The Chosen One Read Free Page B

last year not to making a life with him, but to helping Stephen Baker become the most powerful man in the world. That he had won the presidency – against all the odds – felt almost miraculous. She had been so swept up in the euphoria of that triumph that she had forgotten to pay attention to her own life. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she had thought that once things got back to normal, she would concentrate on making her relationship with Uri work; she would patch things up. But suddenly it was too late: he’d made his decision and there had been nothing she could say.
    So now here she was, yet again, another relationship officially screwed up and on the verge of losing the very job that had sabotaged it. This was her life all over. Give Maggie Costello a shot at happiness or success and she’ll fuck upboth. She wanted to howl like a banshee, to expel all her frustration and misery: but even in her despair she knew she wouldn’t do it. Washington was the buttoned-down town. No outward expressions of emotion wanted here. That was one of the reasons she was beginning to hate it, from the depths of her Irish soul. So instead, she put her head in her hands and muttered to herself, again and again: Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.
    This bout of self-loathing was interrupted by a vibration somewhere near her thigh. She dug out her cellphone. Where the number should have appeared it just said: Restricted .
    A voice she did not recognize spoke without saying hello. ‘Is this Maggie Costello?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Please come to the Residence right away. He wants to speak to you.’
    Confused, Maggie replied, ‘Who wants to speak to me?’
    ‘The President.’

2
    Washington, DC, Monday March 20, 08.07
    There was no time to visit the bathroom: she had been summoned to see him ‘right away’. But there was no way in the world she could go to the Residence looking like this. Maggie swung open the door to the ladies’, praying she would run into no one that she would have to speak to.
    Shit.
    Tara MacDonald, Director of Communications, African-American mother of four and undisputed matriarch, first of the Baker campaign and now of the Baker White House – coiffed and confident in her midlife prime, coming out of the stalls and checking her make-up.
    ‘Hi there, Maggie, how you doing, sweetheart?’
    Maggie froze, reluctant to take up her position in front of the vanity mirror. Lamely, she ducked her head and began to wash her hands.
    ‘I’m OK.’
    ‘You seem a little, I don’t know, agitated.’
    Maggie turned to MacDonald with a harried attempt at a smile. ‘I’ve just been summoned. To the Residence. I thoughtI’d better…’ she nodded towards the mirror, ‘…you know, make myself presentable.’
    The instant change in Tara’s expression – as if her smile muscles had been suddenly severed – told Maggie she’d made a mistake.
    The older woman pursed her lips. ‘That right? The Residence. That’s quite an honour.’
    ‘I’m sure it’s nothing important. Probably wants some input ahead of the UN speech.’
    ‘Sweetheart, he has a National Security Advisor for that.’ Tara MacDonald went back to the mirror, but Maggie could see she was not done. ‘Well, ain’t you the insider. And there I was thinking you were just an NSC staffer.’
    Maggie ignored the remark, staring at the mirror, aware that she had already been here a minute – which was a minute longer than she should have been. Besides, she had heard this kind of barb before.
    The face that stared back at her looked pale and strained: no surprise, really, given the excruciating little scene that had just been played out in the Chief of Staff’s office. In the panicked dash to get here this morning she’d forgone her usual lick of paint: there had simply been no time to apply concealer to the dark shadows beneath her eyes or the tinted moisturizer that did its best to conceal the tiny crows’ feet that now perched at the corners of her eyes along