The President's Wife - Kathy Myme Page 0,52
this question, not since I made something up at the press conference? I look at David but he still won’t make eye contact with me. How am I meant to pull this off alone?
I pause. “Um-”
“Through friends, several years ago.” David’s voice doesn’t waver. “Our engagement is somewhat recent, though.”
Yeah, like ‘last night’ kind of recent. I try to side-eye him.
“How romantic,” Emily says, squeezing my shoulder. “I have to say, I’m relieved. From what the papers are saying, it sounded as if you seduced your intern, David.”
His brow is firm. “I believe the White House has made it clear that Miss Waters was simply listed as an intern to allow her access, not that she was an actual intern.”
In my opinion, it’s kind of a weak excuse. But Emily and Harry seem to lap it up, nodding sagely at his words.
When breakfast is cleared away, I take a deep breath. “David… may we have some time together this morning?”
David’s head turns to me with such breakneck speed that you’d think I’d started speaking Russian. Emily tilts her head, watching with some interest.
“Darling,” David says, “I have quite the morning planned. I’ll be discussing things with the ambassador-”
“Please?” I ask, as softly and gently as I can. “It’s important.”
I need to get to the bottom of this. Something happened between us last night… and now the man can’t even look me in the eye. The only way I’m going to get answers here is if I do it myself.
And I can’t exactly talk about what occurred between us last night here at the breakfast table without causing an international scandal. The joys of being the President’s fake-fiancée, ladies and gentlemen.
David shakes his head, making my heart sink. “I’m sorry, Veronica. There just isn’t time-”
“Oh, let your woman take a walk with you,” Harry interrupts, laughing jovially. “Emily here was just saying that she’d love to take a stroll through the White House grounds anyway. I’m sure the two of you can squeeze in a brief break.”
David doesn’t look relieved at this, his eyes darting to the ambassador. “Emily-”
“It’s fine, David,” she says, smiling. “Harry is right. Take a walk with the lovely Veronica here. We’ll find each other shortly.”
He doesn’t look happy about the suggestion. In fact… he almost looks actively displeased. Whatever reaction I’d expected from David, it isn’t… this. This coldness. It’s like he doesn’t want to spend any time with me.
What went wrong last night?
Emily and Harry leave the room, with the former promising to meet David for their discussion very shortly. Which leaves me and David in the room together, with only the Secret Service there waiting as silently as ever.
The pause is awkward, to say the very least.
I gesture to the Secret Service. “Um, David, do you mind…?”
He stares back at me blankly. “Do I mind what?”
I don’t want to state the obvious, but he’s making me. “Could we have some privacy?”
“Why would we need privacy?”
Is he acting intentionally ignorant? Surely he knows what I want to talk about. What I need to talk about. The memories from what happened last night are burnt into my memories with a scolding heat, imprinted there forever. Is it not the same for him?
“David. What happened last night…”
“Yes?” he raises an eyebrow expectantly. As if he’s waiting.
I swallow tightly, summoning my bravery. “Why did you run away?”
He glances towards the Secret Service and lowers his voice a notch, leaning in. “Veronica, last night was a mistake.”
His words sting like he’s slapped me in the face. In some ways I might have preferred the physical pain to the emotional one. At least a slap would have been over in a moment. The full force of the President’s words linger.
“A mistake.” My voice is hoarse as I repeat his words.
“I’m sorry if I led you on in any way,” he says quietly.
If the Secret Service can hear, they’re in for a juicy day of gossip. The part of my brain with common sense tells me I shouldn’t continue this conversation for secrecy’s sake, but screw that. I need answers.
“Led me on?” I hiss. “You slept with me.”
Now it’s David’s turn to recoil, backing away from me with a rough jerk.
“I think it’s best if we maintain a sensible distance from now on,” he says at last.
“A sensible distance?” I cry. “We’re meant to be engaged, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“Then perhaps we should limit the amount of time we spend together away from the cameras.”
I can’t work him out. What the