Chapter Three
Henry
The glow of the bedside lamps lifted into the air and diffused through the room. Henry emptied his pockets onto the bedside table. Loose change, a few fluffs of lint, the card that reporter had given him. He crossed the room, one hand tugging at the knot of his tie, and sat down at the end of the chaise longue. Knot loosened, he slipped the tie free from his neck and hung it over the back of the cushion. He turned towards the door. His heart jumped, and he gave a double take. Elizabeth had appeared in the doorway. How did she always manage to creep up on him like that? It was like a fox slinking across a fresh carpet of snow.
"Hey, babe." He smiled up at her and offered her his hand.
Her own smile made those first frail rays of dawn look positively dazzling, but she placed her hand in his and let him pull her towards the couch. He scooted back on the seat, making space for her, and the cushion dipped as she settled between his thighs. He gathered her against his chest, arms wrapped around her, and she sank back, her body yielding to the embrace with a long sigh.
He pressed a kiss to her shoulder and then rested his chin there. "How was your day?"
Elizabeth let out a huff of breath. "Well…it started out with half the country tweeting about how they'd like to do me—" Henry hugged his arms tighter around her. "—then it descended into what position I'd like best—" She turned her face towards him and shot him a look. "Blake was going to draw up a list for you."
Henry drew back enough that he could look at her properly. "Seriously?"
"Oh yeah." Elizabeth nodded.
Henry's brow furrowed. "Well, that's…thorough."
Elizabeth gave a wry laugh and then turned back to face the door. She nestled against him, letting her head fall back against his shoulder. "I'm not quite sure when the boundaries got eroded…" Her fingertips wandered up and down his thigh, the touch just a graze through the fabric of his trousers.
He cleared his throat. "Perhaps around the time you ran out of clothes at the office and he had root through your underwear drawer."
Elizabeth chuckled. "It was three days before he could look me in the eye." The lightness of her laugh faded into the night. "Anyway, the White House signed off on the trade agreement—"
"That's great, babe." He kissed the top of her head, her hair smooth beneath his lips.
"But—" Her voice dipped. "—Russell Jackson said that we have to hold off on announcing it until this thing dies down." She shook her head. "Apparently the White House doesn't like it when the Secretary of State is sexualised on national television." Her hand left his thigh and came to pinch the bridge of her nose.
"It's not your fault."
"I know," she said.
But did she know?
She sighed—no sound, just her body sinking against him—and then she patted his thigh. "For the record, this is my favourite position, just sat here with you." She twisted round to look up at him. The blue of her eyes danced, like petals swaying in the breeze, and the sparks were there too, if a little dim.
Henry chuckled, and he kissed her forehead. "Mine too."
Elizabeth eased away from his chest and turned round, forcing his grip on her waist to loosen. She knelt one knee against the end of the cushion, and as she leant in, her necklace swung forwards, gold glinting in the lamplight. She held his gaze.
At the look in her eye, his pulse quickened.
With one hand rested against his shoulder, the other cupping his cheek, she closed the gap between them. Closer, closer, closer—until her lips brushed against his. Gentle at first, like sunlight unspooling, but as he gripped her hips, she smiled against him and then threaded one hand through his hair and deepened their kiss.
His head swam, awash with the haze of flushed lips, the graze of her nails against his scalp, the subtle fragrance of orange blossom and jasmine that drifted in and out. He shuffled back on the couch, pulling her with him, until she landed awkwardly on top of his chest and laughed. The sound reverberated through him, a lilt in his heart. With their eyes locked, she rested her forehead against his. And since when did flames burn blue?
He tucked her hair behind her ear. "You're beautiful, you know that?"
And in the flicker of a second, her smile vanished. I would, wouldn't you?
His own smile fell as she closed her eyes and let out a puff of breath. He caressed her cheek. "Babe, I didn't mean—"
She shook her head, and her hair swept forward again, the veil of a waterfall raining down over his face. "I know…" She pushed herself off his chest and retreated to the edge of the sofa.
He sat up behind her, and his fingers itched to reach out and touch her, but he held back.
A glance over her shoulder. "This week's just getting to me." And the corners of her lips tugged into a sorry smile.
Her pain echoed through him, and he would take it all away if only he could. No burden was too great to bear. "Tell me what I can do."
But as soon as the words fell from his mouth, her phone buzzed and bleeped. She stood up from the couch and fumbled for it in her pocket. She frowned down at the screen, then turned her back on him and accepted the call. "Daisy?" A pause. Then her whole body slumped. "Okay…" She massaged her temples. "…Thanks for letting me know."
Henry's body tensed. "What is it?"
Elizabeth snatched the remote control from the bench at the end of the bed and zapped the television on. She flicked through the channels and then stopped. Russ Freyton's show.
"In honour of the Secretary's fiftieth birthday, we're treating you to a top ten of sexiest photos. Let's recap what delights we've seen so far."
With each word and each picture, the pinch in Elizabeth's brow tightened, and Henry's chest clenched in response. She wasn't even dressed sexy; it was just her. He stood up from the couch. "Babe, come on, turn it off." But she just stared at the screen, and when he tried to take the remote from her, she hugged it to her chest and shielded it from his grasp.
"And at number one, we have the 'do me' skirt." An image flashed up of Elizabeth in a pale blue blouse—top buttons undone—and a tight-fitting grey skirt. The camera roamed over her with a lecherous eye. The first time he had seen her in that outfit, he had wasted no time in telling her just how hot she was—showing her too—but now her confidence, that presence that made her her, had gone.
She switched off the screen and threw the remote control down on to the bench. Then she stormed over to the closet and hauled open the doors. The coat hangers scraped against the rail as she rifled through her clothes—scrape, screech, scrape—until her hands landed on the grey skirt. She yanked it out. She held it up to the light. She stopped.
1983
Elizabeth
Friday evening. The last embers of sun flowed in through the window and spilled out onto the textbook that lay in front of Elizabeth on the bed. She jotted down a note in the column of her worksheet and then paused, bringing the biro to rest against her lips. There was a knock at the door.
"Come in," Elizabeth called out as she flicked back through the pages of her textbook.
The door creaked open. "Hey, sweetie," her mother said. She sat on the edge of Elizabeth's bed and rested her hand against the mulberry blanket that covered the duvet. "Math?" She nodded to the textbook. And when Elizabeth said nothing, she continued, "Are you still having trouble with Mr Fredericks?"
"Well, he still doesn't have a clue what he's talking about, so yeah," Elizabeth said. She dropped her pen onto the worksheet and then eased herself up off her stomach and sat back against the pillows with her knees hugged to her chest. "He thinks that just reading from the textbook and writing out the examples we've already got is teaching." She shook her head to herself, and her sandy hair tumbled forward over her shoulders. "It's like they're content just churning out people who can only give rote answers, rather than enabling anyone to approach a problem with an ounce of original thought. It's all: don't question, just do."
"That's what school's like sometimes, sweetheart." Her mother's lips tugged into a small smile, and she laid her hand against Elizabeth's foot. "But it'll get better when you go to college."
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "If I ever get to college."
"What do you mean?" Her mother's smile dwindled.
"Everyone else applying will be far more prepared," Elizabeth said, "they won't be limited by teachers like Mr Fredericks." Her gaze dipped to the blanket at she toyed with the tassels at its edge and teased the strands apart. "I was thinking…maybe I could get a tutor…someone who actually knows what they're doing." She met her mother's eye.
Her mother's mouth hung open for a moment, before she gave a slight shake of her head. "But, sweetheart, your grades are great, and between your studies and clubs and the horses, where are you going to make time?"
"I'll find time," Elizabeth said. "Please. Just say you'll think about it."
Her mother let out a puff of breath, and her face softened. "Fine. I'll talk to your father, but no promises, okay?" She tapped a finger at Elizabeth, eyebrows arched.
A buzz rippled up from Elizabeth's stomach and filled her chest with a cosy glow. She smiled. "Thanks, Mom."
"Now," her mother said, and she smoothed her hand over the blanket, "Aunt Joan's back from her business trip, and I wanted to ask you if you'd come see her with me tomorrow."
The buzz dissipated, along with Elizabeth's smile. She groaned. "Seriously? I thought we were going fishing."
"Your father and Will are going fishing—" Her mother began.
"Then why can't I go too?"
"They could use a little boy-time."
Of course—boy-time. Elizabeth's heart sank, and her expression must have too, for her mother squeezed her knee and gave her a coaxing smile.
"Going to see Aunt Joan won't be that bad."
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows as high as they would go. "Do you remember last time?"
"I admit, there were more mimosas than pastries at that brunch," her mother said, and her smile floundered, but she fixed it fast. "Come on, it'll be fun, I promise. When's the last time we got to spend the day together?" And her eyes glowed with such optimism that Elizabeth could hardly say no.
She let out a huff of breath, shook her head to herself and then muttered, "Fine."
They made an early start the following day. The sun hung high above them when the wheels of the car scrunched along the gravel driveway and then pulled to a halt with a screech. Elizabeth unbuckled her seatbelt and eased herself out of the car. Her legs ached, and she squinted in the harsh sunlight. She tugged down the hem of her dress and then parted her hair so that it cascaded over her shoulders. She took a deep breath. Prepare yourself, Lizzie.
The front door of the house opened, and Aunt Joan stepped out onto the porch. Her blonde hair was puffed up into wild curls like a lion's mane around her face, and a snakeskin belt cinched in her high-waisted jeans. "Took your time," she called out to them. "Thought you weren't coming."
Elizabeth's feet clung to the path. God, why did she agree to this? But her mother nudged her forwards, and the gravel slipped and rasped beneath the soles of her pumps as she made her way to the porch.
Aunt Joan and her mother bumped cheeks in an air-kiss on each side. "Where's the boy?"
"Fishing," her mother said.
"You should've brought him." Aunt Joan motioned for them to follow her inside. "I could've used a laugh." When the door clunked shut, she turned to Elizabeth and offered her a sharp smile, crimson lipstick like blood wetting the curve of a knife.
Elizabeth's stomach tightened in response. What've you gotten yourself into, Lizzie?
Aunt Joan grabbed hold of Elizabeth's chin and turned her face from side to side. "God, look at those cheekbones. Got yourself a boyfriend yet?"
A rush of heat surged to Elizabeth's face.
Aunt Joan's lips quirked into a knowing smile. "Don't worry, you'll have them queuing up soon enough, once they get their tongues out of a twist." She pointed a manicured nail at Elizabeth—the same shade as her lipstick. "You're going to break hearts, young lady." Then she curled her finger towards her palm and led them through to the sitting room.
"I don't think Elizabeth has time for dating," her mother said, and she squeezed Elizabeth's shoulder as they followed. "It's not exactly a priority right now."
Aunt Joan spun back to face Elizabeth. "Why not?" She looked Elizabeth up and down. "With a figure like that, you could get any boy you want." She placed her hands on her own waist, emphasising how narrow it was. "That's one of the many reasons I didn't have kids. God gives you one body, don't waste it."
Elizabeth sank down onto the couch and the brown leather creaked beneath her. "I have a lot going on with school—"
Aunt Joan arched an eyebrow at her. "You still into books?" She leant over the coffee table and poured out three cups; the aroma blossomed and percolated through the room. As she did so, her gaze kept darting back to Elizabeth. Expectant.
Elizabeth hesitated, mouth open, and then she pursed her lips and nodded. "I like studying." Nothing wrong with that, right?
"Look, Lizzie," Aunt Joan said, "I'll tell you something that your mother never will." She shot Elizabeth's mother a glance as she passed her a cup of coffee—white, two sugars. Then she settled down into the armchair opposite, one leg slung over the other, fingernails tapping against the armrest. "Boys don't like girls who are too smart. I mean, it's okay to be smarter than them, but you can't let them know it." She leant forward, eyes narrowed on Elizabeth. "Books are one thing, but looks…looks will get you everywhere."
"But I don't want to just be pretty," Elizabeth said, her cheeks scalding. "I want to do something that matters."
"Like what?"
"I…" Elizabeth began. Her gaze dipped to the varnished wood of the coffee table as she shook her head, the ends of her hair swaying across her chest. "I don't know yet." She met her aunt's gaze. Piercing. "I just want to make a difference in the world."
Aunt Joan chuckled. She sipped on her coffee and stared at Elizabeth over the edge of the cup. Then—clink—she lowered the cup to the saucer in her lap and rested back against the cushions of the cream-coloured armchair. "You're still young, but one day you'll get it."
Elizabeth scowled. "Get what?"
"The world is run for men, by men, to serve men and men alone. If you want to make a difference, you need to know the rules of the game, and I'm afraid that books and brains won't cut it. Your value is in this—" She gestured to Elizabeth's body, blonde hair to burgundy pumps. "—so you'd better get rid of any fairytale notions, and learn how to use it."
Elizabeth shrank back into the leather couch. Her whole body burned. How could Aunt Joan say such a thing? But then again, was it any different to what her parents had said? It was like they were all stuck in the past, blind to the changes around them. Why couldn't they see that being a girl was no longer a barrier? That that was just a relic that lived on in their minds.
Her mother's hand against her knee jolted her from her thoughts. She squeezed and offered Elizabeth a small smile, before turning back to Aunt Joan.
"So," her mother said, "how was your trip to New York?"
Present Day
Henry
Elizabeth stared at the 'do me' skirt for the longest time, until she no longer seemed to be looking at it so much as looking through it. Then she jolted—a hypnagogic jerk—and she strode to the bedroom door and tossed the skirt out into the hall.
Henry sank down onto the end of the bed as Elizabeth returned to the closet. She rifled through the clothes again; the screech of metal on metal, glimpses of fabric, gusts of colour. Henry rubbed his brow. "Elizabeth, stop."
She glanced at him, no more than half a second, and then returned to her sifting.
"You can't throw out all of your clothes because of what one guy says. If you let him determine your behaviour, you're just letting him win."
Elizabeth stalled. Her hands found her hips, and her head fell back, eyes closed. She took a deep breath and then turned to him. "What if I'm playing a game that I can't win?" Her voice wisped, drained of emotion. "What if I'm kidding myself in ever thinking I could make a difference? What if the only reason that I'm here, in this position now, is because of the way I look?"
"You are making a difference," Henry said. He rose up from the bed and padded across the floor to stand behind her. He gripped her shoulders and tried to massage away the tension, but the knots were bound too tight. "You wouldn't be here, achieving all the things that you do, if it weren't for your ideas, your intelligence, your passion."
Elizabeth glanced back, her lips drawn into a taut line. "But it doesn't hurt if it comes in a pretty package, right?"
Henry's hands stilled. He rested his forehead against the back of her head and took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the scent of her coconut shampoo. What could he say to make her see? How could he get through to her? He skimmed his hands all the way down her arms and laced their fingers together, relishing the warmth of her palms against his own. "People have made comments before, and I know that they've upset you—they upset me too—but what is it about this one? Why's this bothering one you so much?"
Elizabeth shrugged. Her voice was hollow when she spoke. "I don't know."
Twenty years in the CIA and not once had she blown her cover—as far as he knew—so how was it that she couldn't get away with a simple lie? Henry squeezed her hands. "Whatever it is, just tell me." When she remained silent, he said, "Is it about your birthday?"
Her throat clunked as she swallowed. "No."
"Your parents?"
Her whole body tensed against him.
His heart ached. Oh. "Tell me."
"I can't."
"Elizabeth." He tugged at her fingers, as if trying to tease the words loose.
"Henry." Her voice cracked. "I can't."
Henry's jaw clenched. "Can't, or don't want to?"
Elizabeth shook her hands free from his. She spun round. Damp eyes glistened in the dim light. Her mouth faltered—open, closed, open, closed. When she spoke, her voice was thick, strangled. "I spent those last weeks mad at them, mad at all the things they said, and now I keep remembering those conversations, and it feels like maybe they were right, maybe it's all coming true."
