Chapter 8
Andi
Scandal at the Table: PM and Assistant Getting Cozy at Intimate Dinner
Restaurant Photos Fuel Speculation About Eric Nichols and Wife’s Assistant
Eric Nichols’ Rumored Steamy Affair With Wife’s Personal Assistant
Whispers of Infidelity: Pm’s Dinner Date Raises Eyebrows
And then there are the photos.
They’re of last night. And admittedly, they look bad.
It’s a direct shot of Eric and me at the table—the harpist and Nolan cropped out. Beside the candles and flowers, Eric is leaning in close. It looks like we’re staring dreamily into each other’s eyes.
If that’s not bad enough, there’s a couple shots where it looks like he’s touching my elbow, when really, it’s when he accidentally knocked over the saltshaker.
And then there’s the last few photos, where it appears we’re holding hands, even though it was merely a one-second squeeze.
Nothing remotely intimate or romantic. In fact, I’ve always considered Eric a remarkably cooler, older brother figure.
With each new headline and accompanying photo, I lose a year of my life.
I think I’m having an out-of-body experience.
It’s like I’m watching myself, pale like Casper the Friendly Ghost, death-clutching Gretchen’s chair with my sweaty hands so hard, I’m shocked the leather doesn’t puncture.
My heart thrashes, desperate to burst free and run out of this house.
Out of this city. I’m certain both Gretchen and Bethany can hear it.
And probably everyone in the whole house, for that matter.
My eyes latch on to Gretchen’s, bypassing her hard stare.
“Gretchen, I swear to you, there’s absolutely nothing like that going on.
We were just talking. I was giving him advice about how to fix things with you,” I assure her, clumsily explaining the saltshaker incident and the quick hand squeeze.
“I don’t—I don’t think that way about Eric.
Ever. You guys are like family to me.” Those words sound ludicrous coming out of my mouth.
But how does one eloquently convince their boss they’re not sleeping with their husband?
“Actually, there’s more. It’s not just the photos,” Bethany warns.
My brows shoot up. “More?” What more could there possibly be?
Gretchen opens yet another tab and my gut curdles.
A partial image of a dapper man in a suit with a shadowed outline of Parliament in the background takes up the entire screen.
It’s my second book, to be exact. The Prime Minister & Me, about an affair between a prime minister and his assistant.
It’s my steamiest book—as in 11/10 eggplants on the heat scale, a departure from the low-heat, angstier vibe of my first book.
It was probably the most fun I’ve ever had writing.
At the time, work was starting to take over my life.
Escaping into a made-up world about a fictional silver fox of a PM and his assistant having hot sex on various surfaces around Parliament proved an excellent escape.
A far cry from the gritty, bureaucratic world of real-life politics.
It was also easy to write, because inspiration was all around me.
I open my mouth to speak, but my shock mutes me.
Before I can cobble together a sentence, Gretchen cuts in.
“After the photos leaked this morning, the media naturally did some digging on you and found this…erotic novel.” The way she says “erotic novel,” as though it were written by the devil himself, is exactly why I used a pen name to begin with.
“It’s speculated to have been penned by you. A memoir of sorts. Look familiar?” Bethany asks. “The media have called, requesting comment for their follow-up story.”
“Memoir? Follow-up story?” I cringe, heat emanating from my cheeks, throat, and entire body.
“Linking you to the book,” Bethany explains. “They see it as added proof of the affair. They’ll be publishing the story tomorrow.”
I want to throw up. Even under all my layers of polyester and wool, I feel naked.
Entirely exposed. That’s why Noella and Ann were looking at me sideways.
Everyone thinks I’m some sex-crazed freak who’s having an affair with Eric, or at the very least, fantasizing about it.
And worst of all, my boss thinks I’ve written a self-insert erotica about her husband.
Her. Husband.
The prime minister of Canada.
Fuck my life.
Death may be a welcome alternative.
“You know the opposition is already popping bottles in their offices, hoping this and the Kirkwood scandal will be the catalyst that shifts public opinion. So please, please make my day easier and tell me this isn’t you.
That the photos mean nothing,” Gretchen says.
The anger hardening her face has softened slightly, replaced by what looks like a plea.
I mentally assess my options. The photos are completely innocuous. But the book isn’t. I did write it.
I could admit it, explain that the story has nothing to do with Eric or me. That it merely served as a setting for two completely fictional characters who bear no resemblance to me or Eric. Nothing more, which is the cold, hard truth.
But would Gretchen and everyone else actually buy it?
Would they really believe it was simply a work of fiction?
Regardless, I could never be Gretchen’s PA as well as a romance writer whose books include some seriously scorching face-sitting scenes by chapter 3.
Not to mention, my mom would burst into flames and disintegrate into ash if she ever read a single word.
My second option is to deny it all. Aside from the initials, the pen name isn’t linked to my real identity in any tangible way. I’ve gone through painstaking efforts to keep the two identities separate.
“Andi, was it you who wrote this book?” Gretchen asks again, growing increasingly uncomfortable with my silence. “I don’t want to accuse you of anything, but there are things in here that only an insider would know.”
“You read it?” I ask, my jaw ticking.
“Well, I skimmed it, of course, but had to stop at erect peach nipples. God knows I’ll never get that half hour of my life back,” she continues, not bothering to hide her distaste.
“No. Of course I didn’t write it.” I twitch when the words come out, just waiting for her to call me out like she always does.
She watches me for what feels like an entire year.
My body feels like it’s ready to burst into flame under the pressure. But what other choice do I have? If I admit to being A. A. Zed, I might as well kiss my job goodbye. My entire reputation would be tainted as a mistress / smut memoir writer.
Even if I could prove I’m not involved with Eric, everyone would think I’m creepily obsessed with him.
That every sexy scene in that book is based on my real thoughts, even though it’s not.
No one would take me seriously, ever again.
And worse, it could cause even more tension between Gretchen and Eric.
The last thing I want to do is make her feel like she can’t trust me around her husband.
Bethany continues through my silence. “Given the security situation around Eric, it would be a conflict of interest. If you did write it, now is the time to fess up so we can fix this.”
Conflict of interest. No shit.
And so it’s decided: Nothing positive can come from admitting it. Denial is my only option.
“I did not write it, and nothing is going on between me and Eric,” I repeat, careful not to let my voice waver under Gretchen’s searing gaze. I feel like Bill Clinton saying he did not have sexual relations. God, I hate lying.
Gretchen shifts her elbow onto the armrest, staring at me, waiting for me to crack. A millennium passes until she finally says, “Okay. I believe you.”
I have to stop myself from flopping out of my chair entirely.
With Gretchen’s support, Bethany switches her tune. “The media has no tangible proof that you wrote it, aside from speculation regarding the initials and the fact that the author also lives in Ottawa, according to their biography.”
“How do we make the headlines go away?” Gretchen asks Bethany, as though she’s a genie in a bottle who can make all of this disappear in a puff of smoke.
“We cannot, under any circumstances, allow the public to believe the story has any validity, especially months before the election. So as of now, our stance is to do nothing aside from feed the news positive stories about Eric and Gretchen. Other than that, we ride it out and hope it goes away. Luckily, these headlines haven’t made it to mainstream news outlets.
We think Eric responding to the rumors will only bring more attention to them. ”
“Right,” I say. That’s one thing I’ll never understand about world leaders. You have to portray this outdated, picture-perfect family image in order to have any clout with voters. A solid family unit exudes the image of stability and relatability.
“We need everyone to believe Eric and Gretchen’s marriage is strong,” Bethany continues, biting her tongue when she realizes how that sounded. She glances at Gretchen sympathetically. “Not that it isn’t strong. I just mean—”
Gretchen puts her palm up. “It’s fine.”
“So that means, ideally, Andi and Eric should not be spotted publicly together, even with you present,” Bethany says to Gretchen.
“But wait, what about Squamish? That’s tomorrow,” I point out.
“I don’t think it would be wise of you to join any upcoming travel. But—” she continues, pausing to look at Gretchen.
“I insisted. I said I’m not going anywhere unless I can bring you. You not coming would look more suspicious, in my opinion. If nothing is going on, why wouldn’t I bring you?” Gretchen says firmly, her gaze meeting mine hopefully. “You’ll still come, right?”
“Of course,” I say dutifully. In a weird way, it feels kind of nice to be needed, even though it would be better if I didn’t go. “Listen, I’m sorry about all of this.”
Gretchen gives me wide eyes. “Why? It’s not your fault some weirdo snapped pictures of you guys.
I bet the opposition did it on purpose. I bet they even wrote the book themselves to stir shit up.
They knew where we were weak and thought they’d exploit it,” she says cynically.
Based on the shifty look on her face, she’s already strategizing.
After a couple minutes of Gretchen and Bethany trading conspiracy theories while I nearly expire in my chair, Gretchen dismisses us.
Bethany springs up from her seat, grateful to leave, but not before telling me, “The Close Protection Unit is going to give the book a read to make sure there’s nothing of concern. They might ask you some questions, but I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”
Normally I’d stick around to make sure Gretchen doesn’t need anything. But today, I bolt out of her office and down a quiet corridor. I steady myself against the wall, hands on knees, practically gasping for breath.
And then it hits me. Nolan.
He was the only other person at the restaurant last night. He’s also the only person who knows about my writing. Did he leak the photos and the book to the media?
He doesn’t strike me as the kind of person who would do that. In fact, if I were a betting woman, I’d have guessed he’d be the last person to expose me. What would he have to gain?
At the same time, how odd is it that days after he’s hired, I get doxed? It’s too big a coincidence to ignore.