The Candidate (7 page)

A stout older woman, whom Erica assumes is the housekeeper, walks in and says simply, “Jasper was run over.”

Celeste gasps. “Not my Jasper!”

“I am so sorry, so, so sorry; he ran away from me,” Alicia sobs.

“Is he dead?” Celeste asks.

The housekeeper nods. “I called the vet. They're on the way over to pick up the body.”

“What about Molly and Adrian?”

“They're fine. A little upset, but fine. I put them in their crates.”

Celeste stands stock-still. “I've had Jasper for eleven years . . . He was my first dachshund.” She looks down—when she looks up, her eyes are filled with tears.

“He was a wonderful little fellow,” the housekeeper says.

A pall comes over the room. Celeste is disconcerted. Alicia is terrified. The housekeeper is resigned.

And Mike Ortiz is blank. Nothing. No affect. Just blank.

Erica feels out of place, and the whole scene creeps her out somehow. “I'm very sorry about your dog. I'm going to go now. Call me when you're ready to continue, but let's wait until at least tomorrow.”

Celeste looks a little embarrassed by her momentary loss of control. Then she takes a deep breath and shoots a look at Alicia—it's a fair bet this mentor/mentee relationship just went south. Then Celeste says “Mike” and nods toward the front door.

Mike escorts Erica out to her car. The driver opens the door for her.

“I'm sorry this happened while you were here,” Mike says, but in a detached way, as if a pipe had sprung a leak or dinner had burned. Then he extends his hand to the driver. “Mike Ortiz.” Then he smiles. That blazing movie star smile.

As Erica heads back to Nob Hill, she's reminded again that there are some things money can't protect you from. And there are some people who aren't what they seem.

AN HOUR LATER CELESTE IS sitting at an outside table at Gott's in the Ferry Building on the Embarcadero, waiting for Lily Lau to appear. As soon as Erica Sparks left, she called Lily. The two met in a Chinese history class their freshman year at Stanford, where the professor's passion for the subject—coupled with Lily's brilliance and beauty—ignited Celeste's fascination with China. And Lily was hardly averse to having smart and socially connected Celeste in her orbit. That first day they went out for lunch after class and bonded immediately, kindred spirits. Their relationship has since evolved into something profound. Transcendent. And they're just getting started.

The restaurant, famous for its mahi-mahi sandwiches, is thick with tacky tourists; it's loud and chaotic, and just blocks from the office of Pierce Holdings. Celeste finds the hubbub amusing—it's fun to observe the masses in their element.

She spots Lily as she approaches the restaurant—she's hard to miss. Tall and striking with jet black hair and pearly skin set off with glistening red lipstick, she's wearing a white shirt, a thin black men's tie, and a dark suit that fits her toned body like a second skin. Her limbs are long and she moves with a lithe, powerful grace. The stupid little tourists
stop and watch as she walks by. They're not used to Chinese superstars in Loserville, Indiana.

Celeste and Lily smile at each other, and Celeste feels that frisson of excitement that Lily always elicits in her. They're partners in . . . what would you call it? Rewriting history?
That sounds so immodest,
Celeste thinks. But it's the truth.

Lily sits down. “Would you like something to eat?” Celeste asks.

Lily waves off the suggestion—she and food have a tenuous relationship. “How did it go with Sparks?”

“It was going well. Then my mentee took the dogs for a walk, and Jasper was run over and killed.”

“I'm sorry, Celeste. I'll send you a replacement.”

“I'll stick with two for the time being—the yapping was getting on my nerves. So Sparks left early. But not before leaving an impression. She's
very
smart.”

“Intelligence is a two-sided coin.”

“And
very
curious.”

“Another mixed blessing. Look what happened to that poor cat. Speaking of mice, how is Mike doing?”

“He's behaving.”

The two women exchange tight smiles. They were in their early thirties, their plans already hatched, when Mike came into their sights. They'd been casting around for the right figurehead—someone attractive, electable, and
malleable
. A modern-day Ronald Reagan. Someone they could nurture and . . . mold. Congressman Mike Ortiz seemed like the perfect vehicle for their ambitions. And so Celeste went to that fateful fundraiser. She wore a tight black dress and just enough bling to make her sizzle, and introduced herself, wide-eyed and admiring. Of course he knew who she was, what she could do for his career with her wealth and network, but no one was faking the chemistry. They made a dinner date for the following night. It was the shortest dinner on record—why, they practically ran from the restaurant to Celeste's Russian Hill penthouse, desire pulsing between them. The following
morning, when he left for some dull community meeting in his district, Celeste immediately called Lily. The trap had sprung. And the rest, as they say, is history. No,
her
story
.
No, no,
their
story. Lily and Celeste. Celeste and Lily.

“That suit is sharp. Tom Ford?” Celeste asks.

“Tom Ford is for wannabes. Dries Van Noten. I flew him over to fit me. I ordered three.”

“I wish
I
could get away with an outfit like that. But I'm not sure it would fly at my next Iowa pig roast.”

“Aren't you going to have to come up with some recipes for deep-fried hot dogs?”

The two women laugh, a secret shared laugh, a laugh filled with scorn and dark corners. Hidden corners. They sit in an easy triumphant silence for a moment.

“So, what are we going to do about our feline friend?” Celeste asks.

“We need her and want her—up to a point. But we have to watch her carefully. Closely. The eyes—and ears—have it.” Lily stands up and scans the scene with a look of bemused noblesse oblige. Let them eat mahi-mahi. “Give me twenty-four hours.”

Celeste watches her as she strides away. Celeste hates weak, emotional women. Quivery little cows. They disgust her. Lily, on the other hand, she idolizes. Her sangfroid has sangfroid. Even though they're the same age, Lily is really her mentor, her teacher. She took Celeste by the hand and led her into . . . a brave new world.

Then some obese creature in a sparkly sweatshirt approaches.

“I
love
your husband!” the woman screeches.

Please, dear God, don't let her touch me.
Celeste wants to say:
Get off the feed bag, you oinker.
What she does say, with a warm smile, is, “So do I.”

“He's going to be
pressss
-ident!” the woman cries, a small chunk of half-chewed French fry flying out of her mouth.

Celeste smiles serenely and says, “Yes. Yes, he
is
going to be president.”

WHEN ERICA GETS BACK TO her hotel, she heads to the fitness center and does a half hour on the treadmill and then takes a quick dip in the pool. As her body moves, her mind stays fixed on the Ortizes—she feels her concerns about them growing into an obsession. Mike Ortiz's reaction to the death of the dog was bizarre. It was as if he had no emotions to draw upon, almost like a robot. But even a robot would be programmed to at least
display
emotion. And Celeste, equal parts charm and calculation. And their life in that huge empty house—how many rooms do two people need? It's all so antiseptic and ordered and controlled—but in the end, no matter how hard we may try and wrestle it into something pretty and predictable, life is messy, nasty, and brutish.

Erica goes back up to her room and orders a salad for dinner. She could go down to the dining room, but that would mean sitting there alone—the object of whispers and stares and intrusions. As if she were on display. She would feel self-conscious and even lonelier. She calls Jenny.

“Sparks' residence.”

“Becky?”

“Hi, Erica.”

Erica's not sure how she feels about Becky's answering the phone that way. “Listen, there's no need to say ‘Sparks' residence.' I prefer a simple hello.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. I just thought it sounded classier, more grown-up or something.”

Girls from poor backgrounds often overcompensate like that. Erica used to do it all the time during her difficult first year at Yale—mimic a phrase or inflection that she heard come from a rich classmate's mouth. Becky is trying so hard.

“Not a big deal. May I speak to Jenny?”

“Of course, she's right here.”

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetie. What are you doing?”

“I'm playing Scrabble with Becky.”

“That's terrific. Who's winning?”

“I am. But I think Becky is
letting
me win.”

“Not true,” comes Becky's protestation in the background. They both laugh, and Erica feels a tinge of jealousy. But mostly she's glad that Jenny sounds happy and stimulated. And how cool that they're playing Scrabble.

“Where did the Scrabble come from?”

“Becky bought it. Listen, Mom, can I take tennis lessons? My friend Lisa from school is taking them and she invited me.”

“Of course you can, honey.”

“The first one is on Saturday, so you can come and watch.”

“Can't wait.”

“I better go, Mom. It's my turn and I think I have a big word.”

“I love you.”

Erica hangs up. She doesn't know which is worse—having Jenny lonely and missing her, or having her engaged and treating her mom like an interruption. She smiles to herself—being a mother is a complicated dance. And Erica has never been the most graceful hoofer.

As soon as she hangs up, Erica's mind goes back to Mike and Celeste Ortiz. What was it Mike said:
The months I spent in that Al-Qaeda prison changed me. Deeply.

Erica gets up and strides around her suite. She's got a pebble in her psychic shoe, and she knows she won't be able to rest until she can shake it out. She wishes she could hash it out with Greg. Everything was easier with him around. She'd call him, but it's the middle of the night in Sydney.

To feel some connection with him she picks up her iPhone and checks his Twitter feed as she paces. There's nothing recent, so she checks the Australian Global News feed. What she sees makes her stop in her tracks. There's Greg, in what looks like a nightclub, standing next to a beautiful young woman. Erica can't quite make out if his arm is around her waist. He's definitely had a few drinks. The tweet reads: L
AUREL
M
ASSON AND
G
REG
U
NDERWOOD CELEBRATING OUR FIRST TRIAL BROADCAST #PSYCHED
I
N
S
YDNEY
.

Erica feels her stomach hollow out. She sits in the nearest armchair and studies the picture. Both Greg and this Laurel Masson are smiling broadly, exuberant—from success, yes, but there's more. Their body language is unmistakable, their shoulders touching, heads leaning toward each other. Erica's shock gives way to hurt. Greg is clearly attracted to another woman. How far has that attraction gone?

Or is her imagination running away with her? It could all be completely innocent. The network has reached a milestone, and they've all earned a few drinks.
A few drinks
.

Erica looks over to the bottle of champagne the hotel left next to the fruit and chocolates. She walks over and picks up the bottle, runs her hand down it. It's not fair, is it? Greg and
Laurel
—what a stupid name; was she named after a tree?—can have a few drinks and stop there. Erica can't. She can't. Once she starts, it's off to the races—to morning nips and midday cocktails and midnight shots and impulsive acts and crushing hangovers and shame and self-hatred and regret.

But maybe that's all behind her. She's been sober for almost four
years. She could probably handle one glass of champagne. The gold foil surrounding the cork is so bright, so lively, so fun and full of promise. All she has to do it take it off, ease out the cork, pour herself a glass—just one glass, in the civilized flute—and she'll be soothed, cocooned in a sweet cushioning haze. Laurel Masson won't matter.

There's Jenny in the backseat of the car that terrible night, crying, asking what is happening, afraid and in danger. In danger from her own mother.

Erica's body flushes with prickly heat and she puts down the bottle. She sits down at her laptop and Googles Laurel Masson. Sure enough, she's the network's star reporter.
I guess Greg has a thing for star reporters
. Innocent or not, he could have been a little more discreet. The tabloids could pick this up. The tabloids
will
pick this up. Should she call Greg and demand the tweet be taken down? Or is that shrewish? Or embarrassing? She can't live her life in fear of social media and gossip websites.

Erica feels a headache coming on. Under her confusion and anger is hurt. Pure, simple hurt. It's too painful. She starts to pace again, trying to get away from the pain the way an animal does, by moving, moving—
Keep moving, Erica, keep moving forward
. The plush hotel suite begins to feel like a cage, a gilded cage. She'll call Greg, yes, in a couple of hours when it's morning over there. She'll call him and confront him, get this all cleared up. One way or the other. But what if it
is
the other? What if he is having an affair with Laurel Masson? What if he's falling in love with her? What if he's going to leave Erica?

Stop it! There's nothing you can do right now! You're just torturing yourself.

Erica grabs her worn deck of playing cards, sits on the bed, and deals a hand of solitaire. As she plays the cards she feels her blood pressure go down, her head clear, and a sense of control, of mastery of her emotions, returns. Work. Work has always been her salvation. As she draws an ace, her other obsession returns, and now she welcomes it.

The months I spent as an Al-Qaeda prisoner changed me. Deeply.

. . . changed me. Deeply.

Erica abandons the cards midgame and returns to her laptop. She Googles Mike Ortiz and then hits Videos. She finds what she's looking for: a video of Ortiz giving a speech before his humanitarian mission to Iraq and his months as an Al-Qaeda prisoner. Then she finds a video of a recent speech. She goes to split screen and watches them both simultaneously with the sound muted. Yes, he's changed physically. In the recent video he has more wrinkles and less hair. And his face is slightly less animated and expressive, although that change is subtle. But the biggest change is in his eyes. In the older video they sparkle with life. In the recent video they look oddly blank—like empty vessels waiting to be filled.