!” With a huge grin at Becky, Barack slid his arm around Michelle’s waist.

“Barack, you’re bad.” Michelle mock-tapped his wrist.

“Becky, am I right?” said
POTUS
.

On the spot, Becky thumped her purse against her thigh. “Hell, yeah! And this friend would like to bend your ears about the pluses of Canadian oil sands!”

Chuckles ensued. Becky laughed along, making sure she lasted the longest, while Sarah Brown fussed and gathered the other First Ladies (and the bemusedly lost “First Laddies,” spouses of the female leaders) to talk about security and the escalating G20 riot.

In the distance, she saw that Greg had returned to their VIP area, but he seemed to be avoiding her gaze.

The truth was, Greg had been avoiding
her
for months. He hadn’t spoken to her, privately, since the prorogation. They hadn’t spoken to each other publicly either, unless there was a teacher summit, kid’s birthday or Valentine’s Day photo op when she baked a smiley heart cake she wanted to crush and schmear in his face. He’d been outraged at the December negotiation with the Governor General, that Lise and her rogue son had threatening intelligence on their daughter. There hadn’t been a whit of gratitude for her extraordinary efforts around the constitutional crisis or the deliverance she dealt up to him with her own family values on a platter with her soul. His mood was generally irascible, and had seeped into the civil service, the ministries, the culture, the very warped woof of Ottawa, the texture of the snowflakes, the sharpness of the knifelike icicles, the march of pedestrians with their malevolent shoulders, and more. She’d felt the chill enshroud her from the PMO to the PCO, from the Parliamentary Library to the Rideau Mall parking garage to the Beaver Tails stall at the ByWard Market.

As a result, all that Becky thought about was her upcoming meeting with Nina Madrigal, Greg’s first love. For it was on the following week. In Ottawa, mind you. Becky had thought about the enigma of Nina so often, replaying her conversation with Alice Nanton on that fateful day late last November, that she felt as if she were embarking upon an affair.

But first, the G20. On the London Eye, Becky was trapped with Svetlana Medvedeva. (Becky kept all appendages
folded, crossed, tucked and intensely Kegeled; any Russian in London made her nervous after the radiant death of their ex-KGB guy.) She survived.

Then there was the visit to the Royal Albert Hall for a concert predictably performed by choirs from alternative schools (“Jerusalem,” “It’s a Small World,” “That Sheep May Safely Graze” and “Stronger” by Kanye West, more of a poke than a nod to the African-American First Lady, and completely inappropriate). Trust Labour!

That evening, Becky attended the First Lady event at Number 11 Downing Street while Greg dined next door (working dinner) at Number 10. The theme was “Your Art is Your Life, Your Life is Your Art,” and Sarah Brown was slightly apologetic when she confessed that the epigram originated from Henri Matisse, a non-Brit. “However, we’re all artists,” she declared. “Brilliant!”

Before dinner, the First Ladies toured Number 10. It was massive, with more than a hundred rooms, including apartments, parlours, nanny cave, Jacuzzi, private garden, nuclear bunker, and an empire that expanded into Numbers 11 and 12. Well-meaning Sarah Brown had done her decorating best, pointing out where she’d moved a Gainsborough hither, a Turner sunset thither.

Becky was seated next to the Children’s Book Author. She’d noticed that people who wrote children’s books were never called writers, they were called
authors
, while adult authors were simply
writers
. Their table also included two tiny spouses from countries whose first language was
anything but English, and Mrs. MI6, wife of Britain’s spy chief—which made social sense to Becky, because she knew that many of the spouses were married to former intelligence czars.

Becky was hyper-aware of the CBA’s works, a critically lauded, unusually lucrative series about a juvenile (delinquent) warlock fighting the Followers of Light, who finally saw the light himself but only after six volumes and the equivalent in billions of pounds. She’d found it heretical, anti-Christian rubbish, and had herself signed one of the petitions to have the books banned (burned!) in Canada.

Over the cherry port charlotte dessert, the CBA zeroed in. “So, Ms. Canada”—she pointed her fork—”why’s your man so keen on killing the Kyoto Protocol?”

“Oh, crumb,” Becky said.

“Why do you say that?”

“I have only one mission at the G20.”

“Which is?”

“To never talk politics.”

The CBA, an earnest activist, obviously didn’t hear. “I’ve been watching Canada very closely since he came to power, and the country’s gone totally wacko. You’ve abandoned
AIDS
initiatives in sub-Saharan Africa, slashed budgets, and told your provincial leaders to privatize medicine, water and education, and you’re inflating your military budget, and your surplus—that amazing buffer built by the previous administration—has been splurged on, quite frankly, cheap vote-bribing wanks.”

Becky stared across the daisy-and-rosebud-festooned table at the CBA. She was lithely starved, her hair swept up in a ponytail of preposterous ringlets, and she’d obviously been brainwashed by fellow lefty billionaire eccentrics. George Soros. Bill and Melinda Gates?

In the hush: “Canada’s really none of your
beeswax
,” Becky said.

“Pardon me?”

“I wonder you have the time to write,” Becky mused. “So many fac
-turds
, so little time.”

The CBA pushed away her Royal Wedgwood.

“Oh, look,” Becky misdirected, and pointed into the corridor, cluttered with yet another portrait of Winston, “there go the First Laddies.” The female leaders’ husbands were stealing away.

But the CBA launched into the plight of First Nations reserves. And the PM had loosened restrictions on food sanitation, with corporations policing themselves. How many have died from listeriosis? Did Becky know? Or care?

“Hey,” said Becky, “I think you’ve mistaken me for Svetlana. You know, Mrs. Medvedev? Over to our extreme right?”

Becky saw Sarah Brown glance their way. Even Meesh. Becky would have loved to take off her figurative gloves and attack the CBA for poisoning the precious minds of children with toxic literary magic, but she knew better. She’d been trained by American PR experts. So she blinked back a tear.

“You have children,” said the CBA, reading Becky’s mind, “do you not?”

And with that, Becky was impaled.

For Greg had been wooing her natural-born children away from her. Day by day, he’d slowly isolated her with tactical disses and invited their allegiance to Club Greg. She was home-schooling Pablo, so still had a maternal and elementary oar in there, but Peter was long gone from her reach, now on Ritalin for ADHD and unspecified issues, and his eyes were glassy, his answers to her clipped.

And her girl. Martha had become protectively close to her father, vetting his gospel rock opus and truly singing from his song sheet. She’d finally applied to colleges, but they were in Ottawa—U of O, Carleton—as her father had advised, so they could continue to create beautiful Christian art and together disseminate. Peter had become more attached to his older sister, a convert to the choir, perhaps because he was the only child not actively claimed by a parent.

“Adopted, are they not?” said the CBA.

“One,” Becky said, “is.”

“How do you sleep with a man who refuses to protect their future?”

Where was Becky’s hostess? Where was New Labour when a guest victim really needed them? Were they Labour or not?

The CBA had her in a chokehold. “A dissembler?”

Becky’s chin went wildly out of control. She set her jaw and covered her lower face with her hand. Mrs. MI6 passed a glass of port.

“A bully?”

Becky pushed down the noise climbing from her core into the elevator of her throat.

“How do you
sleep
?” the CBA demanded.

“You
bee
—” Becky began.

The CBA looked over Becky’s head with pure loathing.

“—
ach
,” Becky finished.