by Gage Grayson
Screw the schedule. I need to take some time for me.
The interns and White House staff all but ignore me as I power walk through the halls to our apartment. I’ve seen Henry’s schedule; he’ll be busy all day and won’t be able to come join me.
The West Wing vanishes behind me. I’d slam the doors to the Executive Suite closed if they weren’t so heavy and if I wasn’t so tired. But as I come through the door, Duke comes bounding through the hallway.
His tail, wagging furiously, threatens to topple a vase, but his constant need for attention reminds me what unconditional love really is.
Duke wouldn’t care if I wasn’t the most perfect First Lady.
From there, I head to the Lincoln Sitting Room.
Like Jackie Kennedy, it’s always been one of my favorite rooms in the White House. Of course, so much has changed since she renovated the building. There have been the Clintons and the Bushs, and they’ve all left their mark on this room.
I wonder if I’ll be allowed to redecorate, when I become First Lady.
As minutes tick by, however, I’m beginning to wonder if it’s not so much when I become First Lady, but if.
Despite the beautiful scenery, I can’t sit still. I pace through the hallways. I grab myself a glass of water from the kitchen.
Eventually, I find myself in the Yellow Oval Room, looking out the reinforced glass window and over the Truman Balcony.
I love Henry so much that I didn’t notice that he was putting me inside this gilded cage.
I can’t do it.
I can’t sacrifice everything I’ve worked for to be second fiddle. I’ve always dreamed that when I fall in love, my boyfriend—my husband—would at least treat me like an equal.
But how can I leave Henry?
It’s not as simple as taking off the ring, packing my bags, and moving back into my apartment. I can’t throw Henry’s clothes out the window and tell him to pick up his stuff in the morning.
I can barely go to the toilet without either the Secret Service or a member of the paparazzi trying to come with me.
And the minute our split goes public, there would be questions. The eyes of the world would be on Henry, harder than ever, incessantly searching for that one key detail that made me leave him—the one fatal flaw that the press would use to tear him apart.
I don’t want to do that to him. It’s not Henry that I can’t bear to be with.
I want to spend the rest of my life with him. But I can’t. It’s the job that I can’t bear any longer.
If Henry asks me to marry him again—years from now, when his second term is a distant memory—I’d say yes in a heartbeat.
I’d go to Vegas and be married by a fat, drunk Elvis if it meant I could spend my life with Henry.
In fact, I think I’d prefer getting married in Vegas than getting married in the White House.
I curl up on the sofa, and Duke climbs up next to me. His heavy head rests on my lap as I run my fingers through his fur.
Maybe I should speak to Hope—she’s kept my secret so far from Henry. She’ll know what to do to help me escape this life.
But I can’t do it yet.
I sigh and sink further into the sofa.
I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure this doesn’t hurt Henry’s chance for re-election.
I wish I could do whatever it takes to make sure this doesn’t hurt Henry, but I don’t think that’s a luxury I have anymore.
Chapter 35
Henry
I know I badly needed sleep, but there are too few hours in the day as it is, and my re-election campaign is woefully incomplete.
I’m staring down sightlessly at the slew of paperwork scattered across my desk. It’s all so tedious, but necessary—annoyingly necessary.
I know I’ve been neglecting Beatrice, but it’s not something I can avoid. I’m the president of the United States after all, and she knew what she was getting in for.
I’m supposed to be at the presidential suite over two hours ago, but Beatrice has the sense not to bother me to find out what’s been keeping me; she knows how important my re-election is.
I sigh heavily, and it’s soon followed by a yawn. I really am exhausted. I should probably pack for the night, but I call for Lawrence first.
Ten minutes later, a gentle rap on the door informs me of his arrival. Lawrence has a sleepy look on his face, and it makes me immediately regret asking him to join me.
“You called for me?” he asks, struggling to stifle a yawn.
“Lawrence, I’m sorry to keep you. I wasn’t even aware of how late it had gotten,” I reply apologetically.
“You should be getting some sleep, too, Henry.”
“I know, I know. I just wanted to go over a few re-election points with you before I turn in for the...morning.” I look at my watch; it’s almost three in the morning.
I give Lawrence an abashed smile.
Lawrence sits down, yawning once more.
“Well, I’m already here so we may as well.”
And so, we go over my campaign points for nearly an hour, arguing over possible marketing strategies and potential sponsors, until I feel satisfied that we’ve made some reasonable progress.
Eventually, I feel myself dangerously close to falling asleep in my chair.
“Right, Henry, off to bed with you. You have breakfast with the Californian governor in five hours.”
I resist the urge to make a noise in protest. I don’t much like the man as it stands, and now, I’ll have to deal with him sleep-deprived.
“Wonderful,” I say as I stand up. “Thank you for joining me, Lawrence. Feel free to take the morning off to catch up on sleep. At least one of us should.”
Lawrence smiles appreciatively. “Much obliged. I’ll see you in a few hours, Henry.”
We both vacate the Oval Office; Lawrence heads one way down the corridor to the staff exit, while I head in the opposite direction.
When I finally make it to bed, Beatrice is already fast asleep—her body sprawled across the duvet with a notebook still in her hand. Clearly, I wasn’t the only one working late today.
She murmurs a little in her sleep as I gently push her awake. She opens her heavy-lidded eyes to stare blearily at me.
“...time is it?” Beatrice just barely manages to get out.
“Way too late. Or early. Time to get under the covers, Bea.”
She smiles at me as I lift the duvet out from underneath her and pull it over the two of us. The bed is blessedly warm and comfortable, and I feel myself falling into unconsciousness as soon as my head hits the pillow.
“Love you,” I hear Beatrice mumble as she turns over in her sleep.
I kiss the back of her head. “Love you, too.”
* * *
I feel as if I’ve barely been asleep at all when I receive my wake-up call; I’ve never wanted breakfast less than I do right now.
Beatrice’s arms wind around me, pulling me back towards her.
“Don’t go. Stay in bed.”
It’s a dangerously tempting proposition, but I tease her hands away and swing into an upright position nonetheless.
“You know I can’t do that, Bea.”
She sits up against the pillows and looks critically at me.
“You’ve barely slept ten hours over the past three days, Henry. I’m worried about you.”
“You know how important the re-election campaign is, Bea. I don’t have a choice. I’ve got to prove that I’m capable of continuing as the president, which means my campaign has to be twice as good as my competitors’.”
Beatrice leans over and kisses me gently.
“I know you do, Henry. I just wish—”
“Wish what?” I fire back, irritated from lack of sleep and my impending breakfast meeting.
The last thing I need is to be berated for not taking time out.
She makes a face.
“No need to get so defensive, Henry. I just wish you’d slow down a little
. We haven’t eaten together in weeks, let alone spent a night together.”
“You think I have time for that right now, Bea? You knew what you’d be getting into when you accepted my proposal. It’s not going to get any easier.”
“I know,” Beatrice replies, her tone somewhat steely. “I’m the White House biographer after all. Or have you forgotten? I’m well aware what your job involves.”
“Then you know not to criticize the way I do things. And don’t even consider questioning my methods in public—the press will go mad if it looks as if you don’t agree with the way I do things.”
Beatrice gets up from the bed to throw a bathrobe on with a scowl on her face.
“As if I would ever imagine to do something like that, Henry! Who do you think I am?”
I get up to put my hands on her shoulders, trying to placate her. I know it’s not right to vent at Beatrice when she’s done nothing wrong; she’s just worried about me.
“I’m sorry, Bea. Really, I am. I’m just trying to keep everything together. And image is everything to the public, especially the way I interact with my First Lady.”
Beatrice is quiet for a moment, then turns around to face me. Her face is serious.
“Henry.”
I raise an eyebrow questioningly.
Beatrice takes a deep breath.
“I want to continue working when I officially become First Lady. Only freelance, of course. I just don’t want to give up my career.”
I run a hand over my face in exasperation.
“Bea, you know you won’t have time to continue working when we get married. It’s simply not feasible. We’ve been over this before.”
Beatrice’s eyes widen slightly.
“So, what? I’m supposed to give up my entire life for you? I don’t get a choice at all?”
“Bea—”
“Just leave me alone, Henry. You’ve made your opinion perfectly clear. I don’t want to discuss this any further when you’re in this much of a bad mood. Have fun with the California governor.”
And with that, Beatrice breaks free from my grasp and heads for a shower, leaving me frustrated, guilty, and at a loss for words.
She knew what she was getting into. She did. And yet, I still feel bad about how her free time has been getting reduced more and more with each passing day.
I then resolve to get an early night so I can talk to her properly tomorrow with a clear and level head. I owe her at least that much. For now, I have an unpleasant breakfast meeting to attend to, though I don’t have an appetite.
I swing a longing stare back at the bed; I wish I could do nothing more than pull Beatrice back under the covers and do unspeakable things to her well into the afternoon.
But days like those are gone—at least for now.
Being president is exhausting. But I owe it to my people—and to myself—to do it justice.
Chapter 36
Beatrice
The charade begins.
I dislike the maneuvering and the deception, but it’s a necessary step and a precaution I have to take—for my own sake, as well as for Henry’s.
It’s the reason I hardly leave the White House anymore.
But with Henry so focused on his re-election campaign already, things between us have to appear perfect—at least outwardly. And sometimes, I get the notion that—at this stage—appearances are more important to him than where we actually stand.
I, for one, certainly feel the tension and pressure rising. One misstep, and I could hurt his career or cost him the election.
Hope remains my confidante in all this. She helps me orchestrate this plan, so I can leave the White House for an afternoon. Because once I’m outside, the press will hound me without mercy.
I was hoping working freelance on the side would provide me with the much-needed relief and distraction from this scrutinized and official life I’m now leading. But Henry quickly shot down that idea and explained in straightforward terms how I would not have time to work on anything.
Frankly, that dampens my spirits quite a lot.
Everyone on the outside might assume I’m living a fairy tale as the woman dating the young and attractive president, but the reality is far from it.
My work is an integral part of me, and if I can’t write, I’m not myself. I can’t go on writing Henry’s biography forever, especially when my role in his life remains unclear.
“You okay, Beatrice?”
Hope’s gentle voice rouses me from my somber musings.
I nod.
“Yeah, I’m ready.”
“Now, listen, here’s today’s strategy. I couldn’t raise a full motorcade for you this time, but you’ll have two cars. You’ll be in the second one.”
“Got it.”
“We’ll have two motorcycles accompany the limo in front, as a diversion. The cars will split, and any paparazzi on your tail should assume the important passenger—you—is riding in the limo. If you want to take the extra step, you can then swap for a taxi. Regardless, these two will follow you everywhere.”
She points to my two bodyguards, my two shadows, as I call them by now. I lamely raise my hand, since I’m already far too familiar with them. Neither of them moves a muscle.
“This should get you to your destination without the press. But as always, we can’t prevent anyone from recognizing you in public.”
“I know,” I reply as I hold up my sunglasses and an inconspicuous-looking hat resting in my lap.
“Good. Now, good luck out there. Call for pick up when you’re done.”
She puts her hand on my shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze. I place my hand on hers then squeeze back.
Hope has been so understanding with all this.
I remember the beginning when I falsely suspected there was some attraction going on between her and Henry. Those were simpler times.
I get up and leave the West Wing by a side door. Screened from public view, I enter the smaller car parked behind the limousine Hope has designated as decoy in this maneuver.
Uncomfortably, I settle in my seat and put on my sunglasses and hat. Despite the tinted windows, I feel quite exposed.
The lurking press have been the reason I’ve come to loathe leaving the safe surroundings of the White House—apart from clandestine visits to the doctor to check on the progress of my pregnancy.
Every single time, we have to go through this exhaustive ordeal; and apart from Hope, it seems the staff are less and less understanding.
I know that there are whispers behind my back and that, to some, I’m just a little girl or princess clinging to the president’s coattails.
Hope has been essential in organizing the occasional escape and remained at my side, and I silently thank her again.
Today, I’m not going to the doctor, but the occasion is just as important to my well-being.
The press are upon us as soon as we leave the gate, clamoring outside the vehicles, and I shrink in my seat. Cameras flash, but the driver assures me that all they get is their reflection in the mirrored windows.
As predicted, we pick up a tail of reckless paparazzi trailing the cars. The vehicles execute the bait-and-switch split at a busy intersection, and it goes according to Hope’s plan. My bodyguards advise against the taxi, and we head directly to my destination instead.
I glance at my watch. This whole charade means I have to keep my friend waiting, but it can’t be helped.
I’ve picked a café by the waterfront in Georgetown, frequented mostly by students rather than journalists and political hacks. I suppose they’ll be too occupied with their books and devices to notice or recognize me, let alone care.
One of my security detail quickly inspects the place before I’m allowed to leave the car and enter the Woke & Wired Café. He hangs back at the bar, but the other agent parks himself at the neighboring table.
“Is this really necessary, Beatrice?” Fiona asks, indicating both the bodyguards and my sunglasses-and-hat disguise wit
h a long roll of her eyes.
She stands to greet me with a sigh. I hug her briefly before I quickly sit down.
“Shh, keep your voice down,” I say as I take off the sunglasses.
One comment from my editor and boss is enough to make me compromise my cover, I think, but before I can work that into a punch line, looking directly into Fiona’s eyes makes me feel better instantly.
“I’ve missed you, Fiona.”
“Girl, it’s like you dropped off the face of the Earth there. Has politics finally swallowed you up whole?”
“Kind of,” I say with a shrug.
There’s more to it than that, and she knows it. Yet it seems Fiona and I have to find our footing again. There was a time not too long ago when I confided in her like I now confide in Hope.
Unlike me, Fiona hasn’t yet found a replacement in that equation—I hope.
“So how’s the book coming along?” she asks, all business.
That’s definitely the editor in her talking, and I appreciate and smile at the familiar tone in her voice, always holding me up to her highest standards.
“You know, the president is always working. So, in turn, I’m always working. But more and more, it’s coming together.”
“So, all’s work, huh?”
Fiona raises an eyebrow but doesn’t pursue the matter further.
“Have you seen the news?” she asks and flops a copy of today’s New York Times on the table.
She rifles through the pages and shows me a quarter page article in the politics section, tapping the headline.
“Up-and-coming senator resigns over extra-marital pregnancy,” I read out loud.
I then quickly scan the article, feeling flustered already by the headline mentioning a politician and a pregnancy.
“This sonny boy was polling like a young god and was pretty much set to win the California special elections,” Fiona sums it up for me. “Yet he just threw his entire career away when his mistress got herself pregnant. Even the Golden State isn’t that progressive that he could sell an affair to his voters.”
I feel my face getting red hot.
“Excuse me, got herself pregnant? I don’t think conceiving a child happens to any woman just being by her own self. Even the Virgin Mary didn’t conceive all on her own—and got herself pregnant!”
