Chapter 17

Chapter 17—The quorum completed

1 p.m., Tuesday, December 13

Bernadette always wore glasses. They were part of the disguise. Allison, on the other hand, was dependent upon contact lenses. Thinking that it would enhance the persona if Bernadette wore glasses (primarily because Allison did not). The glasses that Bernadette should wear, Allison concluded, ought to be photochromic—the type that self adjusted to sunlight, becoming sunglasses outside, and clear in the absence of ultraviolet radiation. That meant one less thing Allison had to keep straight.
As Bernadette walked down the numerous steps leading out of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, heading toward Fifth Avenue, she began to admire her accomplishment, regarding her creation of Bernadette. She pulled this whole thing off without Bob’s help. She did not even enlist the help of her top aides. It was totally Allison’s idea, and Allison’s design—from the secret apartment (with its multiple elevators, and spiral staircase), to the Bernadette persona. She pulled it off—almost entirely by herself. She smiled slyly as she replayed the way she fooled Reginald with the disguise. If she could make it work with Reginald, she could make it work with almost anyone, anywhere.
As she reached the first landing, she realized just how critical it was to consider details. For instance, if she were to take a spill down the steps, it would most likely result in injury, and an unexpected trip to an emergency room—perhaps worse. The shoes she was wearing were Bernadette’s kitten heel shoes. “I have to watch my step here,” she thought, before descending the rest of the way to the sidewalk.
“I just might keep this apartment even after I’m back in the White House,” she was thinking as she turned up Fifth Avenue, and began her trek home. “It might be a little tricky to get out of the White House and get up here without the Secret Service sticking to me like glue. But I think I could make it work. I would simply slip down and out, just as I do now, while the agents watch TV.” She loved the freedom, and the anonymity; she saw no reason to give it up—not ever.
“How many former first ladies get to hail their own cab,” she pondered, sensing a little smile creep across her face. Well-dressed middle-aged ladies did not have much trouble hailing cabs, and Bernadette was very good at it. Raising a gloved hand, and virtually stepping out into Manhattan traffic, she captured the first on duty taxi she went after, just as she did every time.
“Fifth Avenue and 94th,” she told the driver, as she opened the cab door and slid in.
Sometimes, when she was at the MET, or the Guggenheim, she would simply walk back to her apartment, it would only have amounted to an additional twenty minutes or so. But this time, she did not want anyone to know where she had been. Not that anyone would be concerned about the activity of Bernadette, she still wanted to be prudent. After all, she had just met with Allison’s friend, Reginald. Someone could be tailing him.
Five minutes later the driver pulled up and stopped at the corner. When he turned around to collect, Bernadette handed him a twenty dollar bill, and thanked him. She knew that it was just as bad to over-tip as it was to stiff. Twenty dollars covered the fare, and a reasonable tip. The driver was pleased, but not overly so.
Bernadette greeted the doorman with a smile. She never spoke to him, however—she concluded that there was no point for him to hear her voice. He might recognize it. As Allison, she would not be expected even to acknowledge the doorman—that was the job of the Service.
Bernadette got on her elevator, and off at her floor. “Smooth, as always,” she thought.
Once in the apartment, she quickly found her favorite chair, sat down and kicked off her shoes. “Damn these things, I don’t know if I will ever get used to Bernadette’s shoes.” She loved the rest of Bernadette’s wardrobe, but preferred Allison’s comfortable flats.
She slipped off Bernadette’s glasses, leaving them on the dresser, and opened up the small refrigerator she had in the bedroom. Taking a bottle of water, she walked stocking-footed back to her chair, and tucked her feet up under her. That chair, Bernadette’s favorite chair, a blue leather recliner, had become Allison’s happy place. As she sat there, she began to ponder her meeting with Reginald, and wondered whether or not he would come on board.
Bernadette opened her bag, and pulled out a throw-away cell, and dialed her friend.
“This is Bernie, can you make it for dinner on Sunday?
“I didn’t expect you to call so soon. …”
“Well, I’m calling now, can you make it, or not?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“That’s great, I’ll be in touch.” With that Bernadette clicked off.
Bernadette breathed a sigh of relief. The group was complete. Now the heavy lifting must begin.