Secrets of a First Daughter (6 page)

“Morg, you weren't kidding
when you said I'd be blinded by the light. Those photographers took a million snaps a second.” Hannah plopped down into a leather bucket seat and managed to look cool as a cucumber in a leopard print dress topped with a leather jacket. We'd just boarded Air Force One, and the crush of press on the tarmac to see the First Family off on our United Kingdom trip had been intense.

“I warned you.” I'd decided on a pair of wide-legged slacks and a cute cutaway jacket for the photo op. The Office of Protocol had briefed us on the amount of media scrutiny we'd receive. Rumors that Prince Richard and I were an item had persisted since his visit to D.C. last month, and the gossip rags were in full swing. Luckily for Hannah, they didn't know the truth. For me, it became a real PITA—Pain in the Ass.

Hannah had barely sat down when she whipped out her cell phone and started hitting the buttons.

“Texting Prince Richard again?” I teased.

“You know it. He's at Balmoral right now, but he's ‘motoring down' and we'll meet up tomorrow.
Motoring down
…isn't that so cute and Britishy?” She sighed dreamily at the tiny keypad in her hand.

Yep, she had it bad.

We settled into the airplane stateroom reserved for the president's immediate family. The head steward offered Hannah and me the movie menu while he fixed us a snack. George was hanging with the Secret Service posse in their midcabin cubby. Mom was in the Executive Suite, a private room within the airplane's stateroom, confabbing with Humberto and a slew of State Department diplomats. Mom was hoping this trip, which came on the heels of her major success negotiating a nonproliferation treaty with the renegade African juntas last month, would solidify her international reputation as a key world leader. Though she'd never let on, I could tell she had a lot riding on this trip. Hopefully, I wouldn't add to her worries by messing anything up.

Hannah and I were still deciding which movie to watch when out on the tarmac, photographers and camera crews started going nuts again.

“What the—?” I couldn't believe my eyes. Out of the porthole window, Brittany Whittaker was sashaying up the gangplank and into the plane, followed by her dad, Senator Whittaker.

At the same moment, my mother emerged from her office in the Executive Suite. “I know, I know.” She held up her hand placatingly when she saw the thunder brewing on my face. “I don't want the Whittakers with us, either.”

“But,
Mom
!” I wailed.

“It's a political decision to bring Senator Whittaker to London. We're working on a bipartisan solution to the international nuclear proliferation treaties. I need him on the negotiation team. At the last minute he asked if he could bring Brittany along since her plans to spend fall break with her mother in Barbados fell through.”

“Wonder why,” Hannah muttered.

The door to the stateroom cabin opened, and Parker poked his head in. “Senator Whittaker's arrived,” he said.

“Ask Chet and his daughter to come in.”

“Can't you make them sit in the Press Pool?” I hissed. The Press Pool in the back of the plane was notoriously cramped and somewhat stinky as the plane lavatories were located back there.

“Don't think I didn't consider it,” Mom quipped. Then she composed herself, a “presidential” expression on her
face. “Chet, welcome aboard.”

Chet Whittaker entered the stateroom, followed by Brittany wearing a megaload of foundation and eyeliner.

“Thank you, Madam President.” Senator Whittaker put his arm around Brittany. “Our apologies for being late. We had a last-minute emergency, didn't we, sugar?”

“Our housekeeper let the dog out.” Brittany sniffed. “Moron.”

“Uh, darlin', why don't you settle in here with the girls?” Mr. Whittaker said hurriedly. “We don't want to hold the president up any longer, do we?”

“My aides tell me we're still on schedule,” Mom replied. “Morgan, maybe Brittany would like to watch the movie with you and Hannah.”

I glared at Mom and she winced. Hannah looked like she wanted to hurt someone.

“You'd like that, wouldn't you, hon?” Senator Whittaker gave Brittany's shoulder a pat.

Brittany looked about as excited as Hannah and I felt. “I guess I have no choice.”

“Then it's settled,” Mom said brightly. “Have fun, girls.” She stepped back into her office with Chet Whittaker right on her heels.

Oh, she'd
so
be making this up to me later.

We prepared for takeoff. As we were taxiing down the
runway, Hannah leaned over to Brittany. “Morgan has to be nice to you. But I don't. Ya get what I'm saying, Brits?”

“
Pfft.
You don't scare me, Davis. And if you piss me off, Morgan will pay the price.”

She had us there. Hannah sank back in her seat.

Nine hours stuck on a plane with Brittany Whittaker was a total nightmare. If she wasn't complaining about the food from the airplane galley, she was forcing us to watch the shlock horror flicks she liked. I almost cried when I learned she and her dad were staying at the same hotel as us due to the high level of security needed for the presidential entourage, which included her father, as Brittany loved to repeat ad nauseam. Hannah and I finally had to pretend to sleep to get her to shut up about it.

 

Air Force One touched down on Gatwick's private runway at dawn. My eyelids felt gummy and my mouth ashy. Even Hannah, always the picture of perfection, looked droopy, and her expression was dull. I could hear staff members, press, and Secret Service agents stirring and moaning about cramped muscles. Only Brittany seemed to have no problem getting enough sleep; she snuffled in the seat next to me with her eyes swathed in a black eye mask.

Hannah now had to travel to the hotel with Brittany, her father, and the rest of Mom's staff, darkening her mood
further. From the airport, Mom and I were headed straight to 10 Downing Street, the prime minister's residence.

In the unmarked U.K. government limo, Mom looked fresh and rested even after a night of airplane travel. “How'd the flight go with Brittany?” she asked.

“Nightmare” was about all I wanted to say on the subject.

Mom laughed ruefully. “Well, I owe you one. I never would have suggested that Chet bring Brittany on our trip knowing how you feel about her. But—”

“You need to keep the opposition happy,” I finished.

Mom nodded. “Politics,” she said. “There are thousands of pieces moving in this game of international chess. The upcoming G-Eight summit, the new nuclear nonproliferation treaty…I need them all to fit, and unfortunately, Chet Whittaker is one of my rooks.”

“It's okay, Mom. If you can deal with having a Whittaker around, so can I.” Or so I hoped. As long as Brittany didn't find out about Max meeting me in London.

I forgot about Brittany when we hit the M25 motorway leading to London, and the motorcade lengthened. Every so often, cheery homemade signs with the words
WELCOME
,
PRESIDENT ABBOTT
or
WE LOVE YOU
,
MORGAN
! whizzed by. There were also a few
MAKE TEA NOT WAR
signs, which made me giggle.

Since the Secret Service and MI6 had decided that a full-blown entrance into London wouldn't be wise considering the recent spate of terrorist threats, our motorcade took an unpublicized route to Westminster. Glitzy modern buildings marched side by side with old Victorian brick row houses. Pubs dotted every corner, and I was excited to see London Underground portals. I hoped I could ride the Tube just once while I was here, if I could talk George into allowing it. “Look, a red telephone booth!”

A tall, red, rectangular kiosk with a crown and the word
TELEPHONE
whipped by.

“God, this place is cool.” I wanted to stop the motorcade, get out, run to the nearest pub, and order fish and chips.

“It really is,” Mom said. She had this peaceful look on her face, the one she wore whenever she traveled. Mom had come from a family of famous diplomats, and she'd never lost the travel bug. “I can't wait to show you some of my old haunts.”

“Cool.”

We pulled into an underground garage, which would lead us to a secret entry into the home of the British prime minister, Owen Eckley. Humberto had already gone ahead with the advance team and was waiting for us. After giving us a moment to catch our breath, Humberto checked his
watch. “It's time.”

We were ushered into an elevator, which had been reinforced with bulletproof steel.

Mom smoothed her bob, though it was already perfect. “How do I look?” she asked.

She wore a conservative blue suit with a tiny entwined Union Jack/Stars and Stripes flag pin on her lapel. Minimal makeup, natural lip gloss, and yet power radiated from her.

“Presidential,” I said.

Then the elevator doors opened.

As soon as the doors parted,
a camera flash went off right in my face.

“Got her,” I heard a British voice say before a round of applause drowned it out.

We'd come straight into what I supposed was the foyer of 10 Downing Street. Diplomats and dignitaries packed the space, but after I blinked out the black dots swimming before my eyes, I saw no journalists or camera crews as per protocol. The press op was scheduled for later, in front of Number 10's famous front door, after the official meet and greet.

So…who had taken the photo?

A man stepped out of the crowd toward Mom—Owen Eckley, the prime minister. His thinning hair didn't do his freckled skull any favors, but he beamed at us with his famous smile, which could be either charming or sharkish,
depending on the mood or moment. We were in charm-mode now. “Welcome to London, Madam President.”

Mom clasped his hands and said some formal words of thanks. I tuned out the Official Diplomatic Pleasantries phase. Bitter experience had taught me that it would be long-winded and boring in the extreme. It was.

“And this must be your lovely daughter, Morgan.” Prime Minister Eckley turned his attention to me. Toothy grin. “Good lord. She looks just like you.”

“It's been noted once or twice,” Mom answered drily.

“No, really. She looks
exactly
like you—”

“These must be your sons,” Mom interjected.

“Ahem, yes.” Prime Minister Eckley motioned for four boys, who'd inherited their father's white-blond hair and freckles, to step forward. I'd already been briefed on each, but I nodded politely to them as their father introduced them. “Alban, my eldest, he's at Cambridge now studying global economics; Trevor, finishing his last year at public school, has just finished his A levels—”

“Haa-low there,” Trevor drawled. White lashes rimmed his brown eyes, giving them a skeevy reptilian vibe.

Trevor's lizard eyes drifted over me, focusing a little too long on my boobs. Then I noticed the digital camera in his hands. “How about another picture?” He draped one arm around my shoulder, positioned the camera with his other,
and snapped another shot. Based on the angle of the camera, I'm not sure my head was in the frame.

Ugh. Down, boy.

The prime minister gave Trevor a disapproving look, and just like that Trevor backed away. “And these are Callum and Rhys, my twins.”

More pleasantries, and somehow the prime minister's chief of staff got us moved into a drawing room distinguished by two massive pillars, a Persian carpet, and a portrait of some queen over a fancy fireplace.

Blah blah, the pleasantries kept coming. I wondered if we were going to get something to eat soon. I was starved. I was zoned out thinking about fruit scones with clotted cream and other British fare that Nigel would have served up had he been in charge of the meal when I felt a pulse of hot air on my neck. I looked over my shoulder.

Trevor Eckley was
right there
, breathing on me.

I moved away, pointedly.

“I know it's not on the agenda, but I'd like to work in a discussion of expanding the women's microloan program to the developing nations,” Mom was saying to the PM. “The initiative is doing well in the U.S. and I think its international deployment is timely, given the global economic situation at present.”

Eckley pursed his lips and looked thoughtful. “But
does this little ‘women's issue' bear discussion now, when we have other pressing matters on the agenda?”

“Women's issue?”

I thought only I caught the tension in Mom's voice, but maybe the PM picked up on her mood, too, because suddenly his grin flashed and he turned to me. “And how is Morgan finding London?”

Got it. The ol' redirect-the-conversation-to-the-kids routine to dodge the issue. For the sake of Anglo-American relations, I played along. “What little I've seen looks lovely,” I said politely.

“Perhaps my son Trevor could be your escort for your stay? He knows London and what the kids are up to these days with the new music scene and so forth.”

What?
No. Dear god, no.

Before I could say anything, Trevor chipped in. “Love to, Dad. I've got a few…things I could show her.”

Kill. Me. Now.

“Thanks, but I've got my visit pretty well covered,” I said. “Security issues, you know—”

The PM waved his hand. “We can take care of all that. Trevor will liven things up for you, don't worry.”

“I'll give you the insiders' London tour,” Trevor said. Skeevy leer.

Could the guy be any grosser?

I threw Mom a pleading look. She bit her lip and I could tell she was trying to decide what was worse: offending the Eckleys or suffering my wrath.

My wrath lost.

“It shouldn't be a problem for the Secret Service to rearrange the agenda,” she said. “We do it all the time.”

My mom had just thrown me under the bus—a red double-decker bus.

“Excellent!” Prime Minister Eckley beamed. “We'll let them make their plans without parental interference, eh, Sara?”

“You'll have the time of your life.” Trevor's lizard eyes swept over me. “Guaranteed.”

Mercifully, one of Prime Minister Eckley's aides whispered that our press conference on the front steps of Number 10 was ready to roll, ending the unpleasant discussion.

With George shadowing my left shoulder and Parker's team circling Mom in a protective bubble, we headed outside. The cheers from the throng pressed against the police barricades deafened me. British police in their bobby hats held clubs at their waists to ensure no one broke through security. Then the Secret Service agents stepped away from us, and the media immediately started firing off shots while camera crews and reporters rushed to the front.

It was all a bit insane, but I'd seen worse. At least everyone in Britain was shoving politely.

Mom fielded a few questions about the upcoming G8 preparation talks and one about her recent success negotiating a cease-fire in Africa, which had prevented a rogue nation from selling yellowcake uranium to terrorists.

“Morgan!” one of the journalists screamed. “Morgan, who are you wearing?”

I looked down at my outfit. Hannah had spiffed up one of the dreary pantsuits. “I'm not sure,” I said. “But I'll bet it was made in America.”

Chuckles rippled through the crowd.

“Where are the colored hair extensions?” another called.

“I…uh, decided I was ready for a new look.” When I had to impersonate my mother last month.

“Any news on your love life?”

“Just that there's no news.”

More laughter, camera strobes going off. Man, these paparazzi were aggressive.

“What are your plans after high school, Morgan? Have you chosen a college yet?”

“Well, I…uh…there's so much to think about….”

“Would you consider Oxford or Cambridge?”

Yikes, Oxford or Cambridge wouldn't consider
me
once they looked at my transcript.

It didn't happen often, but I was at a loss for words. Fortunately, Mom stepped in. “It's wonderful that young
women these days have so many options open to them. I hope that someday women all over the globe will have the same opportunities that we do in our countries. Thank you!”

Mom waved. She nudged me and I waved, too. Then the Secret Service team closed in and we were swallowed back up into Number 10.

Trevor Eckley was on the other side of the door. “You and your mother are quite the team, aren't you? That's one way to ensure a women's issue makes it on the front pages.”

“Got a problem with that?” I said.

“Oh no.” Trevor gave me an oilier version of his dad's grin. “I like a girl who's clever.”

Since I didn't really care about Trevor Eckley's likes or dislikes, especially after that crack about “women's issues,” I shrugged without answering and put some space between us. I didn't want to cause an international incident by blowing up at the PM's son within hours of stepping on British soil.

When I looked back, he was still smiling at me goofily. How was I going to ditch him and Brittany and spend time with Max? So far my trip to London was—as the British say—a bloody nightmare.