Domestic Affairs (18 page)

The car ride to the Hamptons airport was painful. Jacob's head pounded and he thought for sure there was more in him to throw up every time the car took a curve. Taylor had chosen that moment to answer
Aubrey's call, something he rarely did before eleven a.m., and Aubrey had put him on speakerphone with the kids—Margaret Jo, who was eight, and Dixon, who was six. Taylor, like Jacob's parents, seemed to not really grasp speakerphones or cell phones, so when the two came together, it was a disaster. He yelled to them as if he were using a megaphone rather than a cell phone. It didn't help that Aubrey and the kids would unfailingly run around, going about their normal business. He wondered why she couldn't just sit them down for five minutes. Or pass the phone from one kid to another, or ask them to stand still for a minute or two.
Ha! Fat chance of that happening.

That was one of those things Jacob decided he should make sure of before he settled down with someone. It could be his litmus on child-rearing.
How do you feel about children who can't sit still for longer than a dog?
He'd have to check with Sophie on that.
Sophie. Shit.

The memories of the night before came crashing back. He rationalized, arguing to himself that the newness of their relationship didn't require monogamy. Still the guilt washed over him. Those girls had come back to the house to swim.
Yanni didn't give them money
, he thought, trying to erase the clear memory of its happening. And anyway, all he did was swim with them. They didn't even exchange a kiss.

He wondered if Olivia had heard them. There was no way she slept through their rowdy homecoming.
She must have. What must she think of me? Of us?
He raced through his mind trying to remember the details of the night. He glanced over at her. She stared straight ahead with an uneasy look that seemed cemented on. She didn't even wince while Aubrey yelled over the speakerphone. At this point the yelling wasn't even directed at Taylor. She was screaming at Eric, the lackey driver whom Aubrey had also turned into their all-around houseboy. He even changed lightbulbs.

“Kids! Don't run into the ladder like that!” he heard Eric sheepishly saying.

The governor barely seemed to notice. He spoke in a controlled manner and ordered the kids to sit down.

“I'll be home in two hours,” Taylor told them. “When I get there, I want to know three things that you're each going to do this week to make a difference.”

The kids yelled an “Okay, Daddy” in chorus.

Jacob rolled his eyes with a laugh, but Olivia didn't bite. She gave a half smile, in no mood for jokes.

Ugh, we better not have scared her off
, Jacob thought. It had taken him too long to hire a fundraiser for this campaign. She had enough experience to be good enough to handle it.
Well, almost enough.
And she was young enough to want to take it on. That was the thing about campaigns. It was near impossible to get people with experience because no one lasted long enough to have it. The hours, the pay, the travel, the demands. It wasn't something anyone did for a long time.

Olivia was barely blinking.

We must've really traumatized her. Will have to fix that.
Then he breathed a sigh of relief.
Landon will fix it. He can always come in and clean up any mess.

Olivia stared in amazement at the private jet lifting off into the Hamptons sky. She felt as if she were in a coma. What did she say? What did she do? Was it as awkward for him as it was for her? Did he notice her looking at his crotch? Where did she stand now? Her head hurt and while she could have done without Sal's hour-long conversation about the Yankees, in the end, she was relieved to be in a car being driven back to the city as opposed to figuring out how to get on a Jitney. It was nearly noon. She emailed her sister, Marcy, remembering it was Sunday, when she, her sister, and a friend had a regularly scheduled meal.

[email protected]
:
Late lunch at the diner?

[email protected]
:
Obviously. We've been waiting. When do you get back?

[email protected]
:
On my way. Meet at 1:15?

The black SUV pulled up in front of the diner and Olivia got out fast. Sal started to open his door to help her with her bag, but she had put it on the seat right behind her.

“I got it. Thanks so much, Sal. See you soon.” Her words hurried out of her mouth.

“No problem,” he answered back. “See you next time, kid.”

Her sister and friend were sitting at the table by the window.

“Fancy!” they squealed as she sat down. “Tell us everything.”

“You guys first.” She tried to adjust back to her normal surroundings. Listening to their stories—the date Marcy had been on with the Australian finance guy that had gone surprisingly well, how Katherine's on-again, off-again relationship was hitting another speed bump—brought her back to herself. Unconsciously, she breathed audibly into her ginger ale.

“You okay there?” Marcy asked.

“Yes.” She laughed. “Just glad to be back to reality.”

“Okay, so come on, tell us, what was the nonreality?!”

Olivia started explaining the trip from the start. “He gave this speech about poverty in America where he said—”

“Come on, get to the plane part!” Katherine said, interrupting.

Olivia smiled, realizing she had intended to repeat his whole speech verbatim and that it did not qualify as girl talk to any girl but her.

“It was awesome! We drove right up to the plane and it was beautiful. Really big. I was a total spaz picking a seat and then the governor had me come sit with him and we just talked the whole way there.”

“As in all twenty-five minutes?” Marcy said with her normal sarcasm.

“Yes.” It had felt like hours. “But it was amazing. I mean he's this guy I've studied. Literally studied. And it turns out he's the easiest guy in the world to talk to. Anyway, we got to Yanni's, which is insane, and Jon Bon Jovi was literally cleaning up the kitchen.”

“Ohmigod, really? Did you meet him?”

“Yeah. I mean we all hung out. Yanni had this great dinner and drinks. Lots of drinks.” Olivia still wasn't sure how she was going to frame the rest of the story. She wasn't even sure how she felt about it.

“Anyway, they all went out to the Palm, but I was dying and figured I shouldn't be completely drunk for my first weekend of work, so I went to go to sleep. And . . .” She tried to rush through the one part she needed to talk through at length. She figured the best way to say it was to blurt it. Rip off the Band-Aid.

“And the governor accidentally came to my room.” She pulled her neck back, ready to be slapped.

Everyone stopped cold—Marcy put her drink down and Katherine's
fork dropped from her hands. Both nearly did spit-takes, and Olivia had to admit it sounded ridiculous.

“
What?
” They almost looked angry.

“Nothing happened! Literally at all. It was just a weird moment.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.” Olivia already regretted the words coming out of her mouth. She should have just kept it to herself. It really wasn't actually anything at all.

“Isn't he married?”

“Yes.” Olivia felt the weight of guilt double, then triple for even thinking anything about it. “And they have the perfect marriage. Everyone knows that.” She backtracked. “I'm totally making something out of nothing. It literally was an honest mistake. He left right away.”
He did.
She felt dishonest leaving out the part about her smile. The part she desperately wanted to tell someone. But it really wasn't anything at all.

“Nothing?” Marcy looked at her, one eyebrow raised.

“Nothing.” Olivia became resolute in her answer.

“What a jerk!”

“Are you going to keep working for him?”

“He's totally a Spitzer or Edwards.”

“Ew, politicians really are all like that.” The comments came at Olivia like a spray of bullets, each one making her feel more guilty and more defensive. All of the years she had spent defending politicians crashed in on her.
I will not be the cause of this.

“He's not. He's not like that. He's incredible. It will be fine. And yes, of course, I'm keeping my job. It really was just an accident. That's all.” She sank down into the booth. “Let's talk about something else,” she finally said, totally deflated.

“No, how do you feel about it?”

Olivia felt near tears. “I don't feel anything about it. I really like him. He's an amazing candidate. He's going to be president, and I'm going to be a part of that. This is the job I've been dreaming of since I was in kindergarten. This is the candidate I've been dreaming of since the first time I heard a political speech. It was literally nothing. He walked into the wrong room.”

“Okay,” they both said, knowing it wasn't an argument they would win.

Olivia wasn't lying about the job and the candidate. She would force herself not to ruin this. She would force herself to believe that the moment of intimacy between herself and the governor was all in her head.

As Olivia walked home that night she regretted saying any of it aloud and pledged to think before she spoke on a more regular basis.
Maybe that should be Campaign Lesson #1 rather than loyalty.
Tomorrow she would officially begin her job as the national finance director of Landon Taylor's presidential campaign. She would start new.

A
t eight forty-five the next morning, Olivia officially walked off the elevator and into the dream-job reception area. For the next year she would be working out of the offices of Jeremy Goldberg, a rich Texan who had moved to New York with his wife, Jenna, to run his family's hedge fund. The Goldbergs were friends of Taylor's finance chair, David Henley, who had arranged the workspace. Since federal law required a campaign to pay a “fair market price” for its offices, campaigners had two viable options—convince a donor with enough office space to let them “rent some rooms” or find real estate developers who had a great space that was under construction. The former was the chic option but not likely unless the campaign was high-profile enough. Like Taylor for President. For the latter, the mess didn't matter to the campaign—it fit the theme actually, and the developers could justify renting it to them at absurdly low prices. In both cases, the space was impracticable for anything but a campaign-type operation and as a perk, the companies had a possible governor, senator, or president as a tenant.

Big-time
, she said in her head as she looked around silently thanking Henley for putting this deal with the Goldbergs together. The offices were beautiful—extravagantly stark, with white marble floors and crazy black leather chairs, low to the ground and almost hammock-like. Every office she went into these days had them, which seemed strange
since they were so awkward to sit in. Maybe that was the point. Maybe it was some business mind game executives played to psych people out before meetings.
I could have people wait awkwardly here.

She indulged in the thought for a moment, appreciating her new office but sure she would never actually think to do that. It was perfect. As an added bonus, she didn't even need to deal with setting up any of the basics, like phones and Internet.

This New York time, though, she knew, could only last so long. Campaigns grew at an insanely quick pace. If they won Iowa she would probably be hiring twenty or so people. They would have to get a huge space, and realistically, it would probably be at the campaign headquarters in Georgia. The campaign life of pizza boxes, beers, and naps on gross carpets would be waiting in February. But for now, she was a
presidential fundraising executive on the twenty-third floor of the Lever Building in New York City
. She flipped her hair a bit, feeling empowered.

“Hi.” She smiled to the tall Nordic receptionist, hoping the woman recognized her clout.

The receptionist smiled with pursed lips.

“You must be the political girl.” The woman spoke barely above a whisper and emphasized the word “political” as if it were a disease, immediately bringing Olivia back to life. Her life. More standard executive psychological warfare, she figured. It was working.

Olivia pulled down on the edge of her suit jacket as if it might help tug some wrinkles out of the material. She realized that even though she had put on her newest Banana Republic ensemble she, as always, was clearly identifiable as the young, broke activist. She kept hoping she would walk into an office where they'd give her a makeover like the girl got in
The Devil Wears Prada
. Maybe they had a secret closet full of designer clothes. She'd be on the lookout for her Stanley Tucci for sure.

The receptionist whispered again. “Someone will be right with you. Please have a seat.” It seemed more like an order than a suggestion.