by Mary Whitney
She looked off at the water and trees in the distance. “It’s a stunning place to squat.”
Impulsively, I pulled her to me and whispered, “Maybe we could live here for a bit. Raise some wee ones with thick Scottish accents that neither of us understand.”
Nicki’s mouth dropped open while her cheeks burned red.
Grinning, I asked, “You’d like that wouldn’t you? I know I would.”
“Do I get to see you in a kilt?”
I tousled her hair. “Naturally.”
Despite me ignoring their calls, the tabloids wrote their stories. Nicki kept in contact with Matthew, who confirmed that the White had fielded numerous inquiries about the photo but offered nothing more than the official statement.
First thing the next morning, we checked all the tabloids’ websites. Sure enough, the Daily Mirror had bought all the photographs from the Cambridge photographer.
David looked at the computer screen over my shoulder and whistled before remarking, “That’s quite a lip-lock you two have in that picture.”
“I think it looks sweet,” said Sylvia.
“Sweet?” Under his breath, he mumbled, “Maybe sweet in an ‘I’m gonna fuck your brains out later’ kind of way.”
I laughed. David knew me too well.
Apparently, Nicki didn’t agree it was funny. “I’m never going to hear the end of it from Matthew.”
“If all you’re worried about is being made fun of by your boss, I think we’re okay.” I squeezed her hand.
“Thankfully, there’s not much to their story. It’s pretty thin.” She smiled. “If the coverage continues this way, I think you’re right.”
After the Sunday morning church service, the vicar, who had been friends with my father since childhood, ushered us to the family crypt to inter Dad’s ashes. Even with someone so close to my father leading our way to Dad’s final physical resting place, the moment felt less emotional than the memorial service. As we walked back to the house holding hands, I mentioned it to Nicki.
“Well, that’s because he’s still alive in a way when we talk about him,” she said. “There’s not much sense of him as a person in a spooky crypt.”
I let go of her hand and, grabbing her by the waist, stared at her appreciatively. “I wouldn’t be getting through this without you.”
“Oh yeah, you would.”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
Pressing her forehead into my suit jacket, she said, “Well, if that’s true, I’m glad to help you because you helped me so much. I love you.”
My heart leapt, and I lifted her chin so I could kiss her. Before I could, David called out from behind us, “That’ll be the last one of those for a while. I need to get Ms. Johnson to her chariot.”
I saw him walk past us, but he stopped to give me a punch in the arm. “Don’t worry, cuz. I’m a pro at taking care of her.”
“Hey!” Nicki laughed in dismay. “That was a long time ago.”
“You’re a dead man,” I snarled.
David didn’t look back as he strode ahead laughing. “No worries. I’ll safely deposit her, untouched, at my bird’s door.”
Saying goodbye to Nicki was difficult, but we knew we would be in constant contact. Still, I wanted her in my bed again that night, and it would’ve been nice to have time to show her around the place and the region more.
That would have to be saved for the future.
Chapter Eighteen
AFTER NICKI AND DAVID left for their return journey to the States, Sylvia and I spent a fair amount of time monitoring the media coverage. The Daily Mirror story continued to repeat over and over again. There wasn’t any new information until that night.
Nicki was still on a plane when the piece hit. As soon as she landed, we talked and I gave her the update. Beyond the regurgitated stories from the original tabloid trash, we’d suffered a direct hit by someone we knew.
“That complete arsehole, Dan Roark,” I said. “He wrote a few sentences on his blog about us.”
“He did not!”
“Yes, he did. It just proves I was right about him all along.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because he’s a twat, that’s why.” With a guilty groan, I added, “And unfortunately, he had a little help from Felicity.” I’d always thought Felicity was a crap reporter, but she had a nose for this type of news—or maybe it was just female intuition about a man she was involved with.
“Oh no. Read it to me, please.”
“All right.” Clearing my throat, I read the drivel, imitating Roark’s irritating American accent. “‘There’s lots of gossip among the White House Press Corps. I don’t know if anything inappropriate happened between Nicole Johnson and Adam Kincaid while he was at the BBC. I do know they used to talk a fair amount while at work. I never saw anything out of the ordinary, but some people said they believed things started between them at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner.
“‘Then they were seen dancing together rather closely last Saturday night when the president was traveling in Istanbul. It was at a restaurant with many people around, including other members of the press. Kincaid resigned on Monday, and now there are photos of them together. Word on the street is that they knew each other in high school and never got over one another. We’ll see what pans out this week.’”
“Asshole,” she said. “How do you know Felicity was involved?”
“The part about never getting over you. She accused me of that when I first started seeing you outside of work.”
“I love how he walks a line of not being too accusatory of me. Maybe it’s because I did those shots with him.”
“Maybe, but I bet it’s more that he doesn’t want to poison his relationship with the White House in case you stick around.”
“His blog is just crap, but unfortunately someone will read it. I’ll call Matt to see what he says. Tomorrow is going to suck.” She sighed in frustration.
“I know. I’m very sorry about that. Here you thought I was going to be the sacrificial lamb for our relationship, but you’re the one who will take the public beating.”
“Yes, I will. But I’ll take it if I get to finally be with you.”
“That’s exactly what I want to hear.”
That Monday morning, Nicki was the central issue of the White House press briefing. The press corps clamored for answers on our relationship and whether or not the BBC had special access at the White House because of it. In an effort to show its impartiality, even the junior reporter for the BBC joined in the heckling. Of course, Matthew said no and repeated the official statement.
Nicki stood off to the side with the same blank look she had every day at the briefings. Yet now the subject matter was her personal life, which particularly steeled her expression against any emotion or interest. As a television viewer, I found it effective.
At one point, Matthew turned to her and smiled. “Nicole, would you like to answer any questions?”
They must’ve rehearsed the exchange, because she smiled and, in a poised voice, said, “No, I won’t comment on my personal life.”
“There you have it,” Matthew said. “Now, on to more pressing topics.”
Yet the media wouldn’t let it drop so quickly. For the rest of the day, the cable news ran God-awful pieces on us, even dredging up ghosts of girlfriends past like Meredith Daniels. That set Nicki off.
The following day, President Logan took questions after making some remarks on events in the Middle East. The first question came from Dan Roark, asking, “Mr. President, I’m sure you’ve heard about the relationship between Nicole Johnson and BBC reporter Adam Kincaid. Has your presidency been compromised in any way because of it?”
The president shook his head in amused dismay. “Of all the things going on in the world, you ask me about that?”
The briefing room exploded with laughter. I tried to see Nicki on the screen, but she was hidden behind a phalanx of staff and security.
; The president waited for the room to die down before he continued. “Pardon the joke. But no, of course not. My presidency hasn’t been compromised at all by their relationship. Nicole has worked for me since she was in college. She’s like a daughter to me and has kept me informed of things. Adam is no longer with the BBC. Nothing has happened to compromise the integrity of any of the parties involved. I don’t really see the intrigue—other than it’s a nice story.”
In the end, it was fitting that utter arsehole Dan Roark had been the one to finally ask President Logan about the scandal—and sweet revenge for me that his question killed the story altogether. Logan had pronounced the matter dead, and after that, for the most part it was. The questions and articles about us had almost dribbled to their end by the time Mum, Sylvia, and I left Scotland the following afternoon. We’d planned on staying longer, but Mum declared there was too much of Dad and the Kincaid family at the house for her to bear being there.
On the car ride back to the airport, Mum and Sylvia talked about everyone who needed to be thanked for their help over the past few days. I stared out the window at the Scottish moors, fixated on my own life and how much it had changed in the last few days. I imagined how differently the story could’ve played out if the news hadn’t broken during my father’s burial.
In the end, Dad had made sure Nicki and I could be together.
I silently thanked him for that.
Epilogue
Nicki Johnson
Malaysia
2011
WIPING THE SWEAT dripping from his brow, Adam took a sip of water. I peered at him through my sunglasses and said, “You’re wilting. I don’t think Brits are supposed to be this close to the equator.”
“I’m getting used to it.” He smiled. “Bloody steamy, though. I don’t think I could’ve been an early explorer, at least not in Borneo.”
“No, it’s not like you to dominate and pillage. At least that’s what your kind did in America.”
“You’re still holding that against us?” He laughed. “You wouldn’t be alive today if we hadn’t come to America hundreds of years ago.”
“Well, I’m very happy that one Brit came to America a few decades ago.” I wanted to throw my arms around him, but remembering we were in a Muslim country, I gave him a quick peck on the cheek instead.
“I am ready now,” a male voice called in choppy English.
We walked up to the rickety booth, and Adam asked for two tickets for the ferry. The dark man’s finely groomed mustache twitched as he studied us. I guessed he was trying to figure out if we were married. I took a step closer to Adam, and he gave me a possessive touch.
Counting out the change in ringgits, the man asked, “Where are your children?”
“Oh…uh…we don’t have children.” Adam fumbled the words.
“Why not?” the man asked incredulously. He looked at our hands and saw no rings. He pointed to the jeweled ring on his right hand, common for married Malaysian men. “Aren’t you married?”
“Um…no…we aren’t.”
I avoided the man’s eyes, which I was sure looked at me in judgment. I knew I shouldn’t feel as I did. I was a Western woman who’d led an independent life with a very successful career. Why shouldn’t I be proud of that? Yet I felt the man judged me inferior in some way—like I was a tramp or barren. Otherwise, why would a thirty-five-year old woman be unmarried? I shuffled my feet a few times in awkwardness.
“You should be married,” the man declared. “You are too old not to be married and have children.”
Adam’s eyes widened, and I peeked at the ticket man warily.
“You will like it,” he exclaimed with a grin.
Adam and I smiled in return, but neither one of us looked at each other. The man continued to speak, “Children are God’s greatest gift. They will bring you joy even when there is no joy to be had.”
“That’s what my dad used to say,” said Adam.
“You should listen to your father.” He then pointed to a man untying the boat from the dock. “He is ready for you now.” Without another word, he returned to counting his prayer beads.
Later that afternoon, we trekked out of the rainforest and onto a secluded beach. The South China Sea lapped lazily on the sand. It was our reward after an oppressively hot hike through the jungle.
After tossing his backpack to the ground, Adam took off his shirt. “If it weren’t for the authoritarian government, I’d say we should skinny dip.”
“I know,” I said, adjusting my bikini top after taking off my shirt. “No one’s here, but I don’t want to take a chance.”
“Though you might as well be starkers in that.” He admired the scraps of cloth constituting a swimsuit.
“Pfft.” I rolled my eyes. “I’m still covered.”
“That’s a shame.” He winked and extended his hand. “Let’s go in.”
The ocean was warm, but the wetness still cooled us down. We swam and played in the water until we were so tired we simply bobbed on our backs in the buoyant sea.
After a period of blissful silence, Adam asked, “So…what do you think about what that old man said?”
“What man?” I asked without breaking my concentration on the clouds.
“The man who sold us the tickets.”
“Oh. Him.”
“Well, what do you think?”
“Why? What do you think?” I didn’t want to be the one to start the conversation.
Adam swam closer to me and stood in the sand. That was a good sign, I thought, and an even better one was when he took my hand. He declared softly, “I think he’s right.”
“You do?” I stopped floating and stood next to him, wanting to hear everything he said as clearly as possible.
He nodded but was quiet. Damn it. He wanted me to speak first.
“I do, too,” I replied, squeezing his hand.
“Why haven’t you said anything?” he asked, his face beaming brighter with the moment.
“I don’t know.” I shrugged with a big smile. “Isn’t the man traditionally the one who brings it up?”
“But I did…a few times, and you told me you weren’t ready.”
“That was right after I moved in. I told you I just needed time. It’s been two years.”
It was true. After being apart for so long, I’d thought we should simply be a normal couple for a while. A part of me also hadn’t wanted to rub it in Juan Carlos’s face that he’d been permanently replaced so quickly. Now things had changed. I was going on thirty-six and thinking of children, but more importantly, I wanted a sign from Adam that our time together had arrived.
“Yes, you asked for time, but it sounded like you wanted a lot of time—you wanted things to stay the same for years. I stopped talking about it because I thought when you were ready, you’d let me know.”
“Really? You were waiting for me?”
“Yes, but…” With a tentative hand, he touched my salty, sandy hair, and I wished I looked a little better for a proposal. My regret turned to fear when he said, “…I’ve also wanted to come clean about something from a few years back. I did something to you that was wrong, and it was self-serving, but also a little Machiavellian.”
My mind tried to race through possibilities, but none came up. It was an odd description. “You wronged me where the end justified the means?”
“Yeah.” He shook his head in what had to be self-disappointment. “It seems silly now. Water under the bridge, you know? But I should tell you that back when you were with Juan Carlos, I lied to you a bit about Felicity.”
“You did?” I hadn’t heard her name in so long it took me a while to remember what I knew of their relationship. Now I wasn’t threatened by her in the least, but back then, she’d really irritated me—not just because of her relationship with Adam, but she also embodied British perfection, something I’d never be. So it would’ve been bad enough if it was just simple jealousy, but she’d also been a royal bitch to me.
What on earth had Adam done with her? My heart caved as dread engulfed me. With a wavering voice, I jumped to the worst conclusion. “How so? You made it sound like you two were on the outs. Were you actually sleeping with her the whole time? Did you lie to me about it?”
Adam flinched for a moment before he burst out laughing, which made me flinch in turn. That wasn’t the response I’d expected. He then put his arm around me as some indication I was dead wrong. Still, I wasn’t sure that I welcomed the gesture.
He chortled. “Fuck no. Not at all. Just the opposite, in fact.”
“Huh?”
“I did lie to you. Remember how old Juan Carlos thought Felicity might be a ruse? Well, he was sort of right. Things fell apart with Fel even before the White House Correspondents’ Dinner, but I didn’t tell you. Because you had Juan Carlos, I felt the need to save face. I also suspected you were jealous of her. I thought Felicity might be useful in making you want me again.”
My shoulders stiffened under his touch, and I crossed my arms. I realized it looked a little silly to pose like that while wearing a bikini top, but whatever. Though I wasn’t mad at him—because it was sort of sweet even if he had played me—I was annoyed to have been kept in the dark about it for so long. “Wanker. You’re a wanker, that’s what you are.”
Holding my rigid body tighter, he laughed. “I am. I admit it, and I’m truly sorry I lied to you, but all is fair in love and war, right?”
“I suppose…” My body softened and my indignation began to subside as memories of that crazy time flashed back to me. Then one jumped out that made me give him a stern look. “So were you playing Felicity, too? Is that why she was such a bitch to me? Is that why she gave information to Dan Roark for his blog?”
His mouth guiltily twitched. “Possibly. It all worked out okay, though, right?”
For a split second, I was annoyed again, but that boyish grin of his always melted my resolve. “You know, you’re more like David than you care to admit. How do you two get away with this shit?”
“Don’t ask me why David gets away with his antics. That’s for you women to explain.” His expression became more serious as he wrapped his arms around me in a full embrace and rested his forehead against mine. “As for me, it’s because I’ve loved you so damn much, that’s why.”