doesn’t work like that. He’s the Commander in Chief, he’s—’
‘We don’t have time for a fucking debate, Jim. Tell them. It’s that or we’re all dead.’
He hung up. And, as his car turned into Pennsylvania Avenue, Bob Kassian closed his eyes and, for the first time since he was a child, he prayed.
The White House, Monday, 8.45am
‘What in fuck’s name is that?’
Maggie Costello was in the outer office, where her boss’s PA and two others sat. She had only just spotted that on a back wall, just behind the secretary’s head, alongside the portraits of previous holders of this grand office – the White House Counsel – was a calendar. Not the usual one found in Washington government buildings, showing spectacular landscapes of the great American outdoors, but the kind you’d see in a car repair shop. The image for this month, May, depicted a woman on all fours, facing the camera, wearing nothing but tiny bikini bottoms, her mouth gaping open, her tongue visible.
The PA, a black woman in her fifties, gave a resigned shrug.
‘Seriously, Eleanor, who put that up there?’
The PA scowled at Maggie, a look that said, Don’t get me into trouble.
Maggie leaned forward, letting her voice drop to a whisper. ‘I won’t tell anyone.’
Eleanor looked over her shoulder and said, ‘Mr McNamara’s orders. He’s put them up all over the West Wing. He said it was about time this place got in touch with the working people of America. About time it looked like a regular American workplace.’
‘You’re not even joking, are you?’
The woman shook her head.
Maggie leaned across, stretching over Eleanor’s shoulder and, in one move, ripped the calendar clean off. Then, she tore through the thick, glossy paper once, twice, and headed towards the trash. Habit made her look for the green bin for paper.
‘No more recycling, Maggie. He’s got rid of that too. “It’s not called the Green Faggot House. It’s called the White House.”’
‘That’s what he said?’
‘Uh-huh.’
Maggie dumped the remnants of the swimsuit calendar in the sole trash can and marched into her office, slamming the door behind her.
She would have complained to her nominal boss, the man who carried the title of Counsel, but he was an absentee holder of the post, a pal of the President who served as his personal bankruptcy lawyer and been rewarded with a White House sinecure. Maggie had met him only once, at a cocktail party to celebrate his appointment; he hadn’t been seen at the White House since.
She reached for her phone and sent a text message to Richard.
What the hell are we doing here?
In the old days, there would have been scores of women, at all levels, who would have done what she had just done, or backed her up. But now, in this department, it was just her and Eleanor. The rest were all men, almost all of them white. And that pattern held across the White House.
A few seconds later, he replied. Am in with Commerce folks. Talk later tonight?
She shoved the phone across the desk, letting it collide with the picture she kept of herself with the previous President – a tiny gesture of rebellion in this new era. Right now, she felt like cursing that man. It was – partly – his fault she was still here.
‘Listen, Maggie,’ he had said. ‘I know how you feel about my successor—’, but she didn’t let him finish.
‘You see, even that, I can’t stomach. My successor. How can you say that, like this is normal? This is not normal. He’s a liar and a cheat and a bigot and should be nowhere near this place.’
The outgoing President had indulged her, the way he always did. ‘Maggie, you’re a woman of great passion. It’s why you’ve served this administration – and me – so well. But the people have spoken. He’ll be my President – and he should be yours.’
‘But no one’s telling you to stay and bloody work here.’
‘I’m not sure I’m the right demographic,’ he smiled.
‘Exactly. That’s another thing. It’s all white men. Hundreds of them. Every appointment he’s made. It’s like there are millions and millions of people he doesn’t even see.’
‘So, if you stay, you can even up the score a little. Woman, native Dubliner. That’s two boxes you check, right there.’
‘But—’
‘This isn’t just about him, Maggie. Just like it was never about me. It’s about the country. You need to make sure the train stays on the tracks.’
‘Sure, so that he can ram it into the buffers. Besides, what would I even do for him? Former UN aid worker, former peace negotiator, woman – I’m not exactly his cup of tea, am I?’
‘You could do for him the same thing you did for me. Troubleshooter in chief. The woman who knows how to get to the bottom of any crisis and solve it.’
‘But that requires trust.’
‘I know, Maggie.’
‘You trusted me and I trusted you. Totally.’
‘I know and I cherish that. But you’ll find a way. You always do.’
Maggie looked at the photograph, marvelling at the naiveté of her earlier self. Even a year ago she would never have believed this was possible. Mind you, nor would anyone else.
And then she felt it, that familiar stab of guilt and with it the attendant nausea. It seemed to rise from a specific place, a site of revulsion deep in her guts. If only she hadn’t …
In an attempt to push that dread thought out of her mind, she thumbed out another message to Richard.
How early can you leave tonight?
Let’s eat at my place. Really need—
But before she had finished, her office door flung open. She heard him before she saw him. ‘Are you decent?’
Crawford ‘Mac’ McNamara, senior counsellor to the President. If Maggie and all the other non-partisans who had stayed on were dedicated to keeping the train on the tracks, McNamara was the man who decided the destination. Even Bob Kassian, the nominal Chief of Staff, was a mere bureaucrat compared to McNamara. In the White House solar system, only one star burned more brightly.
Of course, Maggie was several moons below him – even under the previous president, her official title never reflected her true status – which under the old Washington rules meant a man of his rank would never deign to say so much as two words to her, let alone make the journey to come see her in her office. But McNamara was the self-styled outlaw, the sorcerer who had shredded the Washington rulebook to get his man elected President. Protocol could go hang. Memos were for dweebs, minuted meetings were for assholes. Instead he patrolled the West Wing each day, strolling into whichever office he wanted to whenever he wanted to. The Oval was no exception. McNamara saw the President first thing in the morning and last thing at night; he was the all-powerful voice in his ear.
Nor was this the first time he had made the journey to see Maggie. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Richard had said, when they discussed it over Chinese takeout the other night. ‘You’re the most attractive woman in the office and he’s … intrigued. I’d be flattered.’
Maggie’s reply had been concise: Ugh. And now here he was again, middle-aged