by Claire Adams
“You’re in for the interview, yeah?” he asked.
I nodded to him, looking down for a moment. I realized that I was truly nervous; I hadn’t let myself feel it until that moment. “Have there been many interviews today?”
Dimitri shrugged. “He’s seen a few, sure. But you’ll be great. I know you know your stuff.”
I smiled at him, still uncertain. Everything else I’d ever done had worked out perfectly. I’d literally never failed—and the thought of failure terrified me. But casting my eyes far into the future made me so nervous, so uncertain. I couldn’t be sure about my stance in the Oval Office. Who was I kidding? I was only a 29-year-old woman in D.C., surrounded by countless, better-qualified people.
Pushing those thoughts to the back of my mind, I spun back around, allowing Dimitri to walk alongside me.
“What have you been up to?” he asked.
I flashed him a bright smile. “I’ve been working down the Hill, beneath Congressman Carlman. He actually encouraged me to apply for the position.”
“You’ve made a name for yourself in D.C.,” Dimitri said.
He led me up the steps that curled so perfectly into the ethers. I thought of Abraham Lincoln, of Kennedy—of all of them climbing these same steps. I shivered, knowing I was entering a sacred home.
He led me down the wide hallway, and I gazed at the many paintings and at the textured blue wallpaper. I felt my heart beating so fast in my chest. I felt like I was entering a dream world—probably because it was a world I had dreamed of so much.
Finally, we reached it: the Oval Office. I took a deep breath and turned toward Dimitri. His dark hair and eyes were so stark in the strange hallway, this Secret Service agent who’d actually joked with me throughout. Back then, Xavier Callaway had been a congressman with only a bodyguard named Dimitri. When Xavier had become the president, he’d brought his man with him.
“It’s great that you work here now,” I said to him, still uncertain about entering this terrifying place.
Dimitri nodded. “The president is a good man. And I know I’ll see you around,” he whispered, bringing his hand toward the door and spinning the knob. I was going in; my stomach dropped.
I swallowed slowly and brought my heels forward. I held my chin high, knowing that I could rule a room—perhaps even that room. I knew that in all my past interviews, in all my past triumphs, I’d won over everyone I’d encountered. That was all I needed: full control of the room.
But how was I supposed to do that when I was meant to have full control over the goddamned President of the United States?
Chapter Two
Behind me, I heard Dimitri close the door. I knew he would remain on post outside the door. I wondered if he could hear anything—if he knew any of the intimate secrets of the presidency. Surely, being around President Callaway so often suited you with a world of gossip—gossip, I knew, that Dimitri would never release.
Never in a million years.
The light swept in from those familiar, three grand windows behind the desk. I oriented myself toward the sunshine, smiling with as much confidence as I could manage. “Hello, Mr. President,” I called to him.
Xavier Callaway stood up from his desk, a pen still in his hand. He was alone, which was unexpected. So often, I’d seen him in the midst of swarms of government employees, of voters. But never by himself. Alone, he looked different, more striking somehow. I breathed an easy sigh, unsure of what to say next. I tried to rev my brain, to propel myself into the interview. I needed to be succinct and professional. I needed to allow him to understand that I knew what I was doing.
I tapped forward and reached my hand across the desk, shaking hands firmly—like a man. Something about his grip made me jump in my skin, but I didn’t allow him to see it. “Thank you for seeing me today,” I stated, nodding.
The president brought his hands out. “Well, I certainly want to hear your ideas about the re-election,” he said. His voice was so powerful, nearly echoing from the grand room.
I tried to keep myself from peering around me, eyeing everything in the place—the desk before me, the history draped in every corner. I sat in the chair, bringing my portfolio up to my knees. The president sat across from me and folded his hands beneath his chin, gazing at me with dark, penetrating eyes. I felt something stirring in me.
“Well. What are your ideas for the re-election campaign?” the president finally asked, cutting through the tension between us. Straight to the point.
I cleared my throat, realizing I had forgotten to speak. “I’ve prepared an essential list of the various places throughout Indiana, Ohio, and Illinois we must visit for the upcoming re-election. Thinking we’ll prepare speeches about your basis in education during the upcoming four years, and we’ll need to quell everyone’s belief that you’re raising taxes.”
“But I plan to raise taxes,” the president said, a smile creeping over his face.
I tapped my pencil against my chin, catching myself matching his smile. “It’s not good for a re-election speech,” I said.
The president brought his fingers together in front of his face. “You’re the expert,” he laughed.
I continued on, listing out all my preparations for the following few months. “I know that your last campaign manager had you hit these states heavy, but they’ve been some of your greatest supporters throughout your presidency. I say we hit the big cities, but we don’t mess around with any of the smaller ones.”
“Here in California, Washington, and Oregon?” he asked me, tracing the states on the map I showed him with a long, firm finger. I quivered, leaning towards him.
“Yes, those states. What do you think?”
He blinked up at me. “Where is it you’re from, Miss—“
“Amanda. Amanda Martin,” I finally said, sort of annoyed with him for not knowing my name, even as we conducted the interview together.
“Amanda. Miss Martin. My apologies. Where is it you’re from?”
“I’m from Pennsylvania,” I answered him, bringing my fingers through my brunette hair. I felt a bit self-conscious in those moments. I knew I needed to rule the room. But this man—the President of the United States—wasn’t giving me much room to breathe. “Philadelphia.”
He tipped his head to the right. “I’m from L.A., as you probably know. Would it be possible that we arrange a few speeches in the greater L.A. area? I need to make sure I polish my relations with them. Make sure they don’t feel abandoned.”
“Of course,” I said, bringing my pencil back to the paper and writing this down. “We’ll have you make appearances throughout the Midwest, and then—if you’re up for it—I was thinking you could make a sort of YouTube special with a famous comedian. Something to highlight the important issues with your education campaign. What are your thoughts?”
Xavier raised his eyebrow. “Sort of for the younger crowd, huh?”
His masculinity struck me. I swallowed, feeling this unarticulated sense of emotion, of vibrancy course through me. “I suppose so.”
“I suppose at 44 I need to begin catching up with the younger crowd. I was always the youngest, you know. Youngest governor of California. Youngest man in Congress. And now—the youngest president. But I suppose that doesn’t really illustrate itself to the rest of the American people.”
“It’s tough keeping up,” I admitted, trying to joke with him. “I’m already 29.”
“And already interviewing for the position to be my personal re-election organizer? Hmm. Please. Tell me why you—and you alone—fit the role.”
I felt nervous once more, nearly stuttering into the words. “Well. I was very much involved with your first election. I worked closely with your manager—Rick Selman—to create the perfect campaign for you. He will tell you that I contributed many ideas—ideas that ultimately created a fruitful campaign. In many ways, you wouldn’t be sitting in that chair without me.” I raised my left eyebrow toward him, creating a sense of sass that I knew was pr
obably one or two steps over the line.
He brought his hand to his bearded, handsome face. The first president to have a beard in many years; it had created quite a frenzy throughout much of the United States. But honestly, it was stunning.
“You’ve brought up some interesting points. I think I remember you.” He stood then. He swung his long, strong legs out from his body, tapping around to the side of the desk. He leaned on it easily, gazing down at me. I wasn’t sure what to do; his gaze was so penetrating.
“I feel very confident in this role,” I continued then. “You must know that I have the relevant experience, and I can speak to the younger audience as well as traditional voters. I know how to create a campaign that will be even better than the one before.”
He nodded toward me. A tension had risen around us, making me feel so strange. I brought my hand to my ear, bringing my hair behind it. I averted my eyes toward the desk, where I saw a pleasant photo of the president and his beautiful, blonde wife. They were gazing at each other with such passion. I wondered what their actual relationship was like. I knew that often, during the most previous campaign, the men and women on the campaign trail with me had mentioned that she was mean, always making sly remarks about the women on the team. She was jealous, sure. And maybe she should have been. The women on the campaign team were young and vibrant, swinging around the soon-to-be president with fine, 20-year-old asses and breasts, without a thought of the soon-to-be first lady. Why would anyone think of her? Why should we care what she thinks of us?
I cleared my throat, trying to slice through the tension and still create a good interview for myself. “How is the first lady?” I asked him.
He tipped his head to the right, looking at me curiously. “She’s wonderful, thank you for asking.” His tone had switched. Before, it had been almost intimate, talking to me like we’d been friends for ages. But now: his voice was dominant, presidential. He removed himself from the side of the desk and collapsed into his chair once more, picking up his pen. He began making notes on a white piece of paper before him. He didn’t say anything or glance in my direction.
The silence stretched. I felt so strange. Was I supposed to leave? “So. I have a great deal of experience, and working as lead of your next campaign team would be a supreme pleasure,” I muttered. I stood from my chair, realizing that he’d lost interest in me. “Have a good afternoon.” I then spun around, back toward the door that camouflaged itself into the wall.
Still, only the scratches from his pen were brought back to my ear. I shuddered.
The door opened and I stepped into the hallway, where I found Dimitri holding the door knob and nodding toward me. I didn’t realize that I was visibly shaking. Dimitri closed the door and placed his hand on the small of my back. “You okay?” he whispered, jostling his microphone from his face for a moment.
I nodded, still feeling the waves of panic as they rushed over me. “Of course,” I whispered. “Now get me the hell out of here!”
Dimitri laughed and led me back down that illustrious stairwell, back into the air. I felt unsteady the entire way down those stairs. I grasped on his arm in the free air, looking up at the sky. “That was rough,” I confided him. “I don’t think I got it.” I hadn’t ever felt that way before—that I’d completely failed at something. Every word I’d said in the beginning had felt perfectly orchestrated. I’d felt like I was on track until—until I’d felt something between us. Something that I couldn’t readily speak about.
“I’m sure it went better than you think,” Dimitri said, nearly laughing.
But I shook my head vehemently. “No, Dimitri. No. But thanks for saying so. You’re a good friend.” I said these words to him and watched as his eyes winced at the word—friend. But I couldn’t be anything else to him.
“We should get coffee sometime, Amanda,” he said then. His words were broad and vague. “As friends, of course.”
I nodded, stepping back from him. I smiled. I didn’t have many friends, and I think he knew that. “We’re both married to our work, aren’t we?” I asked him.
“I don’t see how the president can have a wife; I don’t even have time to watch football,” Dimitri said.
I laughed appreciatively. I reached into my pocket and grabbed my phone, making a quick call for a taxi. “You’ll be around?” I asked him as I hung up the phone.
Dimitri nodded. “You know I’m always around.”
The taxi arrived quickly. I leaped into the yellow cab and we revved toward my home in Trinidad. I folded my hands in my lap, still feeling the shakes coursing through me. I tried to steady my head, to tell myself it was all going to be fine—it was all going to be fine. I would keep my job with Carlman; I’d work my way up steadily. So, I didn’t get the job.
So what?
Chapter Three
It was growing dark outside the taxi as we pulled up to my apartment building. I leafed through my billfold and paid the driver in cash. “Thank you, beautiful lady,” the man said. Part of me balked at this. Truth be told, I wasn’t always so proud of my looks. But I thanked the foreign man anyway. “Have a good night,” he returned.
I sauntered up my steps, feeling the glow of the moonlight on my back. It was a hazy summer evening, one I knew was best spent with friends, with lovers. But I didn’t have those people in my life. Work friends, sure. They’d all been friendly enough over the years, always inviting me out to events, to the bar. But I never readily agreed to go out with them, always assuming that my desires, my needs, were far more important than anything they could create for me: laughs over a drink, inside jokes. I didn’t need them. I only needed my career, my intelligence—my success.
I reached my apartment and removed my keys from my coat. I entered the apartment—it had been an upgrade for me a few years back, this one with much more square feet. I flung my stuff on a chair and began unbuttoning my shirt one button at a time, gazing around the room. The wine bottle I’d opened the previous evening was still resting on the counter. I reached my hand up to grab a wine glass from the top shelf, feeling my bra tighten against my breasts with the stretch. I poured the glass of wine, remembering all the long-lost nights of college and post-college, drinking my red wine by myself in the shadows of my living room.
I took in the first sip of wine slowly, easily, tasting every morsel of it. I walked toward the chair by the window, still removing each button from my shirt. I tapped the wine on the table and removed the rest of my clothes, standing in only my tights and my gray bra, feeling the warm air emanating from the window. I felt relaxed for the first time all day.
I peeled off my tights and then collapsed into the chair, continuing to drink the wine slowly, tapping the remote control to my side to create tip-tapping jazz music in the background. I allowed my mind to ease a bit as I sat there, lost in thought. I’d been so consumed with thoughts of the interview all week, I hadn’t had time to do anything else.
Of course, this wasn’t strange. The past year and a half, I hadn’t thought about much beyond work. I’d been consumed with it, truly. Working beneath George Carlman was a continuous struggle. He wanted the best of everything, of course, and I gave it to him. I stayed up countless nights making phone calls, assuring his re-election—everything. He trusted me to do good by him, and goddammit, I did. But at what cost? I already felt like I was aging far too quickly. And in many ways, I wanted to be old: to have those wrinkles that George Carlman dripped onto your face, making you look wise beyond your years. I knew that those wrinkles made you formidable in office.
Of course, because of this continuous struggle, I’d lost my interest in men, in relationships. I’d had a boyfriend in college, certainly, but he’d been a passing fad. He’d moved to New York to make millions on Wall Street—and I didn’t miss him. I knew we were both driven by our goals. I respected this.
There’d been that man in Congress, as well, during the past election. But I’d lost interest in him during the course of the campaign. He’d been s
exy, in this elusive, older way; a real silver fox. His power had certainly captured my attention—not that I slept with him for the power. But I’d lost interest in him, just as I’d lost interest in all the others. During the campaign process, my eyes had flitted upon something else—something incredible. Something I knew was special.
I couldn’t linger on those thoughts. I couldn’t linger on the fact that every time I met with the president, or even stood in his presence, my heart started beating rapidly—my mind started racing. I never felt like myself around him. I felt like a blushing girl—like the kind of girl I rejected so readily in the rest of the world. His passionate eyes and those firm, handsome eyebrows, that curled head of hair, the way he looked in suits. God. I moved this way, then that in the chair, feeling the nakedness of my body, exposed to the rest of the room.
I remembered the afternoon’s interview, the way he’d looked at me with such curiosity. Layered in clothing, I’d felt nearly naked in his presence. However, I’d interrupted that romantic moment.
I’d turned his attention toward his wife.
I knew that he and his wife, Camille, weren’t happy people—not together. They’d been married right after college. Many in his staff—including myself—speculated that the marriage had been a sort of political decision. Camille’s father was an important man in the south, and Xavier had needed backing. They did look beautiful together on camera. All throughout the past 20 years—the entire length of my political comprehension—I’d seen them photographed from place to place, as Xavier moved up the political ladder. I remembered thinking that they were the most beautiful people in the world. And they knew, in many ways, that they fit the bill of what the American people wanted.
But the reports of fights at home, whispered throughout the White House and throughout the Hill made many in his staff nervous that a divorce or a scandal would spark. For this reason, Xavier was continually watched. He wasn’t to have an affair; the Secret Service men would be sure of it.