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Lucy Meyer was in Washington with Arnie at the moment, but Alexia wondered if she could persuade her friend to fly out and join her? It wasn’t as if Lucy had a job or any real commitments at home, especially now, with Summer away. How wonderful it would be to talk to Lucy, with no husbands or children around to distract them!
The two women had spoken by phone about Michael’s accident. Unlike the rest of the world, Lucy had understood instinctively why Alexia had to work afterward. Why she had to keep going. Why she couldn’t break down and be the weak, hair-tearing mother the British public seemed to demand she be. Alexia had even confided in Lucy about Jenny Hamlin’s murder, and her fears of being the target of some sort of bizarre conspiracy, some nameless evil that she couldn’t put her finger on. Colleagues would have laughed, or thought she was losing her mind. But Lucy didn’t judge her, any more than she had judged her when Alexia told her about her dark past. She simply listened, as silent and patient and unchanging as a stone.
Teddy loved her. But he didn’t know her the way that Lucy Meyer did. With Lucy—only with Lucy—Alexia could let go completely and be herself. That was what she needed, now more than ever.
Alexia’s soup had grown cold. She asked for the bill. She had a Select Committee meeting at two-thirty and a vote at four. After that she would go home and sleep. Then she would call Lucy, arrange to take this break that everyone seemed to want her to.
It will be all right, she told herself. It will all be all right.
“Forget it, mate. That’s my spot.”
The burly photographer pushed his colleague out of the prime position on Cheyne Walk, directly opposite Alexia De Vere’s house.
“Says who?”
“Says me. I’ve been ’ere since ten o’clock this morning. I only nipped over the road for a packet of fags.”
“That’s your problem.”
As the two men noisily fought out their turf war, a growing crowd of protesters lined up along the home secretary’s Chelsea Street house, waving placards imprinted with Sanjay Patel’s face. So far the anniversary of Patel’s death had been a subdued affair. The dead man’s supporters were being respectful of the police line keeping them twelve feet back from the De Veres’ property, even though it was only marked with tape. But as afternoon turned to evening, the chants of “No Regrets, No Reelection” and “De Vere OUT!” grew louder and less good-natured. The home secretary was due home any minute. Despite the presence of both police and television crews, the potential for violent confrontation hung in the air like a rotten smell.
In the middle of the crowd, Gilbert Drake said a silent prayer.
May it be as Isaiah said: “I will punish the wicked for their iniquity. I will cause the arrogance of the proud to cease, and lay low the haughtiness of the terrible.”
Alexia De Vere’s son might be on life support, but that wasn’t punishment enough for the suffering she’d caused poor Sanjay, and so many others. All Alexia De Vere cared about, all she had ever cared about, was herself, her own self-serving, godless life. That was what she had to lose.
An eye for an eye.
Beneath his parka, Gilbert Drake lovingly fingered the cold metal of his gun.
Henry Whitman was on his private line.
“How many of them are out there?”
“About fifty or sixty, Prime Minister.”
“Is that enough? It doesn’t sound like much of a crowd.”
“It’s enough.”
“So we’re a go?”
The voice on the other end of the line sounded amused.
“That’s up to you, Henry. You’re the boss, remember?”
Henry Whitman closed his eyes and made a decision.
“I don’t like it, Alexia. I don’t like it at all.” Teddy De Vere’s voice was full of concern. “I saw some of them on the television earlier and they looked distinctly aggressive. Can’t you come back here tonight, to Kingsmere?”
In the back of her ministerial car, Alexia pressed the phone to her ear, trying to conjure up Teddy’s presence, the comfort of his arms. I must spend more time with him. Lean on him again like I used to. Her committee meeting had dragged on longer than expected—didn’t they always?—and the vote was interminable. The brief peace she’d felt at lunchtime, planning her escape with Lucy Meyer, was all gone now. She wished Teddy were with her. But the thought of schlepping all the way out to Oxfordshire, not reaching her bed till ten or eleven at night, made her want to cry.
“I truly can’t, Teddy. I’m exhausted. Anyway, Edward’s briefed me, there are plenty of police at the house. If things get rowdy, they’ll simply clear people out.”
“Why risk it, though, my darling? You can sleep in the car if you’re tired. Please come down, Alexia. I miss you.”
“I miss you too.” Changing the subject, Alexia said, “I’ve been thinking of taking some holiday.”
