Just Like Family Read online

  DEDICATION

  For my parents

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Chapter 1: Monday, July 10, 2017

  Chapter 2: July 1987

  Chapter 3: Tuesday, July 11, 2017

  Chapter 4: September 1998 and January 1999

  Chapter 5: Wednesday, July 12, 2017

  Chapter 6: July 2001

  Chapter 7: Thursday, July 13, 2017

  Chapter 8: July and December 1997, and May 1989

  Chapter 9: Friday, July 14, 2017

  Chapter 10: September 2001

  Chapter 11: Saturday, July 15, 2017

  Chapter 12: September 2001

  Chapter 13: Sunday, July 16, 2017

  Chapter 14: September 2002 and November 2001

  Chapter 15: Sunday, July 16, 2017

  Chapter 16: July 2009

  Chapter 17: Tuesday, July 18, 2017

  Chapter 18: July 2015

  Chapter 19: Wednesday, July 19, 2017

  Chapter 20: Thursday, July 20, 2017, and September 2001

  Chapter 21: Thursday, July 20, 2017, and July 1989

  Chapter 22: Friday, July 21, 2017, and July 1988

  Epilogue: August 2018

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Kate Hilton

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  {CHAPTER 1}

  Monday, July 10, 2017

  I can tell you with absolute precision the moment my life begins to come apart.

  At the time, it isn’t a grand unravelling. It’s a small tug from the nail that catches the yarn of your sweater and leaves a tiny imperfection that you can see in direct light; but then it morphs into a hole, and then into a rip, so that you can only wear the sweater under a coat running errands; and then before long you have to downgrade the sweater’s wardrobe status to Not Outside the House (but you aren’t ready to part with it because you paid a lot of money and the colour brings out your eyes); and eventually, the absence of structural integrity is the defining feature of the whole garment, but still, you love it; and then one day you catch it on another nail, and it’s no longer a sweater at all but a hole, the absolute absence of a sweater in fact, and you can’t even give it away to charity. It’s like that.

  I’m standing in the gallery, watching Peter present his plan to city council for the new waterfront development. The plan is visionary. It’s transformative. I mouth the words along with him as he stands under the seal of his office, arms outstretched, looking magisterial, majestic, even—dare I say—messianic. Probably I don’t dare. Probably that last one is only my impression. I’ve bought into this whole project in a big way, and I have to remind myself sometimes that not everyone sees it the way I do. Politics is like that. You always have better information than everyone else.

  They’re my words, by the way, the ones Peter is saying right now. They are always my words. I write them, he speaks them, people believe them. That’s our system. He’s the mayor of Toronto, I’m the chief of staff, and together we run one of the great cities of the world.

  I’ve known Peter all my life, was in love with him for a significant chunk of it, and worked with him from the day I graduated law school. There was no question that I’d take a leave of absence from our law firm to work on his campaign, and even less question that I’d come to city hall with him. You could say he is my work husband, and people do, but if so, we have a notably traditional relationship. I make sure that he eats properly and that the office staff is properly recognized at Christmas with a boozy lunch, and I straighten his tie before he walks out into the media scrum. When we practised law together, I did the research and argued the minor motions and took the phone calls from clients suffering either the trauma of litigation or the trauma of paying our bill for their litigation. I stayed up late before major court appearances and stuffed facts into Peter’s brain, wondering how on earth he would manage to convert his complete ignorance of the case into a winning argument. And then he would. Watching Peter when he is on his game is beautiful.

  And that’s why I traded a lucrative career in law for public service. I care about this city—I was born here, and it has never entirely loosened its hold on me, no matter how far I run—but the move to city hall wasn’t entirely altruistic. I’m here for Peter. I’m not in love with him now, obviously; I haven’t been in love with him since my late teens. Push hard, and you might get me to admit to a lingering fantasy or two into my early twenties.

  But now we are both happily partnered with other people, as we were meant to be. Which doesn’t change the fact that Peter remains the most charismatic person I’ve ever known. He has that addictive quality that’s carried so many others into public office: you feel better, happier, prettier when you get a hit of Peter’s attention, and just a little edgy and desperate when he moves on to someone else. I’m immune now, but I recognize the lost look of a Peter junkie when I see it. It takes one to know one.

  The afternoon session starts well. We’ve been working on the waterfront plan for three years now, a year in advance of the election, and for two years since we came to city hall. We’ve negotiated public-private partnerships and tax breaks and rezonings. We’ve got the support of the women’s groups and the environmentalists, the save-the-waterfront people and the create-jobs people, the animal rights activists and the seniors. We have four developers and reams of architects and consultants. And we have a coalition of city councillors prepared to vote for our plan. It’s nothing short of a miracle. I am a miracle worker, a modern-day Annie Sullivan leading Helen Keller to fame and fortune. I allow myself a rare, precious moment of self-congratulation. We are going to rescue the scarred, abused waterfront from the ravages of neglect and turn it into something they would be proud of in Chicago. Chicago!

  And then Roger Wozniak lurches to his feet, and I realize my first mistake. I should have taken the meeting with Rick Wozniak, Roger’s son, last week.

  Roger Wozniak is a big bear of a man. I don’t mean to suggest what people often do when they say that, which is to say gruff and large but cuddly on the inside. I mean he is beefy and hairy, and that he’ll turn on you and eat you if he is hungry and it suits him, because he is concerned about one person: Roger Wozniak.

  I tune him out as he yells about process and wasted taxpayer dollars; I ignore the camera crews filming every sound bite of misinformation. I’ll correct the record later. The press knows by now that Roger doesn’t often have the facts right. But isn’t that part of his charm? He tells it straight! He’s an outsider, a little guy!

  He isn’t, in fact. The Wozniaks have been major players in political backrooms for three generations. And they certainly aren’t short of money.

  The shouting, the lying: these are the cultural norms of city politics, the ones that Peter and I are trying to break down. Lawyers get a bad rap. We, at least, understand that there are consequences to being an asshole on the job. But here, at city hall, we celebrate ignorance over insight, bellicosity over reflection, hyperbole over accuracy. Stand up and yell in court and you get a reprimand. Stand up and yell on the floor of city council and you get a spot on the evening news, and an army of fans who find you “relatable.”

  “Consultation!” he bellows. “Where was the consultation?”

  Of course, taxpayers were consulted. They were consulted so often, in fact, that the word “consultation” gives me an unpleasant shivery sensation, the way you feel when someone offers you a glass of whatever alcohol caused you to have your first bad drinking experience back in high school (peach schnapps, in my case; I still can’t touch the stuff).

  “My constituents deserve to know where their money is going!” yells Roger. “Mayor Haines is as
king them to approve a plan that has been made in secret! Between the mayor and his developer friends!”

  Booing erupts across the floor. My eyes drift to the other side of the viewing gallery in time to see our lead developer, Adam Rothman, sliding out of the room.

  “That’s right,” yells Roger. “We won’t be silenced!”

  The booing grows more fevered. Some are booing our plan, but many are booing Roger. I wonder if he realizes this.

  “Colleagues,” Peter says. “Friends. Please.” He looks tired and annoyed, and I know we’re done. “Councillors! I invite you to come to the central microphone and I’ll answer your questions in order.”

  “You see?” says Roger. “Now he wants process! Now that it’s useful to him! What a joke.”

  Councillor Judy Mendelson stands up and walks over to the central microphone. She is close to eighty, has been elected ten times, and is getting slightly wobbly in thought as well as in gait. “I just want to say how much I appreciate the good work that Mayor Haines has done on this project,” she says. “For too long, our waterfront has been sold off to the highest bidder. It is a public treasure. This project will give it back to the taxpayers.” She steps back. It is all she can manage by way of a show of support, but we’ll take what we can get.

  I have to watch the tape later to figure out exactly what happens next. Judy steps back from the microphone at the same moment that Roger bounds up. They are, neither of them, steady on their feet, and they collide. But Judy is a third the size of Roger and the laws of physics apply here, even if the principles of good behaviour do not, and Judy goes flying, really catching air, which you can see if you pause the video in the right spot, and she lands with an audible crack—a crack heard throughout the council room, which signifies the end of Judy’s political career and my political idealism.

  I haven’t always been idealistic. I started that way, but I took a break from worrying about the collective good for a few years to focus on self-actualization. Self-actualization sounds better than old-fashioned selfishness, but it isn’t, particularly. Or it wasn’t, in my case.

  Many would say as much about their own teens and twenties, of course. But still. I haven’t always made the best choices. I’ve hurt people. I’ve drawn down my karma. In this job, though, with Peter, I’m giving back. I’m reversing the damage. Idealism, the belief that we can change ourselves and, in doing so, change the world around us, is now my drug of choice.

  I walk back to my office, slowly, after the paramedics have cleared the council chamber. I want to let Peter blow off some steam before I get there.

  I push my way through the media scrum that has gathered, ignoring all of them, until I am safe in the outer office. Bonnie Heller, the office manager, looks up from her desk, which is really more like the command centre on the starship Enterprise. She is in her late fifties, perfectly groomed in a linen suit. But even from where I’m standing, I can see that she is holding her irritation at bay. She has an intern answering the phone and taking messages. The intern looks exhausted.

  “The mayor is unhappy,” says Bonnie. I glance over at Peter’s office door. It is closed. “He’s on the phone with the developers. They are also unhappy.”

  “I think it’s fair to say that everyone is unhappy,” I say. “Especially Judy Mendelson.”

  “We’ve sent flowers,” Bonnie says. “I’ve arranged for regular updates on her condition. Also Aidan Clarke is trying to reach you. And your husband called.” Matt isn’t my husband, but I don’t correct her. We’ve been together for fifteen years and lived under the same roof for fourteen, so he’s the closest thing I have to one.

  Aidan Clarke is persistence personified: the city beat reporter who is always on the trail of the Big Story. Somewhere along the line, I must have given him the impression that I could be his Deep Throat in the right circumstances. I leak him information when Peter agrees, which isn’t often, and he tries to get quotes from me that suggest a juicier subtext, which isn’t often.

  “Where’s Gloria?” I say. Gloria is my assistant, and she is much nicer to me than Bonnie will ever be.

  “She’s on lunch,” says Bonnie. “She couldn’t get away any earlier. It’s been mayhem around here.” Her expression leaves no doubt as to whom she blames for this.

  There is a loud noise from behind Peter’s door. “I wouldn’t go in there just yet,” says Bonnie. But the door opens, and Peter emerges.

  “You,” he says, pointing at me. “In my office.”

  I make my way inside. Peter has been throwing things. He does this sometimes. Law books usually, as he’s learned to throw objects that won’t break. I’m not sure when this habit started. Peter wasn’t a thrower of tantrums, let alone objects (breakable or otherwise), when I first knew him. But people change, and not always for the better. Believe me. I should know.

  I sit. I’ve learned to let him speak first. We’ve both come a long way since our earliest days in this office.

  “That was a serious fuck-up, Avery,” he says. Now that he’s exhausted his heat by throwing things, a frost is setting in. “How the hell did we get blindsided by that? You told me Wozniak was contained.”

  Of course, I’d said no such thing. No one in her right mind would ever claim to have Roger Wozniak contained.

  “We did extensive consultations,” I tell him. “We spent extra time with his constituents. I had his staffers review the proposal and invited them personally to the town hall meeting. They assured me that Roger was comfortable with our strategy.”

  “Did you show it to Rick?”

  This is the crux of my error. Roger is a self-serving, socially conservative, uninformed loudmouth, but he’s loyal, at least to the one person he trusts: his son. In his late forties, Rick is a Harvard-educated former investment banker who took over the family’s auto parts business fifteen years ago when his father decided to run for office. He’s the unelected brains of the operation, and I sit in at least ten meetings a year that have been called for the sole purpose of persuading Rick to persuade Roger to do what we want him to do.

  “No,” I say.

  “No?”

  “I don’t work for Rick Wozniak,” I say. “I’m sick of this, Peter. If Roger Wozniak can’t think for himself, that’s his business. Rick is outside the process. He’s a citizen. If he wants to call the shots, he can run for election.”

  Peter tilts his head slightly to one side. In this moment I’m not the most powerful woman at city hall; I’m the law student, now on probation, having forgotten to mention a major case in a research memo. “That citizen is the reason our proposal didn’t pass today, Avery. So you are going to take a meeting with that man, tomorrow at the latest, and show him how much this administration cares about his opinion. And once you’ve fixed this fucking mess, you can put us back on the agenda.”

  “Peter,” I say, but he puts up a hand.

  “Fix it, Avery,” he says. “That’s your job.”

  Sometimes I think I’m in the wrong business. This is a game for the thick-skinned, the sly, the blamers and not the pleasers, the beaters and not the cringers. Everyone here has some deep, clawing desire, barely hidden beneath the skin, but those who want power survive much longer than those who want love. Love is in short supply in politics, and it always comes with conditions.

  Bonnie is waiting outside, expectant. She tolerates me, and sometimes, although not today, I think she might like me, but she’s Peter’s ally, not mine. We both know that.

  “I need a meeting with the Wozniaks,” I say. “Both of them.”

  “I’ll set that up right away,” says Bonnie. “First thing tomorrow?”

  “That would be delightful,” I say.

  Bonnie casts an eye over her command centre. “Your phone is ringing,” she says. “I’ll put it through.” Obviously, I’ve taken up enough of Bonnie’s time.

  I walk over to my section of the office, waving off various members of my staff milling around Gloria’s empty desk, gliding (I ho
pe, but it could be read as ducking) into my office and closing the door behind me. I realize that I hope it’s Tara or Jenny, so that I can tell them what a day I’ve had, just like I used to do over drinks at the hotel bar near my old office. But Jenny isn’t speaking to me, hasn’t been since I came to city hall, and come to think of it, I’m not sure Tara is either. Is it two months since I’ve called her? Three?

  Or maybe it’s Matt calling. That would be nice. I’d like to think that we are thinking of each other at exactly the same moment. This is the reason people get coupled, so that they can subject someone else to the details of a bad day at work. But Matt is in another time zone. Zurich. Or is it Paris? I’ve lost track. At this point in his day, he’ll be sleeping or in a meeting that started early or went late. And if he were on the phone, he’d say, “Remind me, what’s happening on the waterfront project?” or he’d say, “Avery, you know you don’t have to take that shit from Peter, right?” and it wouldn’t make me feel better at all.

  But it is not Jenny or Tara or Matt. It’s my mother. If it weren’t for Bonnie, I wouldn’t pick up the call. But Bonnie is in a mood. I’ve let Peter down today, and Bonnie will punish me if she can. She’ll pick the line back up, say, “Goodness, Martine, I know she’s there. Let me try again,” and put the call back through. And if I don’t pick up the second time, she’ll say, “Just hold the line, Martine, maybe she stepped into the ladies’. I’ll find her for you.”

  I pick up the phone. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hello, darling,” says my mother. “Avoiding me?”

  “Actually, yes,” I tell her.

  She laughs. “Honestly,” she says. “I can hardly complain. I did raise you that way.” She pauses. “You know why I’m calling.”

  And I do, because she calls every year at this time and says, “You know why I’m calling.”

  I say, “It’s been wild here, Mom. Peter and I have been working around the clock on the waterfront project. Matt’s been out of town. I’m not sure it’s going to work out.”