Charles Sheffield - Aftermath

“If Tricia—”

“I screw up and throw away my chances completely — at least for the time being — by marrying another man. He’s rich, but so is Saul. He’s part of the old monied set, but I’ve been there, done that. I’ve never been First Lady, though. And that’s something I would really love. So what happened, to make me mess up so completely?”

“I don’t know.”

“Neither do I. But it makes absolutely no sense, psychologically. Do you mind if I, Yasmin, try to find out what really happened?”

“I wish you could.”

“Can I say this is for the White House?”

“N-yes, all right. Look, if Tricia did decide she had made a mistake when she ran away, why did she wait two years before she contacted me?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll make a guess. It’s the Virginia property laws. There’s more than one way to screw a husband.”

“You hate her, but you never even met her.” And when Yasmin did not respond, “Look, I don’t want to go on talking about Tricia all night, and what you’re saying doesn’t make sense. Even if I were scared of Tricia — I’m not, I’m going to dinner with her tomorrow — how would my coming here to see you change anything?”

“You don’t want to talk about Tricia anymore? All right, let’s talk about you. You’re not scared of her in the usual way. You’re scared in a different way, because you know quite well, even if you won’t admit it, that one crook of her finger at you and you’d hop into bed with her again.”

“I don’t think that would work.”

“Why?”

“There are . . . reasons.”

“Well, I’m damn sure it would.” Yasmin stepped back again, so that they were at arm’s length. “How much honesty can you stand? You already told me tonight that you might have to fire me. Well, I’m going to give you a good reason to.”

“You haven’t said or done anything offensive.”

“Just give me a minute. I know you weren’t born rich, but you weren’t born dirt-poor, either, the way I was — the way Tricia Goldsmith was, from what you’ve told me. She’s come up a long way, but she’ll remember. She learned to read men as self-protection. When you’re poor they all assume you’re available. Ever since I was a teenager I’ve watched men look at me, and I’ve heard them talk. They say, I’d like to help you with your career. But their eyes say, I’d like to fuck you.”

“You think that’s why I came to see you?”

“I asked you, how much honesty can you stand? I wish that had been why you came, it’s so much better than the alternative. Sometimes in your office I wanted to grab you, but I didn’t dare. When you said you were coming here I thought things might be different. There, now I’ve shocked you. Didn’t you feel anything between us before this?”

Saul reached out and ran his finger along the smooth line of her jaw. “I felt it, of course I did. But there are things about me that you don’t know.”

“Like what?” She shivered. “Jesus, you’d better stop touching me. You’re giving me chills and I won’t be able to think. Things about you that I don’t know? Well, I know you’ve not been able to get it up since you became President.”

Saul froze, his finger still on her chin. “Where did you learn that?”

“From your doctor. No, Dr. Singer didn’t tell me. But he’s been in a terrible state since the gamma pulse wiped out the recording equipment. If he ever knew how to write anything but prescriptions, he’s forgotten. He can be a pompous ass but he’s conscientious, and he wants to keep full records of his meetings with you ’for posterity.’ He used to dictate from his rough notes into his computer until it died. I told him I’d try to help. I said I’d take his recent scribbles and write them out properly and put them in order. He jumped at the offer. So I know that you’ve been impotent for over two years — since Tricia, in fact. No coincidence.”

“You read all his notes?”

“Everything in the notebooks.”

“About the tests he did? About my sex life?”

“Yes, I read all that.” She laughed harshly at Saul’s expression. “Oh, come on, I found that reassuring. Most women would. We’re not looking for sexual freaks. And you have regular nighttime erections.”

“When I’m sleeping.”

“Yes, but it shows that everything’s in working order. The problems aren’t physical, as Dr. Singer pointed out. He mentioned three women in his notes.”

“They were a long time ago, over a year. I thought you were only using his notes for the period since the recording chips stopped working.”

“I started there, then I went all the way back to the first days of your presidency. It wasn’t just nosiness. I was interested in you, you must have known that.” She arched her neck, leaning into his hand on her cheek. “Telling you what the problem is won’t do it. I’ll have to show you. Let’s start with those women. The ones it didn’t work with. Would they be Leona Culbertson, Ruth Marshak, and Helen Lohmann?”

Saul withdrew his hand and stepped back a pace.

“Now don’t pretend you found that in Forrest Singer’s notebooks. Even when I thought the records were all confidential, I never mentioned their last names.”

“No. I did my homework. I checked your appointments calendar. There were plenty of lunch and dinner parties to choose from, and a guest list for each. But there weren’t many showing one unpaired and unmarried female of suitable age and status, with the right first name.”

“It’s one of the hazards of being single, especially in Washington. People are always trying to play matchmaker.”

“Of course they are. The trouble is, when other people try to fix you up they don’t know your needs and tastes. And you went along with it. You gave Leona and Ruth and Helen a good old presidential try. But it didn’t work.”

“No, it didn’t.” So that’s what three miserable nights of flaccid flesh add up to: a good old presidential try.

Yasmin moved into close contact again, her breasts against Saul’s chest. “And you don’t know why it didn’t work. But I do.”

“Then you’re ahead of me.”

“Because I have information you don’t.”

“About them?”

“About them and about you. Once I had their names I found out all I could about them. They were American thoroughbreds, every one, hostess guaranteed. We would never offer some half-caste mongrel like Yasmin to the President, would we? Our own reputation is on the line. We look for private schooling, family money, fifth- or sixth-generation American — not, God forbid, Native Americans, because they don’t count. We can’t actually go in and examine hymens and test for virginity, but these days a divorcee is quite acceptable. Youth and nice eyes and skin and figure are less important, but we do insist on one thing: for President Steinmetz, they must be ladies. How am I doing?”

“I don’t think I want to hear any more.”

“Of course you don’t. Your mother tells you to meet ’nice girls’ — I’ve heard her phone calls, the poor old dear. But she’s your mother, she doesn’t realize that it isn’t the nice girls who excite you. I’ve watched you and I’ve listened to you for over a year. I know which women you respond to. The ones who turn you on aren’t the ladies. They’re the sluts, the tramps, the sexual daredevils, the women who will try anything — ones who’ll give you as good as they get, and more. Did you tie up Leona and Ruth and Helen? Did they give you oral sex? Did you go down on them? When you left them, did you have teeth marks on your neck and claw marks down your back?”