Mercy aka The keeper of lost causes

2

The tabloids loved everything about the Democrats’ vice-chairperson, Merete Lynggaard, and everything she stood for. Her sharp comments at the podium in the Folketing, the Danish parliament. Her lack of respect for the prime minister and his yes-men. Her feminine attributes, mischievous eyes, and seductive dimples. They loved her for her youth and success, but above all they loved her for the fodder she gave to speculations about why such a talented and beautiful woman had still not appeared in public with a man.

Merete Lynggaard sold a hell of a lot of newspapers. Lesbian or not, she was truly great material.

And Merete was fully aware of this.

“Why don’t you go out with Tage Baggesen?” her secretary urged, as they headed for Merete’s small blue Audi, avoiding the puddles forming in the Christiansborg parking lot, which was reserved for members of parliament. “I know there are plenty of men who’d like to take you out on the town, but he’s completely crazy about you. How many times has he tried to ask you out? Have you even counted how many messages he’s left on your desk? In fact, he left one today. Just give him a chance, Merete.”

“Why don’t you date him?” Merete glanced down as she dumped a pile of folders onto the backseat of her car.

“What am I supposed to do with someone who’s chair of the Traffic Committee and also a member of the Radical Center Party? Can you tell me that, Marianne? What am I? Some sort of traffic roundabout in the provinces?”

Merete raised her eyes to look over at the Royal Arsenal Museum, where a man in a white trench coat was photographing the building. Did he just snap a picture of her? She shook her head. The feeling of being watched had begun to annoy her. Of course it was sheer paranoia. She really needed to relax.

“Tage Baggesen is thirty-five years old and he’s fucking gorgeous,” said Marianne. “Well, OK, maybe he could stand to lose a few pounds, but on the other hand he owns a country house in Vejby. Plus a couple of others over in Jutland, I think. What more could you want?”

Merete shook her head skeptically. “Right. He’s thirty-five years old and lives with his mother. You know what, Marianne? You should take him yourself. You’ve been acting really strange lately. Take him. Be my guest!”

She grabbed all the folders her secretary was holding and flung them onto the seat with the others. The time on the dashboard clock was 5:30. She was already late.

“Your voice will be missed in the Folketing this evening, Merete.”

“I suppose,” she said with a shrug. Ever since she’d entered politics, there had been a firm agreement between herself and the chairman of the Democrats that after six p.m., her time was her own, unless it was a matter of crucial committee work or a vote. “Not a problem,” he’d told her back then, fully aware of how many votes she pulled in. So it shouldn’t be a problem now, either.

“Come on, Merete. Tell me what you’ve got planned.” Her secretary tilted her head. “What’s his name?”

Merete gave her a quick smile and slammed the door. It was about time she found a replacement for Marianne Koch.