Chapter 7
seven
Cindy
The first thing I do every night when I arrive home to my tiny garden-level D.C. apartment is take off my shoes and work clothes. Tonight, I slam the front door and throw my shoes across the front room.
Lizzie forwarded me the email from the patronizing little twerp who works for the Speaker’s office and who’s acting as gatekeeper for bringing the bill to the Floor.
Maybe if I golfed, I’d be able to approach the Speaker directly. But no, I have to get in line with everybody else not in the Speaker’s little cabal of favorites. And since her entire office knows it, they treat my staff like crap.
It infuriates me.
“Yes,” I answer my work phone when it rings, expecting it to be Lizzie following up on the email.
“Hi, is this a bad time?”
I pause as I’m rolling the panty hose I’ve learned to wear down one leg. I know that deep voice. “Hi. Mr. Vice President. Hello. ”
How is he this good at catching me off guard? I pride myself on my poise and yet here I stand, balancing on one leg with my underwear showing while I talk to the second most powerful man in the world.
“Hello. I wanted to call and check in. But I didn’t schedule in advance, so if you’re busy…”
“No, no. Please.” I sit on the end of my bed. “This is fine. Your time is valuable.”
I’d swear I can hear him smile, one of those toothy ones he gives in campaign ads. “Hardly. You’re actually writing laws over there. Everything on my schedule today consisted of important things the president was doing and ‘the vice president will also attend.’ I’m a human asterisk.”
I smile back, biting my lip and absently rubbing the sole of my foot, which is slightly swollen. Chasing down men in tunnels today got to me. “It’s tough being the understudy. You have to be just as prepared with less credit.”
“Tell me about it.” His voice is warm on the other end of the phone, self-deprecating but not bitter.
Standing and holding the cell phone between my shoulder and ear, I unhook my skirt and let it drop to the floor. “I was an understudy multiple times in college.”
“Oh? Did you study theater?”
“PoliSci major, theater minor, believe it or not. I was very dramatic.”
“ Was ?”
It’s a surprisingly insightful comment. I laugh. “OK, Mr. Vice President, I don’t think you know me well enough to tease.”
“I’m sorry, congresswoman.” Ironed free of any humor, his voice says he takes me seriously.
In the mirror on the back of my closet door, I’m flushed and half naked. This conversation is unfocused, but I’m tired. “No, I’m sorry. I’m just...I’m frankly tired of talking about politics after a long week and I’ve distracted us.”
“We don’t have to talk about politics,” he says immediately. Then we both pause a beat while I realize I want that—a conversation about something other than the bill we should be talking about—and he adds, “As hard as that is to imagine in Washington. Or, we can also reschedule this conversation.”
I hang up my silk shirt and stand in bra and panties. The air sliding across my skin might be his eyes, like he’s in the room with me. “Perhaps we can do both,” I suggest. “You can tell me about your dog for now and we can reschedule the political part for later.”
His chuckle brushes intimately against my ear. “You’re only interested in Thor, I knew it.”
I can’t help smiling wider. Bantering with this man is my biggest win today.
“I’m hoping for some exclusive content.” I unhook my bra, trying not to sigh in relief at dropping the underwire. I keep talking while I shimmy out of my thong and put on briefs and a t-shirt, balancing the phone on one shoulder. “But I guess you can’t text me any pics.”
“No, but if you play your cards right, my assistant can.”
“Just tell me what I’ve got to do, Mr. Vice President.” I stop, eyes widening at my own reflection. Why am I implying some kind of pay-for-play relationship?
He’s laughing. “Work a mention of Thor’s Instagram into your next media interview. He loves the free publicity.”
Thank God, he’s going to keep it light. I pull on my fuzzy robe. “I’ve always wondered if his name was Thor when you got him or you picked it.”
“Well, my mother gave him to me when I was still in the Senate. She said I needed company but I think she hoped he would get me a date. My dad called him a sissy dog and I wanted to defend his honor. Or defend my mother’s choice, one or the other.”
I’m trying not to be judgy, but his dad sounds like someone I wouldn’t like. This anecdote alone reminds me of my own dad, who always had his own way of putting my mom in what he thought of as her place . “Alexander Hamilton Drake, defender of women,” I say, walking out to the kitchen. “I think we’ve found your next campaign slogan.”
“As president, I pledge to provide as many cute puppy pics as possible…” he drawls, slipping into a lazy voice.
“As president?” I cut in. “Very revealing, sir.”
“I can neither confirm nor deny,” he recites, his voice dry. It’s the answer he gives when the press asks him if he plans to run in three years. “I am focused on the issues of the current administration,” he repeats by rote. I’m smiling, again, into the phone. It’s almost like we’re friends—the type of connection I haven’t made with anyone so far in Washington. Unless you count my staff, but I’m paying them.
I pour myself a large glass of Malbec. I have a lot of questions about Alex Drake’s plans, but I don’t want to put him back on guard. Backstabbing is too common in Washington for me to raise suspicions for the sake of my curiosity.
“Are you drinking wine?” he asks, as I’m raising the glass to my lips.
“I am,” I say. “Are you?”
“No, I’m out in the park again.”
“Do you always call me while you’re alone and walking your dog?” It doesn’t sound right the minute I say it. Why am I suddenly thinking about his penis? I’m as bad as Lizzie.
Putting my wine down, I sit on my lone kitchen stool, the one I use to eat alone when I’m not at some networking event. I pinch the bridge of my nose between my fingers as the line between us goes quiet again.
“Well,” he says. Is he going to tease me again? I hold my breath and cross my legs because of an unexpected tingle there. “I don’t always anything with you. Walking Thor is how I try to relax, which means I don’t usually have a lot of calls scheduled.”
“I should let you go then.” I tap my fingers on the bottom of my wine glass. I’m embarrassed I’m taking up this man’s time for a conversation with no real point to it. Again. But. I don’t want to let him go. This conversation makes me feel like myself again after a long day.
“No,” he says quickly. “No, I just meant to say...I can always call you while I’m walking Thor. If this time is convenient for you.”
I shut my open mouth. My fingers tremble as I pick up my glass. I take a sip of my wine and try to decide how to answer. The answer that doesn’t even cross my mind is no.
“To talk about the legislation,” he adds, his voice a little more stiff. “As we progress.”
“That’d be quite helpful,” I say. I hear how formal it sounds and slap my own forehead with my free hand. I can’t stop. “This is a priority for me, as you know. I appreciate you giving me precedence. It ,” I amend. “Giving it precedence.”
“Of course,” he says softly. “Well, I should let you go. My dog is impatient for my attention. But we’ll talk soon.”
“Thank you. Goodnight, Mr. Vice President.”
“Goodnight, Congresswoman Wight.” His tone is warm. My fingers tingle and I rush to hang up before I drop the phone.
I take another long sip of wine. I’m not sure what the vice president had on his mind during that conversation, but I know where I thought he was going, because my instincts—thanks to a long history of disappointed hopes—freaked out. I have to trust Alexander Drake to some extent to work with him. But just because I like him doesn’t mean he’s not plotting to stab me in the back. Trusting him on a personal level isn’t going to happen. Not in this town. Not when we represent starkly different agendas.
And not when I know better than anyone not to trust a politician.
Alex
I keep waving at the applauding crowd until the signal from an aide that I can step off stage. I’m exhausted. It’s 9 p.m. in Los Angeles but it’s midnight on the East Coast and I still have to fly back tonight.
“Great job,” my aide Dan tells me as we hurry through the back of the hotel to the limo, following Secret Service’s direction to cut through a quiet back hallway. The deep carpet silences the passage of a dozen men, me at their center.
“Lacking some energy tonight.” I can’t help critiquing my performance.
It took a while as a politician for me to believe nobody noticed when I gave the same stump speech at every appearance. For many people, these events are their sole in-person exposure to me and my message. Often, these days, my aides fill in the blanks for my location and the group I’m speaking to, and the rest I deliver on autopilot.
It worries me that I’m so worn out in the middle of a non-campaign year. I’ve got around a decade of robust campaigning ahead of me if I want to be president. And I do want to be president. My well of ambition and motivation used to run a lot deeper.
These days, I long for some sameness in my day. Hitting the gym. Walking Thor at night. Flirting with Cindy Wight.
There was no chance to call her today. I check my watch as the streets of LA pass by outside the reinforced SUV window. What time did she go to bed? Did she wonder about me while she drank her evening glass of wine?
Probably not.
“You have an email from your mother,” Dan says, holding up my phone.
“Does it say I look tired?” I ask, leaning my head back against the seat.
“It says…” Dan pauses. “I’m sorry, sir, it says your father went to see the doctor last week and didn’t want to tell you, but it’s nothing too serious. She says he was having stomach pain and it’s an ulcer.”
I close my eyes, resting on the headrest. My father is a named partner at his law firm and could have retired long ago. “He works too much.”
“Must run in the family,” Dan suggests.
Nodding, I don’t bother opening my eyes. “Oh, it does.” Growing up, I heard nothing but “you have to work hard to provide for your family like a man” and, worse, “your wife shouldn’t have to work a day of her life after she marries you.” It’s hard to break free.
“Did Mom say anything else?” I ask Dan.
“She asks if you are dating anyone. There’s a girl she wants you to meet next time you come home to visit?”
She must not be too worried about Dad, then. “If only my mother would accept that I’m an old maid.” I hold up my hand to halt any response. “And I don’t want to talk about my low chances of becoming president as a bachelor. Not tonight.”
“Of course, sir. Why don’t you go ahead and sleep. We have some State of the Union matters to go over but we can always talk on Air Force Two.”
I tip my head forward from the chin, with effort, to meet Dan’s eyes. “Unless there’s a nuclear emergency, I don’t want to talk about anything that requires decisions until morning, Dan. Consider yourself off duty.”
“Yes, sir. Good night, sir.” Dan returns his gaze to his phone and I shrug and put my head back on the seat. I can’t convince my people to rest but I can at least set an example.
I drift off thinking it’d be nice to have someone who doesn’t work for me to tell good night.