Title: The Rose Garden Conspiracy part 4
Author: Madeleine Mitchell Carr
Email:
Rating: PG
Subject: Josh/Donna, Sam/Ainsley (sort-of, in a very twisted way…)
Spoilers: Five Votes Down/Season 2 up to and including The Leadership Breakfast
Disclaimer: All the characters herein are the legal property of NBC and Aaron Sorkin esq. Sue me not, fair Sirs, as my pockets are empty and I do but dally awhile with these fair mortals and will return them intact, anon.
Summary: A stolen memo, a meeting in the Rose Garden and the IRS. A mystery is afoot. Does it have something to do with Josh's missing coffee mug? And what is CJ hiding in her office? Why is Donna in Ainsley's cupboard with Sam? Just another 'normal' day at the West Wing…
Part 4 - Donna POV
No, no, no, no, no.
There is no way this can happen to me TWICE in one day.
Did I once kill a rose bush without knowing it and now they're out to get me?
Have I been cursed by the God of Bad Timing?
Am I destined to be forever remembered as the assistant found in compromising positions with the Deputy Communications Director?
I 've got hold of Josh's coffee mug with one muddy hand and I'm not letting go, as it's the only thing tethering me to reality at the moment. Sam's weight, pressing me into the sodden earth doesn't seem real, President Bartlet's amused eyes, twinkling at me from under his umbrella certainly don't seem real and as for the rose bush currently attached to my head, it's taken on the unreal ambience of a nightmare (only with thorns).
Dear Lord, I promise faithfully never to enter the Rose Garden again, I promise never to listen to Sam Seaborn's clever ideas, I will bring Joshua Lyman coffee every day, I will be kind and helpful to everyone I ever meet, even Republicans, just please, please, please…
GET ME OUT OF HERE!!!
And there I was thinking I felt humiliated after being found in Ainsley's cupboard with Sam. Ha! That was nothing. I'm even beginning to look back on the event with nostalgia - although, come to think of it, there was a small near-miss in the locker room afterwards which still makes me break out in a cold sweat…
There I was, scampering away from Ainsley's office as fast as my battered legs could take me. I was still clutching the stupid bulldog clip in my hand and the heat coming off my cheeks was enough to make blister paint. I was barely aware of where I was running too, I just knew that I needed to hide out for a while and regroup. I made it to the bottom of the staircase, a fragment of thought came to me and I abruptly spun to change direction - the locker rooms! My heel caught in the carpet and I staggered slightly, reaching out a hand for the wall to steady myself. The bulldog clip clanked and scratched across the paintwork and pinched my fingers, so without thinking twice, I chucked it carelessly over my shoulder, pushed myself off the wall and headed for sanctuary.
Luckily, the place was deserted so I collapsed onto a bench and just breathed very deeply for a couple of minutes. I couldn't get the deep shock in Josh's eyes out of my head. Also the hurt. I Donna Moss had hurt Joshua Lyman, and not in a good way. I mean, I had my own little ways of poking through his thick skin, taking him down a peg or two, making his smug smile falter - it was for his own good after all, but this was different.
I know it was different. I could see it in his eyes.
I also tried to get a handle on what he was really feeling. Shock and hurt I could understand - his assistant and his best friend found intimately entwined in a cupboard? That's got to hurt on some level, right? I mean, there's the whole professional betrayal aspect, the whole being kept in the dark thing. But there was a part of me, long kept in denial, that recognised the look in Josh's eyes for what it was - Heartbreak. With a capital 'H'.
The realisation that he might care for me more than I suspected had me reeling in alternating euphoria and terror. Could he…? I mean, Really…? Oh, this was bad in so many ways. What the hell was I going to do? It was one thing for me to have a PLAN to erase him from my heart, but what if he didn't want to be erased? And not only that, the disastrous results of my little PLAN looked like they were going to destroy him anyway.
Talk about dramatic irony.
Talk about the left hand not knowing what the right hand is doing.
Just kill me now.
However, never let it be said that a Moss wallows for long in the muddy soup of self-pity. I may have inadvertently broken what didn't need fixing, but there was still time for emergency repairs. I was going to strap on my (metaphorical) tool-belt, go straight back to my desk and wait. When Joshua returned, I was going to stand with dignity and…
With torn pantyhose and grass-stained knees.
Damn. Hell.
At least I'd come to the right place to brood at any rate. If I remembered correctly, my scarcely used locker contained an old pair of sweatpants and sneakers that I'd stowed there weeks ago after gorging on Christmas cake. My plan at the time had been to engage in a little gentle running during my spare time - which of course just goes to show how delusional I'd been, because I don't HAVE any spare time. Josh takes it all up.
I found the sweatpants, but the sneakers had disappeared through a black hole or something as they were nowhere to be found. Oh well. I thankfully removed my shoes and skirt, stripped off the pantyhose and made my way to the shower in an attempt to remove the stains. They proved to be indelible, but I figured that at least they wouldn't show under the sweatpants. I dried myself off, dressed quickly, put my shoes back on, made a quick check in the mirror…
AGH!
…then had to sit down again feeling quite faint with terror. To think I had nearly gone out looking like…I don't even know like what. Something really, really bad.
Okay, listen up, Donna Moss's Fashion Tips for Girls #1. Grey sweatpants and blue three-inch stilettos? Not a good combination. Seriously. Especially with a blue suit jacket. Do Not Try This At Home.
Practically palpitating with relief that I'd discovered my mistake before anyone saw me; I was then left with the dilemma of what to wear. What were my choices?
Smart blue suit, bare legs, green knees.
Nightmarish hooker on a fitness-kick combo.
Decisions, decisions…
I of course plumped for the bare legs option as being slightly less distracting to onlookers, when it occurred to me that I was in a woman's locker room serving quite a few busy professionals. Surely someone had a spare pair of pantyhose? Could I…? Should I…?
I did.
I figured that having broken so many laws today (against decency and fashion sense to name but two), I was already well on my way to becoming a hardened criminal and should stop agonising so damn much already. The results of my ransacking of lockers (and no, I'm not revealing how I got into them - we criminals have a code, you know) was not exactly stellar, but needs must and all that.
I surveyed myself yet again. Baggy, opaque black pantyhose sandwiched between my snappy blue suit and shoes was not quite in keeping with the image that I usually presented to the world, but it was marginally better than green knees and was practically worthy of Vogue compared to the (shudder) OTHER option.
Respectably clad and my humiliation and panic squirreled away neatly in the Denial file of my brain, I made my way back to my desk. My steps were rather slow however. My tool belt was on, but I was slowly coming to the conclusion, that I really didn't know how to use the tools. What would I say to him?
"Hey, Josh. I know I was in the cupboard with Sam, but I'd rather it was with you…"
Umm, maybe not.
"Josh, I have a little confession. I wrote down all the things I like about you, but the list got stolen which is why your career is in danger of coming to an end. Sorry. Do you like me too?"
Definitely not.
I was fortunately distracted from my increasingly negative train of thought when I saw CJ coming towards me. I was trying to work out what was different about her appearance. She looked somehow less tall… That was it, her hair was wet. In fact, it was dripping wet and practically plastered to her skull. Her shoes were trailing mud.
What?
"CJ!"
She looked up, alarmed at my shout, then relaxed somewhat as she recognised me. She trotted up to me looking tired and depressed.
"Hey, Donna"
"You okay? You're all wet!"
She started to answer, saw my legs, did a noticeable double-take and after a quick glance at my closed face, decided not to comment (I love CJ).
"I'm…fine. Got caught in the rain."
"It's raining?"
"It's February. Why are you surprised?"
"Well…it wasn't raining earlier…" I trailed off weakly, mentally kicking myself in the shins.
"Did you get caught in the mud as well?" I asked, regrouping rapidly.
She looked down at her once shiny Oxfords and frowned.
"It does seem that way" she said, then winced and cradled the palm of her right hand in the left.
"Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yeah. I have a blister."
She held out the injured hand and showed it to me. She looked like a small child showing her 'bubba' to mommy. I resisted the temptation to blow on her hand and say 'All better!', but only barely.
"How did you get a blister?"
"Oh!" she said, surprised at the question. Though why she should have been after showing the thing to me is anyone's guess.
"I…er…I forget…"
Huh?
She pulled herself out of her slouch and said with alarming dignity,
"Excuse me, Donna. I have a briefing at 11.30 and I want to go shopping first"
"Shopping? Haven't you just been out…"
"Er…I've just been…somewhere else. Not shopping. No."
"Oh"
"Okay"
She turned to leave just as I remembered an odd occurrence from a couple of hours ago,
"CJ?"
She looked back at me, a degree of trepidation on her face.
"Yeah?"
"What was that smell?"
Her eyes opened with alarm.
"What smell?"
"The smell in your office. Earlier."
"A smell in my office? Donna, I think I would have noticed a smell in my office and I didn't, so there wasn't"
She lied to me. CJ lied to me.
"Yes there was"
"Wasn't"
"Was"
Agh!
She geared up for another rebuttal, but I squeezed in first,
"There was, because I smelled it!"
"Well Donna, I don't want to get personal, but it could have been you"
"ME? I don't smell!"
She looked me up and down, obviously taking in my less than pristine appearance. She did that looking sideways with half-smile and eyebrow raised thing she does; the inference was clear.
"CJ!"
She did look kind of sorry for what she'd implied. Perhaps she'd had a stab of guilt for disparaging one of the Sisterhood.
"Okay, maybe you don't smell. Did you have cheese for breakfast?"
"What?"
"You know. You have a really ripe piece of cheese and it gets on your hands and even after you wash them, you keep getting whiffs of the stuff for hours afterwards…"
"Are you sure you're okay?" I said again.
She didn't look okay. She looked like she wished she hadn't stop to talk to me. I kind of wished I hadn't stopped to talk to her.
"I'm fine, I'm fine. You go and wash your hands and I'll…you know…go shopping"
She waved at me in mock cheeriness and strode off down the corridor.
"CJ!"
What?
Blisters?
Cheese?
Is she on some kind of medication? 'Cos if she's not, I think she should be.
Perhaps I accidentally stepped into an alternate universe when I walked into the West Wing this morning. It could happen, right? It's not totally implausible is it?
Okay, maybe not.
Focus Donna.
I walked the few yards to the bullpen just in time to see Sam lurch out of Josh's office, his hair standing on end and a look of utter alarm on his face. He slammed the door and I heard a muffled thud against it from the other side. I'll swear the door shook with the impact.
Okay. Pop Quiz:
Question: What has Sam Seaborn just shut up in Joshua Lyman's office?
- An angry elephant
- An angry Republican
- An angry Joshua Lyman
Answers on a postcard to 'Donna Moss's Wacky World' c/o The White House.
Go on, take a guess…
I sighed and strolled on over there, gearing myself up for a spot of damage limitation, when Sam spotted me coming, hissed "Donna!", then ran over to grab my arm and pulled my towards his office.
I leaned back against his grasp and made him work for it (Petty? Moi?). He grunted at protest at my weight, but succeeded in finally hauling me to his door. Cathy gave us a stare of disbelief as we passed and I rolled my eyes at her. Let her think it was just Sam in the grip of enthusiasm. Once inside, I steadied myself, then gave him a hearty kick in the shin.
"Ow!"
"Stop treating me like a piece of luggage, or I'll aim my foot a bit higher, Buster"
His eyes glanced involuntarily down to my aforementioned foot and I was treated to the second double-take of the morning.
"Donna, your legs are black!"
How nice of you to notice…
"So?"
"…and wrinkled. Are pantyhose supposed to wrinkle like that?"
Okay, okay, the wrinkles had started to pool around my ankles and I looked like Edna the bag lady, but gentlemen weren't supposed to notice stuff like that.
"Sam? What I said earlier about hurting you?"
"Yes?"
"Well the threat applies to comments about my legs."
"Oh"
"Just so we're clear on that"
"We're clear"
"Good"
"Fine"
An apologetic look started to cross his face, but was quickly erased by a flash of guilt at being distracted from his Mission.
"Donna!"
"What?"
"Josh!"
"What about him?"
Sam clutched at his hair, which was starting to resemble a dish-mop.
"I think he needs help!"
"What?" I yelped, "Why didn't you say so?"
I was halfway to the door before he grabbed me again.
"NO! Don't go in there! He's like a crazed animal or something. He attacked me!"
"He did?"
"Yes. He pulled my hair and everything!"
Okay, it was the wrong time to be amused, but I'm only human.
"Oh no, poor baby!"
He held me by the shoulders and his voice became soft and earnest. Damn these men when they're being earnest. I'm like putty in their hands.
"Donna, I'm so worried about him. I think the stress of this Ainsley thing has pushed him over the edge again. I know he was taking his anger out on me - but he could have hurt me! I don't know that damned Republican said to him after we left, but he was in such a state that I was…I was afraid for him."
Oh Boy. For a supposedly intelligent man, Sam is too often NOT the brightest sparkler in the box.
"Sam," I said, slowly and carefully, "He WAS angry at you"
His eyes screwed up in an effort to understand
"He was? Why?"
"Because he found you in a cupboard with me. That's why."
The penny dropped
"Oh"
"Oh indeed"
He looked unhappy and smoothed the hair off his forehead with a tired hand
"Well, I can see why he'd be angry at that. After all he…"
He stopped and gave me a strange, furtive look.
'HE WHAT?' I wanted to yell, but decided that after all, I wasn't going to go there today. I patted Sam on the shoulder instead.
"Never mind Sam. I'll just go and…speak to him"
He let me go without protest and I made my way slowly over to Josh's office. The door was still closed and I had to take a deep breath before opening it.
"Josh?" I said quietly and peered inside.
He was lying on the floor.
My heart slammed uncomfortably in my chest and I crashed to my knees beside him. I don't know why, but I half expected to see glass lying about. His eyes were staring at the ceiling and he was awfully still. My breathing erratic, I put my hands on his chest and shook him.
"Josh! Are you okay? Are you hurt?"
He grunted slightly in protest and let his face fall to the side to look at me. A myriad of conflicting emotions passed over his face but he made no attempt to get up.
"Josh, what's the matter? Why are you lying on the floor?"
"Donna" he said and narrowed his eyes appraisingly.
"Josh?"
He looked upwards again.
"I was looking at the ceiling," he said. "I have a nice ceiling. I never noticed before"
Oh God. Was it a fugue state? Had he banged his head? I waved my hand in front of his face.
"Josh, how many fingers am I holding up?"
"Is that a trick question?"
"Joshua…"
His hand moved quickly and grasped me around the wrist. He must have been able to feel my pulse hammering away under the skin.
"Do you love him?" he said, with intensity.
I crouched there frozen in shock.
"What..?" I managed to squeak out.
His eyes kept moving rapidly over my face, searchingly.
"'Cos if you do, I wouldn't…I mean…I want you to be happy, Donnatella"
Oh my. I couldn't seem to breathe out properly over the blockage in my throat.
"I don't love him"
His eyes narrowed again as if searching for the truth of this. He nodded once, apparently satisfied, but his expression remained clouded.
"But I saw you…"
"That was nothing. It wasn't anything." I chuffed out. My breath seemed to be puffing out like a steam train. Weird.
His mouth twisted
"Didn't look like nothing to me"
"It was…" I began, then stopped.
What was it? Should I tell him the truth? Should I tell him about the List and the PLAN? Would he understand? What if he knew already? What if he didn't? AGH!
He was waiting for my explanation, but when I couldn't articulate one, his pained expression deepened, then closed off behind a bland mask.
Oh Joshua…
"Help me up" he said abruptly, changing his grip on my wrist.
I stood and pulled. He got halfway up into a crouch, but stopped suddenly and stared at my legs.
"Donna? Why are you wearing leggings with your suit?"
"They're not leggings, they're pantyhose"
"Are you sure?"
In my exasperation, I pulled him up hard, and without warning. His weight overbalanced me and I staggered backwards. He followed and I found myself pressed up against the desk, his hands on either side of me to steady himself.
Chuff, chuff, chuff. The breathing thing was back. I sounded like a raddled bar-stoolie on a forty-a-day habit.
We stared at each other, nose to nose. I could feel the heat rising from his body. My lungs hitched and wheezed like bellows.
"You were in a cupboard with Sam" he said, making no attempt to move away.
"Yes, I was"
"I didn't like it"
I could practically feel the vibration of his words in his chest.
Oh Boy. Was I in trouble.
"You didn't?" I wheezed out, nervously.
"No. What sort of guy takes a girl into a cupboard?"
He leaned in a little closer and added quietly and earnestly
"I wouldn't put you in a cupboard"
My heart threatened to batter down my rib cage.
KNOCK KNOCK
I jumped. He jumped. With a final pant of relief, I awkwardly pushed him aside and tottered to the door.
It was Ainsley.
"Josh, I have to speak to you. We didn't finish our conversation, earlier. I must tell you what Gneiss…"
The gall of the woman
"I don't think you can possibly have anything NICE to say to Josh" I interrupted as coldly as I could muster, considering the state of my nerves.
Josh came over hesitantly, staring at me strangely.
"Donna…"
"I was not under the impression that this matter was any of your business," said Ainsley, equally as coldly and narrowing her eyes at me.
"Ainsley…" said Josh, helplessly.
"Would you excuse us, Donna? I think you'll find the door is open, please close it on your way out."
Miaow.
I glanced at Josh who was making 'get out of here' motions with his eyebrows. Well, I know when I'm not wanted. I stalked out and left them to it.
I was, however, more determined than ever to find out exactly what was going on here today. I wanted Josh safe, I wanted CJ sane, I wanted my nerves to be calmed to their usual placid state, I wanted…
'I wouldn't put you in a cupboard'
…oh my. That was either the silliest or the sweetest thing any man had said to me, and I wasn't sure which. Perhaps it was both. Still pondering this question, I found myself back at Sam's door. In any other circumstance, and I could think of plenty, he wouldn't have been my first choice for partner-in-crime, but it looked like I was stuck with him. Besides, the thought of bringing anyone else into this hopeless debacle was enough to give me goosebumps.
"Sam?"
He jumped up from his desk as soon as he saw me.
"What did he say? Is he all right? Are you all right? What…"
"Sam, calm down already. He's fine, I'm fine"
"Are you sure? You look kind of strange"
"Er…" I really didn't want to get into the cupboard thing, "Ainsley's in there with him"
"Again? Can't that she-devil leave him in peace?"
With that dramatic pronouncement, he leapt to his feet and made for the door.
"SAM! Where on God's green earth are you going now?"
"I'm going to shake her until she tells me what she's doing!" he bellowed. Cathy ducked under her desk.
"NO!" If he went in there, he and Josh would start getting all Alpha-male on me, then where would we be?
I chased him across the bullpen, overtook him, and threw my weight against his chest. He frowned at me in annoyance.
"Sam, stop it! I'm not getting into that chasing you about thing again. Would you please calm down?"
He gave a token struggle, then paused to take a deep breath.
"I've had a very stressful morning," he said between his teeth. "And it's all her fault"
Was it? I didn't know whose fault any of this was. Perhaps it wasn't anybody. Perhaps it was cosmic revenge or something. I was becoming increasingly convinced that Ainsley, although up to something, wasn't quite as bad as Sam was painting her. It was a case of 'The Gentleman doth protest too much, methinks'.
"Are you sure, Sam? We don't really know that she's done anything, do we?"
He stared at me incredulously
"Yes we do! I heard what she said to Josh! She passed that piece of paper to the man in the Rose Garden!"
"I don't even know if that WAS my list!" I said in exasperation, then paused to slap myself about the face. Figuratively.
"List? YOUR list? I thought it was a memo."
"It was! A memo I mean. A memo in the form of a list. Which was on my desk, which would make it mine. Circumstantially."
"Uh-huh"
He looked less than convinced, but decided to leave it - possibly on the grounds that the actual format or ownership of the piece of paper was kind of irrelevant at this point.
"Well, I'm still going to talk to her," he said stubbornly, and moved forward again. I was forced to take little shuffling steps backwards or be mown down in his path.
"Wait!" I yelped. I had to get through to the madman somehow.
"You might make things worse! We… we need more proof!"
Ha! That got him to stop. He looked at me approvingly.
"That's not a bad idea," he said slowly.
"Yes." I nodded my head vigorously. "So lets just go back to your office," I said, encouraging him in this more receptive frame of mind. I tried to turn him around gently, but he spun suddenly in the other direction so that my hand shot off his shoulder and I half-fell forward into the back of a chair.
"More proof!" he said, his Sherlock Holmes look back again, and started striding for the hallway.
"Sam! You're going in the wrong direction!"
"No, I'm not", he called back over his shoulder.
"Stop! Where are you going?"
I extricated myself from the chair and stumbled after him. No, no, no. What had I started now? There was no way we were going to do this again.
"I hate your boss" I hissed as I passed Cathy's desk. From underneath the solid wood, I heard a small whimper in response.
I chased Sam down, contemplating a flying tackle, but I didn't have any illusions about our comparative strength. I would have to rely on shouting.
"SAM! Stop this minute! Where are you going?"
He didn't even slow.
"Back to Ainsley's office" he replied.
I gritted my teeth. He was like an unstoppable train. I had horrid visions of me being forever doomed to chase him through the endless hallways of the West Wing. Donna Moss does not chase people. Donna Moss is a leader.
On impulse, I stooped to pull off my shoes and praying that I wouldn't bump into anyone important, sprinted past him. I heard his footsteps quicken behind me as I made for the stairs.
"Donna? What are you doing?"
"You're not safe to be let out alone!" I yelled over my shoulder. "People might get hurt. If you insist on being the Spy-Master, I'M gonna lead this time"
"Okay", he said weakly.
Grinning through my sudden adrenaline rush, I hopped, skipped and jumped down the staircase, Sam huffing and puffing behind me like the Little Red Engine.
"Woah!" [stumble, slither, bump, bump, bump, Whoomph!] "Ow!"
Oh Hell. What now?
I slowed reluctantly and turned to find Sam in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. Shaken but intact.
"What happened?"
He made it onto his knees, wincing as he put weight on his wrist.
"I tripped on something!" he said, sounding aggrieved. He scrabbled around on the carpet near his feet and produced a small object.
"A bulldog clip!"
Oops.
"Who left a bulldog clip lying around on the stairs? That's dangerous!"
Should I tell him? Ha! Not likely.
"Sam! Stop playing with it and get a move on!"
He grumbled something inaudible, but got to his feet obediently and limped after me.
Revenge is sweet.
Unfortunately, my sudden metamorphosis into action hero proved to be fruitless. Ainsley's door was locked. Perhaps she was worried that some more deranged people would wonder into her cupboard while she was away? I thought for a moment that Sam had really lost it and would try to gnaw his way through the door with his teeth, but I managed to restrain him with a promise to keep looking elsewhere.
Bad idea.
"The Rose Garden!" he said, brightening up.
"No, Sam please. No more, I can't take it." It wasn't exactly a whine, more of a…okay, it was a whine. I would defy anyone not to have whined at that moment. Stephen Seagal would have whined. Jean-Claude Van Damme would definitely have whined, the great Belgian wuss.
"She might have dropped something," he said, lost in fantasyland. "We could find a clue!"
"What? A mysterious object that will miraculously link the characters together and reveal the dreadful truth?"
"Yes!" he said excitedly, blind to my sarcasm. He was way too perky for my liking and I was beginning to wonder what he would do if he actually DID find some incriminating evidence on Ainsley. Maybe he'd be disappointed that he wouldn't get to torture the truth out of her. He was one sick denial-riddled puppy.
Which is why I couldn't leave him on his own.
"Lead on, Holmes" I muttered and he danced away. I trailed dejectedly behind.
At the door to the garden, I paused to put my shoes back on. This proved to be difficult as the stolen pantyhose had mysteriously grown in length during my sprint down the stairs. I looked like I was wearing flippers. By the time I'd hitched them up to my armpits and forced my toes into the stilettos, Sam had disappeared from sight.
I hobbled outside, blinking my eyelashes against the cold drizzle that I had completely forgotten about. Damn. I could feel my hair enter frizz-mode.
"Donna! Come here, quickly!"
All excitement had left Sam's voice. He sounded amazed, even slightly scared. Had he actually found a clue after all? Could the Gods be that cruel?
I jogged over to where he was standing and was met with a sight that even made me goggle in amazement.
What?
There was a small pile of muddy earth that looked as though it had recently been dug over. Next to this, half-propped against a box hedge was a muddy spade. Not terribly unusual sights in a garden, you might think, but placed neatly next to the spade was a very familiar sight indeed. An object that had no business to be anywhere outdoors, let alone in the Rose Garden.
Josh's coffee mug.
I wiped the rain out of my eyes and looked again, just to make sure. Yep, there it was. I could clearly see 'Master Politician' in jaunty red paint.
Why?
WHY?
"Is…is that Josh's?"
"Yep"
"Are you sure?"
"Yep"
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure"
Sam, clutching his hair in his hands yet again, fell to his knees in the mud.
"What has she done?" he moaned in accents of despair.
Oh Man, where did this guy get his degree? By mail order?
"Sam, that hole is a foot square at most. You don't seriously think she's murdered Josh and buried him there do you? I saw him alive and well (sort of) five minutes ago!"
He looked embarrassed.
"Of course I didn't think that!" he said, unconvincingly, but rallied quickly. "You've got to admit that this is pretty strange though"
"Oh, yeah, I'll admit that for sure"
I walked gingerly over to the coffee mug and picked it up. It looked kind of slimy inside but was otherwise intact.
"I think there must be something buried here though" Sam said reflectively, using the spade to get to his feet and then swiping ineffectually at his muddy knees with his muddy hands. "What would Ainsley bury?"
"How do we know it was Ainsley? It could have been Josh" I waved the coffee mug at him.
"Hmm. Perhaps he was concealing evidence"
"In the Rose Garden? Pretty stupid place to conceal anything I would have thought" Not that I could claim to be actually doing any thinking as this conversation clearly demonstrates.
"Only one way to find out," said Sam and grasped the spade in a determined manner.
"Sam! You can't dig up the Rose Garden!"
"I'm not digging, I'm re-digging"
"Semantics"
"Whatever"
"Sam!"
I stepped over to try and wrest the spade from his hand. Unfortunately, I stepped in the muddy hole and my foot disappeared up to my ankle in sludge. My body listing sideways, I grabbed at Sam for support.
"God, Donna. You're a real klutz today, you know that?"
"Shut up farm boy and help me out here"
Sighing he supported me as I tugged my leg, the mud making horrid squelchy noises. Unfortunately the dreaded pantyhose took that opportunity to grow a couple more inches and my foot popped out of the trapped shoe like a champagne cork. I flew backwards, my arms flailing and I caught Sam in the side of the head with the coffee mug as I went down. He grunted with pain and toppled forwards. I landed on my back in the wet grass with my head in a rose bush. Sam landed on top of ME.
Ow, ow, ow, ouch. Bruises on top of bruises. Plus, my dry-cleaners were gonna love me after today.
"Sam Seaborn, that had better be the spade I can feel"
Sam lifted his head from my…chest area and gulped.
"Hello Sam, Hello Donna. Doing a spot of gardening I see"
Our faces, probably very comical mirror images of white-faced shock whipped towards the very familiar voice.
President Bartlet, standing not three feet away holding an umbrella jauntily over his head, smiled at us benignly.
In the words of a certain red-haired FBI agent,
THIS IS NOT HAPPENING!
So, you can see, I hope, why the cupboard thing no longer scores so highly on the Donna Moss embarrassing incident scale.
We're gaping at the President like guppies. He doesn't look angry; he looks amused, which is actually worse.
"Donna, I had no idea you were interested in roses. You should have told me, I often come out here for a stroll and I could have shown you around a bit. For instance…"
Oh God, oh no, he's going to lecture us.
"…did you know that the rose your head is in at the moment is actually an old species of Rosa Alba? Do you know what it's called?"
"Er…no"
"Well, it's actually quite funny, I'm sure you'll find it funny. It's called Perpetual White Moss"
Hysterical.
Before I can respond to this mind-boggling statement, the President decides to spread the misery around a little bit.
"Sam! Did you know that you have your foot in yet another Alba variety? A particularly fine example; a double bloom with fragrant pink flowers. It's a pity you can't see how lovely it is, but it's the wrong time of year after all."
"Uh" says Sam. I think his eyes have glazed over.
"Shall I tell you the name of this one? It's really quite apt."
"Uh"
"It's called Great Maiden's Blush" More sternly, "I think you should take the hint and let Donna get up, don't you?"
Sam is turning a most alarming pink. I don't think I've seen that colour on a human before. He scrambles to his feet rapidly without too much inadvertent groping and my rib cage creaks in relief. The President looks down at me kindly.
"Donna, I'm sure you'll have lots of interesting things to tell me later…"
I'd like to respond, but I've closed my eyes.
"…in the meantime, I'm going to take Sam on his own personal tour of the roses, because I can see how interested he is in horticulture"
I'm sure Sam is shooting me horrified looks, but I refuse to open my eyes. I can hear their footsteps moving slowly away.
"Ah, here's a nice example of a tea rose. Not fragrant, but a fine upright yellow bloom. It's called Tall Story by the way. I'm sure you've got a good story to tell ME, Sam"
"Uh"
"Now we have a red rose. You'll have to take my word for that, I'm afraid. Goes by the name of Intrigue…"
I wait until their voices have faded away before I open my eyes and slowly and painfully get to my feet. I am numbed with humiliation. I am humbled and defeated. I am lower in my self-worth than even Josh could imagine. I have reached the bottom, but at least things can only get better.
Can't they?
I manage to extricate my errant footwear from the mud trap and debate for a moment whether or not to bother putting it on again. It is then that I discover that things can not only get better, they can get…stranger. I've been cursed again, but I can't imagine by whom. Perhaps I've been mistaken for Jonah? We have the same number of letters in our names, two vowels and a consonant in common...
There is a dead fish in my shoe.
TBC