Chapter 36

Beatrice

The charade begins.

I dislike the maneuvering and the deception, but it’s a necessary step and a precaution I have to take—for my own sake, as well as for Henry’s.

It’s the reason I hardly leave the White House anymore.

But with Henry so focused on his re-election campaign already, things between us have to appear perfect—at least outwardly. And sometimes, I get the notion that—at this stage—appearances are more important to him than where we actually stand.

I, for one, certainly feel the tension and pressure rising. One misstep, and I could hurt his career or cost him the election.

Hope remains my confidante in all this. She helps me orchestrate this plan, so I can leave the White House for an afternoon. Because once I’m outside, the press will hound me without mercy.

I was hoping working freelance on the side would provide me with the much-needed relief and distraction from this scrutinized and official life I’m now leading. But Henry quickly shot down that idea and explained in straightforward terms how I would not have time to work on anything.

Frankly, that dampens my spirits quite a lot.

Everyone on the outside might assume I’m living a fairy tale as the woman dating the young and attractive president, but the reality is far from it.

My work is an integral part of me, and if I can’t write, I’m not myself. I can’t go on writing Henry’s biography forever, especially when my role in his life remains unclear.

“You okay, Beatrice?”

Hope’s gentle voice rouses me from my somber musings.

I nod.

“Yeah, I’m ready.”

“Now, listen, here’s today’s strategy. I couldn’t raise a full motorcade for you this time, but you’ll have two cars. You’ll be in the second one.”

“Got it.”

“We’ll have two motorcycles accompany the limo in front, as a diversion. The cars will split, and any paparazzi on your tail should assume the important passenger—you—is riding in the limo. If you want to take the extra step, you can then swap for a taxi. Regardless, these two will follow you everywhere.”

She points to my two bodyguards, my two shadows, as I call them by now. I lamely raise my hand, since I’m already far too familiar with them. Neither of them moves a muscle.

“This should get you to your destination without the press. But as always, we can’t prevent anyone from recognizing you in public.”

“I know,” I reply as I hold up my sunglasses and an inconspicuous-looking hat resting in my lap.

“Good. Now, good luck out there. Call for pick up when you’re done.”

She puts her hand on my shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze. I place my hand on hers then squeeze back.

Hope has been so understanding with all this.

I remember the beginning when I falsely suspected there was some attraction going on between her and Henry. Those were simpler times.

I get up and leave the West Wing by a side door. Screened from public view, I enter the smaller car parked behind the limousine Hope has designated as decoy in this maneuver.

Uncomfortably, I settle in my seat and put on my sunglasses and hat. Despite the tinted windows, I feel quite exposed.

The lurking press have been the reason I’ve come to loathe leaving the safe surroundings of the White House—apart from clandestine visits to the doctor to check on the progress of my pregnancy.

Every single time, we have to go through this exhaustive ordeal; and apart from Hope, it seems the staff are less and less understanding.

I know that there are whispers behind my back and that, to some, I’m just a little girl or princess clinging to the president’s coattails.

Hope has been essential in organizing the occasional escape and remained at my side, and I silently thank her again.

Today, I’m not going to the doctor, but the occasion is just as important to my well-being.

The press are upon us as soon as we leave the gate, clamoring outside the vehicles, and I shrink in my seat. Cameras flash, but the driver assures me that all they get is their reflection in the mirrored windows.

As predicted, we pick up a tail of reckless paparazzi trailing the cars. The vehicles execute the bait-and-switch split at a busy intersection, and it goes according to Hope’s plan. My bodyguards advise against the taxi, and we head directly to my destination instead.

I glance at my watch. This whole charade means I have to keep my friend waiting, but it can’t be helped.

I’ve picked a café by the waterfront in Georgetown, frequented mostly by students rather than journalists and political hacks. I suppose they’ll be too occupied with their books and devices to notice or recognize me, let alone care.

One of my security detail quickly inspects the place before I’m allowed to leave the car and enter the Woke & Wired Café. He hangs back at the bar, but the other agent parks himself at the neighboring table.

“Is this really necessary, Beatrice?” Fiona asks, indicating both the bodyguards and my sunglasses-and-hat disguise with a long roll of her eyes.

She stands to greet me with a sigh. I hug her briefly before I quickly sit down.

“Shh, keep your voice down,” I say as I take off the sunglasses.

One comment from my editor and boss is enough to make me compromise my cover, I think, but before I can work that into a punch line, looking directly into Fiona’s eyes makes me feel better instantly.

“I’ve missed you, Fiona.”

“Girl, it’s like you dropped off the face of the Earth there. Has politics finally swallowed you up whole?”

“Kind of,” I say with a shrug.

There’s more to it than that, and she knows it. Yet it seems Fiona and I have to find our footing again. There was a time not too long ago when I confided in her like I now confide in Hope.

Unlike me, Fiona hasn’t yet found a replacement in that equation—I hope.

“So how’s the book coming along?” she asks, all business.

That’s definitely the editor in her talking, and I appreciate and smile at the familiar tone in her voice, always holding me up to her highest standards.

“You know, the president is always working. So, in turn, I’m always working. But more and more, it’s coming together.”

“So, all’s work, huh?”

Fiona raises an eyebrow but doesn’t pursue the matter further.

“Have you seen the news?” she asks and flops a copy of today’s New York Times on the table.

She rifles through the pages and shows me a quarter page article in the politics section, tapping the headline.

“Up-and-coming senator resigns over extra-marital pregnancy,” I read out loud.

I then quickly scan the article, feeling flustered already by the headline mentioning a politician and a pregnancy.

“This sonny boy was polling like a young god and was pretty much set to win the California special elections,” Fiona sums it up for me. “Yet he just threw his entire career away when his mistress got herself pregnant. Even the Golden State isn’t that progressive that he could sell an affair to his voters.”

I feel my face getting red hot.

“Excuse me, got herself pregnant? I don’t think conceiving a child happens to any woman just being by her own self. Even the Virgin Mary didn’t conceive all on her own—and got herself pregnant!”

“Sweet, Jesus,” Fiona exclaims, throwing up her hands. “Don’t get all uptight and Catholic on me over an expression. You know what I mean.”

We glare at each other for a long second.

“I just wanted to show you this. In fact, the D.C. Digest has written it up quite neutrally. You can imagine how the tabloids are running with this,” she informs me as she packs the newspaper away. “All I’m saying is, whatever you do, be professional. Think of his career, and think of your own.”

Now it’s my turn to heave a sigh.

Little does she know of the situation I’m in. My rational mind is appealing to my heart to not become too emotional about this. And, when I look at it objectively, the case of the young senator from California and his mistress is very different from Henry and me.

In fact, it doesn’t reflect my situation at all.

Henry isn’t married. We’re not cheating on anyone. We’re dating, and everything about this is respectable.

Am I seriously comparing the two cases side by side?

No one really knows I’m pregnant yet, aside from my doctor and Hope.

For a brief moment, I consider telling Fiona—to confide in her and ask for her advice, not just from journalist to editor, but from friend to friend.

But I haven’t even told Henry. How can I tell Fiona?

Still, the story has struck a chord in me that keeps on ringing.

“Speaking of profession,” I say trying to focus away from the story. “I have a question for you, but maybe we leave that for coffee. What do you say, should we order?”

We have gazpacho and vegetable quiche for lunch. Fiona does her best to catch me up on the office gossip I’ve missed and answer all my questions. I’m hungry for talk and information about the world outside the White House and hang onto her lips for every word.

It’s almost like old times, but as we finally arrive at coffee, it becomes clear to me that in the presence of the bodyguards, neither of us can fully relax.

“So,” Fiona says, stirring sugar into her cappuccino, “that professional question of yours...shoot.”

“I was wondering about that foreign bureau chief position at the paper. Have you filled it yet?”

Fiona stops in surprise, her spoon suspended.

“Are you interested?”

I start nodding, my head moving up and down more firmly the more I think about it.

“Yes,” I reply as a smile spreads across Fiona’s face. “It’s something I could see myself doing.”