Read Online Sussex Drive: A Novel by Linda Svendsen - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Linda Svendsen
Tags: Humour
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invited some of the female Cabinet members, who had Greg’s back on the Hill. They were the oneswith glossy, nipple-grazing hair, uniformly haughty demeanours, suits with satin blouses and an uncanny ability to
mea culpa
at a crispy finger-snap from Chief. (It had been her idea to “photo prop” the young women and stash the plump crusaders in the Antarctica of the backbench.) None of them could attend, though, because they were stuck in their ridings fighting for their seats. Pity.
Becky stepped off the Stairmaster and downed a glass of water. Through the window she could see the Gatineau hills, trees screaming with their customary autumnal fire, and the first tremble of morning traffic on the Alexandra Bridge and buses bearing workers to the Hill. And vice versa: drones from the Glebe on the schlep to Gatineau.
Sarah Palin was on the TV. There was ye olde clip of her at the Republican convention. “Lipstick on a pig.” Great line. Viral. Too bad she had to wear glasses. Although maybe it made men pause to mentally remove them, and a pause was as good as a vote.
It was almost time to wake the kids. No practices that morning, no Pro-D, no anything extracurricular. She had time for crunches, a pelvic series, maybe a plank. She slid onto her yoga mat and positioned herself facing the TV screen hung from the ceiling, and started her count.
The coverage was back on Greg and a mystery voter, on the other side of the country, who had some pressing questions for him. Suddenly her father appeared live from Whitehorse, and was he in those horrible golf pyjamas? Were they shooting in her parents’ Yukon living room?Wasn’t that her blown-up high school grad photo with her hair in a zombie perm? And then Greg, whose big head filled the other side of the split screen, waited while Apoonatuk breezed through the coy and obligatory intro; Greg didn’t know he would be dialoguing with his father-in-law until Glenn spoke.
“What in hell are you doing about this economic meltdown, Prime Minister?”
Becky saw Greg blink in recognition of the voice. She heard Doc curse in the background.
“Not to worry, Glenn, uh, Dad. Frankly, with stock prices dropping, it’s a good time to buy.”
Greg raised his lip in Smile 101 and Glenn glared directly into the camera.
Becky’s heart hammered. WTF and who the fuck. How had this breach happened? She was off the mat, reaching for her phone. But then she hit her brakes: in a campaign, this was essential to the tool kit. Greg couldn’t control every byte and bump, and neither could she. It was a sneak attack by the usually obsequious Apoonatuk, who worked for a broadcasting corporation asking for the moon from the CRTC, but it was not her job to control Can Vox, and God knew nobody could muzzle her father. Was Greg handling it? Yes. Grimly.
“Oh, they’re saying it’s time to board the plane,” Greg said. “Save a place for me, Becky and the kids for Thanksgiving dinner, Dad.”
Was it likely to impact the final outcome? No. She wanted to text Apoonatuk and cut his Sussex family access,but held off. The PMO was actually very resourceful in these instances. They spanked bad.
The interview ended without Glenn resorting to any further inappropriate word usage. Greg gave his stock wave and climbed aboard his Airbus. Doc ran up the stairs behind him. They were taking off for Montreal. Apoonatuk waxed on, in his studio, reminding the audience that Becky’s dad was a successful entrepreneur, as was Becky herself, with her former Party Time business, which catered birthday bashes for underprivileged kids and theme parties for, quoting Becky herself, “those special children known as adults.”
Where did Apoonatuk get off? Breathe
.
Then the breaking news. Headlines about the plunge of the stock market in Asia. The Hang Seng. The Nikkei. The DAX. Wall Street was diving into the raptures of the deep. The TSX tagged along for the dip.
Becky swallowed hard.
Mamma Mia!
would be the best
mea culpa
at a crispy finger-snap from Chief. (It had been her idea to “photo prop” the young women and stash the plump crusaders in the Antarctica of the backbench.) None of them could attend, though, because they were stuck in their ridings fighting for their seats. Pity.
Becky stepped off the Stairmaster and downed a glass of water. Through the window she could see the Gatineau hills, trees screaming with their customary autumnal fire, and the first tremble of morning traffic on the Alexandra Bridge and buses bearing workers to the Hill. And vice versa: drones from the Glebe on the schlep to Gatineau.
Sarah Palin was on the TV. There was ye olde clip of her at the Republican convention. “Lipstick on a pig.” Great line. Viral. Too bad she had to wear glasses. Although maybe it made men pause to mentally remove them, and a pause was as good as a vote.
It was almost time to wake the kids. No practices that morning, no Pro-D, no anything extracurricular. She had time for crunches, a pelvic series, maybe a plank. She slid onto her yoga mat and positioned herself facing the TV screen hung from the ceiling, and started her count.
The coverage was back on Greg and a mystery voter, on the other side of the country, who had some pressing questions for him. Suddenly her father appeared live from Whitehorse, and was he in those horrible golf pyjamas? Were they shooting in her parents’ Yukon living room?Wasn’t that her blown-up high school grad photo with her hair in a zombie perm? And then Greg, whose big head filled the other side of the split screen, waited while Apoonatuk breezed through the coy and obligatory intro; Greg didn’t know he would be dialoguing with his father-in-law until Glenn spoke.
“What in hell are you doing about this economic meltdown, Prime Minister?”
Becky saw Greg blink in recognition of the voice. She heard Doc curse in the background.
“Not to worry, Glenn, uh, Dad. Frankly, with stock prices dropping, it’s a good time to buy.”
Greg raised his lip in Smile 101 and Glenn glared directly into the camera.
Becky’s heart hammered. WTF and who the fuck. How had this breach happened? She was off the mat, reaching for her phone. But then she hit her brakes: in a campaign, this was essential to the tool kit. Greg couldn’t control every byte and bump, and neither could she. It was a sneak attack by the usually obsequious Apoonatuk, who worked for a broadcasting corporation asking for the moon from the CRTC, but it was not her job to control Can Vox, and God knew nobody could muzzle her father. Was Greg handling it? Yes. Grimly.
“Oh, they’re saying it’s time to board the plane,” Greg said. “Save a place for me, Becky and the kids for Thanksgiving dinner, Dad.”
Was it likely to impact the final outcome? No. She wanted to text Apoonatuk and cut his Sussex family access,but held off. The PMO was actually very resourceful in these instances. They spanked bad.
The interview ended without Glenn resorting to any further inappropriate word usage. Greg gave his stock wave and climbed aboard his Airbus. Doc ran up the stairs behind him. They were taking off for Montreal. Apoonatuk waxed on, in his studio, reminding the audience that Becky’s dad was a successful entrepreneur, as was Becky herself, with her former Party Time business, which catered birthday bashes for underprivileged kids and theme parties for, quoting Becky herself, “those special children known as adults.”
Where did Apoonatuk get off? Breathe
.
Then the breaking news. Headlines about the plunge of the stock market in Asia. The Hang Seng. The Nikkei. The DAX. Wall Street was diving into the raptures of the deep. The TSX tagged along for the dip.
Becky swallowed hard.
Mamma Mia!
would be the best
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