Sussex Drive: A Novel by Linda Svendsen

squeeze to a prayer brunch, Lise pried her aside, steering her into the stainless steel kitchen.
    “Lise”—Becky sing-songed her name so she wouldn’t sound snarky—”I’m just about to start the movie.”
    “It has to wait,” Lise said.
    “I’ve wangled a screener, and it’s the singalong version.” This was courtesy of Tory allies at the New York PR firm,the ones who’d coached her in how not to cry and who’d put Greg so uniquely on Broadway.
    “Un moment,”
Lise insisted.
    Becky tried to keep cool. Everybody knew that guests hated it when their hostess abandoned them—the backlash could play out passive-aggressively in the deposit column.
    Lise planted herself against the huge Fisher & Paykel refrigerator morgue in the industrial kitchen, swishing the staff out into the pantry. In the glittering Indian garb, offset by her gorgeous caffe latte skin, against the steel backdrop, she resembled a glorious animation dropped into a technological wasteland.
    “We need damage control,
tout de suite
,” Lise said sharply. “Do you know what he’s just done?”
    “Who?” asked Becky, though she knew instantly exactly whom Lise was talking about.
    “The PM. Quebec.”
    “What?” said Becky. She’d spoken to Greg just before the arrival of the first guests and updated him about Martha’s flu, and how Martha would have to cancel a few campaign stops with him.
    “He’s denigrated the arts. He’s said the
majority
—”
    Becky tingled.
    “—the
majority
of Canadians don’t give two cents about ballet and opera and esoteric literature and don’t want to subsidize it for the pleasure of the elites.”
    Becky’s first thought was,
He’s right
. Her second thought was,
Minority, minority, minority, minority, minority
.
    “You can imagine what’s happening. The artists in Quebec are very upset, the First Nations are upset—it’s all about culture, identity. A few of the anglo artists—the Ghost of Peter Gzowski cult, the Ghomeshi gang and a couple others, also on the blogs—all furious. Culture is subsidized, identity is subsidized—why has he done this?”
    “I had nothing to do with it,” Becky said.
    “And the ArtsCAN! Our gala! How can I work with you as co-chair? Where is my credibility as Governor General working with you on this?” Lise’s eyes were wide. “What are you going to do?”
    Becky thought about it—the carefully cultivated list of corporate sponsors and spouses, all delighted to be rubbing anything with Greg, with her, and the Canadian luminaries who had fled the shallow Canadian turtle dish and become fast-swimming, sleepless celebrity sharks in the translucent global ocean. The waste of money, relationships and months of strategy.
    Becky spoke carefully. “
Mamma Mia!
I’m starting the movie. Then I’m going to call my husband. Can you stay with the gals?”
    Lise nodded. “Make him feex eet.”
    Becky punched in the lock code for the swimming pool. It had been the same for years: 1217, December 17, Mackenzie King’s birthday. She pulled out her BlackBerry and plunked down on the end of a chaise longue. Steam rose from Mila’s Jacuzzi and she knew she was barely visible to security. So be it. She needed to be somewhere she wouldn’t be disturbed.
    She punched Greg’s direct number and received his voice mail. “It’s Becky,” she said. “The kids are fine. Call me ASAP.”
    She stared out the window into the dusk. The garden was just about under cover of darkness now, with the last stalks starting to rot from the root.
    She called Doc.
    “Becky.” Clipped, Mr. Importante.
    “Give me the leader.”
    “He’s with Chief.”
    “Interrupt.”
    “No can do.”
    “Not good enough.”
    Pause.
    “All I can do is give him the message—”
    “Get him!”
    Pause.
    “We’re coming in for a landing here in Winnipeg. Have to end. The pilot’s waving at me—”
    Becky knew that pilot, the congenial Trenton commander. “Doc.”
    The phone went dead.
    She was