has spent more in the last eighteen months since Nora showed up than in all of the time prior to that put together. He doesn’t feel guilty about this, nor is he stupid enough to have fallen in love with her, but he does regard their time together as essential, each appointment as a sort of pit stop, something entirely related to the rhythms and requirements of his working life.
It’s not just that he’s paying for her to leave, as the conventional wisdom runs. It’s a bit more complex than that. He’s paying for what sociologists have recently taken to calling ‘relief from the burden of reciprocity’.
In other words, he already has a wife.
Nora removes her coat. She places it on the back of a chair. She then does a half turn and glances at Rundle, coquettishly, her lips glistening, her tongue just visible.
Hard-on in place, check.
She can do this every time. Just walk into the room. What wife can do that?
More than once J.J. has begged Clark to hook him up with Regal, but of course that’s never going to happen.
J.J. doesn’t get to do this.
Especially since he’s on the brink of submitting to the most rigorous vetting process known to man. Even before the media get involved, he’ll have to offer himself up on a platter to the party handlers: his education and employment histories, every tax return he’s ever filed, every investment made, every gift received … his medical records, and all of them, copies of lab results, bloods, electrocardiograms, even down to such stuff as the size of his prostate and how much Pepto-Bismol he uses.
So no room for peccadilloes.
‘How are you, Nora?’
‘I’m good.’
She walks over to the window, though it’s more like sashays. He follows. Puts his hands on her shoulders, applies pressure, breathes in her scent – nose in her hair, hard-on nuzzling against her ass.
Rhythm starting.
She’s wearing that silky dress he likes, it’s a –
Look, forget it.
They have their habits, like any couple, stuff they do and say – but only in some alternative universe could the details of this be any of your fucking business. Set up a sting operation and nab J.J., fine, you’d get to justify that on the grounds of public interest, so-called. But not here, not in this case.
Say hello to the private sector.
So, between one thing and another, a little time passes.
Nora then takes off to the bathroom for a shower and Rundle lies back recalling what it was like in his younger days, at this juncture, to smoke a cigarette.
Just after half past his cell phone rings.
This could be anyone, but he has a feeling about it. He sits up and reaches over to the bedside table for his phone.
He’s right.
‘J.J.? Shit, how are you?’
‘I’m fine, fucking traum atised, but fine. And it’s not like there isn’t plenty going on over here to distract me, or going on over there , I should say with all this stuff being generated.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Rundle slides off the bed. ‘Stuff? What stuff?’ He goes over to the window.
‘You haven’t been following it? Seriously?’
‘No. What?’
‘You’re the one who kicked this whole thing off, man. Stroke of genius.’
‘Kicked what off?’
‘It’s all over the internet. I’m all over the internet. Senator saves motorcyclist. Senator in Parisian rescue drama. I’ve been getting calls all day, interview requests. I’m telling you, Clark, you couldn’t pay for this kind of exposure.’
Rundle thinks back. He was busy for most of the morning, paperwork, meetings, this and that. He skipped lunch and came directly here. He doesn’t have time for Twitter or any of that shit, so it’s not like he’s been monitoring developments.
‘Jesus…’
‘Yeah, it’s amazing. Political coverage, but with a dollop of feelgood on top? I mean come on .’
‘OK, I suppose…’
‘You suppose ? Clark, I’m sitting here in my hospital bed doing a Google news search and it’s like, Washington Post two hours ago, San
It’s not just that he’s paying for her to leave, as the conventional wisdom runs. It’s a bit more complex than that. He’s paying for what sociologists have recently taken to calling ‘relief from the burden of reciprocity’.
In other words, he already has a wife.
Nora removes her coat. She places it on the back of a chair. She then does a half turn and glances at Rundle, coquettishly, her lips glistening, her tongue just visible.
Hard-on in place, check.
She can do this every time. Just walk into the room. What wife can do that?
More than once J.J. has begged Clark to hook him up with Regal, but of course that’s never going to happen.
J.J. doesn’t get to do this.
Especially since he’s on the brink of submitting to the most rigorous vetting process known to man. Even before the media get involved, he’ll have to offer himself up on a platter to the party handlers: his education and employment histories, every tax return he’s ever filed, every investment made, every gift received … his medical records, and all of them, copies of lab results, bloods, electrocardiograms, even down to such stuff as the size of his prostate and how much Pepto-Bismol he uses.
So no room for peccadilloes.
‘How are you, Nora?’
‘I’m good.’
She walks over to the window, though it’s more like sashays. He follows. Puts his hands on her shoulders, applies pressure, breathes in her scent – nose in her hair, hard-on nuzzling against her ass.
Rhythm starting.
She’s wearing that silky dress he likes, it’s a –
Look, forget it.
They have their habits, like any couple, stuff they do and say – but only in some alternative universe could the details of this be any of your fucking business. Set up a sting operation and nab J.J., fine, you’d get to justify that on the grounds of public interest, so-called. But not here, not in this case.
Say hello to the private sector.
So, between one thing and another, a little time passes.
Nora then takes off to the bathroom for a shower and Rundle lies back recalling what it was like in his younger days, at this juncture, to smoke a cigarette.
Just after half past his cell phone rings.
This could be anyone, but he has a feeling about it. He sits up and reaches over to the bedside table for his phone.
He’s right.
‘J.J.? Shit, how are you?’
‘I’m fine, fucking traum atised, but fine. And it’s not like there isn’t plenty going on over here to distract me, or going on over there , I should say with all this stuff being generated.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Rundle slides off the bed. ‘Stuff? What stuff?’ He goes over to the window.
‘You haven’t been following it? Seriously?’
‘No. What?’
‘You’re the one who kicked this whole thing off, man. Stroke of genius.’
‘Kicked what off?’
‘It’s all over the internet. I’m all over the internet. Senator saves motorcyclist. Senator in Parisian rescue drama. I’ve been getting calls all day, interview requests. I’m telling you, Clark, you couldn’t pay for this kind of exposure.’
Rundle thinks back. He was busy for most of the morning, paperwork, meetings, this and that. He skipped lunch and came directly here. He doesn’t have time for Twitter or any of that shit, so it’s not like he’s been monitoring developments.
‘Jesus…’
‘Yeah, it’s amazing. Political coverage, but with a dollop of feelgood on top? I mean come on .’
‘OK, I suppose…’
‘You suppose ? Clark, I’m sitting here in my hospital bed doing a Google news search and it’s like, Washington Post two hours ago, San
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