Читать книгу The Last Daughter - Thomas Mahon - Страница 5

Behind the gold curtains, Caitlin Prescott paced and fiddled with her iPhone. She was dressed smartly in a conservative, black sleeveless Marc Jacobs—a Matelasse shift dress, complemented by three-inch black heels. If the audience expected her to prance through the gold curtains swaddled in an American flag and teetering on red stilettos, they had another thing coming. She was made a buffoon of for the two-day shoot; she would not be made a buffoon again.

She plopped down on a nearby stool and exhaled. She shut her eyes momentarily, but that only accentuated the butterflies she’d been feeling since five that afternoon. Caitlin tried to ignore the woman out front, still babbling on about deadlines, photo angles and lighting. Thanking everyone and their poodle for this month’s issue. God, she hated these little ceremonies with a passion.

“You ready?” came the all-too familiar voice behind her.

Caitlin turned to find her mother, the inimitable First Lady Julie Prescott as many in the press referred to her, dressed to the nines. She was in full-blown first lady mode, simply soaking up the moment.

Caitlin sagged. “Can we just get this over with? I have homework.”

Julie Prescott fiddled with a shoulder strap. “Since when have you ever worried about homework? We send you to the finest school in D.C. and I’ve never seen you crack open a book.”

The first daughter was a junior at the exclusive Quaker school, Sidwell Friends. Her parents’ decision to enroll her in Sidwell drew criticism from many of the pundits, especially since Jack Prescott had made support of the nation’s public school systems one of the centerpieces of his campaign. On the other hand, the same pundits quietly understood why the president and first lady hadn’t deposited their daughter in a D.C. public school like Jimmy Carter had done with Amy. Why should a child of privilege tread water in a cesspool when she could swim in sparkling waters with the dolphins? Actually, there was never any doubt Caitlin would attend Sidwell. She had the pedigree. She had the brains. And she hailed from the prestigious Eastland School down in Central Florida, one of the nation’s leading all-girl prep schools. That was, of course, before her father swept the last presidential election and uprooted the family. Clearly, Sidwell made perfect sense. Anyone with any brains knew that.

Julie Prescott finished with her dress strap. “Sit up straight.” Nodding to the iPhone in her daughter’s hand, “You’re not bringing that thing on stage. Honest to god. Your father and I should have spent the $300 on some common sense instead of that blessed phone.”

“Fine, so what should I do with it?” she asked, not at all keen on being more than two yards away from the device at any given moment; like every other teenager in America, it had become her sidekick. A part of her fabric. Her very being. Or, as her father had said on many occasions, “a bodily function”. Caitlin patted her Marc Jacobs. “This thing doesn’t come with pockets.”

“That dress is not a thing. It’s a twelve-hundred dollar masterpiece on loan to us, sweetheart. Now listen to me, Caitlin Lane Prescott. C-Span has a steady, weekly audience of thirty-five million viewers. More than half of them are men under the age of fifty, so make it good. Remember poise. Smile appropriately. Watch your posture. Radiate some sexuality.”

Caitlin frowned.

“I don’t want an argument. Just do what I say.”

Am I supposed to inspire votes or inspire testosterone? Caitlin’s phone pinged twice. It wasn’t a sound she heard very often, because it meant there was an email waiting for her. She glanced at the screen. “Radiate some sexuality,” she muttered under her breath. The message was from Wendy Adams down at Eastland. Why is the text and tweet queen emailing me? That’s not like her. She never emails anyone, especially from her Eastland School account.

“Is something wrong?” asked her mother.