“I bought tickets, Veronica.” Trevor doesn’t sound happy. “I’m your boyfriend. If you won’t even spend time with me, then what even are we?”
I frown. That’s not fair. “When we agreed that I’d move to DC, we said we’d give it time. That we’d try it out.”
“When you agreed, Veronica. I didn’t agree to anything.”
“I have a job here, Trevor,” I press. “You’re welcome to join me-”
“Just forget it.” His voice is breezy, airy, but I know him well enough to figure out that he feels anything but. “How did your first day yesterday go?”
Now that’s a loaded question if I ever heard one. How am I supposed to go about answering it? ‘Not bad, I just spilt coffee over myself and… you know, the leader of the free world’. ‘Okay, I insulted President Shepard and made him really mad at me’.
Both options are still better than ‘the President and I tripped over and he ended up with his hands on my chest’.
Telling Trevor about that is sure to end badly. He’d probably insist that I quit my internship and come home right there and then. And as supportive as my dad is, if Trevor told him that the President’s hands had come anywhere near me… my dad might begin to push for the same thing.
“It went okay,” I lie. There’s no need to add more fuel to the fire. If I suggest I’m in any way unhappy here, that’ll only give Trevor more ammunition. “Busy. I got a tour of the White House.”
“Did you meet ‘President Shepard’?” Trevor snickers. He says the President’s name mockingly.
One thing about Trevor and I is that we have very different political views. Different as in… worlds apart different. No matter who the President is, Trevor is guaranteed to hate the guy. We’ve been together for two years now and he hated the last President just as much as Shepard. Something about politics just really sets him off.
“Actually, yes,” I say, feeling strangely defensive. My interaction with the President yesterday… wasn’t exactly a positive one. But I work for the man’s administration. Something about Trevor attacking him now feels strangely personal.
“Really?” Trevor snorts. “Wow. He’s just been elected and he has nothing better to do than hang around with interns. What a guy.”
“Trevor, I work for him,” I protest. “Be nice.”
“To that guy?” Trevor says. “No fucking way, babe. I’ll be nice when he stops being such a trust fund dickhead who’s so insufferably full of himself just because he isn’t as ugly as most other politicians.”
“Actually, he came from a working-class family and paid for himself to go to law schoo-”
“Veronica…” I can hear the malice in Trevor’s voice. “What is it? Do you think he’s hot?”
“What?” I gasp, confused. Where is this coming from?
“You want to fuck the President?”
“No!” I almost throw my iPhone across the room. “Don’t be… don’t be crude, Trev.”
Do I think the President is hot? Well… not that it’s anyone’s business, but I suppose that in an objective, non-personal, way… it’s pretty clear that President David Shepard is an attractive man. He ticks all the boxes when it comes to being tall, dark, and handsome.
It’s not as if I’ve ever thought much about it. It’s just a fact of life. When President Shepard was elected, the tabloids ran tons of headlines for days about how attractive he is. How single and attractive is. A lot of the more conservative papers don’t like the fact that he’s unmarried, but I think enough women (enough voting women) fantasize about him to spin it to his favor.
“That isn’t an answer,” Trevor says. There’s a warning in his voice.
“I’m not doing this with you, Trevor.” I sigh. I can’t deal with this right now. “I have to go to work.”
“Veronica, I’m trying to have a conversation with you-”
“Goodbye, Trevor.”
I hang up the phone and stare wordlessly at the now-silent device. Call ended.
Trevor is probably pissed with me right now. But I have to get to work.
Veronica
By some miracle of clear traffic and perfect timing, I’m at my desk by 7:30AM and ready for the day. 30 minutes early. Just the way I like it.
“We have a lot to get through today, Veronica,” Mr Andrews says as he arrives. “Are you familiar with the world of public relations?”
“No, sir,” I say, honestly. “My internship was supposed to be more to do with administration.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” he assures me. “Stick with me and I’ll keep you right.”
Several other people work in the Press Office, but all of them are a lot older than me and very serious looking. Not one of them raised their heads to greet me as I came in. The only person to say a word to me is Mr Andrews, but that’s okay. I’m used to fighting to get what I want.
Mr Andrews is patient as he walks me through how things are done. The first task he puts me to - well, first after the disastrous coffee incident - comes in the form of social media analysis. He sets me in charge of looking over Twitter and Facebook and all the other time-wasting apps out there, trying to figure out what people are saying about the Shepard administration.
It’s a kind of work that I’ve never really done before. But after an hour or two of getting my head around things, it starts to come a lot more easily.
I’m happy to find that most people out there are still feeling positive about the President and his work so far. The #ShepardForPres movement had been big - really, really big - but I’d read a lot of articles in the press that claimed support for him was dying down. Learning that it isn’t really true is a huge relief.
“Good work, Miss Waters,” Mr Andrews says to me when he leans over my shoulder to read what I’ve come up with. “You’ve really got the hang of this. I’m impressed.”
Pride warms my stomach. “Thank you, sir.”
“You’re quite welcome,” he replies. “I think you’ll really fit in around here.”
The rest of the silent, standoffish Press Office might not agree… but I can’t help but feel happy at Mr Andrews’ praise.
There’s only one snag. I spot the only problem with my job fairly early on. My desk is in a pretty good location, looking out over a patch of outdoors. Ordinarily, I’d have killed for such a nice seat.
But it just so happens that my seat gives me a prime view of the President as he goes about his daily walks.
I try to concentrate. I really do. But when the President of the United States is only meters away from you, it’s shockingly hard to think about collecting data. There’s just something about him that commands attention, whether he’s asking for it or not. Even from afar, every molecule of my body wants to sit up a little bit straighter as he walks by. That’s just the kind of man the President is.
So I look. Now and then. Occasionally.
Far more often than I should.
It’s sometime in the afternoon when I look up once more, all subtlety and carefulness. But this time I don’t get away with it so easily. Because the President is looking back.