And if her best friend Carly were there, she’d be rolling her eyes, bursting out in frustration, “Why are you always defending him? Protecting him?” She’d be asking why Brooke was always making excuses, discovering loopholes, fixing it all, concocting fabulous explanations for why Derek’s behavior was just fine. For sure, if Brooke had been there at the press conference the night before, she would have been the one waiting downstairs in the parking garage with the ignition on, the getaway car. Roaring around sharp corners at top speed, just to get Derek out of trouble—but it was here that her fantasy was extinguished. Derek never let her drive. It was always him behind the wheel.
She felt the same instinct, though, to shield him, to excuse him. And not just because all that had been her job for so long. The single reason Brooke was grateful Carly was far away right now, doing an internship in South America, was that she wouldn’t have to explain to her friend what was really happening in her life, what was happening to Derek. Because if she did try to explain, Carly would only dismiss the fact that this was a setup, character assassination, sheer political opportunism.
“But do the details even matter?” Carly would demand. “If everything they’re saying, in general, is basically true?”
Can you really convict a man on the basis of his poor character though? Could that be enough? Wasn’t it the facts that were supposed to count, facts Brooke could hardly believe herself as she skimmed the papers below the headlines to understand? These women who’d come forward were being used by Derek’s foes both inside and outside the party. They were pawns, their stories batted around for political gain, accusing Derek of such terrible things. The Derek they were describing wasn’t the person that Brooke knew, and even if the last few months had suggested that Brooke didn’t know him so well, she didn’t want to see him suffer. Another fact, but one that would have Carly demanding: Why not? Because wouldn’t it be a kind of restitution? Maybe, but there was nothing satisfying about it, and Brooke would continue to insist Derek was a better man than Carly thought he was, because what would it say about Brooke if he wasn’t?
Skipping the papers, however, would be futile. And her task was to keep her head down, perform her duties and not make waves, because she needed this job and her life didn’t need any more upsets. She had to resist the urge to make the library a small island of calm in the raging sea that was today’s breaking news. The waves would overrun the banks eventually. She didn’t have the power to shape how the story would go.
So the papers got hung, albeit with the front section turned around backwards so there were car ads facing out instead of headlines in all-caps. But it didn’t even matter, because when Brooke returned to the circulation desk, she found her colleague Lindsay involved in an intense discussion of those headlines with Sheila, the chief librarian. The two of them nattering on like this was gossip, something salacious, and Brooke wanted to duck right back out again, but Lindsay spotted her, inviting her to join in: “Have you heard? Murdoch’s finally getting what’s been coming.”
It was too late to run. Brooke asked her, “How do you know? That he’s had it coming?”
Lindsay said, “Well, why else would his staff quit?”
“Who?”
“Everyone. Chief of staff, the press secretary, all the others.”
This was news. That everyone would jump ship at such a pivotal moment. What was the point of a team if they didn’t stick by you? How had everything gone so terribly wrong?
Sheila added, “And he’s still refusing to resign.”
Brooke couldn’t make sense of it. Last night at the press conference, Derek had vehemently denied everything. “Anyone who knows me—they know that I would never be capable of the things that I’ve been accused of. It’s not the kind of person I am. Those of you who know me—you know. I know you do.” It was the best part of his performance, his voice steady and strong, his eyes staring straight into the camera, into the eyes of the public.
But then he cried and ran, and if his entire team had quit overnight, this did not bode well. And Brooke knew how all of this would have come about—Derek’s chief of staff was Marijke Holloway, who’d supported Joan Dunn in the leadership race, and years later, resentment from that contest remained. Derek had brought Marijke on board to bring more experience to his team, though he’d been advised that it was a naïve and stupid move. He’d done a poor job smoothing things over, and Brooke knew Marijke would be looking for any excuse to betray him. It was the nature of the game.
So who had been with him last night? she wondered. If the team had handed in their resignation, who’d been there to sit up for the pizza and the strategy? After that shameful exit, down three flights of stairs. Had he gotten into his car alone?
Lindsay said, “How the mighty have fallen. He’s going to have to go.” For her, this was something to celebrate. Another predatory male down for the count, and she just assumed that Brooke would feel the same. If it had been anybody else, Brooke probably would have.
But now she said, “Not necessarily.” It was the fiercest opposition she could manage while retaining her composure.
Lindsay said, “Huh?” She was emptying the returns bin, and the scanner wouldn’t work. She slapped it three times against the desk.
Brooke didn’t want to engage. Nothing about this was anything to celebrate, but then Sheila stepped in to save her, an unlikely ally, unafraid of asserting her point of view, because as chief librarian, it was her prerogative.
“Well, it’s not really fair, is it?” Sheila challenged. “Two anonymous accusations, and it’s all over? Do you really want a system that works like that? What if it was you? That could be my son. Next time, it could be yours.” Employing all the usual clichés, Brooke noted, wondering if it was impossible to have a conversation about any of this that wasn’t idiotic.
“But it wouldn’t be my son,” Lindsay said, “because I’d never have a son like that. And it’s not just two. You know it’s not just two.” Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. “There’s a pattern here. He’s being accused of inappropriate relationships with young girls who work for him. Anyone disputing that?”
“But they’re not young girls,” said Brooke. “They’re women.” Lindsay was changing the details of the story to suit her agenda. Brooke picked up the books that were being checked in and filed them on the cart.
“They were teenagers.” Lindsay was insistent, and disappointed that Brooke was letting her down, onside with the boomer.
But Brooke was on a roll now. “Ten years ago,” she reminded Lindsay.
Sheila said, “And it’s not illegal, any of that. Those two accusations aren’t about relationships; they’re saying he raped them. Or that he nearly did—but where do you draw the line? And they’ve got no proof. Why would they wait so long to come forward?”