Chapter 31

Henry

I’m not sure if checking the news was such a good idea. I have staff in the media, of course, who could read, review, compile data, and make a presentation. But I’m nervous like a kid on Christmas morning who doesn’t know if the big glittery box is all his dreams come true or if it’s a mountain of coal.

The fact is: I love Beatrice. I’d like everyone else to love her, too. It’s not that I really give a damn what people think—even if public opinion did get me elected—but I know it would be easier for her in her future role as first lady if they did.

That’s how I find myself sitting at my desk in my study with newspapers and magazines literally plastered from one end to the other. I’ve almost buried my coffee with the amount of paper. I have to hunt it out through loose pages before taking a deep sip.

Most of the really respectable newspapers have only nice things to say. We’re the top of the social pages, but not in the actual news. This could be a really good sign, or it might just mean that it wasn’t a slow week in the news.

I doubt there’s any industry bias—even though Beatrice is well-respected and admired in her field. I doubt other journalists, at least those with any real integrity, would hold back just for that reason.

Pushing aside the more balanced newspapers, the bright colors and glossy pages of the magazines look garish. There are dozens of derogatory remarks, and some are quite lewd. I find it difficult to believe anyone could actually print this rubbish.

‘Cheeky Journalist Wants To Be First Lady’

‘How to Become an American Princess’

‘Bountiful Beatrice Takes President For A Ride’

And my favorite—‘The New Lewinsky’.

I know it’s just sensationalist, temporary reading. It serves a purpose. It entertains.

They have to sell their magazines. Lies and dodgy headlines do that.

I’m just disappointed—and a bit aggravated on her behalf—because none of those headlines are anything like Bea.

She would never manipulate me or anyone that way, either—her most admirable feature is her integrity.

I hear the door and look up to see Beatrice walking in. She looks bright and happy, albeit tired. She seems a bit down lately. I hope she’s not coming down with something.

I’d hide the papers, but there’s no point. She’s going to see it all eventually.

And truthfully, it’s best we meet this challenge head on together.

“What are you up to?” she asks, pulling a couple of folders out of her bag. “I thought we could go over that—”

She pauses, face going still as she looks slowly over the papers across the desk. She reads a few, sliding pages back and forth. Her eyes are fierce when she looks back up at me.

“Don’t pay much attention to it, Bea. This is just part of the life. Being in the public eye means people are going to be looking at you all the time. Most of them won’t like you, but I wanted to get a rundown on what the country thought of you.”

She leans over the table, catching her lip between her teeth thoughtfully.

“It isn’t good, from the looks of it.”

“You know the industry. They make up all kinds of things just to sell more papers. Seriously, this is nothing to worry about. Once the wedding preparations start, everyone will fall in love with you. We’ll have to get a nice album done in a good magazine about your dress and how you picked it out. They love that kind of thing.”

She nods slowly, looking pale and withdrawn. I can’t tell if it’s the bug she can’t seem to shake, or if this has really affected her more than expected.

“Beatrice?”

She looks up, smiling, waving a hand. “It’s okay, Henry. I just got a bit of a shock. I’ve worked so hard on my career. Do the people who print this stuff even think about that? Why would I have worked so hard on my career, never even having time to date, if my goal was a trophy husband? It just doesn’t make sense.”

I can’t help the short laugh, it just bursts out of me.

“That’s just it; you’re giving them way too much credit. They don’t care about if something makes sense. Hell, I don’t think they even care if people believe it. They just want it to sell.”

“I know that’s true. In my own work, marketability is important, of course, but it’s the content of the work that matters. It’s about revealing the facts in an entertaining way that isn’t overtly decorated. I can’t even imagine writing something like this, ignoring the facts to focus on sensationalized details.”

“Well, that’s why we hired you to write my biography: not just your ability to work with facts, but your efficiency at producing them in a readable way.”

“That, and you wanted me around again.” She smirks and pushes aside the tabloids to look at the papers underneath.

Well, she isn’t completely wrong.

“Well, at least these guys have been a bit kinder. I don’t like being noticed more for my associations than for my work, but at least they aren’t calling me a man-eater,” she says with a soft sigh.

I push the magazines away, trying to stack them at the end of the desk. One of the tabloids has something about an alien baby slashed across its front, right underneath a bad photo of Beatrice and some very unfriendly comments.

“Hey,” I grin up at her, desperate to break the tension, “It could be worse. At least you’re not pregnant.”

I wait for her to laugh and brush it off. When she doesn’t, I look up, wondering if she heard me right.

She’s standing up straight, arms folded.

“Just what exactly are you implying by that?”

“Nothing. I—”

“The idea that I would do such a thing is appalling. You know I wouldn’t do something like that.”

“Yes, I know—”

“It’s completely insulting, in the first place, to even think that a woman in my position would forget about something like that.”

Her mouth trembles and her eyes sparkle, just a bit. She wipes her eyes furiously as she goes on.

I admit that I’m a bit gobsmacked right now.

“My career is the most important thing in my life. I’m always very careful. There’s no way I’m going to get pregnant until I’m ready and in a secure position to do so! There’s so much work I want to get done before I even consider having a family.”

“Okay.”

This has really taken a bad turn. I’m not sure how we galloped off into such rocky territory.

This certainly isn’t like Bea at all, and I can only guess that the stress has started to get under her skin.

And yet I can’t help but feel as if there’s something more than she’s telling me. I didn’t get to where I am without being able to read people, and I like to think I’ve got a good read on Beatrice.

“So, what if I did get pregnant, what then? Is everyone in the papers going to automatically hate me? It’s just a given that if I get pregnant too early in the dating stage, I must have done it deliberately? Give me a break.”

She takes a few steps away. Grips her arms as she looks out the window. I get up and step up behind her, placing my hands on her shoulders affectionately.

“I’m so sorry. I really didn’t think about what I was saying. I just tried to make a joke. A really poor one, obviously. I know, these are very serious things to consider. I shouldn’t have tried to joke about it.”

She turns to face me, looking more pale and fragile than ever. Her big eyes search mine. She’s so close to me that I can feel her warmth, yet at the same time, she’s miles away.

I have no idea what’s going on behind those beautiful eyes.

“I’m sorry, too. The headlines just shook me up a bit. And when you mentioned babies…well, it’s a very serious topic.”

“Indeed.”

She stands there, arms crossed, looking up at me. I wrap my arms around her and pull her in tightly. She sighs and leans her head against my chest.

For a moment, things feel right as rain again.

“We should really get some work done today. The biography is not going to write itself.”

“You can take the day off, Bea.”

“It’s okay. I’m fine.”

Just like that, she’s all business again as she heads back to the table. Bea picks up her folders. She holds them to her chest, and I make my way back to the desk.

Bea walks over to give me a quick kiss and a faint smile.

“I love you,” she whispers.

“I love you, too.”

Her smile brightens just a bit at my words, and she heads out of the office.

My hand rubs against my chin as I watch her leave, and I’m left with this feeling that something isn’t right.