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Assistant: Title: Gravity
        Author: royaltyisshe64 royaltyisshe64 
        Chapter: 9/45 
        Summary: After being caught in one another's orbit for nearly 25 years, will this be what finally pulls Bill and Hillary Clinton apart?
        Contents: Chapter 9: Ireland
    

    


      
        
          
          (See the end of the chapter for  notes.)
          
      
  

  
  
    
    September 3, 1998“So. How are – things?” Bill appreciated the effort Tony was clearly making to maintain a neutral affect, but he knew that absolutely no one (except his idiot brother Roger, who had called offering felicitations after seeing what Monica looked like on the news) had even the slightest sympathy for him. Rightly so.“Not great.”The prime minister hesitated, not wanting to salt fresh wounds but compulsively attempting to keep a conversation going as they waited for Hillary to be corralled by her aides, pulled away from the throng (who were clearly reluctant to let her go) so they could all move on to the next bullet point on their itinerary. Step one: greet the people. Smile – just enough to lift spirits, not so much as to seem frivolous; shake as many hands as possible; compliment the courageous, shore up the openly grieving.Step two: pay tribute. Bow heads, deposit flowers, reverse, look solemn and, ideally, contemplative. Count ten seconds before turning away.Step three: make speeches. Laud the peacemakers, condemn the terrorists. Provide reassurance and hope.In locales as fraught with sudden, violent tragedy as Northern Ireland, it was, sadly, a case of lather, rinse, repeat – although Americans couldn’t be expected to understand this. The First Lady, displaying either unforeseen depths of empathy or a startling political acumen, was obviously unaccustomed to the morbid routine.“She’s – she’s very good at this. Cherie hasn’t been able to stop talking about her speech last night. We’re all a bit in awe, to be honest.” Another pause, and he realized he’d lost his audience. Bill was now gazing further down the street towards his wife, eyes misting over. Tony, political animal that he was, couldn’t ascertain if this was gamesmanship, genuine sorrow at the tragic loss of life in Omagh or something altogether more personal.Not that it really mattered. The media would put whatever spin on a teary president suited them best at that particular moment.And that was precisely why Hillary had decided to wear sunglasses. Again.They were threatening to become a permanent part of her wardrobe. At least until this god-awful mess blew over.If it blew over, which she was beginning to doubt it would. Not without a great deal more pain and mess, anyway.Any humanity she displayed today, she had realized with a faintly nauseating lurch earlier, would be yanked from its context, twisted and mangled beyond recognition. Anything to prop up the already decided-upon narrative. ‘Icy shrew momentarily melts in vain effort to curry public favor. Vindictive b@tch throws understandably s@xually frustrated husband under the bus by staging emotional breakdown at bomb site, exploiting the grief of hundreds with typical ruthlessness. Lady Macbeth tries to play Princess Diana.’No, thank you.The individuals she touched, she connected with. They knew she cared. She hoped they knew it was authentic. That was all that mattered.That would have to be enough. She wasn’t going to put on a big show for the press, put her heart (yes, she had one) on her sleeve. In the open. Where it was exposed. Defenseless. Vulnerable.Not today.Not ever.If you’d come to see Hillary Rodham Clinton break, you were going to leave disappointed.Bill, on the other hand…As she made her way back to the waiting group, the Blairs looking stoic and somber, her husband much less so, it was difficult to ignore the rapidly welling tears, the telltale chewing on his lower lip. To her immediate chagrin, her initial response was a hot flash of annoyance. An embittered snap. Searching his eyes, now boring despairingly into Hillary’s tinted lenses, she felt a stomach-churning uncertainty. Was this yet another manipulation? A desperate, public play for her sympathy?‘Why do you keep doing this to me?’Her hand on his arm – steady, gentle. It landed there compulsively, without her having made the conscious decision to place it there. To believe. The faintest squeeze of reassurance. He wiped his eyes, giving her a small smile that made her heart jump fractionally in spite of herself. Shutters snapped, and her hand flew away again, a gun-shy bird startled by the noise. The infernal, relentless doubts came flooding back. Once bitten, twice shy – and God knows how many times she’d been bitten.‘Why do I keep letting you?’-September 5, 1998 She knew it. She’d been willing this to be real – willing him to mean it this time. In spite of the abundant empirical evidence stacked against that tenuous, child-like faith, there still burned the faint, flickering hope that she meant something. That they meant something.‘Same players. Why shouldn’t it be the same old game?’Bill was golfing. (The b@st@rd.) Hillary was ostensibly relaxing, which everyone knew really meant that she was ingesting reams of documents, scribbling detailed marginalia wherever she could cram it and formulating cogent policy out of those scrawled screeds. Today, however, neither scenario was true.Although she was shifting copious papers aimlessly on a desk, all she’d actually succeeded in doing was making a sizeable dent in the suite’s available stock of whisky.First one glass, hoping for distraction, if not clarity. If she could derail that pernicious train of thought, maybe her mind would settle elsewhere. Something constructive. Work. Not even work lacked the sting of disappointment – of failure.Then two glasses. Anything to blot out the pitying looks from the women in the crowd on Lower Market Street. She had heard the whispers about her so-called bravery, all the more mortifying coming from people who knew the real thing and who lived it day after day. “Chin up, darlin’. Don’t let them get you,” an old lady, one who had likely seen the unrelenting heartbreak of the Troubles from the beginning, had said, achingly sincere, clasping her hand tightly, holding on as if she were Hillary's lifeline.Three. She had to stop Bill’s half-assed excuse for a public apology rattling around in her brain.
  “I made a big mistake.”
‘No sh@t.’
  “It is indefensible and I am sorry.”
‘Go on…’
  “I can’t disagree with anyone who wants to be critical of what I have already acknowledged is indefensible. There’s nothing that he or anyone else could say in a personally critical way that I don’t imagine I would disagree with since I have already said it myself, to myself, and I’m very sorry about it, but there’s nothing else I can say.”
‘Oh, well. That fixes everything, doesn’t it? You’re very sorry about it – very f@ck@ng sorry – and you hate yourself. Never heard that one before.’All that was missing were the apparently meaningless promises to change. He’d do better. This would never happen again. He loved her – always her, only her. His hands in the right places and a whisper of “Hilly baby” against her neck in between kisses to kill the last scrap of futile resistance.And then a month later, two if she was lucky, that gnawing at the pit of her stomach would start again: ‘Who is it? How many are there? Is it just sex or is this It?’ It. The one he’d leave her for. He’d come so close before. And once he was out of the White House – mission accomplished – scandal didn’t matter anymore. Then came doubt. What if, this time, it was all in her head? ‘Don’t push him away. Pull him closer. Make him love you. Make him remember.’Four. This one went down in one stinging swallow.After that, everything had begun to run together, shrouded in a maudlin miasma.-Bill eventually ambled in, covered in a light sheen of sweat. The diversion had relaxed him. Was he ready for the shitshow that was bound to erupt the second they were wheels down in Washington again? Probably not really, but it seemed highly unlikely that anyone could ever be truly prepared for that kind of onslaught.Expecting to see his wife in her natural habitat – buried in enormous binders, memos flying – the small, vulnerable figure curled up in the chair, almost dwarfed by it, a glass in one hand and a depleted decanter in the other, didn’t register properly at first. He approached with caution. Hillary had four distinct reactions to alcohol: sweet, liberated silliness; gloriously insatiable libido; uncontrollable, gut-wrenching weeping; brutal, vicious cattiness. She could slide between any of these states in a matter of seconds, which made getting a handle on her nigh on impossible.“Hon’?”It took her a second to focus on him. “The conquering hero returns!” She lifted her glass to him, voice dripping with sarcasm, words running together. “And I was gonna have your pipe and slippers ready. Or maybe you’d prefer a cigar.”‘Fourth one.’ He winced.She noticed.“Oh, I’m sorry. That was indefensible. In-de-fensible. Well, there’s nothing you can say to me in a personally –“ she struggled momentarily over the syllables as she clumsily made her way toward him, her tongue thick in her mouth – “personally critical way that I don’t – that I would disagree with. Already said it myself, to myself. And I’m very sorry.”When his own words were hurled back at him, he realized just how shabby, how inadequate, they sounded.“Hillary, I meant what I said. I will make this up to you. You just – give me a chance. Give me time.”“Time? To do what? To find some girl who won’t talk?”“That’s not –““Not fair? How is that not a fair f@ck@ng assumption? Six weeks. I give it six weeks. Maybe longer if those bastards impeach you. Then we’ll be right back to ‘Honey, I’m so sorry, but –‘ I should be used to it by now. You could set your watch by it, like you’re on some kind of sick f@ck@ng schedule. ‘Oh, it’s Tuesday. Better find some new little piece of ass. Make sure everybody knows but stupid, stupid Hillary, who should know better but still buys into my b@llsh@t.’ I don’t know why I still care. Why the f@ck do I expect different results when it’s the same set-up every single time? Just one thing, Bill, if it’s not too much to ask. Next time, would you mind not making my humiliation into the g@dd@mn Rainbow Tour? I’ve had enough people feeling sorry for me the past few days to last me the rest of my life. Which is a good thing, I guess, since we’re going back to the country where everyone f@ck@ng hates me.”Finally, she came up for air, pausing momentarily before diving into another flood of invective.“Slick Willie. Slick f@ck@ng Willie. They blame you now, but eventually it’ll come right back to me. It always does. His b@tch wife. Not f@ck@ng likable. What do you want from me? What do they want from me? Why does it always, always have to be like this? Why do you always do this to me? What’s so f@ck@ng wrong with me?”Were the tears coming? He reached out a hand. It was slapped away with a “Don’t you f@ck@ng touch me”. ‘Let her talk. You deserve this. You deserve worse.’“And you’re sorry? Like hell you are. You’ll f@ck@ng say anything, won’t you? Say anything, promise everything, do nothing. And I never f@ck@ng learn.”She stopped abruptly. Bill looked up, hoping to God this part of the ordeal was over, that the crying would start. He could deal with the crying. It gave him time to mull things over. Processing the guilt while drying her tears had become an integral part of this sickening merry-go-round.Hillary had blanched, hand rushing to her mouth before she fled unsteadily to the bathroom. He followed silently, held her hair back as she choked out apologies in between retches. Wet a washcloth for her face while she shook, ashamed, on the tiles. Brought her glasses of water as she composed herself and prepared to take the final hurdle before they were home. Home, but not free. -She was still pale. Her hand trembled in his. But she made small talk as they walked, airy discussion suitable for the prying eyes of any lip-readers in the press. Bill marveled at the way she could always manage to pull herself together, hastily glue the broken shards into something that so closely resembled a pristine, unfractured whole that it was impossible to discern from a distance.They turned at the top of the stairs, performing the automatic routine. Smile. Wave. Then in. Out of sight.He held her all the way home. Her sleep, when it came, was fitful.This time, it would be different.‘I promise.’-Hillary felt miserable. Hopefully, she only looked jet-lagged, but, she thought grimly, she supposed she’d find out tomorrow morning when she mustered the courage to examine the newspaper coverage. As they made their way across the South Lawn, the door that would mercifully shut the rest of the world out didn’t seem to be getting any closer. Like she was on a treadmill.The cameras were zooming in. She could practically feel them. Her hand in his. Us against the world. Back into the arena.He needed her if he was to have any hope of salvaging his presidency. Just as she’d done so many times before, she needed to swallow her pride – what remained of it. Bill couldn’t make it without her.Was she ready? Did he deserve it? Could she trust him?Hillary didn’t know. The questions battered at her throbbing head with no answers forthcoming.‘I love him. Let’s start from there.’Buddy came careening out of the White House, bounding up to Bill with unbridled enthusiasm. He released her hand, idled a moment to play with the dog.She kept walking. On her own – just to prove she could. Prove it to him, to the bank of photographers. To herself.
  
  

    
      
        
        
          Based on little more than Hillary's wan appearance on their return. And an unquenchable yen for angst. Thanks so much for reading, and I hope you enjoy!'
User: translate the chapter into Chinese
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