Tarla refused to hold her tongue about Birch. She’d spent too many years seeing Diane locked up like a bird in a cage, singing when he told her to sing. She also knew that Diane was right. Birch might actually win. A scary thought. All the polls put him ahead, but polls didn’t mean much two months before the election. The other parties wouldn’t roll over. Chuck Warren was already hitting Birch on gun rights. The Democratic campaign manager, Ogden Bush, was promising an onslaught of negative ads. Tarla wasn’t sure that Birch and his team knew how to play dirty enough to come out on top.

It was nine o’clock. The bells in the tower fell silent. Whispers swept through the crowd; the elegant guests looked around expectantly. Tarla saw Birch mounting the steps of the dais, with the yes-men of his campaign behind him. Birch’s smile was wide and false. He was already in love with politics, the smell of power, the fawning operatives trailing in his wake. He wasn’t the kind of man who would change Washington for the better. He’d be seduced by it like all the others.

Tarla had never liked Birch, and he knew it.

She stood up as he approached her. He was resplendent in his black suit, his teeth bleached as white as ivory. His eyes traveled over Tarla’s silver beaded dress, diving into her cleavage like a spelunker in a cave. He put his arms around her in a bear hug, squeezing her full breasts. His hand fell to the small of her back, and she thought he would have cupped her ass if the media hadn’t been there to watch him.

‘Thank God there’s a podium,’ he whispered. ‘You always give me such a hard-on, Tarla.’

‘You’re a pig,’ she whispered back.

Birch laughed, as if they’d shared an intimate joke. My dear friend, the Hollywood star. He leaned down to kiss his wife’s cheek, and his face was full of faux devotion. Tarla was an actress, and she knew acting when she saw it. He murmured in Diane’s ear, and Tarla was close enough to hear what he said.

‘For God’s sake, Diane, you’re not at a fucking funeral. Look like you’re happy.’

Diane forced a half-smile onto her face for the cameras. Birch faced the podium and waved at the crowd with both arms. The assembly erupted with applause. Around him, two dozen donors and campaign staffers filled the empty chairs on the dais, clapping as they sat down. It was a warm night; their faces shined with sweat and were red from free booze. Tarla recognized most of them. Corporate orange growers. Disney executives. People with fat checkbooks.