Deadline (51 page)

“All’s fair in love and war and politics,” he said, and Jack felt the grip tighten. “No hard feelings. But just so you know. There’s no way Jim Donahoe would betray his country. No fucking way. I don’t know the deal with the emails, and I don’t need to know.” He kept the iron double grip on Jack but leaned back to look him in the eyes. “You know that, right? You know that Jim Donahoe is no traitor, right?”

Jack met Cochrane’s bleary eyes and nodded his head, but he could see that Cochrane needed him to say it. “I know that, Dave,” he said. “Jim Donahoe is no traitor.”

That was enough, apparently, because the grip loosened, and Cochrane was smiling and backing away, and telling Jack he was happy for him, and they should stay in touch, and he was gracious when Jack’s date arrived, and said nice things about him to the girl as he took his leave.

Jack could tell that the girl sensed his unease, but after Cochrane left he asked her about her political opinions, and told her about life in the game in Ottawa, and the dinner was great and she let herself be coaxed back to his condo afterwards.

Jack was starting to feel important, he was wearing some sharp suits, and nothing was stopping him from romancing the many young volunteers and staffers on Mowat’s leadership campaign. As he became more comfortable in his new role, and Mowat’s operation expanded and took on an air of inevitability, Jack became accustomed to taking home young women to his condo, where he would ply them with champagne in the living room, show them his view of the city, then seduce them on the couch, so that he could look out at the inky waters of Lake Ontario as he took his pleasure, and admire the reflection of their naked bodies in the glass.

But even while he was delighting in the erotic shadow play against the night sky, maybe especially then, he found himself missing Sophie. He spoke to her when she had time, but she was busy with her work in the department, busy with a special leadership-related project she wouldn’t talk about, and busy with her visits to Ed, who was making little progress.

Bouchard wanted Jack to stay clear of Ottawa until he was appointed to the Senate, so that he could avoid his journalist friends, and Sophie didn’t have time to go to Toronto, so he didn’t see her again until just before the leadership convention in Montreal.

They met for dinner at her favourite restaurant, Au Pied de Cochon, where they started with glasses of champagne and deep-fried cubes of foie gras. Sophie looked more beautiful than ever, in a simple, low-cut black dress, and it made Jack so nervous that he dropped his fork and knocked over his water glass. When their appetizers arrived, she quizzed him on what he’d observed in Mowat’s leadership office, and asked about his love life.

“Is there anyone serious?” she asked.

He took a big slug of wine and rolled his eyes.

“No one the least bit serious,” he said. “They’re all sort of the opposite of that. How about you?”

“God,” she said. “I have no time for that shit.”

She told him about Ed, who had moved into a downtown long-term care facility, where she visited him every day.

“Are you still seeing Mowat?” he asked.

“Shhh,” she said. “We’re not supposed to talk about that.”

“Fine,” he said. “I won’t talk about it. But are you?”

She shook her head.

“No,” she said. “That’s over for good. We never even discussed it. The minister and I are enjoying an excellent professional relationship.”

Jack was on his fourth glass of wine by the time he’d finished his appetizer. Sophie had barely touched her champagne.

“You’re not drinking much tonight,” he said. “Are you planning to get me drunk and seduce me?”

She laughed her high, tinkly laugh, and he beamed at her.

“I can tell you,” he said. “You don’t have to do that. You can pretty much just tap this shit anytime you want.”

Sophie blushed and laughed and told him to not be such an idiot.

He sat back and looked at her. Their eyes locked, and he suddenly realized why she wasn’t drinking.

“Sophie?” he said. “Are you pregnant?”

She set down her knife and fork and composed her face.

“Well,” she said.

Jack grinned. “Holy fuck,” he said. “Congratulations.”

“I didn’t say yes,” she said. “You can’t tell anyone. I’ll be showing in a month or so, but I want to be in my next job before anyone knows.”

“Wow,” said Jack, closing his eyes. He was surprised to feel a tear run down his cheek. He wiped it away and took Sophie’s hand in his.

“Will you marry me?”

She pulled her hand away and slapped his. “Ferme ta gueule,” she said. “That’s not funny.”

He reached to take her hand again. “I’m not joking,” he said. “I’m crazy about you. I can’t stop thinking about you. If you knew how much I look forward to our phone calls ...”

She let him hold her hand.

“Thank you, Jack,” she said. “No. You can’t marry me. I’m a Québécoise, remember. We’re not really into marriage.”

Jack searched her eyes for a moment, then leaned back in his chair.

“I will ask you again later,” he said. He took a drink of wine.

“Wow,” he said. “Fuck. So, uh, who’s the father?”

She raised an eyebrow, and sat back with a little smile.

The waiter arrived then with their main courses: steak frites for him, and for her, a whole pig’s foot, glistening with maple syrup, atop a mound of buttery mashed potatoes.

“I’m eating for two,” she said, and tucked in.

Jack cut a piece of steak and lifted it, then put his fork down.

“Who’s the father?” he asked again.

She swallowed her first bite and started on a second, and looked at him, chewing.

“I can’t say for sure,” she said. “It’s either you or Ed.”

She sat back and watched his face as that sank in. “Two to one it’s you, though,” she said, and she laughed.

He looked confused.

“You remember that shitty motel?” she said. “We had sex twice there. Then later, at the hospital, I had sex with Ed once. So I figure that makes you the odds-on favourite.”

Jack’s mouth dropped open.

“It’s how I got the password. I got his attention, then after he gave me the password, I had sex with him.”

“Wow! And you slept with Mowat that morning.”

“Yes. Three men in one day. I can’t believe it.” She shook her head in honest astonishment at herself.

“So, how do you know he isn’t the father?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I guess he could be, but he used a condom. You didn’t, and I let you, didn’t I? Either time. I don’t know why.”

Jack shook his head.

“So,” she said with a little wink. “Do you still want to marry me?”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes. Maybe I am stupid, but I still want to marry you.”

He put down his knife and fork and peered at her. “That’s not the kind of thing you would do all the time, is it? You don’t need three men every day, do you?”

She laughed, and Jack’s heart swelled at the merry sound.

“Think about it,” he said. “We can afford a house, have a nursery and a room for Ed, get home care for him. That would be good for him, having a house full of people to look in on him. Both of us could spend time with him every day. I’ll likely have a lot of time on my hands. I’m hoping this whole being-a-senator thing will be sort of a part-time deal. They tell me that’s up to me.”

They both laughed at that. Then he took her hand in his again.

“So,” he said. “What do you think of my plan? Will you marry me?”

She laughed, pushed his hand away and took a bite of pork.

“Whoa, la,” she said, chewing. “Tell you what. How about we go back to your place after dinner, and then we’ll take it from there?”

I would like to thank friends who read drafts of Deadline and gave me valuable advice and encouragement: Andrew Balfour, Mark Bourrie, Carrie Croft, Susan Delacourt, Camille Labchuk, Christina Lopes, Don Martin, Glen McGregor, Jordan Owens, Elizabeth Pigeon and Gaby Senay. I’m especially grateful to fellow novelist and old college friend Julianne MacLean, whose advice was crucial in helping me turn the manuscript into a publishable novel.

I’d also like to thank cover designer Tim Doyle and photographer Dan Brien, whose image of the Peace Tower appears on the cover, and patient proof reader Sylvia Macdonald.