A ripple of laughter ran around the room. Grace caught her husband’s eye and he winked at her. He was still able to send little shivers up her spine. She tapped Manuela on the shoulder.
‘I’m just going to wish my husband good luck.’
She walked around the back of the dais, climbing up on the platform behind Gabriel. One of the journalists she knew – Juan Moreno from the Parador Internacional – spotted her and waved his notebook at her.
‘Mrs Hernandez!’ he called. ‘Can you give us your take on your husband’s new policy?’
Gabriel put up his hand as if to veto the question, but Grace stepped forward.
‘This is Parador, Mr Moreno,’ she said with a sweet smile. ‘On this platform, whatever my husband thinks is exactly right. However, when I get him home, whatever I say goes.’
The room cracked up with laughter and Gabriel dipped his head to the microphones. ‘And I think that’s a perfect place to leave it, thank you, gentlemen.’
More black-suited security men led Grace and Gabriel towards a back entrance. As they waited for their cars to come around, Gabriel turned to her and grinned.
‘Brilliant as ever, Mrs Hernandez,’ he said, leaning over to kiss her on the neck.
‘You weren’t so bad yourself.’ Grace grinned.
Gabriel pulled a face. ‘You missed the tricky parts. Not all of them agree with what we stand for.’
‘I shouldn’t worry, Gabe,’ she said.‘All journalists in Parador have a closet liberal streak; they all secretly want change, otherwise why would they stick around here? Not for the twenty-thousand-dollar salary.’
Gabriel laughed. ‘I didn’t know when I married you that I’d gain a wise counsel as well as a wife.’
‘You just remember that when you come to buy my next birthday present.’
Just then, Gabriel’s car drew up, ready to take him to his next hand-shaking engagement. He was about to climb inside when Grace grabbed his hand and squeezed it.
‘You deserve this, honey,’ she whispered. ‘If I forget to say it later, I’m proud of you.’
She watched his car roar off, sending up the inevitable cloud of dust.
‘Excuse me, Mrs Hernandez?’
She turned to face a young woman perhaps a year or two older than herself. She was wearing a press photo pass.
‘My name is Maria Santos,’ she said.‘I am a reporter with Parador Scrivener.’
Grace smiled politely. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘I wondered if I just ask you a couple of questions before you leave?’
Grace glanced nervously over at one of the security men, but then reminded herself that she could make her own rules now.
‘Of course,’ she said.
The woman produced a dictaphone, the red light already on.‘Can I ask what you think of the allegation that your husband has been taking political contributions from the Andres family?’
Instantly Grace felt the colour drain from her face. She was used to difficult questions coming from left field on the campaign trail, but this was different. The Andres brothers headed one of Parador’s most powerful drug cartels; the suggestion that her husband was taking money from the most hated bandits in the country was preposterous, it was against everything he stood for.
‘I think it is absolute nonsense,’ she replied as steadily as she could.
‘We have some very reliable sources who say it is not nonsense, Mrs Hernandez.’
‘I am sure you are aware that my husband is running his campaign on a “no corruption” ticket, Ms Santos,’ said Grace steadily.‘I would suggest you are very sure of your sources before you start making such wild accusations about a respected and popular man.’
‘Oh, we are sure, Mrs Hernandez.’