His First Lady (Capitol Hill Series Book 1)

by Beth Fred

  Another hand goes up. This time a blonde reporter. CNN. I’m sure this will go well. I point to her. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “If I were a man, would you have answered me as ‘sir’?”

  Oh, great. More of this shit. “Probably. It’s a Southern thing.”

  “You’re from the South now? You’ve been campaigning as a Mexican-American.”

  I make an effort not to roll my eyes. “I think I’ve been fairly upfront that I was born and raised in Texas. Last time I checked, it’s pretty far south.”

  “Of course, you’re right. I can’t help but notice your campaign manager behind you. Where is Mandy? She hasn’t been on the campaign trail lately.”

  “My wife is finishing her masters this semester. She’s getting ready for her finals. She’ll be back after that. Mandy’s career is so important to her we’ve talked about her continuing her career as the first lady. She wants to work, and I support that. I don’t see why my career should slow hers down.” Yeah. She cares so much about her career she’d marry me to get ahead. I don’t expect it, but a few women in the audience clap at that.

  “Is it true she’s staying with her parents in Arkansas?”

  “Yes. I can confirm that.”

  “Why? Wouldn’t your Dallas townhouse be more convenient for the SMU student?”

  “I think she needed a break from the campaign trail and wanted to spend some time with her family.”

  She attempts to follow up again, but I point to a man. “Yes, sir?”

  “Will you respond to the Twitter meme Simpleton’s campaign put out today?”

  A few snickers and giggles break out. Oh boy. This must be good.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve been on the trail all morning, as have my top advisers. I haven’t seen it.”

  “I can show you.” He holds up a tablet.

  Between our distance and the sun, the entire screen is a glazed blue color. “I can’t see that from here.”

  Evan steps up to the podium and leans into my mic. “It’s fine. I’ll show the senator.”

  He pulls out his iPhone. A picture of Mandy holding a margarita glass, twerking in a black mini skirt and a pink feather boa, fills the screen. Above her head, the caption reads, “You want her to be your first lady?” Another caption runs across the bottom, “That’s okay. She doesn’t want to anyway. She’s busy partying.” My chest tightens. I need to put my fist through something. Ladder climbing tigress or not, that girl—woman—is my wife.

  My mouth drops. She can’t have seen it yet. Her parents must not have either, otherwise my phone would be blowing up. I need to stall to form thoughts.

  “There is another one,” Evan says.

  He taps next on the phone. She’s twerking again, but this picture was taken from behind. She’s wearing dark hose. Thank God. Because in the crevice where her butt meets her thigh the caption starts and runs down to one knee. “Mandy Martinez. First Slut in Waiting.”

  I inhale. I face the nearest camera I can find. “Kourtney Simpleton, if you have a problem with me, that’s okay. You better keep it to me. You leave Amanda out of this.” I almost leave it at that, but it’s not going to happen. “You know what? Simpleton, you’re a woman. I couldn’t respect a man who allowed his campaign to spread these kind of pictures of my wife. But for a woman to call another woman a slut? You, ma’am, are pathetic. Truly pathetic. Come on. You stumped me up in the last debate pretty well. Take that and run with it. Leave my wife out of this. You’re up in the polls, and you still need to get ahead badly enough to slander my wife? Bitch, I’ll see you in court.”

  Chapter 51

  Mandy

  There is no end to the damage I cause Eric. There was my whole exposé that turned out to be completely off base. Since then, my face popped up on Facebook. “The only woman who likes him was paid to! And she’s taken off!”

  And I have no idea how or from whom, but a couple of pictures of my undergraduate graduation bash surfaced on Twitter with captions as well.

  My phone dings. I pick it up and glance at the screen. New Twitter notifications. I scroll through my feed. Everyone is retweeting the same headline. “Martinez Up in the Polls After Calling Simpleton a Bitch!”

  What is going on? This does not make sense. She’s always been outrageous, and until she hit a nerve with the whole abortion thing, he’s handled her well. I tap on the link to read the article.

  My heart skips a beat as I read it. He defended me. After everything, he’s still defending me. But pundits say this temporary surge will likely have reverse effects once Simpleton’s campaign has had time to manipulate an already sexist male candidate calling a woman a bitch in an open forum. I’ve hurt him again.

  As quickly as my hope rose, my heart sinks. Our marriage can’t survive this election. That’s a given. Oh my God. The whole thing was a sham. A contract. I have no idea why I expected it to. Still it won’t. I know that. And it hurts.

  Silent tears fall down my cheeks. I wipe them off with one hand and sigh. We won’t be happy ever after, but I caused a lot of this. I’ve got to find a way to fix it. I will help Eric.

  As I struggle to find sleep, it comes to me. I know what I need to do. And as soon as I’ve figured out how to fix this, the phone rings. I should throw the damn thing against the wall. It’s never anything good anymore.

  But if I don’t look at it, I’ll spend the whole night worrying about it. I squeeze my eyes shut and sharply force the air in my body out. I take a deep breath and pick up the phone.

  Eric: When should I expect the divorce papers?

  Yep. No marriage could survive this.

  Me: Can it wait until after finals?

  Eric: Of course. Your career is what this whole thing was about. Why squander it?

  Me: Go to hell.

  Sure. Our marriage is about my career because I’m the one who needed a wife to be electable. Jackass.

  The energy bubbles up inside of me. Trying to sleep now is a lost cause. I throw on sweats and sneakers, race down the stairs, and out the door. I run as hard and fast as I can. My feet dig into the ground. I run until my legs hurt. Because I don’t want to think. I don’t want to answer the question on my mind. What comes next?

  All the lights are on when I get back to the farm.

  I put my key in the door and unlock it. Mom rushes into the hallway as I push the door open.

  She gazes up at the ceiling for a moment. “Thank God.” She darts to me and wraps her arms around me. “Are you okay, baby?” She turns her head and calls behind her, “Jack, she’s home.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

  Cowboy boots clink against the marble floor. “Young lady, do you know what time it is?”

  “No. I actually don’t.”

  “It’s three a.m.”

  “Okay.”

  Dad invades the bubble Mom and I are in. “Okay? Okay? Mandy, what are you supposed to be doing at three a.m.?”

  “Umm, lots of days I’m eating peanut butter from the jar and watching Adult Swim reruns.”

  “Amanda, you’re not funny. Where in the hell have you been? Do you realize it’s not just my career you’re jeopardizing anymore?”

  I laugh. Mom scoots back, shaking her head.

  “Amanda,” she whispers.

  I catch my dad’s eye. “That would be what a damn politician is worried about.”

  “What a damned politician,” he repeats quietly. “Your husband—another damned politician whose career you continuously jeopardize—received an interesting email today.”

  “From his ex-girlfriend?” Why did I say that aloud? My parents don’t know about it, and they don’t need to.

  “Maybe. Who knows? But this very interesting email he needed to call me about said that you were ruining any chance the Republican Party has. I’d have to agree, but I love you so I’d never say what she said next.”

  “She wants to lynch me?”

  “Yes. If you can’t fall in line and behave like a proper po
tential first lady, she’ll hire a hit for you and dispose of the body in such a way that it appears to be a horrible accident. He’ll get sympathy votes.”

  Probably not the ex-girlfriend. She didn’t seem insane.

  “So when I go upstairs to check on you at two in the morning, and you’re not there after that kind of message—” His phone rings. He pulls it out of his pocket and answers. “She’s here. It’s okay.”

  My heart flutters, and my lips turn up in a smile. “Eric?”

  Dad glares at me. “No.”

  Why would I be stupid enough to think that?

  “The cops, Amanda. I called the cops. The sheriff was on his way out here, but you’re here. You showed up, so he can save a trip.”

  “Sorry,” I say and start past him.

  “I’m not done,” Dad calls behind me.

  “I am.” I trudge up the stairs, wondering why Eric called him—and he must have, otherwise how would Dad know about the email—and not me. No. I know why he’d call my dad and not me. I just don’t want it to be true.

  I hear the phone ringing from the hallway. I rush into my room and pick it up without checking the screen.

  A male sighs. “You’re okay,” Eric says. “Wait, you are okay, right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I’ve called you a dozen times. I know things aren’t going well, but you couldn’t pick up the phone? Your dad said you were gone. Where were you? I was worried.”

  “I-I was out. I forgot my phone. I’m sorry.” Why do I have to explain where I was?

  “You were out for more than an hour after midnight. You were out. Well, I’m glad you’re alive.”

  “What the hell do you care? The last time I heard from you was to ask about divorce papers.”

  “And you were quick to answer.”

  “You asked.”

  “Mandy, I don’t have time for this. I’ve got a campaign to save. I’m sure everything you’ve done was to put your Democrat in office.”

  “That woman is not a Democrat. She’s a freakin’ moron probably aiming for an Emmy. If I weren’t contractually obligated, I would most likely still be voting for you.”

  “Why? I’m a terrorist. You said so yourself. In print for half a million people to read before you so kindly deleted it. Not that it mattered. The message had been sent. They’re still talking about it.”

  “Oh, whatever. Al-Gazali—a Democrat—cleared your name. I think you’ll be all right.”

  “You’re right. And I shouldn’t be upset that my wife is out alone so late, and her parents don’t know where she is. You are a party girl. It’s all over Twitter. You hid it pretty well, though. Without Twitter, I’d have never known.”

  “Eric?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Go to hell.” I end the call and walk to my laptop. Phone calls like that make me wonder why I’m even considering this. But I screwed up this campaign. I could cost him, and all of his staffers, their jobs. More than that, I could be responsible for helping Simpleton, which I won’t do.

  I buy a ticket to Dallas.

  I can handle this. A two-hour nap now, another nap on the plane, and another meeting with the she-devil.

  Chapter 52

  Mandy

  First things first. I stop at school to turn in my thesis. I threw away everything I’ve worked on for the past year, and since I met Eric, I’ve strung together a completely new seventy-five well-researched pages. How Social Media Can Shape an Election. MLA even allows you to cite a tweet now.

  I run into the communications building and up to the fourth floor. Dr. Meyer is not around. Her office is locked. We have a good relationship, but she has a couple of TAs. I can’t risk sliding a thesis under her door. This is all that stands between me and the MFA.

  I run back through the hallway and hit the button for the elevator. But it takes too long. I dart behind it and enter the stairwell, taking two at a time. In the main office, I hand my thesis to the receptionist and watch her stamp it. She’s about to put it in the basket.

  “Just a minute,” I say.

  She stares back at me. “Do you need something else, hon?”

  I lean over the counter and take a picture of my thesis with its big red stamp mark. “That’s all. I have no idea where I’ll be the next few days. So I just need to make sure I have everything covered.”

  “Oh, that’s right! You’re Senator Martinez’s wife. You’ll be a lovely First Lady.”

  I smile. “Maybe, if he wins.”

  “Oh, that man will win. He’s such a cutie.”

  I giggle. It’s funny to hear a white-haired old lady call my Eric a cutie. But he does have a beautiful physique.

  Though he’s probably not my Eric. At least, not for much longer.

  An hour later, I’m staring at the woman who really can claim Eric as her own.

  “Why are you here again? I told him you weren’t to show up again.”

  “So you’re still in touch.” It’s not a question.

  “Still in touch? You left his card. I assumed it was for a reason.”

  I stare into her pale blue eyes, almost identical to my own. “Yeah. To see if you would use it. You still love him too.”

  “I’m engaged.”

  I laugh. “I’m married, but my husband is in love with another woman, so that doesn’t mean much.” I scan her hands. “And I don’t see a ring.”

  “I’m almost engaged.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Then why are we discussing it?”

  “You brought it up.”

  “Because you accused me of being in love with Eric.”

  “No, I didn’t. But are you?”

  “Of course not. He’s yesterday’s news. And he never loved me anyway.” She stands behind her desk. “You’re crazy as hell if you think he’s in love with anyone but you.”

  “He calls your name in his sleep.”

  She goes pale. That got to her. “I find that hard to believe.”

  “He did.”

  “When?”

  “After the last debate.”

  “Ah. Did you ask why?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He told me about the abortion, but that doesn’t change it was your name he called.”

  “He called a female opponent a bitch during a press conference yesterday. I have no doubt that if it were the reporter instead of Evan showing him the memes, he would have punched the guy. You know what it took for me to get an emotional reaction from him? Something other than the completely composed, perfectly polite, prepared demeanor? He had to find me half dead. And when he found out why, he became the most emotional I’ve ever seen him. He told me he hated me and that he would never forgive me. If he’s calling my name in his sleep, he didn’t lie. No surprise there. He’s pretty honest.” Her words are raw.

  I shake my head. “I know he cares about you.”

  “I’m sure he does. He cares about everyone. That’s Eric.”

  “Help me help him.”

  She sighs. “I don’t think I can.”

  “Why?”

  “Because helping my ex-fiancé’s current wife make things better for him has never been on my list of priorities. And because you don’t get it. I loved him. I was engaged to marry him. I found out we were having a baby, and it should have been the happiest moment of my life. All I could think was he would be miserable. He would lose the one thing he truly wanted. And now a woman he would gladly give up his damn political career for is in front of me begging me to help her save it.”

  “It wasn’t easy for me to come here. People think he hates women because of what he said in that debate.”

  “And because of your article. It’s kind of ironic that I lost him to politics and you only wanted him for journalism.”

  “Oh. My. God. I did not publish that post. I wrote it after he called your effing name in his sleep. I wrote it, and I went for a run. I felt better. I was going to save it
as a draft, but when I got home, my roommate had published it. That’s why I’m here. I destroyed the man I love, and you are the one person who can help me make it right.”

  “I’m not doing it. I have no desire to be in the media. That’s part of why I was okay ending things the way I did.”

  “You won’t help?”

  “Eric is my history. And I don’t think my fiancé would be too keen on me suddenly taking an interest in politics to help out an ex.”

  “So you’ll deny it?”

  “Probably not. And it will come out sooner or later. Muckraking reporters have a way of finding things.”

  “Thank you for your time.” I walk out of her office.

  Chapter 53

  Eric

  Evan throws a paper down on the coffee table in front of the stiff Euro-couch my suite has to offer. “Liberals are calling you sexist, but no one else seems to care. When I went to pick up supplies and the paper, old women in Wal-Mart were talking about how much you love your wife. They think you’re good-looking.”

  I laugh. “The old ones always do.”

  “So why does a guy going up in the polls seem so stressed?”

  “Have you heard from the FBI? Have they found that nutcase?”

  “It was a teenage girl. She started crying when the cops showed up. It was a prank. Do you think Mandy will want to press charges?”

  “I’ll have her dad push her to.”

  “Against a teenager?”

  “Do you turn on the news? Teens kill as much as anyone else. That letter was specific. I don’t want to be responsible for anything happening to Mandy.”

  Evan sits down in an armchair across from my couch. “What else?”

  “It took me an hour to get her to the phone when I called to check on her last night. She was out. Her parents didn’t know where she was. I didn’t know where she was. She’s a married woman. What’s she doing out in the middle of the night?”

  Evan shrugs. “It’s not good for the campaign. I agree.”