The Twentieth Day of January

CHAPTER 11

Logan Powell sat on the edge of his hotel bed, his hand still resting on the telephone. He pulled his hand away slowly and reached for the glass of whisky. She was a bitch, and he wondered what he had seen in her that led him into marriage. He had been lecturing at Yale when they first met, and they had married a year later. She had been one of his father’s students and was taking one of those hotchpotch humanities courses that lead to jobs in the United Nations in New York or Geneva.

She had cooled towards him when he gave up his university job and set up the business consultancy in Hartford. And the coolness became coldness from the moment when he was nominated for the State Governorship.

He sat thinking, his drink forgotten as his mind went back to the night when the committee had nominated him as the Republican candidate. He had used the telephone in the hotel foyer and he had pressed the buttons and waited as the telephone rang and rang.

It was just after ten o’clock so she wouldn’t be in bed. Finally, there had been a response.

“Hello.”

“Hi, Laura. Everything OK?”

“Yes. Mother’s gone to hospital for a check-up. Dad’s up here with Sammy and me.”

“I’ve got great news, kid. Guess what?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“I’ve got the nomination. It’ll be officially confirmed and announced tomorrow night.” He waited but there was no response from the other end.

“Aren’t you pleased?”

“If that’s what you want.”

“Honey, at least you’ll be the Governor’s wife.”

“Don’t be so childish, Logan. I shall just be me.”

“You don’t think it’s an achievement?”

Her voice had been cold, almost venomous. “You’ve gone a long way, Logan Powell—down. And now you’ll be right where it’s all at, and your new friends can get the road contracts, the building work, and the jobs they’re all hanging on for.”

“You think that’s all it is?”

“Why do you think it is? Your big brown eyes or your non-existent political experience? You’re kidding yourself my friend. But you’ll find out.”

“You know, you said I wouldn’t make it when I started up the consultancy.”

“Wrong, my dear, wrong. I didn’t say you wouldn’t make it. I said you shouldn’t try. You should have stayed at the university when you had the offer.”

“Why, for heaven’s sake, why only that?”

“Because you had something to say. Like your father had something to say.”

“But the consultancy is successful.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake, Logan, you’re just a kind of business call-girl…”

“…that’s not true, Laura, and you know it… the work I…”

There was a click as she hung up and he crashed down the receiver in anger. “You lousy bitch,” he had said through clenched teeth. And as he turned he had seen Dempsey at the door. He knew that he must have heard the last few minutes.

Dempsey had looked at Powell’s grim face.

“No joy back at the ranch-house?”

“I guess she’ll come round in time.”

Dempsey had nodded and looked away.

“Come back to my place and bed down in the spare bedroom and we’ll have a drink.

“OK.”

And he stayed at Dempsey’s apartment through the week-end.

Dempsey had invited a girl down from New York and she was there when he and Dempsey had got back from the nomination meeting. He was now the official Republican candidate, and only death or disaster could prevent him from being State Governor in a few months’ time. Although he hadn’t known it, that had been the beginning of the end so far as he and Laura were concerned. It didn’t seem all that long ago. Jenny was younger than Laura and very beautiful, but that wasn’t all the story. She could always put the Band-aid on his bruised ego, and with her he felt safe. From what, he wasn’t sure.

Like her name, Jenny Larsen was a Swedish-type blonde. A Hitchcock girl, but warm; and she had seemed either unaware or indifferent to the fact that her cleavage, as she leaned forward while they all talked, revealed most of the soft mounds of her breasts. And what had been almost as pleasurable, she was clearly impressed with his nomination and his plans.

By midnight they’d had enough whisky for him to feel warm and pleased with life. And Dempsey had said to the girl, “Is Paula down here for the week-end?”

She had nodded. “She said she would be. Shall I phone?”

“I’ll check.” He stood up and walked to the study and closed the door.

Powell had looked through a slight haze at the big blue eyes and the soft mouth.

“Are you Andy’s girl?”

She had laughed. “No. We’ve seen one another a few times in New York, that’s all.”

Involuntarily his eyes had gone to her breasts and when he had looked back at her face she had been smiling. She looked up as Dempsey came back into the room. He was smiling.

“Yes, she’s here. I’m going over to fetch her.” He picked up his suede jacket. “Give him a drink, Jenny, till I get back, then we’ll all celebrate.”

Powell had been looking at the girl as the door clicked behind Dempsey and she had laughed softly as he moved over to sit beside her on the settee. Her mouth had responded as he kissed her and she had made no protest as his hand slid inside her cleavage to cup a full breast and lift it free of her dress. His fingers had kneaded the big mound as they kissed and only when his hand had slid back her skirt did she hold his wrist. She had looked at his face and said softly, “Is this how you want to celebrate?” She was smiling as he nodded, and she had said, “Let’s go in the bedroom.”

“What about Andy and the other girl?”

Her hand touched his cheek. “They’ll understand. They’re probably doing the same at her place.”

And this time she made no move to stop him as his hand went between her legs. For long moments she watched his face as his hand explored her and then she kissed him gently, “Come on, let’s go.”

He had scarcely noticed the bedroom in his awareness of her undressing, and then it was just a fevered vision of breasts and thighs, smooth, youthful, girl-flesh, and the sensations of being in her body.

The room had been dark when he awoke and he had reached out, moving his hand slowly to find a light. The pink light cast a glow on the white walls and across the face of the girl. He looked at his watch; it was 4.30. He looked back at the girl’s face. She really was beautiful, her full lips barely meeting as she breathed deeply and regularly. For a moment he had a vision of Laura asleep in their bed at home, but it had gone as his hand reached for the sheet and gently rolled it down. Her head was on one side, the long blonde hair fanned out on the white pillow. He looked at her body. She lay on her back and the full breasts rose and fell with her steady breathing, their pale pink tips soft and innocent. Her belly was softly curved and muscled and he could see the blonde bush that covered the mound of her sex. When his hand moved on her, her eyes fluttered open and she said sleepily, “Love me. Love me some more.” And she had lazily opened her long legs and folded her arms round him as he lay on her.

He turned and put down his glass on the bedside table and reached again for the telephone. His hand hovered over the instrument uncertainly. She could be here in three hours, and he wanted her. But he knew that Dempsey was right. An out-of-town girl, a New York girl, would be spotted in no time. And the press were watching his every move. They wouldn’t print anything. He’d get his hundred days but they would start putting two and two together about him and Laura, and that would be considered legitimate news. He’d get Andy to fix the little dark girl again. She was only 18 but she was enthusiastic.

He reached for the file of “possibles” for the London and Moscow embassies, and wondered why he still felt lonely despite all the people around him.