Food Fight Page 5

  “So is this just a hand-holding exercise?”

  “Keeping them happy. Congressmen like to feel they’re in the loop.”

  Two young interns followed them into the lift, unaware that Barney’s eyes were burning shamelessly through their dresses. “And I’m like yeah,” one of them said, “and he’s like well,” while the other nodded.

  More long-legged, long-haired creatures slunk by in the marble hallway, each in full makeup and formal attire in line with the Congressional dress code.

  They reached Senator Dailey’s third floor office and stopped at the receptionist who blocked their way.

  “Good morning, Mr McManus, Ms Perkins. The Senator’s expecting you,” she said.

  They were ushered into a wood-panelled office where a large man in a white shirt was leaning back in his chair opposite two aides. A third excused himself and left the room as they entered.

  “Ah, Barney, good to see you,” he said, standing to shake hands. Susan was introduced to the chief of staff and a press officer.

  “We’ve had some bad news this morning,” said the Senator. “Hey, Jerry, bring some chairs for our guests would you?”

  “What’s up Senator?”

  “It’s this damned Tea Party. It’s the end of politics as we know it. Any dumbass now thinks he can run for Congress by saying they want to claw back government. And now it’s happening to me!”

  Dailey explained he would now face a primary challenge from a Tea Party candidate in next year’s midterm elections. The problem with American politics, Susan had discovered in DC, was that there was always an election to win. How did they ever have time to think about anything else but fundraising?

  She looked at Barney. He’d got the message.

  “Well, Senator, is there anything we at DeKripps can do to help? You know we have cash for red states, you know we have cash for moderate Republicans.”

  The Senator acknowledged the offer with a slight nod, loosening his striped tie beneath a double chin and rolling his sleeves to the elbows.

  “What they don’t realise, these assholes, is that their policies will destroy government,” he said. “Maybe that’s what they want. Hell, why don’t they just throw a grenade into Congress? But after two terms as Senator, I’m not going to roll over for a Tea Party guy. Right, Richard?” he said to the young press officer.

  “Right, Senator, that’s what we’re going to tell them.”

  “I mean, none of us want Obamacare. Can you imagine what socialised medicine will do to your life expectancy? I won’t be voting for that. I was against the auto bailout too. But these people are insurrectionists. They’re anti-everything! And now the Tea Party wingnuts are polluting the minds of Kansas voters. My voters.”

  He’d picked up a pen and slammed it down on the desk. His collection of family photos jumped with the impact. “But Barney, that’s not what you came to hear. What can I do for you?”

  Their time was almost up. Barney gave his pitch about how DeKripps was taking its responsibility to the nation’s health seriously by easing up on added sugars and taking a stand on fibre.

  “We remain America’s most trusted brand and we intend to keep that trust,” he said. “All we’re doing is changing the conversation, just a tad.”

  The Congressman nodded at the mention of High Fructose Corn Syrup. Not only did he come from the Corn Belt where HFCS was produced, but he sat on the Senate Agriculture, Nutrition and Forestry Committee where he was a champion of American corn growers and processors.

  “That’s terrific, Barney. Thanks a lot for stopping by.”

  Barney stood at the signal and motioned to Susan.

  “Senator, always a pleasure,” he said, stretching out his hand and pumping Dailey’s firmly as they eyeballed each other.

  “DeKripps is right behind you,” he said meaningfully, as he pressed the Senator’s stubby paw. “Give my best to Shirley.”

  “I will. Goodbye, Ma’am,” said the Senator, shaking Susan’s hand. His press officer whispered something into his ear, and they all stepped outside together. The glare of a TV camera caught them leaving Dailey’s office.

  Susan heard the Senator saying, “I look forward to debating with Mr Burdock,” as she and Barney set off down the hall.

  “How do you think that went?” he asked.

  “Not quite as I’d expected, I must say.”

  “Let’s have a coffee.” He took her downstairs to the basement, through a brick tunnel labyrinth which eventually led to a coffee bar.

  “Welcome to the only privately owned coffee bar in Congress,” Barney said. He showed her into the little café with a hot and cold self-service buffet at one end. A couple of Congressmen, vaguely familiar to Susan, were seated at a table. Staffers waited in line for coffee to go. Susan and Barney took theirs into the next room.

  “This is obviously not my area, but should we be taking this Tea Party thing seriously?”

  “DeKripps? We are, don’t worry. Dailey’s probably safe, but I can think of a few others in Congress who should be worried. I’m from Philadelphia, and right next door there’s this crazy woman who wants to run for Biden’s seat next year. She’s Tea Party and she’s a witch! I mean, a real witch. Can you imagine it? A witch on the Senate foreign relations committee? We’d be the laughing stock of the whole world.”

  “There’s a real revolutionary streak in America, isn’t there? It reminds me of France. I think the French and the Americans have more in common than we realise.”

  The comparison seemed to leave Barney cold. He sipped from his coffee and winced.

  “What I’m saying is, it’s dangerous, Susie. Dangerous for the Republicans. And everything that’s happening is good news for Democrats, although God knows they’ve got enough problems. Look at how Obama’s screwed up healthcare. He’s been in office for almost a year and Congress is still jammed with this goddamned thing.”

  “From what I read, the gridlock in Congress isn’t just on healthcare. There’s warfare on any reform that comes to the floor. It might even affect us with HFCS.”

  “True, I’ve never seen it this bad. Never. But food-wise, it’d be dangerous if people start seeing nutrition as a political issue, not a health issue.” He narrowed his eyes. “We’re not there yet, though.”

  Susan thought of Mimi. For her daughter, food was already political. After giving up media studies, the subject du jour, she’d ended up in her NGO, which had completed her political education. She knew that Mimi did communications, although her latest job seemed to consist of holding childish protests, dressing up in public places to shout about policy reform. Or awareness raising, as Mimi called it.

  Barney began jiggling his knee with caffeinated impatience. When she’d finished her latte, instead of heading the way they came, he took her past the sprawling Senate cafeteria, its food stations spread out in the basement. This was the place where French fries had been re-baptised Freedom Fries during the Iraq war.

  Serge, a Bush-hater, had been apoplectic, and hadn’t seen the joke.

  A little further along the corridor, Barney showed her the little subway train that ran to the Capitol.

  Beside it was a well-stocked Senate gift shop. It would be the perfect place to pick up some Christmas presents, stamped with the Senate seal.

  They walked in silence along Pennsylvania Avenue, then as they neared the office she asked, “How’s Project Posh?”

  “Project Candy? It’s dandy.”

  He obviously intended to leave it at that. But then he added, “You’ll be impressed. We’ve got one scientist in particular who deserves a Nobel Prize.”

  “The peace prize? Let them eat Candy?”

  He laughed. “The prize for chemistry. Or biology. One of those. You’ve not mentioned Project Candy to anyone, right?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You know loose lips sink ships,” he said, pulling an invisible fastener across his mouth. “Zip ‘em Susie.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTr />
  As Christmas approached, a blizzard dumped a record sixteen inches of snow at Dulles on the night of Susan’s scheduled flight to London, disrupting her travel plans.

  Ellen invited her home for Sunday brunch on December 13th, the anniversary of Serge’s death. Her husband, Jed, a K Street lobbyist for one of the banks, was in charge of the kitchen that morning.

  “Looking forward to Christmas?” Jed asked, chewing gum and handing her a cup of coffee. He was preparing a pile of blueberry pancakes, spooning the mixture onto the stove from a mixing bowl. Ellen was taking care of the twins, holding one with each hand as they trotted unsteadily round the kitchen like string puppets. Susan perched on a stool by the counter.

  “Sort of. Not really. It’s a bit of a schlepp to my mother’s on the coast, and my daughter’s doing her own thing,” she said. “And as Ellen probably told you, there’s a cloud hanging over the family. So it won’t exactly be festive.”

  “Sure,” Jed said. “So you’re going to France as well?”

  “I kind of feel obliged to see Serge’s family. His brother lives in Rennes, he’s a chemist.”

  “What, chemistry?”

  “No, drugstore. Problem is I think he helps himself to a few too many of his drugs.”

  “You mean he’s an addict?”

  “More a hypochondriac. There’s always something the matter with him, so he self-medicates.”

  “Oh, man. And are you done with all the paperwork now?”

  “I’m not sure. That’s another reason I need to travel to France, their family notary was handling all that, but it should be pretty straightforward. It just takes time.” She turned to Ellen. “So which of these lovely boys is Darren, and which is David? They both look so much like you, by the way.”

  “Jed says they’ve got my nose, poor things,” said Ellen. “This one in blue dungarees is Darren. And this little fellow is David.”

  “They’ve got Jed’s chin though,” Susan said. Jed, stroking his square jaw, grinned from behind the kitchen counter. “They’re a year old now, right?”

  “Fifteen months exactly.”

  Susan got down on her knees to play. “They’re such fun at this age,” she said. “I remember when Mimi learned to walk. Oh for the days when she couldn’t answer back!”

  “Don’t you believe it,” Ellen said. “Once one of them starts emptying his lungs, the other follows suit straight away.”

  Jed gave her a lift back to the Metro after brunch, and she asked how his firm was doing after the banking collapse last year.

  “Let’s just say it was bad,” he said in a Texan drawl, lingering on bad as he checked the rear view. “It’s tough right now. Customers hate us, and blame the banks for the recession.”

  “I guess that’s where DeKripps is recession proof,” said Susan. “Even in a crisis, people love sweets. And of course the worse people feel, the more they eat.”

  “Did you prove that in focus groups?”

  “No, but others have.”

  “Seriously, do you mind if I ask you something? It’s about Ellen. Do you think she’s working too hard?”

  “Why?”

  “She’s listless. Distracted when she gets home. She’s usually as focused as a laser beam.”

  “Did she say anything about Barney?”

  “Of course,” he said.

  “Do you think she’s under too much pressure from him?”

  “Could be. It’s this new product, right?”

  “It’s in development stage right now. Our department is going to be under a lot more pressure once it launches. We’re the ones who have to sell it. But I’ll make sure Ellen’s okay. She’s got my back too.”

  “Thanks. Appreciate it.” But she could see he was hoping for more.

  *

  Susan was restless on the flight to London. She clicked through the movies on offer but couldn’t make up her mind. When the flight attendant brought drinks, she picked up her can of tomato juice and examined the Nutrition Facts on the side, squinting at the print size which seemed to be even tinier than usual. The ‘one hundred percent’ tomato juice contained nine grams of sugar. Well, if Chewers think they can get away with it, good for them.

  She caught the train to Lymington, where a yapping Yorkshire terrier named Nellie greeted her at her mother’s front door. “Why didn’t you tell me? And why did you give it such an old-fashioned name? It’s as bad as Susan.”

  She’d always hated her name. She could never decide as a child which she hated more, being ginger, being freckled, or being Susan.

  Over the next few days, braving the misty chill, she pottered listlessly around the shops, their Christmas lights sparkling on the cobbled streets in the lower town.

  She would raise her head from time to time to look towards the Solent and the Isle of Wight’s dark hulk.

  Christmas Day meant capon, sprouts and roast potatoes, shared with the dog which only seemed to stop barking when it was eating. They didn’t bother to buy crackers. Her mother’s attempt to lighten her mood, by inviting her to lunch at Sticklers on the high street, collapsed as soon as the subject of Mimi was raised.

  “Do you think I’m a bad mother?” Susan asked as she tackled a generous helping of cod and chips.

  “What do you mean, dear?”

  “Well, I must be to blame for Mimi turning into the daughter from hell.”

  “You did your best. It’s nature as well as nurture, isn’t it? And who knows what genes the girl inherited from her father.” Her mother had never approved of her married boyfriend, despite having broken up a marriage or two herself.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you.” That sounded like the final word. Her mother had never been one for introspection.

  “But I do worry. I worry I should have done things differently. And is it a coincidence that she’s a vegan as well? All this unconscious attention-seeking. Maybe I didn’t give her enough attention when she was young.”

  “She’ll grow out of it.”

  “Do you really think so? I’d be surprised. It’s not a diet, you know, it’s a belief system.” Susan pushed away the remainder of her chips. “Do you think Nellie wants one?”

  “She doesn’t eat junk food.” The little dog was sitting at her mother’s feet, had been quiet for most of their lunch. Susan was amazed she’d been allowed into the restaurant.

  “I don’t understand why Mimi has to be so aggressive about it,” Susan said. “All this nonsense about bee’s vomit. I’m not sure she’s getting proper nutrition, but she’ll never listen to me.”

  “The other day she told me I shouldn’t sprinkle sugar on my oatmeal because it’s refined with cattle bones. I do hope that you’re not responsible for that.”

  “Of course not, mother.”

  She’d always found it difficult to confide in her mother who remained a private person, averse to raking over feelings and motivations. Susan scrutinized her face as her manicured hand searched her handbag for a wallet and powder puff. She was still beautiful at 72, dignified, lipstick intact. She’d always seemed slightly distracted but few outside the family noticed that now she was increasingly deaf. She dabbed her cheeks with powder. The words remained unspoken. If Susan had been a bad mother, what about her own? Had she unconsciously followed the same pattern of benign neglect with Mimi?

  Then her mother said something that surprised her. “Do you know, when I look at Mimi, I see you,” she said. “You want to be different too. That’s why you married a Frenchman, don’t you think?”

  Before she had a chance to reply, her mother put on her reading glasses to look at the bill, and feigned shock. “If it gets any worse, I’m going to have to go out to work,” she said. Susan wasn’t aware that her mother had ever had a job.

  “Come off it. You’ve got your investments.”

  “What do you mean? For two years now that income has been more than cut in half.” She pulled on her woolly poncho which gave off just a hint of mothballs, scooped up N
ellie, and sailed out of the restaurant, Susan following behind.

  *

  The fish restaurant in the old town of Rennes had an open air seafood counter where a young man in an apron and gloves was shucking oysters in the freezing cold.

  “I’ve booked a table for three in the name of Pairkeens.” She Frenchified her last name for the benefit of the maître d’.

  “Ah oui, Madame Pairkeens, suivez-moi,” he said. He gathered together the menus and a wine list. Susan glanced back and saw Marie-Christine extinguishing her cigarette on the pavement, then heard the clicking of her stilettos.

  It was the first time they’d seen each other since the funeral. The ritual kissing greeting was perfunctory. Susan watched her frown deepen as she surreptitiously scanned her outfit while they took off their coats. As usual, she was made to feel that her fashion sense wasn’t up to scratch.

  Jean-Louis, his polo shirt collar turned up in the French way, was seated on Susan’s right, and his wife opposite them. They’d left the children, François-Xavier and Lucie-Anne, at home with a babysitter. She’d always thought there were too many hyphens in that family.

  Minutes later, the table was piled high with an imposing plateau de fruits de mer of crab, oysters, langoustines, prawn and whelks.

  “Well, bon appétit,” she said. She picked up a mini-spear and wondered whether she had the stomach for a slimy grey-green whelk.

  “Alors, Suzanne,” said Marie-Christine - Susan had long given up correcting to Soo-san - “tell us about America.”

  Her sister-in-law had made no secret of her lack of interest in her move to Washington. As a Frenchwoman who’d once said she had no need of a passport, she was convinced that her native land was paradise.

  “I bet you don’t have seafood restaurants like this in Washington DC,” stressing the dee see.

  She was obviously expected to reply in the negative.

  “It depends where you go,” she said in as neutral a voice as she could muster, determined not to be goaded. “The food’s okay, actually.”