The President's Wife - Kathy Myme Page 0,13

was sitting at my desk on my second day of the job with no idea what was about to hit me.

Somehow between the article breaking the news and now, the press managed to figure out my identity. That I’m the girl in the photograph. They’re vultures. If I wasn’t so terrified, I might even be impressed.

As it is, I want to crawl under a rock and die.

When I finally get home, after battling my way through the crowds of press people waiting from me at my apartment entrance, I slam the door shut and flop down onto my sofa. I take a deep breath. It feels like the first one I’ve taken in quite a while.

This can’t be happening to me.

I try to resist the urge to switch on my apartment’s TV, but it doesn’t last very long. The soft click of a TV turning on is usually a comforting noise, but this afternoon it makes me shiver.

“-ident Shepard was photographed engaging in improper relations with a young woman from California, who we’ve identified as Veronica Waters-”

“Will this impact the President in opinion polls? Well, I can’t see how it wouldn’t-”

“-and some nobody girl trying to seduce the President-”

Click. Just as swiftly as I turned it on, I switch the TV off. I don’t know what I’d expected, but...

It’s unreal. When I woke up this morning, I was nobody. Now my face is being projected across every TV channel in the country. Maybe even the world.

My phone buzzes and flashes.

Lacey Smith: veronica! what’s going on????

Lacey Smith: is that YOU in those pics?

Lacey. I’d completely forgotten that everyone I know is probably hearing about this scandal too, not just nameless strangers. She’s probably incredibly worried.

Lacey Smith: what’s going onnnnnn?

I type back a message quickly.

Veronica Waters: Don’t believe the news. It was an accident!!

Lacey is probably freaking out right now and yelling about this to anyone who’ll listen. Though to be fair, this is probably the one time her over-the-top reactions are warranted...

“Ronica!”

Loud, noisy, and loud. Those are the three words I’d best use to describe my new roommate, Hailey Chase. Other than a few getting-to-know-you-and-making-sure-you’re-not-a-psychopath Skype calls, we’ve known each other for a grand total of four days. I have no idea where she’s getting ‘Ronica’ from as a nickname, and I’m doing my best not to encourage it.

“Ronica,” she says again, slamming the door on my way in. “I could barely get in with all the press- had to squeeze past, which was pretty hard.” Her voice gets higher and it gets louder. “What on earth is going on?”

Good question, I think.

I open my mouth. “I’m not sur-”

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me you’d done it with the President?” She shakes her head. “I knew you had a White House job or whatever, but Ronica! How long has this been going on?”

“I-”

“I’m a bit pissed that you didn’t tell me you were sleeping with the President,” she declares. “We’re roommates, Ronica. You’re supposed to be honest with me.”

I don’t think it’s required to give notice about that type of thing in the Roommates Handbook, but she doesn’t look likely to let it go. Or let me get a word in sideways during this conversation.

“If you don’t mind,” she says, “can you tell all those journalists to go away? I have a pilates class at six I have to get to, and they’re kinda killing my vibes.”

I stare at her, blinking. This girl can’t be real.

“I don’t think they’ll just ‘go away’,” I say. “They think that I’m mixed up in some kind of weird love tryst-”

“Well, maybe you should have kept your legs closed, then,” she snaps. “Listen, this is some Monika Lewinksy level shit. I don’t wanna be mixed up in your mess. They already got some shots of me coming in through our door.”

“I didn’t sleep with the President!” Now that’s not a sentence I thought I’d be yelling today. “Hailey, please. This is all a misunderstanding.”

She gives me a glare, marching out of the room. For a merciful second, I wonder if she’s gone to deal with the press herself. Instead she comes back with a familiar-looking sheet of A4 paper that we’d stuck to the entrance corridor of our apartment.

“Recognize this?” she asks, waving it in my face.

It’s our Apartment Code. The first night I moved in, Hailey had insisted we sit in the common area and draw out some ‘rules’ using her scented gel pens. The entire process had taken over two hours and