Domestic Affairs

by Bridget Siegel

  But the truth was right there in front of her. She was in search of her Landon Taylor, and she wasn’t prepared to settle for less. She smiled, happy in the knowledge that the theoretical man on the pedestal in her head actually existed. Sure, he was older than she and already married, but his existence had to mean there were others out there like him.

  As Jo ushered their next meeting to them, Olivia refocused on business and as she would continue to do all day, tried to push down the inappropriate thoughts of Landon Taylor as her perfect man. You will not be the cliché girl with a crush, she vowed, but Olivia caught herself more than once noticing how easy it was to be around him. She had even ordered a hamburger and fries when he jokingly pushed her to order food at lunch. “Just beyond your comfort zone,” he had said, “is where all the good stuff is.”

  Even the donors seemed of a higher caliber around Landon. The last coffee was with Melissa Lowe, a businesswoman known for her temper, who spoke passionately about the work Share Our Strength was doing to bring school breakfasts to all communities. It was actually one of Olivia’s favorite parts about political fundraising, being able to see hot-tempered CEOs and hard-nosed businesspeople in situations that they loved and enjoyed, where you were, therefore, more likely to catch them exposing a kinder side of their personality. Most people, she thought, really did get involved in politics for the right reasons—to do good, to help others, to make change. Especially when they were around the right candidates.

  At the end of the day, the governor’s driver dropped her off at home, concluding, for her, a perfect workday.

  As she slumped down into her sea-green couch, a hand-me-down from her cousins that probably could be more accurately described as a very big chair, her head flopped back and her eyes landed on the poster hanging on the brick wall. She threw her feet up on the wood Ikea coffee table in front of her and considered the black and white photo of Martin Luther King, Jr. leading a huge march. Behind him stood a front line of people holding hands, each with a more determined look on their face than the next. She had gotten the poster in high school and it had been one of the few things to survive both the move to college and the bumpy U-Haul trip back from DC. She wondered if perhaps she had finally found her own movement, her own march, her own leader.

  FIVE

  Later that night her BlackBerry lit up with a red message. Being superstitious, she hadn’t saved Governor Taylor’s name into her contacts, but no one else in her life sent pins, so she knew it was him. Note to self, find out what pins are!

  PIN 317323: Hey. Usually donors ask me to drop my staffers, not demand they come back. With some fans of yours. You busy?

  Olivia’s heart skipped a beat as she looked around at her half-baked French-bread pizza in the toaster oven; the computer, open to Adams’s latest list, the one she promised him she would finish before officially leaving his employ in three weeks; and the DVR’ed Colbert Report playing on her TV. Be professional. Sound busy. But not too busy. Write back quickly, she ordered herself.

  PIN 678018: For my fans? Never too busy. How can I help?

  PIN 317323: Secondo, 51 and Madison. 20 min?

  Yes. Of course she wanted to go. Obviously anything would have been better than going through another list, but this—this was her invitation to sit at the grown-ups’ table. She picked up her phone to tell someone. Then she quickly put it down. Campaigns left little time for friends so she hadn’t talked to anyone non-campaign-related in weeks. Okay, months. Any conversation now would have to be longer than a quick squeal about her night-to-be.

  She could call her sister, who knew about the Taylor job, but then she’d have to turn down an invitation to go away this weekend, again. She could call her mom in Westchester, but then she’d have to answer for the fact that no, she had not yet called Dr. Henner to make her annual appointment, for the third year in a row. She shook her head in frustration. Campaigns really turn relationships into a lot of work. Who has time anyway?

  She didn’t even have time for a shower. Twenty minutes were barely enough to get to Fifty-first Street even if she took a cab, which she really didn’t want to do. She’d already spent her self-imposed cab quota for the week. The quota she never kept to.

  She glanced at her closet and groaned. It was full of useless items. Worn-out and mostly wrinkled—New York City dry cleaning was not a viable option on her salary—Banana Republic and J.Crew suits. All of which were about two sizes too big since she’d lived solely on Doritos and mochas on the last campaign. Surprisingly enough, stress and junk food made a better diet plan than Jenny Craig.

  She looked at the Brooks Brothers shirt. Wore that last time. Then her eyes turned down to the black dress from earlier in the day that was strewn on the floor, amazingly not wrinkled. Well, not too wrinkled. Just stick with what you had on, she decided as she traded out the comfy sweats she had adopted the minute she walked in the door. Definitely could’ve hung that up. It would do though and kept her looking professional. Plus if she kept her outfit the same, her what-to-wear-freak-out might be slightly less obvious. Probably not.

  She reapplied her makeup, which looked much better than it did when she put it on in the cab in the morning, and managed to get her too-long hair—Must get haircut—to look decent hanging down around her face. Her Chanel bag would be the perfect finishing touch. It was a ridiculous pink Chanel clutch. It cost three times a month’s rent and it was, for the most part, totally useless. Aleksander Yerkhov, a fabulous Russian donor, had gotten it for her on her last birthday, and like all things Alek had presented to her, she had thought about returning it or putting it up on eBay. But in this case, her momentary hesitation gave way to frank understanding that she loved the purse; it was just too pretty and too completely fabulous to let go of. And in Olivia’s convoluted justification on the day she received it, it did come in handy on nights like these, when she was off to meet people who owned one in every color.

  She was not surprised that Alek had chosen something that delighted her. He understood women. He was a fruit importer, around sixty-five, but he always seemed to have a young woman on his arm. To Olivia, he never seemed anything other than fatherly. He loved buying treats for campaign staffers—bags, jewelry—because he said he remembered when he was a young man and all these wonders were out of reach. Plus, he said, he felt as if he were contributing to peace on earth since staffers “spent their lives trying to make se world better.”

  “I don’t have se guts to give up my salary to do it, so least I can do isss support you kids who do,” he would say in his thick Russian accent. “Bezides, I’ve got no kids and ser’s already a school and a hospital, they name it after me. No reason not spend se rest behfore I die.”

  Who could argue with that? She ran her hands over the perfectly quilted pink leather and remembered that it was Jacob who first introduced her to Alek. He knew him through Governor Taylor, who had first brought Alek into politics. Apparently, they had met when Taylor helped him with some huge Georgia peach deal and they had remained close friends. Alek was always talking about his weekly trips to Atlanta. Add that to the list of positive things about the Taylor campaign.

  She took a quick look in the not-quite-clear mirror that hung sloppily over her closet door, remembered to turn off the toaster oven on her half-baked French-bread pizza, and headed off to Secondo.

  Secondo was one of the best Italian restaurants in the city. And for the BSDs it was a favorite for two particular reasons—first, the black truffles, some of the finest in the world, were offered on pasta in the way most restaurants offer Parmesan cheese. The amount of truffles ordered was in direct proportion to the amount paid. So it was one of the best ways in the city to sit at a table and show everyone how rich you were. The second reason, Olivia had learned was that to get in, you had to walk down a long flight of stairs. The restaurant below was windowless, so the BSDs stood a better chance of not being spotted dining there with women who were decidedly not their wives.

  Now Olivia w
alked down the famed steps with confident enthusiasm and practiced in her head the words, “I am here to meet Governor Taylor and Yanni Filipaki.”

  The fantasized vision of belonging in this setting came to a crashing halt though as she turned the corner. Back in the L-shaped part of the restaurant was a long table. It was a table she knew well. She also knew the uncomfortable rush of insecurity flushing through her.

  She could see the backs of real estate titan Matt and his best friend, the boisterous financier Chris, with their flavors of the month, this time former models turned B-list celebrities. Both women had that long blond wavy hair that made them seem as if they had just gotten off the beach—that is, if the beach had been staffed by stylists and makeup artists. Their couture dresses made the black dress Olivia thought was so hot before she walked in the door now seem like a nun’s frock.

  Yanni sat with the governor on his right, and on his left was Erin, a familiar-looking girl who had often been with him at events. She was not quite as beautiful as the models, but her last divorce had left her with enough money to stay well dressed and well made up at all times. Around the rest of the table were more of Yanni’s friends, most of whom Olivia knew from previous campaigns. There was Stu, the short, stocky hedge fund manager, whom Olivia actually liked and thought was entirely sincere in his political involvement. Of course that sincerity could only be seen on nights like tonight, when his horrid wife wasn’t yelling at him and everyone around him. Next to him sat Todd, the heir to a publishing company who, despite his title of president, never seemed to do any actual work. He had his arm around his Dallas Cowboy–cheerleader girlfriend, the one who had reportedly chased away his second wife. All of them seemed to be talking and laughing over one another, as always, with no regard to the experience of the rest of the patrons, who were clearly frustrated with the noise level.

  The governor, with his back to the wall, was the first to notice Olivia. “Hello there.”

  She smiled, reminded of the first time she had met him in the Brinmore.

  The seriousness of the workday had worn off for him, probably with the help of a few glasses of wine, and he had reverted to the man who had flustered her originally. His sandy brown hair dipped over his blue eyes as he rose from his chair.

  “We were wondering if you’d show up.”

  Yanni got to his feet and grabbed a chair from the next table. With no regard for anything around him, he lifted it over his date’s head. “Sit here.” Yanni motioned as he threw the chair between him and the governor.

  Olivia walked around the table saying her hellos and offering casual nice-to-see-yous to the women, who weren’t at all embarrassed to be there as the dates of married men. As Olivia thought they should have been.

  “Heya, beautiful,” Todd said as he stood and greeted her with a hug that went inappropriately around her waist. She tried to chalk it up to his just being overfriendly or drunk. Nonetheless, his calling her beautiful gave her a little ego boost and she stood a bit taller as she shimmied behind Yanni to the empty chair. He lifted his head as she walked by and gave her a peck on the cheek.

  “I like starting and ending the day with you,” he joked.

  “As do I.” The governor stood to pull her chair out.

  Olivia smiled, impressed that wine didn’t seem to diminish the governor’s Southern manners. She felt happy to settle in.

  “You gotta catch up,” Yanni said, pouring her a glass of red wine.

  Curses. Red wine puts me to sleep. She immediately scolded herself: Deal with it.

  “The wine is the best I’ve ever had. Yanni should be a sommelier.” Taylor clapped his hand on Yanni’s shoulder.

  Olivia marveled at how fast these two grown men had seemingly become best friends.

  “Let’s get you some food,” the governor added.

  Olivia looked around at the plates of half-eaten salad as Yanni yelled out for help.

  “I’m good, fine, thank you,” Olivia said, trying to hush him, but the waiter was already there, ever attentive to the raucous table and probably pleased to be adding more to the bill.

  “What can I bring you?”

  Olivia looked around and quickly realized a menu wasn’t in sight. Wanting to take the focus off of herself as quickly as possible, she ordered the only thing she remembered they had.

  “Fettuccine ai porcini, please.” It wasn’t really what she wanted, but it was definitely better than the Stouffer’s French-bread pizza she had left behind. Just the sound of the caloric intake involved in the fettuccine caused the women at the table to squeal. Olivia smiled to cover her insecurity, wishing she could just once fit in at a table like this. Her mind instantly flashed back to being ostracized for ordering pizza at the cafeteria in the seventh grade. She had spent homeroom talking to her favorite social studies teacher about the Bosnian War and had missed the pact all the other girls had made to eat only carb-free items that week. She wondered if she would ever find that place between her need to save the world and her desire to just fit in, or if they were inherently, and forever irreconcilable.

  Thankfully, the conversation turned to the campaign, and Olivia sat up a bit taller and took a sip of her wine. Oh, so that’s what people mean by good wine, she thought, having never before tasted such a difference.

  Yanni was asking about the primary opponents and Taylor summarized the bios of everyone even considering a run. He explained that Senator Kramer was their only real challenge, and that if they could beat him early in Iowa, they would clear the field. Olivia listened as the governor spoke about Iowa politics in such detail that it was as if he were talking quantum physics.

  “Seriously,” Olivia said, leaning over, when there was a break in what seemed like a university-length lecture, “if this guy raises five million and puts together union support, which, by the way, will come with the money, and we top it off with an Iowa win, you guys are sitting with the next president of the United States.”

  That kind of talk completely invigorated these BSDs. “Five million dollars? I’ll have to throw two parties,” Yanni crowed with a laugh.

  “And don’t think he’s not already scheduled as a keynote speaker at next month’s Harkin Steak Fry in Iowa.” Olivia put down her wine-glass with a confident, heavy hand. It made a clinking noise against the side of her plate. She was so sure of herself, she barely noticed Taylor’s look of astonishment.

  “So you know the steak fry.” He gazed at her approvingly.

  Neither her district attorney’s race nor the rest of the jobs on her résumé required her to have an education in national retail politics, so he must have been startled by her knowledge of this minutia—and his speaking schedule. She could feel how much he liked this expertise.

  “The Harkin what?” Matt asked.

  “Harkin Steak Fry,” the governor explained, still looking at her. “Senator Harkin’s been doing this annual fundraiser in Indianola since before time. Everyone turns out for Harkin.” His eyes went to the group. “It might as well be the opening ceremonies for the Iowa Caucuses.”

  “Indianola. I think that’s where we refuel the Hawker on the way to L.A. when the Gulfstream is out of commission. Who knew I could have been stopping in for some fried steak?!” Yanni joked, waving his hand to get the waiter’s attention. “One more of these,” he yelled across two tables as he swung the empty bottle of wine in the air.

  Olivia seized the opportunity, “How about you take the Hawker even when the Gulfstream is in commission and we can get off at your pit stop? We’ll bring you back the fried steak. The Hawker beats Midwest Airlines any day.”

  Yanni laughed, continuing on to a different story, while Olivia sipped her wine knowing full well she would soon set that exact routine in motion.

  “Well, when Erin and I started dating four years ago . . .” Yanni said as he grabbed Erin’s shoulder. He started telling a story about how he had brought the head chef of Cipriani, Erin’s favorite restaurant, on board to cook the first time she flew in
his plane.

  When Yanni turned to get Matt’s attention for the end of the anecdote, the governor turned toward Olivia and pulled her in a bit, ribbing her under his breath. “Thought you said he got divorced this year. So much for you being the staffer who knows everything.”

  Olivia sat up a little, jolted by the touch of his hand on her shoulder but still holding on to the confidence of the last conversation. “He did,” she whispered back with a grin that acknowledged the incongruous math.

  Taylor gave a look that mugged extreme bewilderment.

  Olivia couldn’t help but laugh a little as the governor’s hand fell down off her shoulder but didn’t disappear.

  Holy cow, it’s on my back. She suddenly felt like there was a spotlight on her and that it was obvious to everyone that his hand had found a place on the small of her back. The governor’s hand is on my back. It’s not moving. It has found a comfortable place on my back. Comfortable? No, not comfortable. What the hell? “Comfortable”? Why would I even call it that? Olivia felt the sweat build up on her neck—which she knew meant she was blushing. We’re in public. Someone’s going to notice. Will he say something? Is this inappropriate? When is someone going to notice? Has someone already noticed? She looked around at everyone resuming their own conversations, totally oblivious to her panic. They seemed to move in slow motion, their dialogue making just blurred sounds. Olivia tried to focus on the words. Concentrate, she begged her ears as the table’s volume slowly came back to a normal level. Governor Taylor had steered into a conversation on health care reform, seemingly without missing a beat.