But Tab was too mature to quibble about that. ‘Léonie asked to see me. She wanted to talk.’ He shrugged. ‘It would have been unkind to refuse.’
‘What did she want?’
‘To resume our affair. I said no, of course. But I tried to be gentle.’
‘So that’s what I saw. You being gentle.’
‘I can’t honestly say I regret that. But I sure as hell regret not telling you everything beforehand. Too late now.’
‘Did she say she loved you?’
He hesitated. ‘I’ll tell you anything,’ he said. ‘But are you sure you want me to answer that?’
‘Oh, God,’ she said. ‘You’re so decent you should have a fucking halo.’
He chuckled. ‘Even when you’re breaking up with me, you can make me laugh.’
‘I’m not breaking up with you,’ she said, and she felt warm tears on her face. ‘I love you too much.’
He reached across and took her hands. ‘I love you, too,’ he said. ‘In case you haven’t already guessed. In fact –’ He paused. ‘Look, you and I have both loved people before. But I’d like you to know that I have never felt this way about anyone. Never. Ever.’
‘Would you just come here and hug me?’
He did as she asked and she held him hard.
She said: ‘Don’t scare me like that again, okay?’
‘I swear to God.’
‘Thank you.’
CHAPTER 13
Saturday was not a day off for the American president, but it was different from other days. The White House was a little quieter than usual, and the phone did not ring quite so often. Pauline welcomed the chance to deal with documents that demanded time and concentration: long international reports from the State Department, pages of tax numbers from the Treasury, technical specifications for billion-dollar weapons systems from the Pentagon. Late on Saturday afternoons she liked to work in the Treaty Room, an elegant traditional space in the Residence, much older than the Oval Office. She sat at Ulysses Grant’s massive Treaty Table, with the tall grandfather clock ticking loudly over her shoulder, like the spirit of a previous president reminding her that there was not much time for all she wanted to do.
But she was never alone for very long, and today her peace was interrupted by Jacqueline Brody, her Chief of Staff. Jacqueline laughed a lot and never seemed tense, but she had a steel core. Her thin, muscular body came from a disciplined combination of strict diet and regular hard workouts. She was a divorcee with grown-up children, and seemed to have no romantic life, indeed no life at all outside the White House.
Jacqueline sat down and said: ‘Ben Riley came to see me this morning.’
Benedict Riley was Director of the Secret Service, the agency responsible for bodyguarding the president and other senior figures thought to be at risk. Pauline said: ‘What did Ben have to say?’
‘The people guarding the vice-president have reported a problem.’
Pauline took off her reading glasses and put them down on the ancient table. She sighed. ‘Go on.’
‘They think Milt is having an affair.’
Pauline gave a so-what shrug. ‘He’s a single man, I guess he’s entitled. It doesn’t sound like a problem. Who’s he sleeping with?’
‘That’s the problem. Her name is Rita Cross, and she’s sixteen.’
‘Oh, fuck.’
‘Exactly.’
‘How the hell old is Milt?’
‘Sixty-two.’
‘Dear Christ, he ought to know better.’
‘The age of consent is sixteen in DC, so at least he’s not committing a crime.’
‘But still . . .’
‘I know.’
Pauline suffered an unpleasant vision of the portly Milt on top of a slender teenager. She shook her head to get rid of it. ‘She’s not – Milt doesn’t pay her for sex, does he?’
‘Not exactly . . .’
‘What does that mean?’
‘He gives her presents.’
‘Such as?’
‘He bought her a ten-thousand-dollar bicycle.’
‘Oh, dear. This is bad. I can just see it in the New York fucking Mail. Could Milt be persuaded to end the relationship, I wonder?’
‘Probably not: Milt’s bodyguards say he’s infatuated. But I doubt if it would help. One way or another she’ll probably end up selling her story.’
‘So a scandal is more or less inevitable.’
‘And that could happen early next year, just as the primaries are starting.’