by Kathy Myme
Can I really do it? Can I leave everything behind and do something as insane as pretending to be the President’s fiancée? Would anyone even believe it?
What would my dad think? Oh god, what would Trevor think?
If I say no, will I regret it? Mr Andrews isn’t wrong about the other political parties. It’s clear that the Republicans and Democrats are just waiting in the wings. Waiting for cracks to show in Shepard’s administration. Can I really live with myself if I’m the one to bring it all crashing to the ground?
I wanted to work in the White House because I thought I’d be making a real difference in the world. Because I thought I’d be able to use power for good. Now that I’ve found myself facing such a momentous decision, am I really going to back down? Wouldn’t that be giving up on everything I’d come here for?
“If we just explained it was an accident…” I sigh. “How bad would it be?”
“The press could end us,” Mr Andrews says swiftly. “No, the press most certainly will end us. We’re a new administration. We haven’t had the chance to consolidate ourselves properly yet. Miss Waters, if you believe in the President’s vision… I’m begging you to help him.”
I believe. Of course I believe. It’s why I signed up to do any of this. I could have been an intern anywhere in the country. Instead I chose to work under him.
This power… is beyond anything I’ve ever experienced before. With just a few words, I could change the fate of the world. I could take us back to the old era where all the people had to choose from were the two old political parties. I could undo all of the work that President Shepard has done.
But I don’t want to.
I take a deep breath. “What do I have to do?”
David
I rub my eyes. I’ve slept about an hour in the last day, and now I’m about to give the press conference that will save my presidency... or doom it.
This is it.
I run through my notes one last time.
“Mr President, when you’re ready.”
Is this going to be the end for me? Will this be my legacy, the scandal of a lifetime and nothing more?
Not if I can help it. Not as long as I have breath in my body. I’m going to fight this.
I open the door and enter the Press Briefing Room. Immediately, I’m drowned in light. Flash after flash of photographers, all trying to get the shot that will be splashed all over the front pages.
I reach the stadium and clear my throat. “Good morning, fair ladies and gentlemen. It’s good to see you all here this morning.”
There are two lies there. No one in the room is a fair lady or gentlemen, and it definitely isn’t good to see them.
I don’t know what Andrews has done, but it seems like the room is packed five times more full than normal. Reporters are sharing seats, two or sometimes three squashed together. The sides and back of the room are cramped completely with no walking room whatsoever.
And yet despite the number of people, it is silent but for the click of cameras. They are all waiting for a statement, a resignation, anything.
“We all know why we’re here today,” I continue. “A number of misleading photos have been made public, drawing baseless and downright incorrect speculation. I am here to dispel the rumors and give you the truth.”
More lies. I don’t like it, but it’s my only choice. I need to stay in front of the situation, safely in control.
“The young woman in the photographs with me is Veronica Waters,” I say. I can tell by the faces of the reporters they are surprised. They were expecting denials, most likely. Claims that it wasn’t me, or a photoshop. Not this.
“Now, Ms Waters and I have been in a serious relationship for a number of years. It was at her request that I have kept her out of the public eye, and out of the media’s gaze. This was a request made as Ms Waters and I are private people, who did not want our relationship made the topic of gossip or discussion.”
I look down at my notes, not that I need to. It’s important I pace things right so it all goes according to plan.
“Unfortunately this can no longer be the case. I would ask the press to respect our request for privacy at this time though.”
I then hear a noise to my side and the cameras start flashing even more than before. I look, and the door is opening.
This isn’t supposed to be the plan. The plan is that I make a statement, and then in a day or two once the media has settled down a little, I will introduce Veronica in a controlled setting. A private interview, with specifically selected reporters.
The plan is not that she walks out right now, looking mind-meltingly gorgeous. And yet, that is exactly what she is doing.
As she walks across to stand next to me, Andrews closes the door behind her. I barely notice, my eyes are locked on hers. She is an attractive woman, and that is an understatement.
“So glad you could join us,” I say with a smile and a kiss on her cheek. The one facing the cameras, obviously. I need to use this opportunity the best I can. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not happy about the change of plan in the slightest, but it’s too late to stop it.
She then takes her place next to me, her hand positioned so everyone can see the ring. At least someone has had the common sense to tell her to do that much.
“The President and Ms Waters will now take questions,” an aide says.
I’m a little annoyed they couldn’t have waited longer, but the sooner this is over the better.
The moment the aide finishes, it is chaos. Everyone in the room starts shouting directly at me, or rather us, as though the loudest will be the only one answered.
I feel Veronica move back slightly, no doubt in surprise or even fear. I place a hand on her lower back, and hold her in place.
“One at a time, please,” I say into the microphone. “Let’s have some quiet.”
The reporters quieten down a little.
I cover the microphone with one hand, and shout. “Quiet.”
It is quiet again. “Mr Trent,” I say, pointing to one of the usual White House correspondents who is sitting in the front row. “You first.”
“Mr President,” he asks. “Can you tell us the exact nature of your relationship between the two of you? Are you married?”
I smile, though it feels fake enough that everyone should be able to tell. “Last June, I proposed to Ms Waters- ah, Veronica. And she very kindly said yes.”
A flurry of hands shoot up, but I continue. “I’m not going to give you the exact details of the proposal. I’d like to keep that moment just for the two of us, thank you.”
The real reason I don’t want to say more is because I can barely remember last June. The entire campaign was one long blur, and the last thing I need is to mess up and give a time and location which doesn’t match up. No doubt the media will be all over my statement anyway, and they might figure out which times I hadn’t been in front of cameras. I’ll let them answer their own question and never deny their suggestions.
“Mrs White next,” I say.
“Mr President, can you comment on Miss Water’s position here in the White House? Is she currently employed as an intern?”
I’d seen this question coming, luckily. I’m not about to get caught out looking like I’d given my fiancée special treatment.
I feel Veronica shift next to me again, so I reach for her hand and give it a light squeeze. I can’t afford for her to lose track and let things get out of control.
“I had Veronica added to the list of interns to allow her access to the White House without raising suspicions. She has not been hired, and is not and has never been paid to work in the White House. We simply wanted to maintain a level of privacy in our relationship... which I now see was unattainable.”
I look around the room. People are nodding, and I think they might be buying it. A few still seem skeptical and I imagine there will be a few conspiracy theories created this morning, but none which will hold any traction.
“
Ms Potter, last question,” I say.
“Hii! Stephanie from ClickBoom News. I have a question for Miss Waters,” the reporter says. “Could you tell us a bit about how your relationship with the President began?”
This is definitely not supposed to happen. Veronica isn’t even meant to be here, let alone being questioned by the press. I can’t let this happen. I need to end things now.
But before I can, Veronica starts speaking.
“David and I met when I was in my last year at college,” she says, surprisingly calmly. “We were both volunteering and had known each other for a few months there when he asked me out.”
I pause a moment. Her answer isn’t terrible, much to my surprise. Maybe this might actually work. Maybe this terribly thought out, spur of the moment, desperate attempt at a plan... might actually work.
“I see,” Stephanie the reporter says, smiling in a way that’s so sweet it almost seems sickly. “That’s very cute. What college did you go to, Veronica?”
Veronica glances at me as if to ask for help. “I…”
“Where were you both volunteering?” the reporter presses.
“Um…”
“Why didn’t we see you on the President’s campaign trail last year?”
“Thank you all very much,” I say. It’s time to end things before they get out of hand. “But we’re going to have to leave now. Have a good day, everyone.”
I take Veronica’s hand in one of mine and give a wave with the other as we quickly leave the room. As the door shuts behind us, her hands slips from mine and I start giving orders.
“Andrews, I want a copy of every article you can find on that press conference on my desk the moment they’re out.”
I look back, for Veronica, but she’s gone. I’d look for her, thank her, but there isn’t time. I’m still President, and I have a country to run.
Veronica
As the day goes on, I get the feeling that I really don’t know what I’m getting myself in for.
I can’t stop staring at the ring on my finger. For one, it’s huuuuuge. Like, mega-huge. I’m not sure how they managed to find a diamond this impressive on such short notice.
For two, how on earth did I end up in this situation? It’s a cover-up, obviously, but in the space of a few days I’ve gone from Veronica Waters, White House intern, to Veronica Waters… fiancée to the President.
For three… the ring really is huge. I could probably knock someone out if I hurled this thing at them.
As soon as the press conference ends, I slip away on a ‘bathroom break’ which actually involves standing in a cubicle attempting to call my boyfriend. Just like last night, he still won’t pick up.
Is he purposefully ignoring me? Does he think that I’m really engaged to the President of the United States?
No, surely he can see through this situation and take a guess at the truth. We’ve been dating for years. To have an affair with the President… that would be one thing. To be engaged to him is another entirely. How would I have kept something like this hidden this whole time?
Buzz. My phone has messages.
Lacey Smith: okay WHAT is going on
Lacey Smith: i’ve been offered a lot of money not to talk about u n trevor
Lacey Smith: and i hear you’re supposedly ‘engaged’????
Lacey Smith: what the hell
I groan. Of course the government is trying to destroy all traces of the history Trevor and I have.
I wonder if they’ve managed to contact him? They might be having better luck than I am.
Lacey’s message only makes me feel worse as the gravity of my situation sinks in. What I’ve signed up to.
There’s really no going back.
I don’t want to ignore her, but I really don’t feel like replying to the message. I’m stressed enough as it is without trying to explain it all to someone else.
There’s a knock on my stall.
“Excuse me, ma’am?” grunts a voice. A man’s voice.
“Jackson, this is the ladies’ room,” I squeal. “What are you doing here?”
“We have business to attend to. You need to come with me.”
“Am I not even allowed a second of privacy?” I complain.
“You have to come with me, ma’am.”
It appears not.
Mr Andrews promised that my first day wouldn’t be intensive, other than the press conference. It seems that the President has different ideas. As soon as we step outside, Jackson hands me my schedule which ends up something like this:
9:00AM - Press Conference
9:45AM - Wardrobe fitting
11:00AM - Etiquette
12:00PM - Lunch
13:00PM - Political Study
14:00PM - Public speaking
“What’s this about?” I ask him.
“The President himself will now be in charge of your daily schedule,” he answers. “These are your morning activities. I’m going to be accompanying you to all of your meetings from now on.”
“The President wrote this? Doesn’t he have someone to micromanage my life for him?”
Jackson shrugs. “This is just how the President does things, ma’am.”
“Why do you have to accompany me?”
“For your own protection.” He gestures down the hall. “There are two others down the hall, but they’ll be following us from afar.”
“Is this really necessary?”
“It’s what the President ordered.”
The President is clearly quite the control freak. I think about the way he spoke over me in the press conference, cutting me off so immediately to end things straight away. He’d come across as so likable in the campaign ads… but in reality he’s almost certainly one of those egotistical men that thinks they can boss around everyone else.
He might be my boss, but this isn’t just a job anymore. It’s my life. At some point or another, I’m going to break one of his rules.
We march to the wardrobe fitting with moments to spare, on a higher floor in a separate area of the White House. The staff in the corridor clearly recognize me now, all staring agog as I walk past. It makes me want to run and hide somewhere far aware, but Jackson continues to nudge me forward.
“Come in, come in,” says an older-looking woman hurriedly. “We don’t have much time.”
She introduces herself as the new manager of my wardrobe, which I suppose is code for ‘I’m no longer allowed to pick out my own outfits’. I’d complain… but I suppose it makes some sense. If President Shepard and I are going to get away with this, I need to look like a real fiancée for him and not just some girl from Cali.
The woman spends at least an hour attacking me with a tape measure and comparing random bits of cloth against my skin-tone. There’s a lot of ‘hmm’-ing and clucking of her tongue. If I try to move, she forces me back in place with an unreasonable amount of strength.
I look to Jackson for help. He just shrugs at me.
When we’re eventually done, I’m desperate to put my feet up and take a break. But Jackson taps my itinerary coolly and drags me onto the next item, which happens to be something called ‘etiquette’.
“What, am I supposed to learn how to curtsy?” I ask Jackson on the way.
He shrugs. I’m starting to think that’s all he’s allowed to do when I talk.
The next hour is grueling. A man in a crisp suit attempts to grill me on every topic under the sun: table manners, conversation, dress codes, and even dancing.
“Is this really necessary?” I ask, after he holds up a tiny spoon in front of my face for the fifth time and asks me what it’s for.
“What are you going to do if you’re at a state dinner, hm?” The etiquette trainer is unmovable. “The President has assured me that you’re going to need comprehensive training. Hours and hours of it. Especially considering your background.”
I can’t help the glare I shoot at him. “My ‘background’? What does that mean?”
�
�Miss Waters, it simply means that the President informs me that you weren’t raised in an environment where you were likely taught these things.” He wiggles the spoon over my nose. “Now, focus.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Of course there have been more background checks on me. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were a bunch of hefty reports about my life on the President’s desk at this very moment.
But then the realization of what the etiquette trainer said sinks in.
“Wait,” I say, leaning over to Jackson. “‘Comprehensive training’? Does that mean I’m going to have to do this all over again?”
He looks somewhat shocked… which for Jackson, isn’t really saying much. “Ma’am, now that you and the President have gone public with your relationship, I imagine you’ll be following his orders every day from now on.”
“You’re joking?”
His brow furrows. “Did the President not explain this to you?”
Sure, he’d told me that nothing would ever be the same again. He hadn’t told me that I’m meant to be his little puppet doll every single day. Cover-up or no cover-up, that’s certainly not happening.
By the time it hits 12:30PM, I’m ready for my briefing with the President. More than ready.
Jackson doesn’t have to drag me this time. Now I’m the one pulling him forwards, striding up to the Oval Office without pausing to catch my breath.
The Secret Service guard posted by the door eyes me up. “The President is in a meeting.”
“I’ll show him a ‘meeting’,” I warn him. “Let me in.”
“Ma’am, that isn’t possible-”
I hold up my hand, showing him the ring. “Do you know who I am?”
Recognition fills his eyes. Of course he knows. “Miss, he’s busy-”
“I will see my fiancée whenever I wish,” I say, trying to channel all the energy of a snooty, entitled socialite. The kind of girl the President could actually be engaged to.
The guard just stares at me. His eyes flicker to Jackson, who - now to my infinite relief - simply shrugs once more. At least he comes in useful sometimes.