Chapter 13
Andi
I don’t get a chance to drop the proverbial bomb on Nolan—i.e., tell him about the whole Gretchen-thinks-we’re-a-couple thing and beg him to go along with it. Because when Eric and Gretchen arrive, things get chaotic and he’s urgently required outside.
It’s a bloodbath out there, at least from what I can hear in the comfort of the jet. The reporters shout a myriad of scandal-related questions at Eric, like, How is your marriage? What about your children? How long before you announce your divorce?
The last day has been absolutely wild. Ever since the book was linked to me in the media, my phone has been flooded with DMs from random people.
I’ve had to temporarily disable all my accounts.
For the first time in months, my mom called me yesterday, in a tizzy over me dishonoring the family name and whatnot.
“All the women at the golf club are asking me about it. It’s so embarrassing,” she complained.
I choked back a laugh. Last time I saw Amanda, she was joking about how many times in one conversation Mom references her fancy golf club frenemies, who she’s obsessed with impressing. The count often reaches the high teens.
“None of it’s true,” I reiterated for the fourth time in five minutes.
“I really hope not, Andrea. Especially this…racy memoir. Your father and I—well, not your father. I raised you better than that. Your grandmother would roll over in her grave if she knew about this. It would be so embarrassing for the entire family.” By the disappointment in her tone, you’d think I’d committed some unspeakable, violent crime.
She then launched into a tirade about how she knew this role as PA was “bad news.” That it was nothing more than a “glorified maid” position.
“You know, we could sue them for this. Dave has a lawyer friend who specializes in defamation. I bet he’ll—” she started, referring to my stepdad.
I like Dave enough, mostly because he rarely says a word, unless you bring up outer space (his obsession).
But his family is similar to my mother’s.
They’re judgmental, the types who make you feel like you’re under a microscope.
The first time Amanda and I went to his place for Christmas as teens, we overheard his mother laughing in the kitchen about how we used the wrong forks at dinner.
Ever since, Amanda has purposely used the wrong utensils on the rare occasions we visit, including a salad fork to eat her soup (while maintaining a straight face).
“Mom, it’s fine. Eric’s and Gretchen’s legal teams are handling this,” I assured. It’s a partial truth. Their teams are handling it, but only for Eric and Gretchen’s benefit. Not mine.
I couldn’t get her off the phone fast enough. I had bigger things to worry about, like the wild fact that The Prime Minister & Me rocketed to #45 in “Erotic Fiction” and #90 overall on the charts.
When I first saw it, I thought for sure it was a glitch. I spent all morning refreshing the rankings, waiting for it to descend back to its rightful place, buried under millions of other books. Until now, my work has never cracked the top 100 of anything, not even the top 500,000.
A fresh wave of guilt washes over me as Eric and Gretchen board.
Gretchen’s forced smile disappears the moment she enters, as does her grip on Eric’s hand as she beelines it for her usual seat.
She promptly slaps on her satin sleep mask and reclines, conveniently ignoring the flight attendant’s soft warning that she’ll need to be in an upright position for takeoff.
Eric carries on like everything is sunshine and rainbows. He’s his usual friendly self, greeting the staff, making sprightly small talk before turning to me. “Andi, listen, I’m so sorry for all of this. It’s all my fault,” he whispers.
“How is it your fault?” I counter.
“I’m the one who made you set up the whole dinner. Made you stay late and talk.”
I shake my head, repeating what Nolan told me. “It’s no one’s fault, except whoever snapped those photos. We both know the truth.”
He blows the air from his cheeks, seemingly grateful for my understanding. “It’s true. It’ll all blow over soon enough, I’m sure.”
There’s strain behind his smile. No doubt this rumor is taking a toll. This added stress was the absolute last thing they needed in their relationship. And then there’s the kids. I’m sure they’re getting asked about it at school.
“Andi, did you bring the templates for the table numbers and place cards?” Gretchen snaps out of nowhere, shooting upright. Her tone cuts the air, and everyone stops. I hold back a laugh, because her sleep mask is still on and she’s not even remotely facing my direction.
“Yes, they’re on your tablet,” I say, standing to fetch it from her bag. I make quick work of pulling them up before she removes her mask.
She takes one look at them and nearly incinerates me with her grimace. “These are the wrong ones.”
They aren’t. Last week, Gretchen was going back and forth between the floral templates or the plain ones. I know this for a fact because she ranted for a solid ten minutes about how the plain ones were too “pedestrian.” “You said last week you wanted the floral ones,” I point out politely.
“Yes, but I wanted them to be pink. For breast cancer. The entire theme of the gala. Obviously,” she hisses.
Gretchen is notorious for thinking things and not verbalizing them, then mistaking it for a real conversation. I don’t bother to correct her, especially not when she’s in a mood. So I just lower my head and nod. “I’ll get the pink ones.”
I’m furiously scouring the depths of the internet for similar pink templates when the rest of the staff arrive, including Stephanie, Eric’s chief of staff.
She’s understandably overwhelmed by the reporters and spills coffee all over herself two seconds after boarding.
I rush to help clean it up before the air staff have time to react, mostly out of guilt.
After all, I’m the reason for all the disorder outside.
There are whispers from the front of the plane. I try to strain to listen to their conversation, only picking up bits and pieces from where I’m sitting at the back of the jet.
It’s really a problem.
Have to deal with it sooner rather than later.
Whether Gretchen likes it or not.
Oh god. This doesn’t sound good.
My stomach twists. What if they’re right?
What if Gretchen decides it’s not worth the media spectacle so close to the election?
What if she fires me, or is forced to? This kind of rumor is the worst-case scenario for an election campaign.
The last thing they need is me being photographed anywhere near Eric.
Every photo, every look, scrutinized by the public for any sign of a torrid romance between us, which, frankly, is laughable.
Compared to Gretchen, who’s basically a supermodel, I look like a Smurf in a dowdy cardigan.
I glance at her. She’s still reclined, mask back on, hands folded over her chest like an Egyptian mummy. I thought she might stick up for me, remind everyone that she’s the one who insisted I come on the trip despite the controversy. But she remains in tomb position.
“Don’t worry about them,” Nolan whispers, slipping into the aisle seat across from me.
The moment our eyes meet, I consider ripping the Band-Aid off and asking him to be my pretend boyfriend right here, right now. But how does one casually ask for that kind of favor?
Oh, hello, Nolan. You barely know me, but will you do me the honor of being my fake boyfriend so people don’t think I’m sleeping with the prime minister?
Would you be willing to risk your new job to lie on my behalf? I’ll name a character in my next book after you.
Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to kiss me in public. I’ll try not to cut your lip with my teeth this time.
God. The possibilities just keep getting worse.
He could have a girlfriend, a fiancée, a wife, multiple children for all I know. So naturally, I sit there in agonizing silence, pretending to be engrossed with the ultraserious task of choosing a template while internally spiraling about what my life has come to.
About an hour into the flight, Gretchen comes to the back. She no longer looks like she wants to kill me. In fact, when she crouches down in the aisle between Nolan’s and my seats, her face breaks into a grin. I guess her nap did wonders.
“You know, I was thinking, you two should take the night off when we get there. Maybe go on a date or something. Remember that restaurant you booked for us for my birthday last year? The one that served rattlesnake and kangaroo?” Gretchen asks, glancing eagerly between me and Nolan.
Between snake and kangaroo in a food context, it takes me a moment to register what she’s just said. A date. When Nolan flashes me a look that screams, What in the world is this woman talking about?, my stomach descends into my asshole.
Oh no.
No. No. No.
A nasty smoker’s cough rockets out of my throat, and it turns the heads of all the passengers up front.
Even the stewardess springs into action to bring me a glass of water.
I’ve never wanted to disintegrate into the fabric of the chair more than I do right now.
Now would be a good time for the oxygen masks to drop from the ceiling. Even a brown paper bag would do.
“Oh, um, thanks for the suggestion,” I manage through a wheeze, praying she’ll leave without another word.
She does not. “It’s superromantic. Tell them you work for me and see if they’ll give you guys a mountain view. Oh, and make sure you two amend the room booking,” she says, winking at a very confused Nolan.
He sits forward, brows creased. “Room booking?”
“You two have separate rooms. You only need one since you’re together. Best to cut costs for trips like this, especially before the election. It’ll be audited and scrutinized each way to Sunday,” she says with a knowing brow raise before slinking off back to her seat.
Nolan turns in my direction, gifting me with a bewildered expression. “What was that all about? Is it normal for employees to…share rooms?”
“Um—no.” Shit. How do I even begin to explain? “For the record, I’m really, really sorry.” Sorry seems like a good place to start.
“Sorry? For what?”
I peer around, ensuring everyone is occupied or out of earshot. “Gretchen thinks we’re dating,” I whisper, lightning fast.
He blinks in rapid succession, seemingly too stunned to speak. I can’t tell if he didn’t understand my mumble, or if he’s as appalled as I am with myself. “Wait, what? Why would she think that?”
“She saw us coming out of the storage closet and assumed we were canoodling in there.”
His entire face lights up with a grin. “Did you just say ‘canoodling’?”
“What’s wrong with canoodling?”
“Do you mean fucking?” he asks bluntly.
Pin prickles erupt everywhere. Why is my body reacting like this? I will never be able to unhear Nolan saying the word “fucking” in that deep, baritone voice. I will also never get the barrage of images out of my mind. Clearly, I need to write a closet sex scene.
“No!” I squeak. “I meant canoodling. It’s an all-encompassing word. It could mean anything from kissing to touching to, yes, technically having sex.”
He raises a brow. “If you say so. You are the writer.”
We’ve seriously gone off track, so I turn my legs in his direction and lean in. “Look, I didn’t get the chance to come up with an explanation on the spot with everything else going on. And now it’s too far gone. She thinks we’re a legit couple. Boyfriend and girlfriend.”
He lets out a low whistle, taking it all in. “Jeez. She seems…very invested in you.”
I don’t have time to explain that she’s desperate to fix this affair situation in any way possible. If us being a couple helps to quell the rumors on the Hill, she’s going to do whatever she can to make it happen. Instead, I settle on, “Gretchen is very passionate.”
“Well, I’m, uh…flattered, I guess, to be your pretend boyfriend?” he says, though I’m not so sure. He tugs at his collar, watching me expectantly.
“Just so you know, you don’t have to do this. Say the word and I’ll fix it,” I tell him genuinely. I’d rather jump out of this jet midair than tell Gretchen we aren’t actually together, but I also can’t force him to participate in this insanity and risk his job, too.
“Honestly, I’m just taking it all in,” he says when he notices me staring at him intensely, awaiting my fate.
“I’d understand completely if you were pissed. I mean, this is a lot. God.” I proceed to smoosh my forehead into the seat in front of me before looking at him again. “I’m so sorry. I’m very aware of how ridiculous this is.”
“Why do you always do that?” he asks, holding my gaze.
The serious inflection in his tone stops me in my tracks. “Do what?”
“Apologize incessantly for things that aren’t your fault? Roll over immediately to please people?”
I blink down at my tray, dumbfounded. “Oh. I didn’t mean to. I’m sor—” I squeeze my eyes shut, catching myself red-handed in the reflex. I don’t have a response, because it never occurred to me that I do this. All the time, apparently. And I certainly never expected him to notice.
Nolan offers me a sympathetic smile before standing. “I’ve got some things to do before landing.”