It was now six in the morning in Washington DC.
The Vice President’s wife was still online.
Her face, so carefully buffed, massaged, and moisturised into as close to perfection as a fifty-year-old woman can manage, was a red, puffy, blotchy mess. She had cried so much that all her eye make-up had long since been transferred to the pile of damp tissues on the floor at her feet, forming a scale model of the Rockies. And her eyes were so swollen they barely seemed open.
‘Oh, Marlon!’ Sadie sniffed, tragically, for the umpteenth time that night.
Marlon Bundo had sat with her, making a dash around the room on and off and having a snack or two as usual. Sadie had been too distracted to notice that his behaviour while on the sofa was distinctly odd. He had, for example, been watching the onli
