The President's Wife

by Kathy Myme

  I laugh hollowly. “I wish.”

  “I would, you know. In a heartbeat. If you wanted me to.”

  “I do want you to,” I admit. “But I have to stay here.”

  “Are you really engaged to the President?” His voice is teasing, but I know him well enough to detect more than a subtle hint of concern.

  “No,” I chuckle, so glad to be able to say the truth out loud. It feels refreshing. “God, no. It’s just-”

  “A cover-up,” he finishes. “I thought so. It’s just not every day you read the paper and discover your little girl has a fiancée who also happens to be the leader of the free world.”

  “It’s been a long day, Dad.”

  “I can only imagine, honey. I feel the same way. The press have been banging on my door since the early hours.”

  A rush of guilt pools in my chest. “They’ve tracked you down?”

  “Of course they have. The whole world has gone crazy. People are willing to sell their right arms to get more information about the President’s mysterious girl.”

  I don’t know how to apologize. I’d never considered how my decision to be part of this would affect other people. Dad didn’t sign up to be harassed by the paparazzi.

  “I’m sorry, Dad.”

  “Don’t worry yourself too much. Having Secret Service agents around is just going to take some getting used to. I don’t think they appreciate my jokes that much.”

  “You have the Secret Service?”

  “Your President ordered it, apparently. A bit of a waste of time if you ask me, but they’ve been good enough to scare some of the more cowardly members of the press away.”

  I suppose it’s the least the President could do in return for my involvement in this… but I feel grateful that he’d think about my dad like that, without me even asking.

  Suddenly Jackson’s voice sounds through the door. “Can I come back in yet?”

  I can’t speak honestly about all of this with my shadow around. I have no idea how much Jackson knows or doesn’t know. He seems devoted to his job, but this chat between my dad and I should stay private.

  “Two minutes,” I shout back.

  “That your bodyguard talking?” Dad chuckles. “Who would have ever thought you’d cause so much of a fuss?”

  “I didn’t ask for any of this, Dad.”

  He sighs through the phone. “You’re doing a really good thing. They had better give you a medal or something when this is all through.”

  I very much doubt I’ll get anything other than maybe a ‘thanks’ from Mr Andrews. Everything I’m doing is a secret that has to go with me to the grave.

  “Does he make you happy, Veronica?”

  I blink. “What?”

  “The President. Does he treat you well?”

  I shake my head. “Dad, I already told you that we’re not really engaged.”

  “Doesn’t mean he can’t make sure my little girl is alright. Next time you see him, tell him that I’ll give him hell to pay if he doesn’t take care of you properly.”

  I imagine telling the stern, uptight President that my dad has threatened him. The idea of David’s reaction is enough to make me giggle.

  “Will do, Dad,” I promise.

  “I love you, honey.”

  “I love you too.”

  When we hang up, I’m forced to think about what I should have been thinking about this whole time. What the hell am I supposed to wear?

  There are far more dress options that I’m used to. Firstly, I rule out anything that might be considered too controversial. It’s not like the previous First Lady walked around showing off her cleavage everywhere, but her chest was a little bit smaller than mine so I get the feeling a lot of these clothes would hang differently.

  Eventually I settle on a dark red midi dress that doesn’t look too dangerous. Sure, red is a provocative color, but the dress is long enough to keep me mostly covered up.

  I find the price tag inside as I squeeze the dress on. Seeing all those zeros would make anyone nervous.

  My reflection in the mirror looks back at me nervously. Even with the fancy dress, I’m still me. There’s no way to just wave a magic wand and turn me into the kind of girl that could be engaged to the President of the United States. Especially not President Shepard.

  By all rights, he should only be engaged to a 5’11 supermodel who’s been raised on champagne flutes and trust funds. Not the daughter of a small construction company owner who cares more about working hard than working out.

  Sometime in the afternoon my belongings are delivered. I hadn’t brought too much with me from California, so it’s mostly just clothes and toiletries. It feels slightly odd to know that somebody has gone through all my personal belongings and packed them up without even knowing me, but I try not to think about it all too much. It sure isn’t the craziest thing that’s happened to me lately.

  By the time the evening comes around, I’m more than ready to get this thing over with. As grand as this suite is, there’s really not much to do apart from pacing up and down and admiring the old-timey decor. Even when I try to take a breather and mess around on my phone, the non-stop alerts and notifications coming through make me put it down.

  Suddenly people that I haven’t talked to for years are messaging me about how insane it is that I’m the President’s fiancée. All it takes is a little fame (or notoriety) and suddenly you’re everybody’s new best friend.

  One particular number has sent me over ten messages over the last few hours.

  Hi Veronica! It’s Stephanie from ClickBoom News. I was wondering if you could answer a few questions for me? Xx

  Hi Veronica. Stephanie from ClickBoom News here again. I was wondering if you’d be up for a quick chat about your relationship with President Shepard? Xx

  Veronica, Stephanie here from ClickBoom. Is it true that you’re the President’s fiancée? The people really want to hear from you. Call me. Xx

  Veronica. It’s Stephanie. We met at the press conference. I have my doubts about the relationship between you and the President. If you want to talk it over, call me.

  I have no idea how she got my number, but reading her messages over makes me feel more nervous than ever. Stephanie… I do vaguely remember her as the pushy journalist from the press conference. The one that questioned the relationship between David and I so much it almost seemed as if she was reading my mind.

  Does she know something? Her last message... almost seems like a threat. My finger hovers over the ‘call’ button. Should I try to figure out what it is that she has over us?

  I glance at Jackson. Asking him for help is risky if he doesn't even know that I have a secret to hide. I imagine he’d tell me to never contact the press under any circumstances.

  I can’t call her with him in the room anyway. Instead I type my own message back:

  Hi Stephanie. Can’t talk now. What is it that you would like to discuss? Xx

  Her reply comes back within seconds. I know about Trevor. Should the public know too? Call me. Xx

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. Trevor. What does she know? Sure, I’m not a big social media type of girl, but there are probably pictures of Trevor and me together on my friends’ accounts. And if she’s managed to snag an interview from anyone back home, it’s not like Trevor and I have ever talked about breaking up.

  If she goes public with this, I’m not only going to be branded the President’s whore but also a cheater too.

  And yet still no message from Trevor. Every time I look down at my phone and see he hasn’t even tried to call me back, I feel a little bit more nauseous.

  I need to call Stephanie. I need to work out what she knows.

  Before she decides to tell everyone herself.

  Veronica

  Before I know it, it’s already getting late.

  Jackson sits up, pressing a hand to his ear. “Yes, sir. Affirmative. Of course, sir.”

  I shoot him a confused look.

  He gestures to his
earpiece. “The President is on his way, ma’am.”

  So it’s time. I stand up, resuming my restless pacing. Is the dress too much? Am I really about to have a private meeting with the President of the United States?

  All the courage that was raging inside of me earlier in the Oval Office seems to have evaporated. The blunt way I’d spoken to him… it was hardly respectful.

  He can’t keep you locked up here, a sensible voice in the back of my head reminds me, waggling her finger. You’re not his puppet.

  But he does have power over me. Even Jackson’s warning of his arrival has me nervous, every inch of me alert and alive. I imagine the President has that influence on most people, but… most people don’t get personal visits from him late in the evening.

  “Miss Waters?”

  I look up and he’s there, hands folded behind his back. Truth be told, I could feel him before I saw him. There’s this magnetism that seems to suck all the energy in the room towards him.

  “David,” I say gently, keeping my voice soft. I don’t want this to turn into an argument again. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  Oh god, there’s something wrong with my dress. His eyes are all over it, looking me up and down with unreadable intensity. On most men, I might consider that a good thing… but he’s frowning.

  “Your dress…” he trails off, his eyes suddenly elsewhere.

  “I’m sorry,” I reply, tugging at one of the red shoulder pieces. “It was in the wardrobe here. I probably shouldn’t have touched it.”

  He sighs. It’s deep and weary. I’m not quite sure what I’ve done wrong, but whatever it is he isn’t pleased.

  “I can take it off,” I assure him quickly.

  My words don’t help. His face falls even further as if I’ve just told him I set half the White House on fire or leaked pictures of my underwear to the tabloids.

  “No,” he says firmly, motioning with his hands. “You don’t- uh, the dress is fine. You’re just... very well dressed for a quick discussion.”

  “A quick discussion with the President of the United States.”

  His expression is unreadable. “I’m just a man, Veronica.”

  Nothing could be further from the truth. No other man makes the world stop turning whenever he walks into a room. No other man makes me feel like I’m playing with fire with every word I speak.

  My phone feels as if it’s burning a hole in my pocket. Should I tell the President about Stephanie? About what she might know?

  Probably. Except… I’m pretty sure I’m not meant to be texting journalists. I’m sure he’d freak out big time if he knew. With how controlling the man is over my daily schedule, I don’t trust him to not take my phone away or even tap it.

  And it’s not like I have proof that Stephanie knows anything at all. All she has is my boyfriend’s name. Trevor could be an ex, for all she knows.

  No, I’ll take care of this situation myself. Somehow.

  David gestures to the desk in the middle of my room. There are two chairs. “Shall we?”

  “Here?” I ask. “You want to talk here?”

  “You’d rather go elsewhere?”

  “I’ve been stuck in here for hours,” I say. Then I bite my lip, a little bit on purpose. A bit of charm can’t hurt. “If I could get some fresh air, that would really help to clear my head.”

  The President looks at me carefully. And then the corners of his mouth twitch upwards. “Trying to get on my good side, are you?”

  “Is it working?” I ask hopefully.

  David looks me up and down. “You… are stubborn. Well, so be it. We’ll go elsewhere.” He holds out a hand. “Come with me.”

  I stare at his outstretched hand. I’m reminded of the press conference. How impossibly warm he’d felt. How a traitorous part of me hadn’t wanted to let it go.

  But with him waiting on me, I have no choice but to slip my hand into his and let him lead us away.

  Jackson attempts to follow from behind.

  “There’s no need to worry,” the President tells him. “We won’t be leaving the White House grounds. I’ve already told Peters to take a break and leave his men stationed where he believes it’s necessary.”

  My perpetual shadow looks unsure. “Sir…”

  “That’s an order.”

  I have to admit that leaving Jackson behind feels good. He’s not unpleasant to be around… in fact, he’s not really anything to be around. The man barely says a word unless prompted, so mostly he just fades into the background. But getting to walk without his eyes watching me is the closest I’m getting at the moment to freedom.

  The President leads us down flights of stairs, out into the grounds. It’s late, but there are still enough people working that I see several heads raise themselves up in awe as we come out together.

  “You want us to talk here?” I ask incredulously.

  “Not here.” He shushes me. “Be patient.”

  We don’t go back inside, but we walk along further than I’ve walked. The President takes me around a few hidden corners. By the time he brings us to a stop, the only people I can see around are Secret Service agents positioned at strategic corners.

  What I see makes me gasp. We’re standing in front of a garden. And not just any garden… the most beautiful one I’ve ever seen. It’s only March, but it’s clear that we’re standing on the edge of a wonderful spring. Flowers are beginning to bloom, shooting up in a hundred vivid shades of green and red and blue.

  It’s like I’ve never seen color before this very moment.

  “What is this?” I ask. “I’ve never seen…”

  Of course the White House has other gardens. The vegetable gardens are particularly famous, I think, and I remember hearing something about Eleanor Roosevelt starting them up way back in the olden days.

  But for a garden this magnificent to exist? And for me to never have even heard of it?

  “Do you like it?” the President asks. His voice is very casual. Very controlled.

  “Of course I like it,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s wonderful.”

  He smiles then, fully. I blink at it. It’s not like the smiles that the TV cameras pick up. Those smiles are perfect and deliberate, engineered so exactly to see a glimpse of David’s perfectly white teeth. They’re infamously alluring. The Times lists it as one of the top reasons why David was able to get elected in the first place. He makes pleasantries an art. People see that smile on TV and know that this is a man who is careful with everything he does.

  This smile is different. It’s too wide and too loose, as if he can’t stop it from spreading all over his face. And somehow it’s more mesmerizing than all the charm in his usual smiles combined.

  “It’s my secret garden,” he says, his eyes scanning mine. As if he’s waiting for something.

  “Your… garden?” I look around again, my head spinning. “You arranged for all of this?”

  He makes a face. “No, I planted all of this.”

  “You?” I can’t imagine this flawless man in his well-cut suit rolling up his sleeves and getting dirty work done. Unless maybe a press opportunity called for it. “Really?”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “It’s just… so wonderful. It looks like a professional did this. A really talented professional.”

  “I’m a man of many talents,” David replies. “Being the youngest president of the United States ever elected is just one of them.”

  I can’t wrap my head around him. One moment he is all sternness and seriousness, an impenetrable figure far beyond my understanding. Yet soon after he can become this real person with green fingers and dry comments that sound a lot like jokes. Who is David really?

  “Veronica Waters, you are a distraction,” David says eventually, after I stare at him slack-jawed for what feels like aeons. “We’re here to talk.”

  “How are you into gardening?” I won’t be deterred.

  His eyebrow quirks. “I tried gardening. I liked it.�
��

  Something clicks for the first time. The President of the United States… is capable of being supremely annoying. He’s teasing me. I’m sure of it.

  “You know what I mean,” I shoot back, making my annoyance obvious. “Why do you like gardening?”

  “Every man needs a hobby.”

  From my knowledge of men - a database consisting mostly of Trevor - the most popular choice of hobby mostly involves scrolling through the internet and complaining about things. Not creating beauty out of nothing.

  “David.”

  He stares at the flowers around us, thoughtful. “Fine. I suppose… I enjoy gardening as it’s an exercise in control.”

  “Control?”

  “The gardener has a lot of power,” he continues. “The life and wellbeing of his garden depends upon him. His direct actions have consequences. If he is good at his job, it is his wishes alone that become the reality of his garden.”

  “Are you trying to say that gardening is a lot like being the president?”

  David’s voice is forlorn. “Oh, I wish running the country was so easy. My garden is under my complete control.”

  “And being the president isn’t?”

  “No, you are not under my complete control,” he breathes. “Which is why we’re here, isn’t it?”

  I look around us. There are a few Secret Service operatives within sight, but none within earshot. We’re safe.

  “Come sit with me,” he orders.

  There’s a bench here that gives us a beautiful view. Sitting down, the plants around us only look bigger and more wondrous.

  “David, please,” I begin. “Listen, I didn’t mean to cause a scene in your office-”

  “You didn’t mean to burst in while I was in the middle of a vital meeting?” he asks wryly.

  “But you have to understand,” I continue. “Today… it’s been a lot. And for you to tell me that I can’t even go home and that I have to obey this schedule…”

  “It won’t be forever, Veronica,” he says, surprisingly gentle. “This will all blow over soon enough.”

  “That could take months.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want money?” he asks again. “I can make sure you’re well paid from all of this. That would make things easier.”