For rohwyn, who requested Mary x Richard in a 21st century election campaign.
Richard’s text arrived in the middle of Mary’s dress fitting at Alexander McQueen.
Come home immediately.
She excused herself from the alterations clerk, whose irritation showed through her a taut smile and gracious words, made only because of who her client—and her client’s husband—were, and stepped off the platform to reply.
Fine—If you don’t care how I look at the gala. Otherwise, I’ll come as soon as I’ve finished my fitting.
No sooner had she tucked her iPhone back into her purse with a smug smile and stepped up onto the fitting block than another text arrived from Richard.
I don’t care.
With a sigh, Mary made her apologies to the clerk, who grudgingly agreed to squeeze her into her schedule the following day, and hastily dressed. Richard’s demands were nothing she hadn’t signed on for when they came to the mutual decision that if he was serious about the political aspirations he’d always harboured, now was the time to run for parliament, and they were seldom unreasonable. They were even less frequently delivered in so curt a fashion, she reflected on the drive home, so it must be really important. She felt sincerely sorry that nearly an hour elapsed before she blustered through the front door, breathless with apologies.