ADJUSTING
Charlotte
Matthew has flown out for a meeting with the prime minister of Canada, and I spend the next few days adjusting to life in the White House.
I look at the menus on Sunday, and I tell the chef that I really don’t think we need to have fancy menus or fancy desserts on a daily basis, that plain apple pie will do.
He created this version of an apple pie that’s several layers, has a bit of cheesecake mingled in with the cinnamon apples, and I’ve never tasted anything so divine in my life.
“I’ve never gone to a restaurant with food as good as the food you cook, Chef.”
“It’s our job to keep you well fed and happy—and it’s our job to make you and our country look good with all our visiting foreign dignitaries.”
We’re hosting a state dinner for President Asaf in two months and before he left, Matt said, “Spare no expense.”
One of the things I learned upon arrival at the White House was that the first family pays for their personal expenses, including their staff and food. “Matt—I know your family has money, but you’ll leave with no money if you—”
He started laughing, then assured me, “Spare no expense. This is the United States of America, and the White House. It’s an investment.”
“If we stick to a reasonable budget for the state dinner, the State Department will foot the bill,” Clarissa assured me when I expressed my concern to her, later.
I occasionally wander around the house with the curator, asking him to teach me about the artwork and the relics. There is so much history here. So much heart and depth. I love it, but I haven’t seen Matthew for days.
I’ve looked at my schedule and had chats with my press secretary, chief of staff, and social director, and I’m tempted to work my schedule around his when he returns, when Clarissa tells me, “The president’s chief of staff asked me to adjust your schedule so you could do several events with him.”
I blush. Is he as eager about seeing me as I am him? “Absolutely; it’s my pleasure.”
She and the social director sort of look at each other in mischief. I laugh. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“We didn’t say a word.”
“Look, we’re both really interested in doing our best here—”
“We’re not judging, Miss Wells, on the contrary. You look good together.”
I just smile, not knowing what to say. I miss him so much. It’s still incredible for me to be here, that we’re giving this a shot.
A day before Matt is due to return, I just can’t take it a second longer. I head to the West Wing.
“Portia, could you connect me with the president?”
“I . . . he’s on Air Force One. Let me see if I can get him.”
After a moment, I wait for him to take the call.
“Hey.” His voice is husky.
“I’m sorry to bother you—are you busy? Oh, I’m sure you are.” I laugh and exhale. “I miss you.”
“I miss you too.”
“Would you have dinner with me in the Old Family Dining Room tomorrow?”
“I’m there,” he says without hesitation.
I’m nervous about going through with this. I need that connection. I’m going crazy for it. I want his strength, I want his arms around me, I want him. I just want him and I want him to know how much he is wanted by me.
Matt
I’m edgy and I can’t take the edge off.
We’re flying home on Air Force One, D.C. already beneath us.
I’ve been rehashing a new plan to get the economy rolling again.
“The markets have rallied. The dollar is stronger from the moment you took office,” Frederickson, the VP, says, tossing a tennis ball up in the air and catching it.
“Markets merely speculate. We need concrete results, to get our economy running again. Where are we on our education bill?” I ask Dale.
“Should be done by next week.”
“I want us to invest in our youth. Education, top level. Next up is healthcare. Women having equal pay—paid maternal leave so they can spend the time they need with their newborns. Too many people who are hurting out there who weren’t tended to properly.”
“Your call, Mr. President.”
“And get me the Speaker of the House. And I want a meeting with the Democratic and Republican leaders—there are ways we can make this work without putting up a thousand and one walls.”
Dale nods and leaves, and Frederickson follows to the door, shouting, “Catch!” and sending the ball flying my way.
Jack leaps up before I can grab it, then trots and brings it over.
“Good dog!” Frederickson applauds, impressed.
I pull out my glasses to continue reading and catch Jack sniffing my coffee cup as he sets the ball on my desk. “No more, buddy.” I turn the cup and let him lick a drop—and I think of her, with her red hair swinging, bringing me coffee. I think of her spread out beneath me. Moaning. Wanting it.
She wants us to have dinner. I know what she wants. I want it too.
She wanted time, concerned about the media.
I’ve been patient. But I’m tired of worrying about the media. I’m tired of being unable to take her out in public. I’m fucking tired of hiding the one thing I personally value aside my job and my country. Yeah, I’m looking forward to dinner. The only thing I hunger for is her.