The President's Wife - Kathy Myme Page 0,9

might have struggled to pinpoint the exact most embarrassing day of my life.

Well, maybe I would have said the time in third grade when Michael McCormac threw my clothes in the pool after swim practice. Or the time I’d ended up with a bowl haircut after trying to ‘neaten up my hair’ after school. Or the first time Trevor and I had ever slept together when I’d forgotten to shave my legs.

But I can wipe all of those clean off the slate. We have a new all-time-high record. From now on, I know with absolute surety that the most embarrassing day of my life is the day that I yelled at the President of the United States and told him he’s a pervert. And then proceeded to walk in on him without a shirt...

Oh my god.

How exactly are you meant to get dressed for your second day at the office when you spent most of your first one writhing around in shame and disappointing the Commander-in-Chief? It’s not like you can Google that one or read about it in some coffee table magazine.

In the end, I really do end up throwing out most of my professional wardrobe. Even without all of the ‘intern’ comments, the idea of getting rid of all evidence suggesting Veronica-from-yesterday exists is incredibly appealing. As soon as Mr Andrews let me go home at six-thirty - it had been a painfully long day - I headed to the mall and had myself fitted for three new White House appropriate skirt suits.

My bank account certainly hadn’t appreciated my efforts. Not on an intern’s wage. I’m barely covering rent as it is. But getting pinched and pulled in so many different directions nicely distracted me from the events of the day, so that alone might have been worth it.

It’s 6:45AM. I have to take two buses to get to the White House on time, so I should be moving.

Beep beep. Beep beep.

I glance down at my iPhone, fearing the worst. It has to be Mr Andrews, my brain says. Maybe the President has told him what you’ve done - what happened yesterday morning - and he’s calling to ensure you don’t come in this morning.

But when my brain finally processes the text on the screen, my colossal, all-consuming fear changes into a different kind of nervousness.

Trevor Randall MOBILE calling.

I bite down on my lip. Trevor. He’s a whole different problem and I don’t want to be late for my bus. But guilt paws at me with every second my phone continues to beep at me.

“Hello?” I answer tentatively, pressing my iPhone to my ear. “Trevor?”

“Veronica,” he says. He sounds wide awake, but then Trevor has always been an early riser. He works for my dad’s construction company which means he usually gets up at crazy o’clock. “I have two tickets for the big game this weekend. Are you coming home?”

There it is. This time he didn’t even bother to engage in pleasantries before asking the question. Are you coming home? I’m fairly sure that phrase haunts my dreams these days.

“Trevor,” I protest, “I only just got here-”

“Are you in or out?” His voice is hard.

“I’ve been in DC three days,” I say. “I haven’t even unpacked.” It’s true. I look around my apartment, taking in the piles and piles of cardboard moving boxes. “You need to give me time to get settled in.”

“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.