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She’s a reporter for Channel Five. I’m not sure at what point she began screwing my father. Perhaps while she was still covering the campaign. Although I’ve been told nothing by him, it’s reached my ears that Helena has become a frequent visitor all hours of the day. And night.
Helena Dixon pats long strands of brown hair back into place. Recently I looked up her bio and discovered she’s the daughter of a scream queen actress. She’s also just two years older than I am.
She shoots a rather annoyed look at the disapproval on my face. “Aren’t you supposed to be handling some meetings for your father?”
Someone ought to tell her that a middle button is open on her blouse. Won’t be me.
I don’t bother to sound too friendly. “I wasn’t aware that I’m now required to run my daily itinerary past you.”
Judging by the flare in Helena’s eyes, I could swear she’d like to stab me for that.
Yet here comes her glamour girl smile again. “It’s just that your father mentioned he didn’t expect to see you here today.”
I don’t smile back. “I see.”
Our conversations are always like this; short, unpleasant and passive aggressive. In the beginning I couldn’t put my finger on why she gets under my skin. I’m long past the age where I’d be bothered if my father had a girlfriend. But there’s just a false, calculating quality about this one.
She reminds me of…
Olivia.
That’s probably unfair.
What are the odds that my father would find a second acid-wielding homicidal psycho?
I doubt they are very high.
In any case, I’m not above basic pettiness. Which is why I dig around in my purse and locate a tin of chalky peppermints.
“Here.” I press them into her palm. “I’m sure you need these more than I do.”
Content with taking the last word, I sidestep her and rap loudly on my father’s door.
He bellows from within, sounding overly cheerful. “Still open, doll face. Just watching our latest hit.”
I hold back a gag and push the door open. “It’s not doll face. It’s me.”
He’s leaning all the way back in the four thousand dollar desk chair that was a customized special order and upholstered in the most expensive buttery leather available. I tried to warn him that such luxuries on the taxpayer dime were unethical. He laughed at me.
He had been in the middle of watching a video on his phone. I want to believe that I did not hear pornographic moaning but I’m pretty sure I’m kidding myself. He abruptly cuts off the audio and drops the phone face down on his desk.
Instantly shifting his manner, he readjusts his chair and sits up straight. “Helps with the back pain.”
Sinking into the black wingback chair on the opposite side of his desk, I take note of my father’s disheveled appearance. His striped tie is loose and a smudge of lipstick streaks across his lower right jaw.
“I didn’t know you’d been having back pain, Dad.”
He drums his fingers on the desk and shifts his eyes to the window. “Old high school football injury.”
“How’s your blood pressure?”
“Depends.”
“Are you still taking your meds?”
“Sure.” He returns his gaze to me. “Thought you said you weren’t going to be in the office this afternoon.”
“The meetings wrapped up early. I had a long chat with Jamie Hiroto.”
