Ripple Effect

Chapter Thirty-Seven: ...happiness, gratitude, relief.

Elizabeth

11:24 AM

Conrad's footsteps were still fading along the corridor when Russell barged into the room with a manila file tucked beneath one arm and his cell phone glued to his hand. "Why's there no signal in this place? It's like the Bermuda Triangle of cell reception."

"Good morning to you too, Russell. Please come in." Elizabeth pushed herself away from the edge of the dressing table, and then dragged out the padded stool that was tucked beneath it and slumped down onto the cushion. "You know, when I signed that consent form and named you as my second contact, I kinda hoped you'd be bringing me stuff that's work related, not biscuit-based interventions."

"The biscuits were his idea, if it were up to me he'd have threatened to fire you instead." Russell tossed his phone onto the duvet, and it sank into the pink waves of cotton. "Besides, you and I both know that, after our spouses, neither of us have a friend to name as a second contact."

She folded her arms across her chest and drew her chin back. "I have friends."

"You're in politics." He kicked the doorstop free and shot her a glance over his shoulder. "You have acquaintances and allies at best."

She paused, her lips pursed. Not entirely untrue. Friends had certainly fallen away over the years, and even before she took the job as secretary of state she would have struggled to name a second contact, and now with Will—. She pinched the inside of her arm through the sleeve of her cardigan, hard, like a screw twisting into flesh. Perhaps it would bruise.

Her gaze sharpened on Russell as he ushered the door into its frame. "I don't suppose there's any chance you can talk him round? Make him see sense."

"Who do you think talked him into it in the first place?"

She leant forward and braced herself against her knees. "Russell, he's comparing me to Harrison. His son. The drug addict." Her eyes bugged.

"And what does that tell you?"

"That this has been blown way out of proportion." She swept one hand up into the air, held his gaze for a long moment, and waited for any flicker of agreement. But his eyes remained cold, flint without a spark. She shook her head to herself and let her hand fall back to her lap. "Look, I had a bad night—"

His gaze raked over her. "Is that what you're calling it?"

"I let myself get overtired, but I'm fine now."

"Half the White House are hopped up on caffeine and sleep-deprivation, but you don't see them being put on suicide watch."

"I'm fine." Her tone sharpened. "They're not even extending my hold."

"Well, congratulations. You no longer meet the criteria to be committed. Is that really the bar you're setting for yourself?" He stared at her, his eyes wide, waiting for her answer. When none came, he gripped the top rail of the chair so tight that his knuckles peaked white, and he bowed his head. His voice strained, each word stressed. "You need to start taking this seriously, Bess."

Elizabeth's chin dipped, and her hair fell forwards so that its ends brushed against her cheeks. Her fingers and thumbs fumbled over the cuffs of her sleeves; the wool itched, like the way her nerves furred. "I said I'm fine."

Russell stepped around the chair and lowered himself onto the seat. He leant forward and sought her eye. "Talk to Dr Sherman, engage with the programme, get yourself out of this cave." He gestured to the room around them; with the lights switched off and the gloom that seeped in through the window, it brimmed with a murky haze. "Just play the game. Go to one of the yoga classes, or whatever the hell it is that they do here."