by Sara Celi
I looked from the phone, to him, and back again. “Is this for real? No way.”
He nodded. “It is. Believe it. Showed up right before we walked in here. I thought about waiting to tell you but—”
“No, it can’t be.” I took the phone from Doug and read the email again. A hot flash pulsed through me, and I struggled to keep my voice low. “This has to be a joke.”
Doug scoffed. “I sincerely doubt it is.”
“This is a disaster,” I said, more to myself than to Doug.
“You’re damn right it is,” Doug said.
Exclusive, read the headline on DailyMail.com in bold letters. Patrick Blanco is the father of my child!
“I’ve never met this woman in my life,” Patrick said an hour later at an emergency meeting with the senior staff.
Doug, Heather, and I huddled around Patrick in the very same hotel room where just one night before, he’d kissed me as if he never wanted to kiss anyone else again. I swept that from my mind, though, refusing to let myself think about it.
“How many times do I have to keep saying this? I’ve never met her.” Patrick said when the three of us exchanged a look. “We didn’t have a relationship. Ever.”
“She’s a senior at Miami of Ohio,” Doug said. “A co-ed. Alpha Gamma…something. Some sorority.”
“Oh god,” Heather murmured. “Of course. Probably one of those rich millennial types. A whole lot of money, nothing to show for it, and a fixation on taking selfies with narcissistic hashtags.”
Patrick shook his head and gripped the bedding.
“Think about it. Look very closely.” Doug narrowed his eyes and, once again, showed Patrick the girl’s picture on his phone. “Are you sure you’ve never met her? Think very hard, Patrick.”
Patrick stared at the screen. We all waited for his answer, and he gave it after a long sigh. “I remember her now. She had tickets to the reception ahead of graduation. I met her as I posed for photos with those guests.”
Doug cursed.
“That doesn’t mean I slept with her,” Patrick said. “I didn’t. She’s lying about that.”
“We’ve got to come up with some way to respond,” I said, not sure if I believed him. He and Kathryn had a fake relationship, and he’d kissed me the night before. Plus, Patrick was a politician, and one of the most handsome men in DC. Men like him could have any woman they wanted. Why wouldn’t he have been indiscreet with some college co-ed?
“The media will want an answer,” I said, thinking out loud. “They’ll ask a lot of questions. We got away easy this morning over at WCHS, but we’ll hear about this, and sooner rather than later.”
Nodding, Doug scrolled through his phone. “Man, this is rich. Says you all met when you gave the commencement speech at the school during December graduation, just like you said, and that you spent one ‘glorious’ weekend together before ‘breaking her heart.’” Doug tossed the phone on the bed. “But I say we ignore this flat out. It’s Daily Mail, not The Washington Post.”
“We can’t. We’re already behind. Besides, how many other articles are out there? I’ve seen at least fifteen.” My annoyance grew as I spoke, but I couldn’t figure out if I was mad at myself, Patrick, or the situation in general. Whatever it was, I wanted to leave the room, and fast. I wanted time to think, and time to clear my head. This situation wasn’t giving me either. “That doesn’t include the chatter on Twitter, Facebook—”
“We’re not going to make an official statement.” Patrick raked his hand through his hair. “A statement just gives this whole thing credibility.”
“I agree with Alex.” Heather began pacing the room. “We should prepare something, deploy it once, and refuse to answer questions about it later. And we probably need a paternity test.” Heather stopped, her gaze meeting each of ours, one person at a time. “That way, we’re hedging our bets a little bit. Ready for anything.”
Doug and I both nodded.
“I like that,” Doug said.
Heather leaned against the TV stand and nodded in agreement. “What do you think, Patrick? After all, it’s your sex scandal.”
Patrick stood and regarded all of us. “I wouldn’t call it a sex scandal. I would hardly call it anything. Like I said, she’s a liar. And while I am guilty of many things in my life, one thing I don’t do…is hook up with women who could be my daughter.”
Patrick’s attention zoned in on mine, and energy briefly flickered between us.
“I agree with this idea,” I said. “It meets it head on, and hopefully ends it. But what you’re saying better be true. This better not have legs.”
Doug, Heather, and I agreed I’d draw up a small statement on the drive from Charleston to Columbia. They were eager to end the meeting; this less-than-small hiccup had delayed us an hour, and we needed to meet with the Columbia Women of the Democratic Party at one. We’d be lucky if we made it on time. The three of us excused ourselves, gathered our things, and rushed toward the door. Patrick followed us, mumbling things about campaign loyalty, how much he appreciated our hard work, and how the campaign wouldn’t be the same without us on staff. Doug and Heather thanked him, then left.
When only I remained, Patrick leaned across me and shut the door.
“Don’t leave yet, Alex.”
I turned back to him. “Why? I have things I need to do. We’re checking out in fifteen minutes.”
“Just give me a second to explain.” Patrick grabbed my shoulder. “One minute.”
“Counting.”
He sucked in a deep breath. “This is going to happen. It’s a national campaign. We’re in the big leagues here, and a lot of people have a lot at stake. People are going to say outrageous lies to sway the voters in their direction.”
“I know that.” I pulled away and backed up until my shoulders and butt pressed into the door. “And I expect that. I’ve worked on campaigns before. I’ve seen people go negative plenty of times.”
“But this is different.” He cupped my jaw. “And I want to make sure that you know how to handle it.”
“I’m your communications director. Of course I know how to handle it. It’s my job to handle it.”
“I’m not talking about business. I’m talking about everything else. Everything between us.”
“Which is what? The kiss last night?” I shrugged myself out of his grasp again and looked away. “It happens. People get carried away.”
Patrick curled a finger under my chin, pinched it with his thumb, and turned my face toward him. “Are you sure that’s what it was?”
“As far as I am concerned.”
His hand warmed my flesh but his eyes narrowed. “Don’t say something you don’t mean, Alex.
“Isn’t it easier that way? It’s the way things are supposed to be. You have enough to handle with this…development. And besides, as far as the public is concerned, you’re only involved with Kathryn. Which reminds me, we’ve got to make sure she’s on message with this, too.”
Patrick dropped his hand and closed his eyes. “Don’t remind me.” He opened his eyes again. “I’m already dreading the conversation I’m going to have with her father.”
“He’s an eccentric billionaire.” I smiled and found the door handle behind me. “A minor sex scandal from a woman you say is lying won’t be anything new to him.”
I yanked on the hotel room door and left.
A small scrum of reporters greeted our campaign bus as it pulled into the parking lot off to the side of a white, columned building on the edge of town. A sign posted in front read “Women of the Democratic Party,” and patriotic bunting draped from the second-floor balcony. A few “official-looking” women wearing buttons stood on the porch waiting for us.
They didn’t look pleased.
“Let’s do it,” I said to Heather just before I sucked in a breath to steel my nerves.
She nodded. As I walked to the front of the bus, Heather corralled the rest of the staffers and interns. Stepping off, I heard
her going back over the plan for the next few hours.
“Miss Jones, what is the campaign’s reaction to the recent allegations by a Miss Amanda Parker of Ohio?” shouted a network reporter I didn’t recognize.
“Will the campaign be issuing an official statement?” screamed another.
“What are you saying to voters?” said the first one.
Just as we suspected. This wasn’t going away. At all. The reporters, photographers, video cameramen, and other media closed in on me in a round robin right in front of the bus.
I took another deep breath. “I have a quick statement I’d like to make on the allegations,” I said as I opened my steno pad. “And after this, we on the campaign staff will consider the matter closed and not take further questions on it.”
“But—”
“Don’t you think that—?”
“Does Mr. Blanco—”
“Ms. Parker says he promised her they’d have a future together.”
The questions came at me like buckshot. Having expected this, I raised a hand to silence them and reminded myself to stay calm and steady. The media wanted to see me off my game, but I wouldn’t give them that. “Again, this is the only statement on this issue that our campaign will make.”
I cleared my throat and hoped my makeup had stayed intact. I also reminded myself of the first rule of public relations: even bad news could be good news. Handle this right, and Patrick Blanco might even get a bounce in the polls.
“We consider this a vicious effort to undermine Patrick’s credibility in light of his recent victory in New Hampshire,” I said. “Their only objective here is to distract from the real issues facing everyday Americans.”
“Do you suspect someone from the Republican Party might be behind it?” asked a blonde woman I recognized from FOX News Channel. “Or one of your opponents?”
I decided not to address that question. The press could glean their own conclusions. Instead, I took a deep breath and refocused on the words that I’d agonized over on the bus ride from Charleston to Columbia.
“Patrick Blanco did meet Amanda Parker while he was in Oxford during commencement weekend in December of last year. She attended a VIP cocktail party along with dozens of other students, trustees, and donors. Ms. Parker did not have any unusual interaction with Patrick at the event, and for him it was a typical event. That weekend, he gave the address, met with some trustees and donors for the school, and spent the rest of the time with family at his home in Bloomfield Shores, Ohio. He did not begin a relationship with Ms. Parker at that time, and he categorically denies all of these allegations. A legal team has also ordered Miss Parker to cease and desist charges until a paternity test can be taken. We believe this is nothing but a gross distract—”
In the middle of the last of my words, the door to the bus opened, and Patrick strode down the steps with a huge, affable smile on his face. Everyone’s attention shifted to him.
“Thank you, Miss Jones, for your wonderful statement.” Still perched one step above them, Patrick turned to the media. “But I thought it would be better if I addressed these accusations myself.” With every word he spoke, Patrick laid the charm thicker. “Now, who has questions? I promise you, there is nothing to this story. It is a complete fabrication.”
As the media shifted and stumbled around him to get a better shot or a clear soundbite, I stepped back from the crowd and watched Patrick work his magic on them. Within seconds, he had them rapt, willing, and believing his every word. He left no doubt that he’d never met Amanda Parker, whether it was true or not. He knew how to twist them, and he knew how to twist me, too.
Damnit.
“Daddy is not happy.” Kathryn eyed me on the ride from the Columbia Women Democrats’ event to a rally planned at Emily Douglas Park. “Three text messages and one email from him already.”
I released a long, pent-up breath.
“This is serious, Patrick. You need to make this go away. Now.”
“I told you, it’s a lie. Fake. Made up. I certainly didn’t father her child.”
“Are you sure?”
“What do you mean ‘are you sure’? Of course I’m sure. There is no way this happened.”
Kathryn shook her head as if she didn’t believe me, fell silent, and turned her attention to the city outside the car window. As we drove, I remembered the way this had all been presented to me that night in Palm Beach. Simple. No frills. Mutual benefit. A way for me to get the money and influence I needed to rise in the polls and a path for the Van der Loons to gain power in a sphere that had eluded them. It wasn’t enough to conquer real estate, Wall Street, and hospitality. They wanted more, and DC would give it. Tie yourself to a rising political star and watch all the traditional limits fade away.
“You had to expect something like this,” I finally said. “Sex scandals sell. It’s the dirtiest part of the game, and it’s never dirtier than in the days leading up to the primary.”
“I know.” Kathryn kept looking at the passing streets. “But we had you vetted, and we didn’t find this.”
“Because she made it up. Someone paid her off. Someone got to her.”
“Did they?”
“Jesus, it was convenient.” I sighed. “She took a photo with me after the speech, which they knew would help with the story. That’s all. That’s the extent of it.”
Kathryn raised her eyebrow but didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. You had to marvel at a woman who could put cynical personal gain and a power-hungry nature over so much else in life. I’d heard these kinds of women existed, and assumed a few of my Senate colleagues had married them, but I never encountered one before Kathryn.
She could have written a book on it.
“I’m going to keep up my end of the bargain,” I said as we arrived at the park. “I promise.”
She finally turned from the window, her expression stony and cold. “You better.”
“No one ever said running for president was going to be easy.”
Kathryn narrowed her eyes. “Don’t forget why you’re here in the first place, and why you made it this far. No one believed in you until we did. No one. The Van der Loon name gave you everything.”
The car came to a stop.
“You’d do well not forget that.” Kathryn opened the door with her gloved hand, and by the time she stepped from the car, her entire expression had changed. “Hello!” she said to a few of the voters who gathered to greet us. “How are you?”
I followed her, turned on my own endless supply of political charm, and gave a speech I didn’t remember to a crowd of voters I would forget by the next day. When I got back in the car so we could head to the hotel before a dinner meeting with Henry Morris, South Carolina’s first Democratic senator in thirty years, I checked my phone.
Nothing from Alex except a few bland emails about upcoming events and polling. No change in that, either.
I stared at the screen for a few moments before I figured out what I wanted to type.
I’ve got a lot to say. Meet me tonight? Midnight?
Forty-seven emails greeted me that night when I booted up my computer in the hotel room after we finished our last campaign event of the day. The pile included requests for media credentials, comments from the local news, scheduling for interviews, polling results, and group emails about when and how to prep Patrick for the upcoming debate on the campus of the University of South Carolina, which was just a few days away.
I flipped on the TV for background music, found my steno pad, and called Heather, my closest thing to a friend on the staff. She gave in to my pleas and joined me about fifteen minutes later with her own laptop and two bottles of beer from the overpriced hotel bar.
“I figured this would happen,” she said as she sashayed into my room and sat down on the bed. “Too much to do and not enough time to do it.” She handed me one of the beers.
I thanked her and sank into the desk chair across from the bed. “Do you think we handled today very well?
”
“Handled what?” Heather tried to bite back a smirk and failed. “Of course we did. At least the national folks seem to think so.” She nodded to the TV, where some pundits I barely recognized debated the state of the race on CNN. “They don’t care. They’ve dismissed the whole scandal, and seem more interested in focusing on the Republicans.”
“I’m not worried about them. I’m worried about the South Carolina voters.”
“Who knows?” She opened her beer and took a long chug. “They can be fickle, and that last polling happened before Miss Amanda Parker of Athens, Ohio, decided to show herself.”
I agreed.
“But he handled it well,” Heather said. “Not that I’d expect anything different.” As she took her laptop out of its case, she smiled to herself. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
“What?” The tone of her voice made my stomach twist, but I forced myself to keep my expression blank.
She placed the computer on the bed. “Do you like him?”
“Who?”
She tilted her head. “Come on. You know who. Do you like him?”
“Patrick?” My neck grew warm and my stomach dropped to my toes. “I like him. He’s a good boss.”
I closed the Excel spreadsheet and shut my computer. Something about the way she spoke told me that whatever she said next, work was over for that night. Emails and scheduling would have to wait. We had more important things to discuss.
“I just have to say that I find it interesting that he hired you as his communications director for the campaign.” Heather drew out her words. “We already had Kelly in the DC office. He could have used her.”
“But he told me he wanted to keep things separate. Someone had to stay behind and run things while he was gone. The way he explained it, it made sense to have two staffs.”
“Did it?” Heather lifted an eyebrow.
“Of course.”
“Are you sure?”
I frowned, remembering that first night at Old Ebbit Grill, when Patrick and I talked over dry martinis and oysters about the kind of race he wanted to run, and how he wanted to ensure that the people of Ohio didn’t get left behind during the long months he would need to be away from DC if he wanted to win. “Ohioans deserve that, at least.”
