Secrets of a First Daughter (7 page)

“I can't believe you're already up,”
I said, rubbing my eyes and trying to remember where in space and time I was. With the jet lag and the exhausting political mumbo jumbo, I'd come back to the hotel and crashed.

“Fabulousness takes time.” Hannah peered into the full-length mirror and rearranged a stray corkscrew strand in her carefully wild hairdo. “I want Rich's jaw to drop when he sees me.”

“The prince is going to pass out,” I said, admiring her body-hugging skinny jeans and boho-chic jacket. Hannah looked stellar when she wasn't half trying.

I sat up in bed and pushed my rat's-nest hair out of my face. Gray early-morning light filtered through the curtain sheers. Though our hotel suite was situated on the top floor, I could still hear the faint grumble of London traffic below.

“Rich is whisking me away on the royals' helicopter for my first day in England,” Hannah remarked. “He wants to give me a private tour.”

“Wow!”

“Do you and Max want to come along?”

“I can't.” Arg, it hurt to say that, because I'd love nothing more than to fly over the beautiful English countryside with my peeps. “Max is busy, and I promised Mom I'd spend the day with her. We have an exciting international roundtable on global green energy to attend first thing this morning. Fun times!”

“Blerg. Hey, maybe tonight we can hook up and go to the theater?”

“Love it! I'll talk to George about security. Let's make it happen!”

Cheered, I watched Hannah try on several different configurations of hoop earrings while I threw on a conservative pair of black slacks, a pointy-collared shirt, and flats. After polishing off a traditional English breakfast of bacon, sausage, eggs, grilled mushrooms, and toast—weirdly delicious topped with baked beans—and milky, sweet, hot tea, I wondered how Americans were the most obese nation if the British ate this much every morning. I felt a bit carbo-sluggish. I told George that I was ready whenever Mom wanted to head out.

Normally I hated the whole First Daughter routine. Not only did I have to keep a lid on what I said and did because of the intense media scrutiny, but there was a 95 percent chance I'd mess something up and land on the “Oh No She Didn't!” section of the gossip columns. But Mom seemed so psyched about giving me greater insights into the shark tank known as world politics, I couldn't disappoint her.

So Hannah got a helicopter ride with a gorgeous prince; I got stuck in meetings with super-serious politicians. I tried not to be jealous because I was happy for Hannah…but it was hard.

A knock came at the door. “It's probably George,” I yelled to Hannah, who'd commandeered our spacious bathroom and was now delicately touching up her mascara. “I'll get it.”

And there
she
was. Brittany Whittaker and about three pounds of floral perfume clouding the air. She slinked past me while I stood frozen in stunned surprise. “You're both awake, I see. Somehow I didn't take you for an early bird, Abbott.” Her eyes swept Hannah, who'd popped out of the bathroom when she heard Brittany's voice. “And the two of you are all dressed up. What's going on today?”

“None of your business,” Hannah said aggressively. “I already had to put up with your whining last night, Whittaker.” Hannah pulled an exaggerated bitch face and
mimicked, “‘Ew, Daddy, London smells like a toilet; Daddy, I want to stop at Harrods right now.' I'm not in the mood for your b.s. today.”

“Easy there, Davis. I'm trying to be friendly. Americans abroad together and all that. I thought we could hang out. I'm bored.”

Hang out? With Brittany Whittaker?

Hannah and I exchanged appalled glances. The last thing Hannah needed was Brittany finding out that she and Prince Richard were hooking up. One threat of blackmail between the two of us was enough.

“This isn't
Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants
.” Hannah decided on the direct route. “So buzz off and find someone else's day to ruin.”

“PMS-ing much, Davis? Morgan, are you going to let her be so mean to me?”

“Let me think.” I pressed a finger to my lips as if contemplating world peace. “Uh, yeah.”

Brittany shrugged. She reached into her handbag overloaded with tons of buckles and unearthed her cell phone. “I guess I'll have to send this photo of you and Max to my contact at
The Gadfly
after all. If we're going to be mean to each other, that is.”

“That's
it
!” Anger erupted out of me. “I am so
sick
of your blackmail!” I lunged toward her.

“Hey!”

I swung at the phone in Brittany's hand. It sailed through the air and landed safely on my unmade bed, where I snatched it up and flicked it open.

“Oh my god,” I breathed. “You don't even have service.”

Now I remembered! George told me our mobile service would be disabled while we were in London because of security concerns. The Secret Service must have disabled the wireless capabilities of everyone attached to the president's entourage.

Brittany wouldn't be able to use her cell phone at all while she was in the U.K.—glory hallelujah and God save the queen!

She clawed at the phone. “Give me my phone back, or I'll…I'll tell my father.”

“Go for it. And I'll tell him what a conniving snake you are.”

“Well, I'll tell your mother that you're sleazing around with your Secret Service agent—Where are you going?”

I flicked my head toward Hannah in a signal to sneak out before I marched toward the bathroom. “I'm going to find out how well your cell phone works after British toilet water has soaked its circuits.”

Hannah clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh and edged out of the room.

Now Brittany freaked. Moving faster than I could imagine on her spiky heels, she pinned me against the doorjamb. “Give. It. Back.”

“Make me,” I said, my inner four-year-old shining through.

She snatched at the phone. We arm-wrestled for a few breathless seconds until her talons viciously dug into my wrist. I yelped and my fingers loosened.

“Yes!” She pried the cell phone away and clutched it protectively to her chest, tottering to the door. “As soon as I get back to the U.S., I'm sending this photo to every major press outlet I can find. You and your boyfriend are on borrowed time, Abbott.”

She slammed the door behind her.

I blew out a long breath. That was intense.

I knew there'd be a price to pay for getting into it with Brittany. But maybe it wouldn't matter in the long run if Max got the job with MI6.

I plopped down on the rumpled bed and absently rubbed the moon-shaped welts Brittany's claws had left on my wrist. I thought about Max. I wanted the best for him; I truly did. Working for MI6 would be a dream come true for him…but I couldn't pretend that things hadn't been strained between us. Between getting ready for the trip and his responsibilities with the Secret Service, we hadn't been
able to spend much time together. And now with the newly fired-up Brittany, I needed to watch my back more closely than ever. She'd love to get more dirt on us to feed to the U.S. press.

I toyed with calling Max to wish him good luck on his interview today. But then I'd have to use the landline, which was monitored by security. I couldn't risk it.

Another knock on the door. Brittany, coming back for round two?

I yanked it open. “I'm not in the mood for any more of your bullsh—oh. Hi, George.”

The elf-brows on George's face shot up to her hairline. “I haven't given you any b.s. yet, Morgan.”

“I thought you were someone else.”

“Obviously.” She peered into the wrecked room and her brows arched even higher. “Wow, looks like a tornado hit this room.”

Tornado. My Secret Service code name.

“I'll try to keep other weather-related disasters to a minimum on this trip, George. I promise.”

“I'm not holding my breath,” George muttered.

Mom and I took an unmarked car
to the Houses of Parliament to meet Prime Minister Eckley for the first round of Anglo-American forums. Parliament's Gothic spires stabbed the murky gray morning sky. I'd seen my share of majestic architecture, but when the motorcade rolled past Westminster Abbey I was blown away. Sure, we Americans could be proud of our historical monuments, but the Brits had that centuries-old thing going on, so advantage Brittania.

“Gorgeous, isn't it?” Mom had donned a houndstooth blazer over a pair of tan slacks. She'd been up all night reading EU economic-recovery plans but looked fresh and ready to go. I, however, was still jet-laggy, carbo-loaded, and annoyed over my altercation with Brittany. “The city of London is amazing.”

“It sure is.” I couldn't wait to explore the trendy shops,
happening hot spots, and more of that traditional British cuisine. I hoped I could ditch the meetings later so I could do just that.

The car swung into the New Palace Yard, swarming with Secret Service and MI6 security. Tourists and Londoners gawked as George and Parker quickly bundled us out of the car and through the Member's Entrance.

My jaw dropped once we were escorted into the Central Lobby. Intricate paneling inset with life-size carvings of medieval kings and queens lined the octagonal room. A stunning display of windows with tiny window panes soared up to a cone-shaped spire, which threw light down on red, white, and blue ceramic tiles on the floor painted with medieval stuff like British lions and heraldic symbols.

Prime Minister Owen Eckley and his toothy grin greeted us in front of a life-size statue of William Gladstone. “Welcome to Westminster, President Abbott. Morgan.” Genially he shook Mom's hand, then mine.

“President Abbott.” Trevor Eckley bounded out from behind his father and wrung Mom's hand.

Trevor? What the heck?

“I thought it was a brilliant idea bringing your daughter along to spend the day immersing in international politics,” Owen Eckley told Mom after they exchanged greetings under a fusillade of snapping cell phone cameras
from onlookers and low-level staff members. “So brilliant, in fact, I've brought along Trevor for the same experience.”

Trevor smiled smarmily at me, and his weird eyes swiped my boobs again.

“I thought my son could keep Morgan company if our discussions on international climate treaties got too dull for her,” Prime Minister Eckley continued. “Maybe Trevor could take her on a tour of Portcullis House and Big Ben, properly accompanied by Morgan's security team, of course.”

Oh yeah, George would love an unauthorized trip to a tourist site without sweeping it eighty million times for security threats. I was gagging over the thought of spending the afternoon with Trevor Eckley.

“I'm sure we can find something to do,” Trevor said.

Barf.

“I'll let Morgan decide when she's ready,” Mom said, reading my pleading face not to throw me to the Trevor-wolf. “Shall we get started? We have a full agenda today.”

Now I'm all about restricting greenhouse emissions and saving the polar bears and keeping the Arctic Circle from melting into the sea. But listening to a room full of scientists and politicians—especially that windbag Senator Whittaker—discuss the best way to enforce a worldwide climate treaty made me wish I'd taken some NoDoz beforehand.
Seriously, the discussions were so boring and the speeches so long-winded, I wondered how Mom was able to maintain her alert expression, especially when the talk centered on how low-carbon–growth jobs could lead to more economic recovery in developing nations. But no one could settle on a clear formula for determining the growth. The debate went on and on and on. Even George, normally so stoic, couldn't stop her eyes from glazing over. Trevor sat next to me texting like a maniac on his mobile, which only reminded me that I'd been deprived of my main means of communication. Otherwise I'd have texted Max to find out how his interview had gone.

Max. I missed him so much.

I felt a hand slide along mine.
Ready to get out of here?
Trevor mouthed.

I jerked away. Luckily I was spared telling him to back off because the meeting suddenly broke up. Senator Whittaker snapped his fingers at one of his aides to gather a mountain of papers that had been handed out at the meeting, while the rest of the presidential entourage unkinked their necks and stretched.

“Still awake?” Mom said to me with a chuckle. “These meetings can take forever, but once you get past the posturing, we get good work done.”

“What did you kids think of the discussion?” Owen Eckley asked.

I opened my mouth, but Trevor cut me off. “We should hit uncooperative countries with economic sanctions. Serves them right for not playing ball. You're either with us, or you're out. Right, Morgan?” Trevor nudged me conspiratorially in the ribs.

“Erm, interesting line of thinking, son,” Prime Minister Eckley said diplomatically. “Morgan? Your thoughts?”

My thoughts?

“Well, the main sticking point seems to be how to get developing countries to switch from high-carbon–producing jobs to low-emission jobs, or green technology. Right?”

Mom nodded. “That's right.”

“So instead of focusing on forcing countries to adopt low-carbon–growth jobs in specific areas, why not ask them to agree on an overall percentage? That way they could decide which segments of their economy they want to change. People like to be in control of their own lives, not told what to do by outsiders. The administrators at AOP—”

“AOP?” Prime Minister Eckley queried.

“Morgan's school,” Mom said.

“Yeah, the administrators at AOP tell the student council what needs to be done, but they let us figure out how to make it happen,” I went on. “Under supervision, of course. It works out well.”

“Interesting,” the prime minister murmured.

Mom beamed. “That's a very good point, sweetie.”

“Plus it'll be easier to agree on a percentage than entire economic policies,” I said. “You could cut out about three days of boring and endless meetings, I bet. The House of Parliament is gorgeous and all that, but no one likes to be stuck inside at a snore fest if they can help it.”

No one said anything. Trevor Eckley stared at me like I was some sort of alien creature, and his father's mouth sagged open. Even Mom looked surprised.

Oh crap. Tornado and her big mouth had struck again.