Kill time by reading the first three chapters: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3
Chapter 4: In Which You Meet the Prime Minister of Spain and Everything Goes Smoothly
When you arrive at your office the morning after your big date, Mabel is pacing outside your door. She’s holding a newspaper in one hand and has a look of steely determination that immediately puts you on your guard, because steel is dangerous.
“Mabel!” you say a little breathlessly, still flushed from the effort of walking up one flight of stairs. “You’re not here to try to make me learn about the news again, are you?” you ask, eyeing the newspaper with justifiable suspicion.
“Tell me everything,” Mabel demands, ignoring your question. She brushes past you and spreads out the Ottawa Citizen on your desk, directing your attention to a headline that reads: TRUDEAU DOESN’T ‘CHOKE’ UNDER PRESSURE: PRIME MINISTER PERFORMS HEIMLICH MANEUVER ON RANDOM WOMAN.” Underneath, there’s a grainy cell phone photo of Justin Trudeau giving you the heimlich maneuver. All things considered, it’s a pretty good photo of you! You might use it as your LinkedIn profile photo, to replace the one of you dressed like an astronaut.
“Well…” you say, buying for a very small amount of time. “I was having dinner with Justin Trudeau, and I started to choke. Literally! Then Justin Trudeau saved my life.” You skillfully manage to leave out the part about how you and Justin Trudeau are pretending to date in order to help your political careers.
“OK,” she says, “but WHY WERE YOU HAVING DINNER WITH JUSTIN TRUDEAU?”
“He just asked me,” you shrug, uncomfortably. Who knew that pretending to date the prime minister was going to require so much lying!
“Huh,” she says, narrowing her eyes and giving you a shrewd look. “You must have made quite an impression on him when you two were stuck in that elevator together.”
“Yes, that’s the ticket!” you say convincingly. You hope Mabel doesn’t remember how you complained about what a jerk he was at the time. (It was three days ago, so she probably doesn’t remember.)
“So—do you like him?”
You feel a blush creeping up your face. “He’s the prime minister,” you say, avoiding her gaze. “I have to like him. It’s the law!”
“Uh…that’s not…”
There’s a soft knock behind you, and Mabel jumps.
“Mr. Prime Minister!” she says, her voice rising an octave. You turn around and Justin Trudeau is leaning against your door frame, looking smug. You wonder how long he’s been standing there.
“Could I have a quick word?” Justin Trudeau asks, his eyes finding yours. You feel your body tense up. (Making eye contact with very handsome men always triggers your fight-or-flight reflex. As a result, you’ve been in a lot of fights with some very handsome men.)
Mabel is already scrambling to cram the newspaper inside her purse. “We’ll catch up later,” she says, giving you a private wink. “I’m late for a committee meeting.”
Uh oh—what’s a committee meeting? Are you supposed to be going to committee meetings, too? Or is that just something Mabel made up on the fly?
Oblivious to your increasing panic, Justin Trudeau softly closes your office door. Then he turns to you and smiles.
“I have to hand it to you,” he says, crossing the room until he’s standing so close that you have to crane your neck up to see him. “Your fake-choking stunt worked after all.”
“It works every time,” you say, even though it backfires all the time.
“All anyone is talking about is the prime minister’s mysterious new girlfriend. It’s totally bumped this whole Libyan bribery scandal out of the news cycle.”
“Wait, what?”
“Don’t worry about it. The important thing is that we’re ready to move to phase seven of our plan.”
“Phase seven? What were the first six phases?”
“Don’t worry about that either. The only thing you need to know is that there’s been a change of plans for this weekend,” he says, giving you a winning smile. “Tomorrow night, you’re going to be my date to a formal dinner. We’re hosting the prime minister of Spain.”
“No thanks!” you say, because it sounds boring. (What tipped you off was the word “formal.”)
“This was part of our deal,” he says firmly, sounding like a sexy lawyer, or maybe a sexy businessman. (Whoever it is that makes deals!) “If you’re my girlfriend, then people are going to expect you to come to events like this.”
You pause to consider.
“Can I wear a fancy hat?” you ask. You imagine a montage of you trying on fancy hats while Justin Trudeau shakes his head “no” for each one, until finally you try on the biggest, fanciest hat of all, and he smiles and gives you a thumbs-up. Then the scene cuts to you walking out of the hat store with Justin Trudeau trailing behind you, carrying a stack of hat boxes so high that he can’t see in front of him, and he accidentally bumps into an old woman and drops all of the boxes. Now that would be a fun date!
“No,” Justin Trudeau says.
“Then no deal!” you say, still thinking about hats.
His expression turns calculating. “What if I told you that there was going to be a make-your-own hot dog bar?”
“My whole life is a make-your-own hot dog bar,” you say, which is true.
“Look,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “The prime minister of Spain and I—we don’t exactly get along. I’ll feel better if you’re at my side. You have a way of making things…fun. Or, not exactly fun, but—” he pauses while he searches for the right word. The pause is very long. “Let’s go with ‘madcap’” he finally says, which is weird because you get that a lot.
He looks down at you with piercing blue eyes. “Please,” he says softly. “I need you.”
“OK,” you say quickly, because his display of emotion is making you uncomfortable.
“Thanks,” he says, with a small smile. “Oh, and before I forget, I have something for you.” He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a DVD of the movie Speed. “It’s a birthday present.” he adds, handing you the plastic case.
“But—how did you know it was my birthday?” you stammer, staring down at the picture of your best friend, Keanu Reeves. You feel your cheeks turning red.
“You’re wearing a plastic tiara that says ‘Birthday Girl’ on it,” he says, which is true.
“I love it,” you say, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. (Hopefully it’s clear that you’re talking about the DVD and not the tiara, which you also love.)
“I’m glad,” he says. “I was starting to think I should have gotten you a hat.”
“I would have liked that better,” you say honestly.
“I’ll make a note for next time,” he says, his gaze suddenly intense. (He must be serious about hats. Just like you!). Then he turns and walks out of your office.
—
On the way to Rideau Hall, Justin Trudeau lectures you about Canadian-Spanish relations.
“Canada and Spain are ancient enemies,” he explains, in a tone that makes it sound like you should have already known this.
“I didn’t realize that Canada and Spain even knew each other,” you admit.
“Yes,” he says tightly. “Things have been frosty since the Great Turbot War of 1995.”
You nod vaguely, thinking about how good he looks in his tuxedo.
“The Spanish were overfishing turbot right next to Canadian waters,” Justin Trudeau continues, apparently mistaking your blank stare for intent interest. “We had no choice but to seize one of their vessels and imprison its crew, to set an example.”
You start to ask him what a turbot is, but then you think better of it. (It’s more fun to be surprised!) “Maybe the prime minister of Spain is here because he wants to smooth things over,” you suggest.
“No,” Justin Trudeau growls. “He’s just here to troll me. He comes around every few years to complain about how he can’t find any good tapas here and brag about how many UNESCO World Heritage Sites Spain has.”
“Ooh, how many?” you ask.
But you never find out the answer, because you’ve arrived at Rideau Hall.
—
Looking around the crowded ballroom, you can tell that the Canadian government has pulled out all the stops to create an event that captures the spirit of order and fiscal prudence.
“We might as well get this over with,” Justin Trudeau says between clenched teeth. He tightens his grip on your hand and leads you across the room, directly toward the most handsome man you’ve ever seen in real life. (You’re not counting all of the pictures of handsome men you’ve seen in magazines, which is a lot, given your subscription to Newsweek.)
He looks up as you approach, his dark eyes flitting past Justin Trudeau before locking onto you. He smiles warmly and takes a step forward, clasping your hand in both of his.
“You must be the woman all of Ottawa is talking about,” he says. He lifts your hand and softly presses it to his lips. “My name is Pedro Sanchez,” he murmurs. “I am the prime minister of Spain.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” you mumble, feeling very conscious of the fact that he is still holding your hand. Justin Trudeau must notice, too, because he wraps one arm around your shoulder possessively.
“Welcome back, Pedro,” Justin Trudeau says. “I was worried that you might have to cancel your visit, what with all of the unrest in Catalonia.”
“It’s good to see you again, Justin,” Pedro Sanchez says, flashing him a wolfish smile. “You look like you’ve lost weight. You’ll have to tell me your secret, should the occasion ever arise that I need to lose weight.”
Pedro Sanchez turns his attention back to you and leans in conspiratorially. “I read about you in the newspaper today, and I have a confession to make,” he says. “Sometimes, eating dinner with Justin Trudeau makes me gag, too.”
You both laugh because it was a pretty sick burn. Justin Trudeau does not look amused.
“On that note, I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse us,” Justin Trudeau says with a tight smile. “We’re going to go get something to eat.”
“Of course,” Pedro Sanchez says, his eyes never leaving yours. “Take my advice and stay away from the poutine,” he says in a low voice. “It is a truly repulsive dish. It’s like they’ve taken a beautiful paella and replaced the rice with wet french fries, and replaced the seafood with disgusting cheese curds.”
“OK,” you say, because you do plan to stay away from the poutine for all of those reasons.
“You must allow me cook for you some time,” he says. “I make a wonderful paella. I also make an excellent pan-seared turbot,” he adds, winking at Justin Trudeau.
“It’s been a pleasure, as always, Pedro,” Justin Trudeau says in a monotone. With his arm still wrapped around your shoulders, Justin Trudeau steers you away before the Spanish prime minister can object.
—
The next hour is a blur of standing next to Justin Trudeau while he has boring conversations with people you don’t know. A French-Canadian folk band is playing a lively jig at the far end of the room, but when you ask Justin Trudeau to dance, he just lets out an annoyed sigh.
“There are still a few people I need to say hello to,” he says. “You need to understand that this is a work event for me. We’re not here to have fun,” he adds, as if that wasn’t already painfully obvious.
“That is already painfully obvious,” you say, but it doesn’t pack the same punch as it did when you said it in your head.
Then Justin Trudeau gets wrapped up in a heated exchange with the Spanish ambassador, leaving you alone with the Minister of Rural Economic Development.
“So…rural economic development!” you say. Then you pause, hoping this will prompt the minister to start talking about rural economic development. It does not. So the two of you just stand there, saying nothing, while you slowly sip your third maple-infused cocktail.
“Pardon me, but may I have this dance?” Pedro Sanchez says, appearing out of nowhere. (Or he might have just come from behind you. You can’t be sure.) You notice that the band has started playing a slow and romantic fiddle song.
You quickly scan the crowded ballroom, but you don’t see Justin Trudeau anywhere. You know he wouldn’t be thrilled with the idea, but it would be rude to say no, right?
“OK,” you say. The prime minister of Spain wordlessly removes the drink from your hand and places it on a nearby table. Then he wraps one arm tightly around your waist and whisks you onto the dance floor.
“Tell me,” he says, speaking in that low, sultry voice of his. “Do you like buildings that look like they’re melting?”
“Sure!” you say.
“Then you must come and visit me in Barcelona,” he says. His face is so close to yours that you can feel his breath on your cheek. “We have a cathedral there called La Sagrada Família that looks like it’s made out of melted wax. You have never seen anything like it here, in the frozen wasteland that is Canada.”
“Wow,” you say.
“That’s because it’s too cold for anything to melt here,” Pedro Sanchez explains. “Especially buildings.”
“Hmm,” you say. Pedro Sanchez is kind of weird, but you like him!
“It is one of 47 UNESCO World Heritage Sites in Spain,” he adds. (So you did end up finding out, after all!)
“Are you familiar with the UNESCO World Heritage Sites?” he continues. “They are chosen by the United Nations for their unique beauty and importance to humanity.”
Pedro Sanchez starts listing all 47 of Spain’s UNESCO World Heritage Sites. But you aren’t really listening, because you’ve just spotted Justin Trudeau across the room. He isn’t talking to the Spanish ambassador anymore. He isn’t talking to anyone. He’s just standing there, staring at you with a heat in his eyes that could melt a thousand wax cathedrals.