Sex, Pot and Politics

By Lucie Pagé

Josephine’s life takes a new turn when her husband, Robert—Bobby among close friends—is elected minister of finance. She soon realizes that the questionable relationships he has are becoming more frequent and that his values and principles are losing ground. To add to that, Josephine makes a discovery that scandalizes her: her youngest son smokes pot! First shocked, she then tries it herself and gets great pleasure out of it. Seeing that her marriage is going downhill since her husband is minister, this gives her an idea. With the complicity of her best friend, Lilly, and her domestic workers, Mamadou and Ping, she prepares a special meal that her husband will host in honor of several influential public personalities.

If she wanted to spice up her everyday life, Josephine will have reached her goal. But the discoveries she will make will change her life . . . and that of the planet.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 19, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984551863

Lucie Pagé

Lucie Pagé is a journalist and writer sharing her life between Canada and South Africa since 1990. After Nelson Mandela’s release, she became a reporter based in South Africa for Québécois media. She is married to Jay Naidoo, former minister in Nelson Mandela’s cabinet. She has three children. The satire Sex, Pot and Politics, is her third novel and seventh book. More on the author and her books www.luciepage.com

Book preview

Copyright © 2018 by Lucie Pagé.

Cover Illustrator:

Axel Perez de Léon

© 2016, Groupe Librex Inc, Montréal, Canada

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 09/17/2018

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Contents

1 The Good News

2 The New Cut

3 The Big News

4 The White Gloves

5 The Circus

6 The Plan

7 The Bad News

8 The Big Dinner

9 The Flying Rabbit

10 Plan B

11 The New Life

Afterword

1

THE GOOD NEWS

Lilly, my phone is ringing. My hands are in the flour.

Lilly reaches in my cleavage and pulls out my little cell phone. It’s Robert, she says.

Answer while I wash my hands.

She flips open the cell phone. Hello, Robert, it’s Lillianne. Josephine has both hands in dough and … She places the device on her chest. Quick! He says it’s urgent!

My heart skips a beat. I grab the phone, hands covered in wet dough. What if it’s the kids? Or Robert? Recently, I find my husband very preoccupied, nervous even. Nevertheless, he says work is going well, even with the financial crisis sweeping the world. Although in these troubled times, he occupies the least desirable position: director of the biggest bank in the country. Still, Robert manages to keep the ship afloat. "No worries, my darling," he repeats every time I comment on the news. He started from the bottom. In only twenty-five years, he went from a simple accountant to a renowned giant in the financial world. Dedicated, perseverant, and honest—that’s my husband, my beautiful Bobby. Ah! But only I can call him Bobby! Since his rise as the bank’s CEO, no more nicknames. He demands to be called Robert. His friends, from his fishing and hunting trips, can call him Bob, but only in the woods. And to me, it’s Bobby when we’re alone or with family members. And if he wants special snuggles, he asks me to whisper Bobbyyy in his ear, sighing deeply on the y with a warm and long breath of air. "Call me Bobbyyy." It’s so delightful seeing him this way, leaning his ear forward and squinting his eyes with a light swing of his hips. I simply love it.

Robert often has guests for dinner, which brings me much pleasure. My passion is cooking. My art is its presentation. Every Monday, his secretary phones to tell me what meals I’m to prepare for the week. There are a few lunches, more often dinners, usually official: gatherings with colleagues, meetings with clients, negotiations with politicians, consultations with analysts. For some meetings, he prefers the privacy of our home as opposed to his office boardroom. We never know where the enemy lies. With modern technology, it’s possible for listening devices to infiltrate offices. At home, discretion is assured. My ears are the only listening devices, and sometimes Lilly’s, who often visits us and lends a helping hand when the guests are numerous. We are silent as tombstones, Lilly and I. Robert knows and appreciates it. "You’re a good wife, my darling." It warms my heart when he says this. And he says it often. I am truly blessed by life to have such a wonderful matrimony.

Yes, Bobby. What is it? Yes … oh! The prime … in six hours? Oh? But … but … yes … yes … of course. I hang up. My voice is gone.

Lilly gets impatient. Well, then? What is it? Speak!

He wants me to set the table for four—the big table. It’s an intimate dinner.

So what? For whom?

The prime minister and his wife.

The prime minister?

And the first lady at 7:30 p.m.

In six hours?

In six hours!

Dietary restrictions?

"Yes! She’s allergic to dairy products. He doesn’t like fish. He loves lamb, but her, it’s tender filet that makes her happy. Bobby says, ‘Nothing must be overlooked tonight.’ And he hung up without saying please or thank you. It’s not like him. He’s always so gentle with me. I sink in my thoughts for a few moments and start to feel the weight of the situation. Lilly! I have six hours to prepare a perfect meal! I need you!"

I have two photo shoots this afternoon. I can easily cancel one. I’ll see what I can do for the other. I’ll try to get someone to replace me. I can at least get you the ingredients you need.

A wave of worry takes over me, like a tsunami.

You’re shaking, Jojo! Breathe. Everything will be perfect. You’ll see. Lilly disappears in the other room. She is a photojournalist and often comes to visit me at lunchtime. She doesn’t work too far when she’s not on the road. I met her twenty years ago as she was doing a photo report on the meals I served at the bank’s big functions. I prepare everything from home, but her photos were so beautiful that they made the meals look like they came straight out of a postcard, which is what she said in her article entitled A Day with Josephine in Her Kitchen. At the bank, she even took pictures of people in middegustation, frozen as if they were having an orgasm. It had been sensational since the mayor was there, and he is not often seen orgasming in public. Since then, she often uses my dishes to illustrate her gastronomic reports.

When she comes back twenty minutes later, the pantry doors are wide open, the fridge’s alarm is screaming, six cookbooks are gaped on the counter, and the screen of my iPad is dripping with sweat.

What’s your plan?

I have no idea. I don’t know what to do! Tears pour down my cheeks.

Lilly laughs. I’ve never seen you like this, Jojo! Without a clue for a dinner for four?

It’s the prime minister and his wife!

They are human beings, Jojo, not saints or gods for crying out loud.

"‘Nothing must be overlooked.’ That’s what he said. I can’t disappoint him."

The good news is that I can spend the day crying with you or I can help you do something about it, as you wish. Wake up, Jojo! Every minute you waste worrying is one less spent to prepare. She closes everything—cupboards, books, fridge, and the iPad. Then she decides. You said beef and lamb. No fish. So beef carpaccio as a starter, with capers and red onions. Then lamb shin braised in port and apricots. Madam has her starter, and monsieur—the prime minister, after all—has the main course. I’ll take care of appetizers. Does he like prawns?

Let’s not risk it.

All right then, I’ll make your mushroom tart recipe. They always impress! And what about dessert?

No dairy.

Your delicious raspberry mousse with chocolate wafers. Come on, take out the gear and ingredients so we can start.

At 6:20 p.m., all my meals are ready. We just need to add a few decorations, my visual spices, as Lilly calls them. She’s setting the table as if it were her magazine’s cover of the year. Her blond curls dance on her little body as she is waddling around the room. She places the flowers from the garden around long baby-blue candles. She sets the cutlery, silver, of course. The napkins are folded in a lotus flower. The different glasses are positioned symmetrically: the first one for white wine with the starter, the second for red wine with the main course, and the last one, a crystal glass, for mineral water.

Lilly takes her phone out and snaps a few pictures. It’s to put on Twitter, she says completely seriously.

Hahaha, you are very funny. A private dinner … you know what that means, right?

Yes, that I’m not invited. But I can at least post a few pictures of my beautiful table, she says as her thumb ceaselessly taps her screen.

Out of the question!

I’m joking, all right? I’m leaving. Go get ready. You look like you just went through a military training with flour and sauces! Text me later to tell me how it went!

I take her in my arms and press my generous body against hers.

The guests will arrive shortly. The house breathes its culinary perfume. The frames are centered. The lighting is adjusted. The flowers are arranged. I am ready. Only my lipstick is left to be placed. It’s like the cherry on top, the signal that the show can start. As I’m about to paint my lips, the front door trembles from hard knocking, startling me. Shit. I have a long red smudge on my cheek. I’ll have to redo my foundation. A few seconds pass, and the knocks start again, like a machine gun. It’s 7:05 p.m. Yes, yes, I’m coming! Maybe Bobby forgot his keys? No, he would have called. Perhaps the guests are early? Impossible.

I open the door and three men, colossal giants who seem to be in a bad mood, barge in without waiting to be invited. "We’re here to sweep the area, says the last one. I’m offended. My house is impeccable! They disperse in the house. They open all the cupboards and inspect my ornaments, frames, and lamps with the antennas of a little device fitted with a detector. I run to the kitchen as one of them is entering as if he were in his own house. He opens the pantry and even the fridge without looking at me or apologizing. They’re allowed to do this apparently. But can’t they at least execute their tasks with a smile, with a few manners? It’s the law ma’am. The life of our chief of government is in our hands."

One of them lifts the cover of my lamb pot, puts his nose a little too close for my liking, then shuts it without delicacy, probably leaving a few scratches on my sandstone dish from Morocco. I cringe. He scrutinizes the starter plate of beef carpaccio and stops by the tray of mushroom bites. He takes one and swallows it whole! "Not bad, he lets out as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. What a cocky fellow! I complain with the few drops of politeness left in my body. We’re allowed. It’s the law." The three rude men go upstairs. I hear the mirror doors of my wardrobes roll on their rails. Bang! No decency.

Bobby arrives. I tell him that three men upstairs are redecorating the house. "Secret Services, my darling. It’s the law." He goes to join them. The four men come back downstairs a few minutes later. Robert smiles.

One of them mumbles in a little device sticking out his sleeve, "Area cleared. The fox can prowl." They leave without saying thank you, without a smile.

Cocky as the king of spades! I repeat three times.

Robert gets offended. "They are doing their job!"

I breathe deeply. I force a smile. It’s not the moment to make a scene. I caress his cheek, telling him nicely that a little stroke of his razor wouldn’t hurt, along with his dark-green suit and golden tie. Then I go to touch up my makeup. Bobby goes up to change.

I must admit I feel a little nervous, as if I were about to speak in front of a crowd. In front of the mirror, a lady stares at me. I avoid her gaze. I add a little hair spray on my blond hair, which stays in place anyway since it’s so thick. But sometimes, a rebel lock falls on my forehead. I put two drops of perfume on my wrist, which I rub together. The lady glances at me. I throw a smile back at her. She’s getting wrinkles, just there by her eyes and on top of her upper lip. The smile makes the lip wrinkles disappear but accentuates the ones by her eyes. Hmm … I adjust my dusty stone-gray tweed vest with coal-coloured hems and center my gray pearl necklace. Never out of fashion. I am ready. Lilly’s words resonate in my head, They are human beings, Jojo, not saints or gods for crying out loud. I’ve met a lot of people and served masses of gilded mouths and sweetened oceans of bitter egos. But the old fox and his lady, never.

The doorbell rings, with twenty-two minutes of tardiness. Robert explains that arriving on time for such things—that is, for dinners not inscribed in the official registers—is not done by a prime minister because that would indicate an agenda free from worries. We all know that prime ministers are always busy with hassles, but arriving very late, over forty-five minutes, indicates that the worries are more important than the host he’s visiting. I make him notice that he himself never arrives late for his meetings, even nonofficial. It’s even a strict rule he instilled in our sons, that it denotes respect and sculpts reputation.

"Come on, Josephine. In politics, time is a tool and even sometimes a weapon. Twenty-two minutes is a good sign," he says while adjusting his jacket. I place myself a meter behind Robert and put up a smile that holds as if it has also been coated with hair spray. Robert opens the door.

My brain needs a few seconds to transform the media image I have of this couple into flesh and blood, who move and speak. There are always