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If Amy had wanted to live in a pasty, wafty, unvarnished, mininmalist terrarium ripped from an Ikea catalogue, she’d have given it all up long ago and sought asylum among the Nordic ice holes. Somehow last night she had managed to trip through and into the giant fucking sliding doors to her room. It had definitely left a bruise. Then the transparent bullshit drapes over them had kept precisely no light out, at all. The motion-sensitive lamps outside were set off by every passing two- and four-legged raccoon, and that nonsense was only interrupted by the sun deciding to rise early. How the fuck was she supposed to get any sleep?
Between bouts of pillow-punching, she’d tried to do some productive thinking – well, some that had nothing to do with the things she wasn’t thinking about. Selina’s abject performance as a self-roasting marshmallow was enough to have her tossing and turning all by itself. It didn’t take much dissecting to realize that Tom James must’ve been the cause of the meltdown. Selina had been getting distracted by him all damn day. The others weren’t exactly much help when it came to keeping her focused. More than ever, Ben and Kent seemed happy to trail along with Selina’s whims. Now that just seemed to mean picking over the remains of Amy’s self-respect and shrugging – like idiotic Disney carrion creatures. They didn’t used to notice her, so why did they have to start now just when she didn’t want them to? And Dan… Dan hadn’t reappeared after he’d be out-vained by Felix Wade’s boy-toy soldiers. Presumably he’d had to run off and moisturize compulsively a number of times to calm down or check that his hidden portrait hadn’t suddenly started de-aging. Not that she’d gone looking for him, or asked him, or was worried about what he was thinking. Amy huffed for what seemed liked the hundredth time that night. Morning. Whatever.
Before too many unhelpful thoughts could creep up over her, she gave in and got up. It was still too early to be worth checking in with the Iowa office. There wasn’t much work she could get done while they were stuck here, living through the mountain states reboot of Logan’s Run. The others had banned her from bringing even the essential strategy documents she’d been working on because it was apparently more vital to the campaign that she fifth-wheel at a square dance. Yesterday she’d managed to hash out some next steps with Marjorie and with Selina’s lawyers over the investigation into the Meyer fund, but until the grand jury made a move that meant little more than trying to line up favourable media coverage and twiddling their thumbs. On the plus side, it looked as though Marjorie was seconds away from agreeing to arrange a Bolivian getaway for Andrew, courtesy of her pals in the CIA.
She’d read her emails and run through her new morning routine (forgetting that the smell of coffee turned her stomach and having to throw it out), so in an effort to waste more time she had a bath and skimmed the ranch’s promotional brochures. They were all glossy pictures and inspirational slogans, endless health and lifestyle tips that required more money and time than sense. At any rate, reading about them was better than actually joining in the endless yuppie wellness activities. She had no interest in being judged by a parade of Stretch Armstrongs for her lack of flexibility and her unwillingness to breathe in other people’s feet. A disgustingly preppy concierge, thinking she was being tactfully helpful, suggested to Amy as she checked-in that she might like to try yoga or guided meditation. That had cured her of liking the name Meagan on the spot. Amy had scoffed and replied that she hoped they’d all fall backwards off their mutilated space hoppers and slip a disc or two. The girl’s mouth had dropped open and her eyelids blinked wonkily like a broken doll. The energy in this place was so tiring that Amy missed the normal D.C. schmoozing – even lobbying. True, it was a silent dance to work out how much of what you wanted you’d get, but it was accepted that everything had a value and everyone, a price. There was some kind of honesty in that. Here though, it was just mass delusion. Everyone put so much effort into being relaxed, they couldn’t admit that anything mattered: there’s nothing to hold on to, nothing. Thankfully no-one had been criticizing her clothes, because at least dressing normally helped her to concentrate and her jeans – not that she wore them that often – were starting to get uncomfortable in odd places.
Amy decided she’d go out for a walk. There was a fishing stage marked on the ranch map a little way off from the cabins that looked quiet. She didn’t want to get stuck making awkward small talk with the gormless assholes who chose to be social at this godforsaken time of day while waiting for a breakfast she’d probably regurgitate anyway. And then take grief for it from Selina and her judgemental greek chorus. Amy really was an idiot for thinking a new campaign would be a return to normal. (Well, what passed for normal in her world, at best something constructive to fill up her time with.) She felt as if bits of her shearing off day by day. In the abstract, she had known she would probably have to tell Selina about the pregnancy, at some point. She had wanted to. She had not expected her to take the news well. She’s not completely out of her tree. Yet. She thought that there would be shouting, yes, and recriminations. That it would be yet another reason why Amy wasn’t focused on doing her job and was a disappointment. But laughing in her face?... The worst of it, the thing Amy couldn’t forgive herself for, was she hadn’t anticipated that.
In a weird way, Selina wasn’t wrong, even if she hadn’t said it the right way. It’s not as if Amy hasn’t been asking herself the same questions over and over again: why, oh why, would you let this happen? Why would you choose – fucking – this? She just hasn’t said it out loud. She hasn’t known how to say it or to who, not that anyone has given her the chance. She hasn’t made a decision yet, but Sophie, Selina, – Dan – everyone’s skipping ahead and assuming she has, rather than walking with her to see where she wants to go…
She is not wearing the right shoes for nature trails though, even if they are flats. How can they be pinching her ankles and have her feet sliding around inside them at the same time? It must be the uneven ground. Amy is not made for off-roading, views are fine but they’re not worth that effort. The path rolls a short way downhill and flattens out by a gently rippling lake with thick, glossy green shrubs at the water’s edge: Capability Zuckerberg couldn’t have curated better himself.
As Amy gets closer, she can see the back of a head between the bushes. For fuck’s sake. What’s he doing out here? Lurking like a velociraptor in the undergrowth. Well she’s not going to get peace now, but maybe, as they’re alone, they can manage to have a single, honest conversation. Of some kind.
Splop. He’s flinging pebbles into the water. The only person he can be performing this cliché of introspection for is himself, there’s no-one else around. His ideal audience.
She has no idea how to start talking to him – when did that happen? Even, or especially, when he’d pissed her off before she’d always had something to say. Whether it was actually what she’d wanted to say to him or not, it didn’t matter. Some form of words would come. Now though, her mind just goes blank.
‘Dan, are you okay?’ Fucking mouth, letting her down.
He’s not even surprised to see her, as if she’s just an elemental part of his landscape. Ullump. That’s heavier: it’s faster to sink. The ripples surge out wider and more thickly, almost like waves, but at the same time the sound is more hollow.
‘Ames, am I getting old?’ Blup. The pebble catches the side of the deck. She looks at the lightly shimmering, ineffectual wake it makes in his reflection.
‘I mean, we all are.’ Silence seems too intimate, so she has to say something.
Or… she doesn’t. He ploughs right over her:
‘Maybe I’ve got to stop fooling around…’
Huh? Of all the places, that’s where his mind goes first? I’ll need a graph drawing for that one.
Plosh. He tosses out another petulant stone as he talks. She’d have reamed him out for it a while back. She’d have laughed in his face and told him out right how deluded and disgusting he is. That she absolutely did not have to sit and suffer through his ego-jism. So why not out loud now? She’s not sick. No-one’s cut out her tongue. And if she was going to make a deal with a sea-witch, she’d have – at minimum – demanded an election win on the spot in exchange for her voice. She’d get something that approached the worth of her last bit of dignity. She had to be clinging on to it for a reason.
‘Sometimes it’s good to think about the future.’
Instead she’s reduced herself to parroting back empty thoughts to him. Why is it when they’re by themselves now, she feels compelled to convince him of something? That they’re on the same page? What is wrong with her?
He seems to think for a moment. His eyes move when he does, as if they’re powering his clockwork brain. You asked the wizard for the wrong thing, Dan, you dumbass. He looks at her, laughs and smiles. Her breathing stops. Oh.
‘Don’t know what I’d do without you.’ He beams, and points at her emphatically. And fuck her if that doesn’t make her miserable day a thousand times brighter before it’s even had a chance to start spinning out of control. Shit.
He gets up, instantly and completely reassured.
Amy catches herself looking up at him, how does he do it? She feels as though she’s always travelling at two or three speeds at once. Her competing emotions forever lagging behind her thoughts. But he...
‘The future.’ He says to himself, and chuckles as if he’s just discovered fucking gravity. And she herself is so reassured by his confidence, so suddenly, that the weird emotional tinnitus that’s been plaguing her for weeks has dissipated in an instant. Oh, she is fucked.
But he’s not looking at her at all. He’s just… walking off.
She should laugh at herself – everyone else does. They’ve all given in to self-indulgence too. After everything, why shouldn’t she? What quantifiable good has holding back really done her?
‘Dan.’ She so rarely says only his name. She used to barrel right into instructions, lately it’s been questions, but saying less somehow has always meant more for them. Time stretches into silence.
He turns back around, eyebrows raised as if he’s surprised that she’s there as a person, that she speaks.
Amy bristles. She stands as he walks back to the deck. Puts her phone in her pocket and her arms first across her chest and then at her sides, trying very hard not to hunch her shoulders or clench her fists.
He’s not smiling anymore. ‘Yeah?’
His face is not doing anything really, just is vacant. He stands at the water’s edge in front of her, the sun getting higher, and brighter, somewhere above his head. She breathes and looks down, she’s not sure that was what was warming her face.
He moves his feet. He’s instinctively getting impatient with her and she’s annoyed at him for it. What right does he have?
She looks up into his face, finally. She still has no idea what she’s going to say. Whether she wants to say – or do – anything. As ever her first instinct is to be annoyed at herself for wanting him to be this close, no matter what he does. She could just reach out and grab a handful of shirt buttons. That was where everything had started to fall apart, of course.
Before.
His irritation finally reaches his face, she can see it starting to knit his eyebrows into a frown.
She cannot stand feeling like this any more. It’s not fair. The way she figures it, she can either fight, or give.
She’s given enough.
SPLASH.
Dan makes a sudden fountain almost as high as the lower branches of the trees. He’s a mess of confused limbs and astonished eyes; his surprise muddying into spluttered disgust, drowned out by the cascading water. The droplets cast rainbows and competing ripples: falling over each other, combining into new patterns, then disappearing just as quickly.
Amy’s laughter stretches farther, echoing back from across the lake after she’s walked away.