Felicity
“I don’t like all these windows,” one of Dad’s Secret Service agents says.
His name is David Brown and he’s been with Dad for as long as I can remember. I used to think he looked like a superhero, tall and black-haired and muscular with an expression which never looked unsure. But looking at him now, after meeting Roma and Bear and seeing Mr. Black’s men, he looks inconsequential. He looks around the function room, long, wide windows set along the walls. Chandeliers hang from the ceiling and politicians stand in small circles, waiters walking between them holding silver platters of champagne and nibbles. I notice several people looking at me, trying and failing to be discreet.
Dad speaks through his teeth. “You have the place secured, don’t you?” he snaps, a smile plastered on his face. That’s a politician’s trick I’ll never stop being impressed by, their ability to smile whilst being angry. “We couldn’t exactly hold the party in a dungeon, could we?”
“Sir.” David nods, taking a step back.
A stage has been erected at the front, a podium dominating it. I know that I’ll be standing up there later with Dad, being paraded as safe, evidence that he is not scared and certainly not guilty. Any annoyance I felt at being used as political currency dropped away a long time ago. Dad’s been a politician my entire life; it’s all I know.
Dad turns to me, his politician’s smile plastered onto his face. “We should mingle,” he says.
And so we mingle. Women wearing sparkling dresses which cost more than many apartments compliment me on how well I seem to be taking it. Men in suits tell me I’m brave, a testament to American resilience. I’m approached by a journalist who wants to write my story as a memoir. I politely tell her I’ll think about it and continue circling the groups. I hear Dad’s forced laughter boom throughout the room as he talks to congressmen and women. At some point, I end up at the side of the room, leaning against the wall, sipping my champagne and looking over the faces of everybody.
I look and look but all I can think about is Roma. Dead? I think in horror. Or alive and still working for Mr. Black? Please, God, don’t let him be dead!
I hear the shot he fired over and over in my mind, the way it tore through the air, the pained expression on his face as he fired it. Over time, the memory becomes confused and I don’t know if I’m imagining certain things or if it’s really how they happened. I hear him muttering sorry as he fired off the shot. But surely I wasn’t close enough to hear that? I see him smack his chest, as though punishing himself for shooting in my direction. I even see him blow me a kiss. All made-up, I know. All that happened was he shot at us as you’d shoot at an animal which was lingering too long.
I imagine that later on tonight I won’t be going back to an empty room, but to mine and Roma’s room. I’ll fall into his arms and he’ll hold me close and we’ll laugh about the whole thing. We’ll agree to start over. Because, no matter what’s happened, I want to see him again, to be with him again, to fall in love with him, deeply, truly, without holding back. I want to know just how much I can love him. I want to give it my all.
I start when the woman appears at my shoulder. “Awfully tiring, isn’t it?”
I turn. It’s the journalist. She’s a sinewy woman with a ponytail even tighter than mine. She wears thick purple-framed glasses.
“Oh, I love it,” I say, my smile wide and fake. Since returning from the yacht, I find I can control my expression with more ease. Once you’ve smiled into the faces of Russian thugs, smiling into the face of a journalist is no big thing.
She grins at me. “You’re very good, Miss Fellows, very good indeed. I’m incredibly sorry to bother you. I’m just fascinated by your story. Would it be too much hassle to answer a few questions?”
“What . . . now?”
I’m in no mood to talk, let alone be interviewed.
“Well, yes,” the woman says. “If it isn’t too much trouble.”
As we walk, I absentmindedly watch the crowd. A big-bellied politician pats another big-bellied politician on the back and I wonder if they’ve just made some kind of deal over champagne and cheese-and-pineapple sticks. A glamorous woman wearing a bright dress looks anxiously around the crowd, for her husband, I bet. A young ginger man with a freckled face and . . .
And . . .
Daniel!
I squint at him, wondering if I’m not seeing him properly. Surely he could just be any young ginger-haired man. But the closer I look, the more certain I am that the guard I seduced, the guard whose gun I stole, the guard I knocked out, is here, at my party. I stifle a cry by widening my smile.
I face the journalist. “You know most people here, don’t you?” I ask.
She nods proudly. “Of course.”
I point at Daniel. “Do you recognize that man?”
The journalist pushes her glasses up on her nose and leans her head forward. “Oh, yes, that’s one of Congressman Andrews’ interns. I forget his name. He’s junior. Apparently very efficient, though.”
The little prick is in government! Mr. Black has a nephew in government!
“Oh, yes, I do know him!” I click my fingers and my words come out sweetly in my most artificial voice. “If you’ll excuse for me for moment, I should go and say hello.”
I don’t wait for her permission. I weave my way through the crowd and directly to Daniel, the man who stood outside of my cell with a gun only three days ago.