by Mary Whitney
As I guided her out of the restaurant, she went on about a wedding we were to attend together the following weekend. Muff liked talking about weddings, and the hints weren’t lost on me. They just weren’t persuasive. I hoped she would eventually figure that out.
I then heard my name called from behind. The American accent threw me off at first, but I recognized the voice soon enough. Apparently, the universe wasn’t going to let me out of the evening so easily. I turned to see Lisa and, consciously or not, removed my hand from Muff’s lower back, where it had been resting. I called back, “Lisa.”
Noticing I’d stopped touching her, Muff gave me an alarmed look for paying attention to a random American girl on the street. I tried to restore her confidence by steering her over to Lisa.
“Muff, please meet my friend from America, Lisa Roberts. Lisa, this is Muff Selbourne.”
Muff gave Lisa a not very discreet once-over. I could tell she judged her to be a stereotypical, poorly dressed American backpacker and thus no competition for her. Of course, that didn’t mean Muff didn’t view Lisa as a threat. When she greeted her, her voice held the effortless insincerity of the British upper-class. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lisa.”
Lisa didn’t respond well to being appraised by a snooty Brit. I wondered what she would say. It wasn’t in her nature to be insincere.
I watched as she nodded with a slight snarl. “Yeah. Hi. Adam mentioned you.” Lisa then raised her eyebrows at me. She wasn’t impressed with my choice of women, but when she spoke, her voice was friendly. “Adam, I’m glad I ran into you. Can I talk to you for a sec?”
“Certainly,” I said, though terrified at the thought. I turned to Muff to confirm it was okay. She dutifully smiled and walked a respectable distance away.
After a last glance at Muff, Lisa wasted no time in putting me on the spot. “Do you have anything to say to Nicki? You left before I could ask you.”
I stared blankly at Lisa as her question reverberated in my mind. I had so much to say to Nicki, but would she listen?
I could hear Muff’s voice in the far background and turned to see her. With her mobile to her ear, she chatted away. I considered her for a moment. She was a good girlfriend, my father adored her, and we had a great many friends in common. As the daughter of the Earl of Selbourne, Lady Mary Selbourne was considered a special girl.
But she didn’t make me laugh. She never caught me off-guard. She never tripped me up. There was never a time when she was the absolute first person I wanted to tell a story to. Muff was special, but she wasn’t special to me. As David had said, she wasn’t Nicki.
I focused on Lisa, someone who had always been skeptical of my intentions with her friend. Yet here she was, asking to deliver a message to her. After what I’d done to Nicki, I couldn’t request anything of her. She needed to come to me, and I’d learned to live with the fact that it wasn’t going to happen.
My voiced tightened as I said, “Please…just tell her that I miss her.” I gulped hard and added, “I really do.”
Lisa waited a moment before speaking, no doubt deciding whether or not I meant it. I searched her eyes, willing her to believe me. Soon a slow nod seemed to signal she thought I’d spoken from the heart. “Okay,” she said, releasing a breath. “I’ll be sure to tell her.”
“Cheers for that. Thank you.”
“No problem.” She looked at her watch and said, “I’ve gotta get back to the hostel.”
“Have a good trip.”
“Bye, Adam.”
“Goodbye, Lisa.”
She whipped around to leave, so I joked, “Do you want to say goodbye to Muff?”
Lisa snorted, turned back around, and smiled. “Not particularly.”
“I thought that might be the case.” I grinned and pointed to the road ahead. “Now get on with yourself.”
After she sped off, I walked back to Muff, who gave me a cheeky smile. “Is everything okay with America?”
“Er, yes. Fine. She just wanted to talk about a friend.”
Muff put her hand on my bicep, giving it a possessive squeeze. “Shall we go back to your place?”
I should’ve just said yes. Nothing had changed. Nicki was still living her life on another continent, and I was living mine on an island. But there were too many thoughts of her right then for me to be with anyone else. I knew Muff would soon be back in my bed, but that night I just couldn’t. So I patted Muff’s hand to reassure her as I gave her my answer.
“Not tonight. For some reason, I don’t feel very well.”
Chapter Two
Washington, DC
November 2008
THOUGH EVERYONE KNEW IT WAS COMING, I’d been waiting for the official announcement. Yet I was still struck by surprise when the press release appeared on my computer screen, probably because it was so unfathomable.
Nicki and I were going to be living in the same city. I read the email over and over again, skipping the first few more senior names and focusing only on hers.
White House Communications and Press Secretary Positions Announced
Nicole Johnson, Deputy White House Press Secretary
Nicole Johnson currently serves as the deputy communications director on the Logan-Grady Transition Team, a position she also held on the Logan-Grady presidential campaign. Prior to her work on the campaign, she held communications positions with President-Elect Logan throughout his career in public service, beginning with his early years in the Illinois State House and continuing through his time as governor of Illinois. She also has worked on several electoral campaigns and spent two years working for the Peace Corps in Mexico. A native of Texas, Johnson is fluent in Spanish. She pursued a double major in English and history from the University of Chicago, where she graduated Phi Beta Kappa with a bachelor’s degree.
Would I ever see her around town? She had to know I lived here. Should I give her a welcoming call, or would that be unwelcome after what I’d done to her? I leaned back in my chair and took a deep breath, searching for the answer and the memory that had been repeating itself in my mind since Logan had won the election. It was a vivid night of two teenagers lying in each other’s arms, when Nicki’s practicality had fought against my optimism.
“Nicki, will we ever speak to each other again?”
“I…don’t know. I guess never say never, but it’s kind of unlikely. Our lives are going to be very different. I mean, we really do live a world apart. An ocean apart, anyway.” She was silent for a moment until she added, “Maybe. Maybe, if we were living in the same city.”
“As you said, that’s probably not going to happen.” At that time, it seemed impossible.
“Probably not.”
I looked down at her arm resting on my chest and caught sight of one of her scars. Most would describe it as ghastly, but to me it had become just part of her, part of her history that made her so strong. Realizing this would be the last time I held her, my mind began to grasp for a future together, even if it was impossible. “But what if…what if I was thirty-five and still single? Could I contact you then?”
“In the highly unlikely event that was the case, I’d say sure.”
“Really?”
“You’ve got to admit, it’s probably not going to happen.”
I happily kissed her nose. “Maybe, maybe not.”
What a foolish lad I’d been. Life wasn’t so easy. There were wrenches in our situation that a wiser person could have easily predicted long ago.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a framed photo of my on-again-off-again girlfriend, Felicity. I kept the photo for the spectacular view of Chartres in the background rather than Felicity in the foreground. Still, she was there smiling at me. I half expected the picture to turn into one of those photographs in Harry Potter that comes to life. It was as if I feared her expression might change to a scowl at any second before she demanded, “Remember me, you sodding bastard? You haven’t called in a week!”
Losing all sense of reality,
I quickly grabbed the picture and tossed it in the back of a desk drawer. There. Now I can think.
Having once been the BBC’s White House correspondent, I knew the job Nicki was about to take. Deputy White House press secretary was a huge role in a presidential administration. I was now an editor, so even though I would be intimately involved in the BBC coverage of the White House, I wouldn’t be the one interacting with her. This was good because, given our past relationship, there would be ethical questions about our objectivity in our capacities as reporter and White House official.
I remembered her final words to me fifteen and a half years before: “I’ll always love you, Adam. Remember that.” If either of our bosses knew we’d once confessed our undying love to one another, we could both be reassigned to other posts where we’d never interact professionally. I could end up in ruddy Manchester covering the local government, for Christ’s sake.
I stared at the press release on my computer screen. So this would be how our lives would turn out. We’d end up in the same city, working in the same field, but only seeing each other at the occasional cocktail party. My heart sank at the thought. I’d spent the last decade with this woman in the back of my mind, and she was going to end up just another old girlfriend I bumped into now and again? What a sad joke life would be if a relationship I’d never got over had such an anti-climactic and unresolved ending.
This was the way things happened, though, wasn’t it? We didn’t always get what we wanted. This was why Brits had a stiff upper-lip. There was no reason to get too emotional. It was a given that life would let you down.
That should’ve been the end of my thoughts on the matter, but it wasn’t. Instead, a burst of irrational hope exploded in my chest, and my mind did a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn that was both self-serving and self-destructive. What if I forced the issue? If I was the White House correspondent again, I’d see her every day.
Then I really went off the deep-end of foolish hope. Maybe seeing each other in a professional capacity would be good for us. Maybe it would help make things normal between us again. Maybe she could forgive me. Then I can move on.
So I picked up the phone and lied—to myself and, more importantly, to my boss in London.
“Yes, yes,” I said when he didn’t believe me. “I don’t think of it as a demotion. It would be a real treat to cover the White House during the start of a new administration.”
“No, no,” I said when he reminded me he needed an experienced editor in Washington. “I don’t have to do it for very long.”
And as I closed the call, I added as nonchalantly as possible, “Oh, and by the way, one of my old school chums is Nicole Johnson, the deputy press secretary.”
I hadn’t said anything contradictory to the truth, but the amount of information I’d withheld was tantamount to a lie. I considered my breach of ethics and panicked for a moment, but I soon justified my actions.
After all, I was interested in a different assignment, and I’d disclosed all the facts to management. The emotions that accompanied those facts weren’t facts themselves and, thus, not necessarily material. I felt safe in my denial, though it was utter bollocks.
January 2009
I was certain I could do my job with a clear conscience, but a few days after the inauguration, I walked into the White House press briefing room and my lies hit me again.
“I heard you might be here,” said an exaggerated baritone voice.
I looked to my right to see Dan Roark, ABC News White House correspondent and all-around American arsehole. He eyed me suspiciously.
“I missed reporting.” I shrugged. “And these are interesting times.”
“Hmm.” Dan raised his eyebrows. As he walked to his prized seat front and center in the room, he said, “Very interesting times to bring Adam Kincaid out of his ivory tower.”
Wanker, I thought. I began determinedly scrolling through the messages on my phone to regain my composure. When that didn’t work, I checked the Premier League results, but Dan’s remark haunted me. He’s right. Really, why am I doing this? Does she wonder as well?
As the noise in the room diminished, I looked at the podium. Standing in front of the iconic blue and white oval sign with an illustration of the most famous white house in the world was Matthew Foster, press secretary for President James Logan.
Still high from the inaugural honeymoon, Matthew smiled as he cleared his throat before greeting the room. “Good morning to you all. Welcome to our first official press briefing. I’m sure we’ll soon get sick of seeing one another every day.”
Laughter at the joke reverberated through the room, but my attention was focused on finding her. A minor player in American media, the BBC shared its seat with The Baltimore Sun, far back in the steerage of the room. When the Sun reporter arrived, I nodded for her to take the seat today. No doubt she thought I was a chivalrous Englishman, but really I wanted to stand for a better view. Unfortunately, my height wasn’t helping me. As I searched for her, I began to doubt myself. Do I no longer recognize her?
My frustration ended when Matthew spoke again. “Before we get started, I want you to meet our team. First, I’d like to introduce you to our deputy press secretary, Nicole Johnson. If you were on the campaign trail with us, you know Nicole well.” Then he motioned toward a small crowd of men behind him, saying, “Nicole, get out from behind Jeff so you can say hello.”
She emerged from the collection of men’s suits, smiling and with a small wave of her hand. Taking to the podium with confidence, she addressed the audience, and her soft Texas twang warmed the room.
“Hello, everyone. Being new in town, it’s nice to see some familiar faces from the campaign. And I’m looking forward to getting to know those of you I haven’t met yet.”
My eyes never left her as she moved to stand not far from Matthew’s side, and I didn’t exhale until Matthew spoke again. Forgetting all of my professional responsibilities, I stopped listening to Matthew. My focus was on Nicki because she was the same—just the same.
Physically, she was as beautiful as I remembered her. She only looked different to me because I’d never seen her in a suit before—but why would I have? She wore her dark hair up at the back, and I knew that look on her; occasionally, she’d worn her hair in a ponytail. Her figure was just as enticing, petite as she was, and accentuated by a jacket belted at the waist. But it was those dark eyes that I couldn’t stop staring at.
My colleagues battered Matthew with questions, and he blathered on about the economy, health care, energy, climate change, the Middle East—all the news of the day. But I took in none of it. I noticed Nicki’s small hands, which she clasped in front of her skirt.
It came to me that I knew that woman the way no one else in the room did. I knew how her hands felt when you walked hand in hand with her and when you held both of them in your own. Moreover, I knew how those hands felt on my body—when they tickled the back of my neck or stroked my chest. Or held my dick.
I knew her. I looked around the room and saw all the men who wanted to know her—Dan Roark being one of them. Obviously checking her out, Dan ogled her lean legs. Did he see her scar, I wondered?
Her scars. I knew her scars. I’d never forget them. I still could picture many of them, and my mouth remembered kissing the brownish purplish lines, wishing I could make all of her pain disappear. I wondered what they might look like now. Were they just faded ghost lines crisscrossing her torso? Maybe the dark memories had faded as well.
I kept a steady gaze on Nicki’s face. Her skin was bright as ever, and the small indentation between her eyes was most likely only noticeable to me. When we had been together, it would appear when she was serious or concerned or sad. But sixteen years of life had fissured her otherwise flawless skin; like a river creating a canyon, sorrow had eroded a tiny crevice where none should be. At once, I felt sick to my stomach because I’d had a part in the cutting of that line. I’d caused anguish that had torn at both our hearts. But why d
oes hers have to be visible?
In the back of my mind, my reporter’s sixth sense kicked in, telling me now was the time to ask my question. I raised my finger to Matthew, who I already knew.
“Adam,” Matthew said with a nod.
“As a candidate last autumn, the president made lukewarm comments toward the relationship between the United Kingdom and America. Is the Logan Administration going to mark a new era in the two countries’ special relationship?”
Dutiful to my job, I scribbled some notes as Matthew answered my question, saying the “special relationship” was as strong as ever and comments during a campaign had to be taken with a grain of salt. As I wrote, I thought Nicki had to have seen me; she had to have at least had a glimpse of me.
With my question and answer over, I allowed myself to look at Nicki again, who now had that Jeff character at her side. They were talking quietly as the press conference continued.
Why isn’t she looking at me? Is it on purpose? Or does she simply not care?
When the briefing finally ended, I casually but quickly made my way to the front, occasionally greeting a friend but never stopping for conversation. Matthew was backslapping the inner circle of America’s Fourth Estate, whilst Nicki answered a few reporters’ follow-up questions.
Soon, Matthew started to head for the door. He caught my eye. “Welcome, Adam. I hear you’re going to be with us for a while.”
“Yes, thank you. I’m looking forward to it.”
As soon as I replied, Nicki turned to face me. We stood only a few feet apart as our eyes met. Instantly, I felt like I was being pulled toward her, but soon I knew something was wrong. My heart caved as I realized there was no reciprocity. She only gave me a blank stare.
Doesn’t she feel anything for me?
