Read Online Sussex Drive: A Novel by Linda Svendsen - Free Book Online
Authors: Linda Svendsen
Tags: Humour
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.
Ma
emerged from her pressed lips like mother,
maman
,
ma belle
, while
jor
sat, take-no-prisoners, final as
force majeure
, followed by the double-beat, put-a-skip-in-her-step rhyming cousin of
I Am Pretty
, the closer:
ity
.
Majority
took her whole mouth to say. It was so worth it.
In the four weeks since the writ dropped, Greg had lost thirteen pounds and gained ten and twelve points, respectively, on the Tory-friendly Rippo and Karp-Deem polls. He was almost as Bic-skinny as the whiny Grit leader and surging ahead in all the prime-ministerial-attributes categories, while a Green Party candidate had been discovered on YouTube caressing the banjo in what looked like a marijuana forest, inspiring the appropriate ripostes. The country hadn’t even blinked when Lise predictably crumbled and dissolved Parliament; after all, the NHL teams were back in training.
Greg was at the airport in Charlottetown, P.E.I., this morning, an hour ahead of Ottawa time, and he was being fully covered by the campaign media, which was how Becky could keep tabs on her front-runner as she climbed a mountain in the home gym at Sussex. She flipped between the news channels and watched “Follow Our Leader,” as Greg cajoled the country not to worry about the financial cratering occurring everywhere in the world.
She could taste it:
majority
. The word she dared not wish for aloud in non-Con company. She wanted to celebrate.
She would, in fact, be celebrating that night. With Greg on the road, and Ottawa’s civil service sitting stunned in pubs, 100%-cotton knickers in a twist over the election call, she’d invited a couple of the corporate wives—Sonja, Maya and Sasha—along with some lively hockey-forward live-ins and spouses—Avalon, Atlantys and Tamberlyn—and the Cohen twins and, of course, Lise, and Apoonatuk, all of them Sussexing it over to 24 for appies, highballs, flirtations with the secret service, and a suitable chick flick to give them ninety-three minutes to sober up and walk a straight-
ish
line to any Lexus. The goal, beyond neighbourliness, was to thank the chequebooks for their largesse and the ongoing show of Tory support. She saw such nights as her country’s equivalent of a one-night-only bonk in the Lincoln Bedroom at the White House. She and Lise also wanted to ask the gals to pony up for ArtsCAN!, which now loomed large on their calendar—right after the election. The gals seemed pathetically star-struck about the GG.
Of course, Becky knew the media would go gaga over her, Becky, if Greg would only allow it. The country would fall in love with her infectious snicker, quasi-Olympian health, sunny self-deprecation and stilettos. His fear, and it was one she shared, was that she might be too candid in her remarks and send them back to the drawing board. They only allowed Becky to play to the extremely loyal base, where she could extol motherhood, gerbils, crampons and croutons.
Becky was also secretly pleased that the unleashing of Lise’s consort for his Euro vanity project had clinched Becky’s dispatch of Corporal Shymanski to Rideau Hall. Greg had asked questions, but then consented; Shymanski wouldn’t be too far away. As for Martha, Becky had kept her busy. Her daughter was quieter than usual, if that were possible, and going to bed very early, but Becky thought this was a plus. She always knew where she was.
Lise had cooled to her since René’s
Lévesque
movie clip had conspicuously surfaced. They had seen each other at a few official occasions and been dutifully friendly, as one would expect, and Niko had chilled with Becky’s boys. But Lise had cancelled their statutory yoga date. Also, perhaps more tellingly, they were both at Hair on George and Lise had pretended not to see her, even though they were kitty-corner to each other and visible through the checkerboard glory of the dazzling mirrors. The GG had left first, darting into the dodgy elevator. Becky would make it blow over.
Becky had also
Ma
emerged from her pressed lips like mother,
maman
,
ma belle
, while
jor
sat, take-no-prisoners, final as
force majeure
, followed by the double-beat, put-a-skip-in-her-step rhyming cousin of
I Am Pretty
, the closer:
ity
.
Majority
took her whole mouth to say. It was so worth it.
In the four weeks since the writ dropped, Greg had lost thirteen pounds and gained ten and twelve points, respectively, on the Tory-friendly Rippo and Karp-Deem polls. He was almost as Bic-skinny as the whiny Grit leader and surging ahead in all the prime-ministerial-attributes categories, while a Green Party candidate had been discovered on YouTube caressing the banjo in what looked like a marijuana forest, inspiring the appropriate ripostes. The country hadn’t even blinked when Lise predictably crumbled and dissolved Parliament; after all, the NHL teams were back in training.
Greg was at the airport in Charlottetown, P.E.I., this morning, an hour ahead of Ottawa time, and he was being fully covered by the campaign media, which was how Becky could keep tabs on her front-runner as she climbed a mountain in the home gym at Sussex. She flipped between the news channels and watched “Follow Our Leader,” as Greg cajoled the country not to worry about the financial cratering occurring everywhere in the world.
She could taste it:
majority
. The word she dared not wish for aloud in non-Con company. She wanted to celebrate.
She would, in fact, be celebrating that night. With Greg on the road, and Ottawa’s civil service sitting stunned in pubs, 100%-cotton knickers in a twist over the election call, she’d invited a couple of the corporate wives—Sonja, Maya and Sasha—along with some lively hockey-forward live-ins and spouses—Avalon, Atlantys and Tamberlyn—and the Cohen twins and, of course, Lise, and Apoonatuk, all of them Sussexing it over to 24 for appies, highballs, flirtations with the secret service, and a suitable chick flick to give them ninety-three minutes to sober up and walk a straight-
ish
line to any Lexus. The goal, beyond neighbourliness, was to thank the chequebooks for their largesse and the ongoing show of Tory support. She saw such nights as her country’s equivalent of a one-night-only bonk in the Lincoln Bedroom at the White House. She and Lise also wanted to ask the gals to pony up for ArtsCAN!, which now loomed large on their calendar—right after the election. The gals seemed pathetically star-struck about the GG.
Of course, Becky knew the media would go gaga over her, Becky, if Greg would only allow it. The country would fall in love with her infectious snicker, quasi-Olympian health, sunny self-deprecation and stilettos. His fear, and it was one she shared, was that she might be too candid in her remarks and send them back to the drawing board. They only allowed Becky to play to the extremely loyal base, where she could extol motherhood, gerbils, crampons and croutons.
Becky was also secretly pleased that the unleashing of Lise’s consort for his Euro vanity project had clinched Becky’s dispatch of Corporal Shymanski to Rideau Hall. Greg had asked questions, but then consented; Shymanski wouldn’t be too far away. As for Martha, Becky had kept her busy. Her daughter was quieter than usual, if that were possible, and going to bed very early, but Becky thought this was a plus. She always knew where she was.
Lise had cooled to her since René’s
Lévesque
movie clip had conspicuously surfaced. They had seen each other at a few official occasions and been dutifully friendly, as one would expect, and Niko had chilled with Becky’s boys. But Lise had cancelled their statutory yoga date. Also, perhaps more tellingly, they were both at Hair on George and Lise had pretended not to see her, even though they were kitty-corner to each other and visible through the checkerboard glory of the dazzling mirrors. The GG had left first, darting into the dodgy elevator. Becky would make it blow over.
Becky had also
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