Chapter 4

After take-off of the Prime Minister's flight Brian Richardson and Milly drove back from Uplands Airport in Richardson's Jaguar. Through most of the journey into Ottawa the party director was silent, his face set grimly, his body tense with anger. He handled the Jaguar - which normally he gentled lovingly - as though it were responsible for the abortive press conference on the airport ramp. More than others, perhaps, he could already visualize the hollowness of James Howden's statement about Immigration and Henri Duval as they would appear in print. Even more unfortunate, Richardson fumed, the Government - in the person of the Prime Minister - had taken a stand from which it would be exceedingly difficult to retreat.

Once or twice after leaving the airport Milly had glanced sideways but, sensing what was in her companion's mind, she refrained from comment. But nearing the city limits after a particularly savage cornering, she touched Richardson's arm. No words were necessary.

The party director slowed, turned his head and grinned. 'Sorry, Milly. I was letting off steam.'

'I know.' The reporter's questioning at the airport had distressed Milly too, aware as she was of the secret restraint upon James Howden.

'I could use a drink, Milly,' Richardson said. 'How about going to your place?'

'All right.' It was almost noon and for an hour or two there was little urgency for Milly to return to the Prime Minister's office. They crossed the Rideau River at Dunbar Bridge and swung west on Queen Elizabeth Drive towards the city. The sun, which had been shining earlier, had retreated under sullen clouds and the day was greying, the drab stone buildings of the capital merging with it. The wind whistled in gusts, stirring eddies of dust and leaves and^ paper, cavorting in gutters and around week-old snow piles, denied and ugly now from sludge and soot. Pedestrians hurried, coat collars upturned, holding their hats and hugging buildings closely. Despite the Jaguar's warmth, Milly shivered. This was the time of year when winter seemed endless and she longed for spring.

They parked the Jaguar at Milly's apartment building and rode up in the elevator together. Inside the apartment, out of habit, Milly began to fix drinks. Brian Richardson put a hand around her shoulder and kissed her quickly on the cheek. For an instant he looked directly into Milly's face, then abruptly released her. The effect within himself startled him; it was as if, for an instant, he had floated into some other megacosm, dreamlike, airy ... More practically he said, 'Let me do the drinks. A man's place is at the bar.'

He took glasses and, as she watched, poured even measures of gin, then sliced a lemon, squeezing part into each drink. He added ice cubes, efficiently opened a bottle of Schweppes tonic and divided it neatly between the two glasses. It was simple and effortless but Milly thought: how wonderful to share things - even a simple thing like mixing drinks - with someone you genuinely cared for.

Milly took her glass to the settee, sipped, and put it down. Leaning back she let her head fall comfortably against the cushions, savouring the welcome luxury of rest at midday. She had a sense of moments stolen from time. Stretching, she extended her nyloned legs, heels against the rug, shoes kicked free.

Richardson was pacing the small, snug living-room, his glass clenched tightly, his face absorbed and frowning. 'I don't get it, Milly. I just plain don't get it. Why is the chief behaving this way when he never has before? Why, of all things, is he backing Harvey Warrender? He doesn't believe in what he's doing; you could tell that today. Then what's the reason? Why, why, why?'

'Oh, Brian!' Milly said. 'Couldn't we forget it for a while?'

'Forget it, hell!' The words rapped out in frustration and anger. 'I tell you we're being stupid goddam morons by not giving in and letting that bastard stowaway off the ship. This whole affair could build and keep on building until it cost us an election.'

Illogically Milly was tempted to ask: Would it matter if it did? It was wrong, she knew, to think that way, and earlier her anxiety had been as great as Richardson's own. But suddenly she was overwhelmed with a weariness for political concerns: the tactics, manoeuvring, petty scoring over opponents, the self-implanted certainties of right. In the end what did it all amount to? Today's seeming crisis would be a forgotten trifle next week or next year. In ten years, or a hundred, all the tiny causes and people who espoused them, would be lost in oblivion. It was individuals, not politics, that mattered most. And not just other people ... but themselves.

'Brian,' Milly said softly, steadily, 'please make love to me now.'

The pacing had stopped. There was a silence.

'Don't say anything,' Milly whispered. She had closed her eyes. It was as if someone else was speaking for her, another voice inhabiting her body. It had to be that way since she herself could never have said the words of a moment or two ago. In a way, she supposed, she ought to speak in denial of the stranger's voice, cancelling what had been said, resuming her own identity. But a sense of delicious languor held her back.

She heard a glass set down, feet moving softly, drapes drawn, then Brian was beside her. Their arms went around each other, lips meeting ardently, their bodies demanding. 'Oh God, Milly!' he breathed. His voice was trembling, 'Milly, I want you and I love you.'