Chapter Eight
Present Day
BUZZZ. BUZZZ. BUZZZ. Elizabeth jolted awake and snatched up her phone as it danced across the bedside table. In the dim grey light, she glanced at the screen, whilst behind her Henry groaned. Russell Jackson. She swiped to answer the call. "Hello?" Her voice was still thick with sleep—or lack of it—and she cleared her throat.
"We need you at the White House—now," Russell said in a deep growl. "The Russians are playing war games off the coast of Alaska."
Elizabeth's heart slumped. She closed her eyes and let out a long sigh. Of course they were. She ran one hand through her hair. "I'm on my way."
Stood outside the door to the Situation Room, Russell punched away at the keypad of his phone, but he glanced up from the screen as Elizabeth approached, and catching sight of her, he paused. His gaze raked over her. "Geez, Bess. You look like crap."
"Thanks, Russell." Elizabeth forced a cheery tone and smile so wide that her cheeks ached. "I had a long day, and I've been up most of the night."
"Preparing for the interview I hope." Russell pushed open the door for her, and the buzz of voices rushed out. As she stepped into the glare of the artificial lights, he added, "The network asked to move the recording to tomorrow."
Elizabeth froze. She spun back to look at him. "What?" She was meant to have two more days, two more days to tell Henry—and God only knew how long this situation with Russia would take to resolve.
"I've already sorted it out with your staff." He motioned to the images that flashed across the screen at the far end of the room. "Let's get you caught up."
The hallway was dim by the time Elizabeth returned home, but the haze of lamplight drifted through from the back of the house. She clung to the bannister as she kicked off her shoes, her whole body aching from lack of sleep—not that spending the day in the sunless Situation Room helped. A steady beat thudded down the stairs, synchronised to her steps as she padded through to the kitchen. Discarded takeaway cartons cluttered the countertop. She picked through them, but uncovered nothing more than the aroma of sesame oil and five spice and a few meagre scraps.
Silent images flashed across the television screen in the den, and their glare illuminated Henry where he sat on the sofa, feet up on the coffee table, gaze buried in a book. Elizabeth hovered at the end of the kitchen for a moment. She took a deep breath. It's now or never…Lizzie, he will understand.
"Hey."
Henry lowered his feet from the table and twisted round. "Hey, babe." He offered her a warm smile and then placed the book down on the cushion of the couch. His smile withered at her expression though.
"Henry—" She held his gaze. "—we need to talk."
He nodded and then swallowed. The lightness in his eyes had gone. "I'm sensing that."
Elizabeth perched on the arm of the couch, but when Henry shifted further along the cushions, she eased herself down to sit next to him. She stared at her lap as she smoothed her palms over her jeans and purged them of the clammy sweat that had taken hold. Henry reached out, as if to cover her hand with his own, but then stopped, and his hand fell to the cushions.
The music in the background cut out, and the ensuing silence rang between them. Elizabeth cleared her throat, trying to rid herself of the clag of emotion that had cemented itself to her vocal cords. "Henry, when I was—"
"Mom!" Alison shrieked.
Elizabeth jumped, and her eyes snapped shut. She drew in a breath that shook its way to the bottom of her lungs, and then she groaned. "Ali."
Footsteps pounded down the stairs. She turned round and watched over the back of the couch as their daughter bounded down the final steps and into the living room. "Mom, I need your help." Alison skirted round the end of the sofa and plonked herself down on the coffee table. She scrolled through the screen of her phone, the glare lighting up every crease of her anxious frown.
"What's wrong?" Elizabeth said. Henry's gaze was still hot on her cheek. She edged her hand across the cushion until her fingers bumped against his, and then she tangled them together and squeezed. A silent promise—Later.
"Look at this." Alison shoved the screen in Elizabeth's face, and Elizabeth reeled.
She took the phone from Alison and scrolled down through the images. Young women, pretty, perhaps a little thin. She glanced up at Alison. "What, exactly, am I looking at?"
Henry leant closer, his shoulder grazing Elizabeth's as he peered at the screen too.
"Our tutor put Paola in charge of booking the models for the fashion show, and those are the ones she's picked." Alison snatched her phone back and set it down on the coffee table. "I don't want to make clothes for stick insects; I want to makes clothes for real women." Her brow furrowed, and her eyes begged Elizabeth for a solution.
"Can't you just provide your own model?" Henry said.
"I tried that, but Paola refused. Apparently having a normal woman amongst these prepubescent mannequins will 'ruin the aesthetic'." Alison rolled her eyes.
Elizabeth hesitated, a tug of nausea at the pit of her stomach. "Well, what about your classmates?" she said, and she gestured to the phone. "If they feel the same way—"
"Everyone loves Paola—" Alison's eyes flashed for a second before her gaze dipped to the floor. She shook her head, and the fronds of her fringe scattered across her brow. "—and no one's going to speak out against her."
"Well, someone's got to be the first," Elizabeth said. "You should try talking to them."
"And stage a coup?" Alison arched her eyebrows. "Because that always works out so well."
Elizabeth shrank back against the cushions. Ali hadn't meant…Yet still it hit her. The blast. The shockwave hurling her to the floor. The chuh-chuh chuh-chuh-chuh of gunfire. Glass. Bullets. Blood. So much blood.
Henry squeezed her hand, and her vision snapped back into focus. "Then take it up with your tutor," he said. "I'm sure she'll understand."
"She loves Paola too." Alison groaned. "It's impossible."
Impossible? Elizabeth shook her head. "I spend my life dealing with one impossible situation after another, and trust me, this isn't impossible." She swallowed. "Look, if they insist on you using a model you're not happy with, then you just have to refuse to include your piece in the show." She threw one hand up. "Take a stand."
Alison's expression crumpled. "But then no one will get to see my dress."
"Yes, they will," Elizabeth said. "Put together your own photo shoot and post it on your blog." She motioned to the phone still resting on the coffee table. "Explain why you decided to boycott the show, and I guarantee that people out there will agree with you, and they'll respect you for what you've done."
"You think?" Alison's eyes brightened a little, a tentative optimism.
"I know." Elizabeth edged forward in her seat and laid her hand atop Alison's knee. "You have principles, Noodle, and you should stand by them. Your designs are stunning, but your beliefs and your willingness to act on those beliefs will make them powerful."
Alison's lips curled into a small smile, and a blush tinged her cheeks. "Thanks, Mom." She hugged Elizabeth and then retrieved her phone and hugged Henry too. "Night, guys."
"Goodnight," Elizabeth called after her. She remained hunched forward, hands folded beneath her chin. Henry rubbed her lower back, tracing circles through her shirt. The touch tingled: comfort, yet also a reminder—It's now or never. You need to tell him. "Henry—" she began.
But at the same time, Henry said, "I don't get it."
Elizabeth twisted round. She frowned at him. "Don't get what?"
"All these young women, driven to starve themselves, and what for?"
Elizabeth froze. Ice trickled through her veins. What for? What for? To make themselves feel powerful in a hopeless situation, to find control amongst the chaos, not to mention all the societal pressures, or the fact that it wasn't a choice that any woman or man, girl or boy made, as if they woke up one day and decided to become ill. Elizabeth's heart pounded, and ice turned to fire.
Henry's gaze flicked up to meet hers. His hand stilled against her back, but he toyed with the hem of her top. "What did you want to talk to me about?"
Elizabeth shook her head and pushed his hand away. "Forget it, Henry." Then she surged to her feet and retreated up the stairs. The thud, thud, thud of her heart struck in time with her steps. He didn't get it; he didn't understand at all.
"Elizabeth." Henry's voice pursued her up the staircase, but she didn't stop.
She headed straight into their bathroom, slammed the door shut behind her and then leant back against the cool wood. Eyes shut, she pinched the bridge of her nose. Why did his have to come up now? Why couldn't it have stayed where it belonged? Back in the summer of 1984.
There was a tapping at the door; it juddered through Elizabeth. She let out a deep sigh that ached through her chest, and then let her head fall back against the wood. "Go away, Henry."
The drip, drip, drip of the tap rang through the pause. "I want to talk to you." The door muffled Henry's voice, though it did nothing to smooth out the gnarls of concern, and when the handle rattled, Elizabeth pressed her weight further into the wood. "Elizabeth….please…"
"Just give me a minute." Elizabeth snapped. The handle stilled, and seconds later, the pad of footsteps ebbed away into the bedroom.
Elizabeth pushed herself away from the door, and resting her hands against the marble top, she stared at herself in the mirror. Her heart sank a little. Russell was right: she did look like crap. Deep circles hung beneath her eyes, and the usual spark amidst the blue had gone. But things would only get uglier. The recording was tomorrow, but how was she meant to tell Henry the truth after that? I don't get it. Some people will never understand.
When Elizabeth emerged from the bathroom, Henry was perched on the end of their bed. His brow was creased, and the lines of his face were more prominent than before; the difference between a print and a sketch. He eased to his feet, took a step towards her, but then stopped. "Elizabeth, please just tell me what's wrong."
He reached out to catch hold of her arm, but she brushed past him and strode to her side of the bed. "It's nothing." She plucked the pillows from atop the covers, and one by one, she tossed them in a heap on the floor.
"It's obviously not nothing." Henry's gaze raked over her, causing the hairs to prickle at the back of her neck.
"Just leave it, Henry." She dragged back the covers and climbed into bed. With her back to him, she curled up and hugged the duvet around her. The scent of washing powder stung in her nose—the brand they only bought when she trusted Henry to do the shopping alone.
"Elizabeth, you need to talk to me. You need to tell me what's going on."
But what was there to say? How was she meant to tell him that she had been far worse than those girls on Alison's phone? She had done to herself what he admitted he couldn't understand.
"Fine, don't talk." Henry's tone sharpened. "But you're being incredibly unfair." The mattress dipped behind her. "Whatever this is, you can't just take it out on me. I'm trying my best to be here for you, but you keep shutting me out. I have no idea what's going on, and it feels like I can't say or do anything without you getting mad at me."
Elizabeth pulled the covers over her head. Mainly to block it out, but maybe also because it irked him when she refused to engage. Raging arguments, insults hurled, the passionate back and forth—that was his family's life, his background. But in the silence after her parents' deaths, she had learnt that sometimes the only response to conflict was to shut down. God, how it had rattled him the first time he had raised his voice at her and she had met him with nothing but a stone-cold glare.
"Oh, real mature." The duvet did little to muffle Henry's voice.
There was a long pause and then a sigh. Then, after seconds that felt as though they spun themselves out into hours, there came the click of a switch and the soft whinge as the lightbulb in the lamp faded. The mattress shifted. And slowly, they succumbed to the silence.
