The One That Got Away

by Leigh Himes

  Frank was frantic with disbelief. “How could you not notice someone filming you?”

  “I saw a guy with a phone, but I thought he was just texting or something,” I replied, anguished. “He was just a teenager. I can’t believe he knew who I was. And even so, I was just stopping in for a beer and a bite.”

  “Well, the problem is it doesn’t look like that,” Frank continued. “It looks like you and this guy are—” He stopped himself to look back at Alex for permission to keep speaking, knowing he was treading on something that was personal, not just political. But Alex nodded, as if everyone in the car had a right to hear, and Frank repeated his thought: “It looks like you and this man are… well… together.” The word hung in the air like a sickening smell. Like something lurid and altogether nasty.

  I couldn’t tell Frank what I really wanted to: That’s because we are together. He’s my husband!

  But, of course, that was the problem. When you looked at the two people in the video, they looked to be more than friends, more than just two strangers sharing space at a bar. The shy smiles, the laughter, how we leaned into each other, the moment I closed my eyes and breathed him in.

  The video was burning up the Internet, implying I was cheating on Alex, because there was something to it: Only a woman in love looked at a man that way.

  Still, I also knew I hadn’t done anything wrong. Jimmy and I had barely even touched. And besides, I wasn’t the one running for office. My husband was. “Why does it matter? Who cares what it looks like?” I asked defiantly.

  “Who cares?” said Frank. “The whole goddamn Internet; that’s who.” He lifted up his phone and started reading from a Twitter feed:

  “‘The van Holts join long list of political hypocrites…’”

  “‘I thought they were so in love…’”

  “‘If she doesn’t want him, I’ll take him…’”

  “‘Not quite the fairy tale after all…’”

  He started on the next one—“‘What a…’”—but Alex cut him off.

  “Frank!” he shouted. “We get the picture.”

  “Sorry. But we don’t have time to candy coat this,” Frank explained. “And that’s not all. There’s even a meme. Someone cut together her ‘fairy tale’ comments from the CNN interview with clips of her at the bar. It’s all over the place.”

  He pulled the iPad out of my hand and started to cue it up. I put my hands to my face in embarrassment, then started to cry. Alex asked the others: “Can you give us a minute?”

  Frank, Calvin, Sunita, and Oscar clicked their belts and somberly exited the car, leaving Alex and me alone.

  I quieted myself and waited for him to speak. When he didn’t, I began to plead with him.

  “Alex, I only stopped in that place for a beer. I wasn’t even gone an hour. Please don’t tell me you think I’m having an affair.”

  He frowned in annoyance, then raised his hand to cut me off. “Calm down. I know you’re not having an affair.” Thank God whatever problems the van Holts had in their marriage, suspicion of infidelity wasn’t one of them.

  But he was still furious. “What those Internet trolls say doesn’t concern me,” he said. “I just don’t understand how you could be so stupid. You of all people should know better.”

  I hung my head as he continued, his fury giving way to exasperation. “I don’t get it. For the past six months, you’re the one who has been telling me to watch every move. That I can never be too careful. That everything I do sends a message. And now, one week before the election, you turn into a PR disaster. First, you fall down an escalator. You write Fergie that check. And now this.” He looked at the iPad in disgust, then looked back up at me. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to sabotage this campaign.”

  “Oh, Alex, no. I swear I’m not. I just made some mistakes.”

  “Mistakes? Abbey, please. It’s more than mistakes. This week you’ve been acting so… strange.”

  So he had noticed. And honestly, I couldn’t blame him. Viewed individually, every misstep had a reasonable explanation. But collectively, they added up to some seriously schizoid behavior. I realized I owed him a real answer, and one that was more convincing than “I’m just tired.”

  I looked down at the carpet, avoiding his eyes. “The truth is, Alex, I am completely overwhelmed,” I told him. “I thought having all this help and money and the best of everything would make things easy, but they don’t. I guess I’m just feeling the pressure.” To say the least.

  “Pressure?” He leaned toward me like he couldn’t believe what he’d heard. “You think you’re under a lot of pressure? What about me? You think I don’t want to call a time-out sometimes? Get lost in some dive? That sounds pretty fucking nice to me right now.”

  I looked down, face burning with shame. He was right. I hadn’t thought of what he was dealing with: months of campaigning, a child in the hospital, a rogue father, and—let’s face it—a disaster of a wife who had now turned into his number one political liability. He continued: “But no. Not me. I’m out here killing myself every second.”

  “I know you are,” I said, my voice wretched with regret. “And I’m sorry. I just messed up. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Well, I hope it was worth it. You may have just cost us the election.”

  Then he rapped on the window, signaling to Frank and the team he was ready to go. Signaling to me that the conversation was over.

  The fully loaded Suburban swung back and forth around double-parked cars and slower traffic as Oscar tried to get us to Center City quickly. I was being taken back to the apartment, where the plan was to keep me under house arrest for the remainder of the day. My ears blazed in humiliation as I sat listening to the “grown-ups” decide how to fix the damage of my childish disobedience.

  “There’s no time stamp on the video, just the date it was uploaded,” pointed out Calvin. “Maybe we can spin it that this video is old… from a few years ago.”

  “No, it’s pretty obvious that it was taken yesterday,” said Frank. “She’s wearing the same outfit she wore on CNN.”

  From the front seat, Oscar began to speak, and because it was out of character for him to chime in, his deep voice startled us. We listened intently. “Maybe you say family is off-limits. Like Obama did when Sarah Palin’s daughter got pregnant.”

  “I hear you, Oscar, but it wasn’t Alex’s kid in the video,” Frank replied. “It was his wife.” The way he said “wife” made me feel invisible, as if the person he was referring to wasn’t sitting two feet away from him.

  “The Bullock camp must be thrilled,” he added. “God—what a gift for them. On Election Day, no less.”

  “Maybe we use that against them,” argued Calvin. “Talk about how Amanda’s spreading the video. Slinging mud.”

  “No,” interjected Alex. “Leave her out of it. We can’t prove she had anything to do with this going viral. Besides, it’s our mess, not hers.” Alex was taking the high road and it made me feel sick inside. Once again, he was showing why he would make a great congressman. And now, thanks to me, he might never get the chance.

  Everyone was quiet, thinking. Then Sunita asked, “Should we just deny it was Abbey? Say the video was faked? Photoshopped or something?”

  I rolled my eyes at this one but remained silent.

  “No,” said Frank, sighing. Then he looked out the window and down at his watch. “But it’s noon already. Polls close in nine hours. Maybe we do nothing. Just let the clock run out and hope for the best.”

  That was it. I couldn’t hold my tongue any longer.

  “You can’t,” I muttered, shaking my head.

  Frank heard and swung around. “What was that?”

  His tone was patronizing and sarcastic, but I continued. “I said, you can’t ‘do nothing.’ Not with something like this.”

  “Abbey, with all due respect, let us handle this.”

  “I’m just saying that if you ignore this, it will only esc
alate,” I argued. “I mean, that’s why they’re called ‘viral videos.’ Unchecked, they spread and spread, taking on a life of their own. And then what was gossip starts looking like the truth. And if the mainstream press then picks up on it…”

  Frank’s cheeks turned the color of red wine and his eyes bulged. He looked like he was about to explode. And he did, letting loose a full campaign’s worth of disdain for Abigail van Holt: “I don’t tell you what color to paint your nails or where to eat lunch, so I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t try to tell me how to do my job. Especially after all the trouble you caused.”

  I couldn’t believe he was speaking to me like this in front of my husband, or that Alex was letting him. But Alex seemed not to hear, lost in thought.

  “Alex,” said Frank, trying to get his attention. “Alex!”

  “Yes?”

  “Let’s cancel the photo op of you guys voting. It’s our only option. We’ll avoid the press at all costs and pretend this never happened.”

  The car pulled up outside the apartment. Frank hopped out and held the door, signaling me to leave. I scrambled out of the car and onto the sidewalk.

  But just before the car door closed completely, Alex pushed it back open. “Abbey, wait.”

  “Yes?”

  “If we can’t ignore it, what should we do?”

  I stood up straight and looked him in the eye.

  “Face it,” I said. “Head-on.”

  After much debate, we decided the best place to confront the issue of the video was at the Holy Trinity Church voting station, where Alex and I were scheduled to cast our votes—and where we knew there’d be at least some media in attendance for the obligatory “candidate smiles, waves, and votes for himself” photo op. Normally, these standard photo ops were done first thing in the morning, but the morning’s rain had washed out Kelly Drive and backed up the Schuylkill Expressway so badly, the press had asked us and the other candidates to postpone until noon. Frank had agreed, but only with the promise of definite air time. In just this one instance, this morning’s rainstorm had worked in our favor.

  So it was just Alex and me who crossed Rittenhouse Square and trotted up the wide steps of the church, me struggling to keep up with his long-legged stride. He hadn’t looked at me since our conversation in the Suburban, and he gripped my hand a little too tight. But—ever the gentleman—he held the heavy wooden front door for me, as well as the metal door that would lead us to the basement polling station. I figured he was either saving his full ire for later—or pushing it down deep in his gut, where it could fester for days. Maybe months.

  We walked down a red-carpeted hallway with gray stone walls and the occasional purple banner, so regal compared with Father Fergie’s scuffed linoleum and painted cinder blocks. We were greeted by volunteers, excited to meet the candidate himself, and then led into the fellowship hall that housed the voting booths. As we walked in, we forced wide smiles, as if we were the two happiest people on the planet.

  Inside the voting room we were met by a phalanx of reporters, and if there had been any question about whether the press had seen the YouTube video, this dispelled it. Usually this sort of staged photo op would warrant only a camera or two, and even then, the local affiliates’ B teams. But today, I saw many of the city’s most recognizable faces, including reporters from all four news stations, both the Inquirer and the Daily News, and our local news radio station. There were also some faces I didn’t know—bloggers, most likely.

  It didn’t feel good to be proven right. I made a mental note to never read another gossip magazine again.

  Still, I was glad I had coached Alex to fight this. Not just to defend my honor, but to stop this sordid snowball before it gathered even more speed. If Frank had gotten his way, and we had ignored it, who knew what kind of rumors would be circulating now? Next thing I knew, they’d be saying I was leaving Alex for Jimmy. And pregnant with his baby.

  And whatever happened, at least this way we wouldn’t go down without a fight.

  When it was our turn to vote, Alex let me go first. I wanted to stay behind that flimsy blue curtain forever, but I pushed the button for an all-party ticket, hit the “Cast Your Ballot” button, and exited the booth. A moment later, when Alex emerged, he grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the waiting crowd. The reporters stepped closer as well, hoisting television cameras, opening notebooks, and thrusting microphones under our chins.

  I could feel my neck getting blotchy with nerves. Sitting on your own couch in your own apartment talking to an on-the-make CNN reporter was one thing. But confronting a wall of Philadelphia media as they jostled one another for space, their expressions aggressive and accusatory, was terrifying. Luckily, Alex took charge.

  “Wow. All of you came just to watch Abbey and me push a button? We’re honored, really.”

  A few polite chuckles. He was following the script exactly as I’d coached: Open with a joke. Use my first name. Don’t mention the video directly, but also make light of it, as if it is so ridiculous, it’s not worth anyone’s time. In short, defuse it before anyone even gets the chance to lob a question.

  Alex continued: “It’s been a long journey to get to today. Lots of ups and downs. But nothing, and I mean nothing, will stop me—stop us—from what we set out to do. And that’s get to Washington to fight for Philadelphia families.”

  The strategy worked. The Daily News asked Alex what he thought his chances were. WPVI-TV’s newest cub reporter pitched him a softball about the economy. And a graying old veteran from the Inquirer, who had been reporting for the paper long before “viral videos” became news—long before the Internet, even—asked about an upcoming tax reform proposal in the House. Alex fielded these easily and then started to make motions toward the exit. My hopes soared, and I was beginning to think we might escape without any direct questions, when someone yelled, “Just one more!” from the back.

  The group stepped to either side, exposing the culprit. It was Jeremiah Lehane, a gossip blogger whose ThePhilth.com site was our local version of TMZ.

  He smiled creepily from beneath his dirty black baseball cap and looked squarely at me: “Been to any good bars lately, Mrs. van Holt?”

  I felt the color drain from my face and my throat go dry. Also, Alex’s hand tightened on my own. Though whether in anger or solidarity I couldn’t tell.

  “I know what you’re referring to, and it’s ridiculous,” interjected Alex, trying to remain calm. “You are trying to make something out of nothing.”

  Jeremiah smirked. “Nothing? Yesterday morning, you and your wife were on CNN pretending to have the perfect marriage. And then a few hours later she was cuddled up to some other guy at a dive bar in Chinatown. You gotta admit that if anything, it doesn’t paint the best picture. Ain’t like any ‘fairy tale’ I’ve ever read!”

  He was throwing my own words back at me. What an asshole.

  “I don’t care what it looks like to anyone. My wife is not running for office—I am. And my wife can eat and drink anywhere, and sit down next to anyone, she wants. The real story here, and what most Philadelphians care about, is helping their families to…”

  He was blocking and bridging to another topic. Great.

  But Jeremiah had opened the door, signaling to the others that the elephant in the room could now be acknowledged. The cub TV reporter interrupted him with a blunt “So you two aren’t getting divorced?”

  Alex stiffened for a second, then gathered himself. “Of course not,” he said. “Our marriage is fine.” He put an arm around my waist and pulled me close. “Better than ever. Isn’t that right, doll?”

  He looked over at me, his eyes a tad wider than normal. As if he wasn’t quite sure he could trust me to say the right thing. But I did.

  “Absolutely,” I said, looking past the cameras into the crowd. “It’s perfect.” I forced my most brilliant smile.

  While I stood, flashes popping off, I noticed a woman in a bright yellow raincoat scribbling furiously
in a little notebook. Her pencil tip snapped off and she scrambled in a big black purse for another, frantic. Beneath her parka she wore a half-buttoned maroon cardigan sweater and a rumpled skirt over rubber boots. Her hair was still damp from the morning’s rain, or perhaps from sweat, and it clung to her bare face in little strings.

  I stared at her, realizing that even though I didn’t know her name or what paper she represented, I recognized her immediately. I knew all about her. She was a tired, overworked, underpaid, frazzled working mother trying desperately to get the story, get back to the office, finish it, file it, then pick up the kids by five and get dinner on the table by six.

  She was the woman I used to be. And to look at her made me feel like such a phony. Like such a liar.

  In those few seconds, I decided enough was enough. I had to set the record straight. And unlike the disastrous speech at the Friends of Lafayette tea, this time, words wouldn’t fail me. This time, I would say what I wanted to say.

  I shimmied out from under Alex’s arm and stepped closer to the bouquet of microphones. “Actually, I’m not sure ‘perfect’ is the right way to describe our marriage. I’m really not sure how to describe it. But I can tell you, perfect isn’t it.”

  The room went silent; I could hear my own breathing. My hands trembled but I kept talking, partly to the woman in the yellow slicker and partly to myself. “I’m not perfect either. In fact, more often than not, I’m a mess. My kid is so spoiled she slapped me. My mother-in-law thinks I’m certifiable. And my husband, God bless him, doesn’t know what to think of me. Sometimes I don’t think he even knows who I am.”

  I looked over at Alex. His smile was fixed but his eyes were worried about where I was going with this. Mine probably were too, since even I didn’t know. Only, I knew I had to keep going, or forever hold my peace.

  “So let me tell you exactly who I am. I am just the same as any of you. Trying to raise my kids right. Trying to be a good wife… daughter… mother. Trying to keep all the plates in the air, day in and day out, only instead of PTA meetings and job interviews, I’m juggling campaign events and fund-raisers and interviews. With all the city watching.