The Means (16 page)

35

“Samantha, if you're going to be in here at this hour, you're going to have to learn how to deal with it.” Gail Erickson depresses the top on the can of spray tan and waves it around her legs. The aerosol fumes fill the twelve-by-eight-foot office that Gail and Samantha share.

Samantha keeps reading her computer screen. She hadn't complained and still doesn't. It's Gail trying to establish dominance.

Gail says, “It would be easier on both of us if you were somewhere else between seven and nine a.m. You know I have to get ready and I'm going to be prancing around here in my thong.”

Samantha doesn't look up and the more Gail talks to herself, the weaker Gail feels. Gail is a correspondent with a regular segment on the nine a.m. broadcast of UBS-24. No one can know Gail for thirty minutes and not learn from her that she was Miss Nevada eleven years ago.

Gail is all aggression and weakness. Only anchors have their own office and even some anchors share. Office space is generally negotiated in contract terms. Samantha enjoys sharing but not with Gail and her two racks of wardrobe and duffel bag of cosmetics. It would be easier to share with a guy.

The office door starts to open, then there's a knock as a face comes through sideways looking for Gail.

“Jesus, Stacy, I could be naked in here,” says Gail louder than for just Stacy.

Stacy is the producer of the nine a.m. show and knows Gail well enough to ignore her. She puts a folder with thirty pages of printed computer paper on Gail's desk. It's eight thirty. “Here's your packet for the segment.”

“I don't have time to read this, Stacy.” She says the word
Stacy
like it tastes bad.

Stacy leaves and closes the door behind her with no reaction. Most of the fumes are still trapped in the office. Gail slides the folder from her desk and into the wastebasket.

Samantha stops her research. “Don't you do any prep?”

Gail is relieved to have gotten a rise at last. She leans back like she's going to inform the rookie how they operate in the professional leagues. “No, it's better to go out and be natural than to fill your head with preconceived ideas. It's hard, but some people like me can do it and it's more compelling to watch.”

“That's ridiculous. You're delivering news. You need to know the news,” says Samantha.

“Larry King never did any research before he interviewed his guests. That was the way he could put himself in the place of the viewer at home and ask the questions they wanted to ask.”

“That's moronic. There's no way to ask a question that penetrates anything. If his only way to be relatable to people is to preserve ignorance, then he's failing. That's a rationalization for laziness. Or a bloated ego. Anyway, he's interviewing celebrities, not doing a news broadcast.”

Gail doesn't like the words
ignorance
,
laziness
, and
failing
but doesn't know how to defend herself. “I just don't need to do a lot of research like you do.” She waves the back of her hand at Samantha's computer. “I never have. The main thing I do is watch last night's prime-time shows.”

“Last night's prime time,” repeats Samantha, and goes back to her computer screen. Not all the correspondents at UBS are this bad. Some work for stories and understand them, but Samantha already has a reputation as a hard worker in a way that she wouldn't have had at a law firm. Everyone works hard at a law firm.

Gail is flustered at the conversation and unhappy that she's lost Samantha's attention again. She says, “Everyone in the building is trying to be like me. Have you noticed that? They're copying my hair, wearing the same style tops. It's so annoying.”

This is Gail trying to be relatable. Samantha sees that she has only twenty minutes more until Gail needs to leave for the set, and she can keep her head down that long.

Gail says, “It's ruining my brand.”

Samantha's voice is disobedient and she says, “Your brand?” It was unignorable.

“We all have a brand, Sam. You too.”

“You're on a daytime show for six minutes a day. Nobody's thinking about your brand but you.” Samantha is not normally so cutting as this, but Gail ought to hear it.

Gail's attempts at dominance are undermining her position. The only TV trick she's learned is to bridge away from difficult moments, so she says, “What do you think about Pauley's chances?”

Only a few more minutes until she's gone, thinks Samantha. She's not interested in having a conversation with a person who doesn't care about the answer to her own question, much less have an opinion about it. “He has a shot.”

Tom Pauley is a national figure now, though Samantha has not been in touch with Pauley since the years they worked together at Davis Polk. Who knows what national media scrutiny can turn up.

MITCHELL MASON

36

“Mr. President, I recommend we commit resources to prepare a campaign against Governor Pauley.”

“How sure are you?”

“He's up five points and all the GOP money is starting to coalesce to him. His lead is going to accelerate. We need to find our angle on him and get the narrative out there,” says Ron Stark.

“Alright, open up the spigots a little.”

“Things could be a lot worse for us. Pauley's smart and he has a nice-guy thing going, but we can kill him on experience.”

“He's holding up fine in the GOP debates,” says Mason.

“It's a weak field. Pauley's a good candidate for us. Believe me.”

“You're a real optimist, aren't you, Ron?”

“I suppose.”

Mason's look is not playful. “Do you think optimism is a virtue, Ron?” Stark doesn't say anything. The president is on one of his riffs and Stark is feeling uncertain where the safe ground is. “Would you want your money manager to be an optimist? Your security guard?”

“I suppose not my security guard.”

“No, I suppose not. There are some situations and professions where pessimism is better. Or at least realism.”

“Fair enough.”

“Twain said there's no sadder sight than a young pessimist, except an old optimist.”

“That's pretty good.”

“Twain and Churchill already have all the good ones. Ron, I don't want you to be an optimist. I want my wife to be an optimist, not my chief of staff.”

“I think a realistic view is that we are in very good stead with Pauley as our opponent.” Stark would have done better to let the president's point carry rather than hold his ground on a technicality.

“Start playing like we're behind or we will be.”

A light on the president's desk phone flashes with no ring. He picks up the internal call from his secretary. “Yes.”

“Susan Fitzgerald is requesting a ten-minute meeting for a matter she says is important and time sensitive.” None of his secretaries likes Susan much or anyone telling the president what he needs to consider important.

“Send her in.” He turns to Stark. “Ron, would you excuse me.” Not a question.

Stark nods and walks out the side door away from the secretaries. He can find out easily enough who's coming in the office another time without having to pass by now.

The doors open and close at the same time as though connected by a lever. Susan Fitzgerald enters from the president's right and looks after the sound of the shutting door across the way, then to the president.

Her facial expression is completely given over to panic, like that of a passenger screaming on a roller coaster; there's no capacity left to govern ordinary physical control.

“What's going on, Susan?”

“Can we talk?”

“Of course we can talk, there's no audio. Just keep your clothes on and take a seat.”

She sits, shaking her head side to side, unable to start the horrifying news.

“What the hell is it?”

“Allen knows.”

“Allen knows what?”

“About us. Our affair.”

The president leans back with distended nostrils. “Exactly what does he know, Susan?”

“I didn't have time to unpack my bags from the New York trip, I had to get directly back here. He's been suspicious lately anyway and he unpacked them.”

“And what did he find?”

“The lingerie you bought me.”

Mitchell waves his hand like he's brushing away a flying insect that doesn't have a stinger. “Just tell him you bought it. You were missing him, you found a few free moments in New York, so you ran out to buy something to surprise him when you got back.”

“They're used.” She pauses and chokes on the admission. “And dirty.”

“Then tell him you put them on one night in the hotel when you were alone and thinking of him.”

She shakes her head no.

“Susan?” He demands eye contact without speaking. “What have you told him already?”

“Nothing! Nothing. He called me, I told him he's crazy and hung up and I haven't answered his calls since. I haven't seen him yet. He suspects it's you but he doesn't know anything for sure.”

Mitchell spins his chair ninety degrees to look to the side and think. “Okay.”

“I feel sick.”

They sit in silence for two minutes until Mitchell says, “What's done is done. I know you feel like a bad person, but you're not. That's beside the point anyway. What matters now is how you handle this. Everything that happened is in the past. How you handle it starts right now. In this moment, you either start to address the problem or you don't.”

She's still in a panic and unable to follow any sort of thread. She's more like a schizophrenic skipping between thoughts that are unlinked.

“Susan, are you with me?”

“I am. Yes.” She starts to cry.

“The people that matter here are you, Allen, your child, and me. We need to plot the best course for these four people.”

“Right.”

“Clearly the best course is to save your marriage and your family.”

“Okay.”

“Allen doesn't want to believe you've had an affair. He wants to believe anything else, so you have to give that to him.”

“Okay.”

“That's the hard part, Susan. You have to give it to him in a way that can satisfy him. You have to give it to him in a way that can remove all the doubt and ugliness from his life and really help him. You have to do it so well that he wants to apologize to you and love you more than ever.”

She nods her head yes.

“That means you need to lie, Susan, and you're a terrible liar. You don't lie well because you're never prepared for it. The secret to lying well is preparation.”

The framework for a plan is coming together and Susan is starting to calm down and absorb it.

Mitchell continues. “He's holding used lingerie and suspicions and that's all. You say you bought it and wore it while thinking of him and alone. That's not impossible.”

“Right.”

“If you bought lingerie to surprise him and wore it thinking of him because you lust for him and he turned around and accused you of an affair, how pissed off would you be?”

“Angry,” she says as though guessing at the emotion.

“Very angry! So get there! Get angry. He's an asshole for doing this to you. Yell to me that you're angry.”

“I'm angry.”

“Louder!”

“I'm angry!” It's louder but the tone is meek and not angry.

“Susan, you have to do better. This only works if you're one hundred percent on offense. There's nothing to defend. He's a jerk who abused your trust and accused you of something awful. How could he?”

She nods.

“Think of something that makes you angry. I don't care what it is.” He waits. “Now scream. Just scream at the top of your lungs.”

She screams and the light on the desk phone flashes again. “We're rehearsing something. Everything is fine, thanks.” He hangs up.

Susan's face is flushed but she's collected herself. She's thinking strategically now, the way she would about White House policy, and at the same time she realizes that is exactly what this is.

“Prepare yourself, Susan. He needs assurances, so that's exactly what you need to give him. He'll ask you to swear on your life, your kids, your country, so that's what you'll do, only you're going to do it one hundred times in front of a mirror first. Make those swears out loud, over and over, until all the sting and hesitation is gone. Don't stop practicing until you want to go find him and yell it at him.” Now he smiles at her like a proud and encouraging teacher and his voice gets soft. “Prepare yourself, Susan.”

“I will.” She's got control of her face again and she looks determined.

“I know you will.”

She gives a nod like a military man accepting an order, then has a letdown. “I'm a bad Catholic, Mitchell.”

He comes up from his chair and shows fire. “Stop that right here, right now! This is business, Susan. You don't have time for that. You worry about God after you get the job done. Right now you stay focused.”

“I'm sorry. I will.”

Too many emotions are at the surface for Susan. He knows she's unstable. “Don't talk to Allen tonight. Work an all-nighter here, urgent business. Talk to him tomorrow night when you're ready.”

“Okay, good.”

“You're really Catholic now, huh? You're raising your kid Catholic?”

“Yes, Allen's devout.”

“We just started letting Catholics into the club about five years ago.” He laughs and she laughs too. He decides it's a good way to end. “I have a meeting, Susan. Let's talk tomorrow night.”

37

Mason had shown no nerves in front of Susan, but the news has thrown him. The angry husband of his communications director going to the press with stories of an affair would be the first major setback for his administration. He's always polled great with women and he could kiss that good-bye, especially if he's running against Pauley. And his wife would believe the affair rumors. He doesn't think any amount of preparation can prevent that.

He changes into his pajamas and slippers. Only men under forty-five sleep in boxer shorts. He steps from the bathroom to the bedroom and his wife enters from the hall at the same time. They had already eaten dinner together two hours earlier and Mitchell was distracted.

“Come here,” she demands but looks nervous.

He wonders if she could know anything or maybe has just now heard a rumor. He knows he's the stronger of the two and could crush her by not going to her now. Only the weaker makes a demand in this way. Her words are not planned but are a reaction to fear. He walks to her and gives her a hug. She's relieved and hugs back.

“Are you okay, Mitchell?”

“Of course, just a lot on my mind. As always.”

She forces the hug to continue. “I know. You work so hard. You do so much.”

“It's the job. I signed up for it.”

“Yes, we both did.”

“Yes.” He relaxes his embrace but she does not so he tightens again.

“Are you happy, Mitchell?”

He pulls his chin back from over her shoulder so he can look at her while still in a hug. “Of course I am, dear. Very happy.”

“Good.”

“Aren't you?”

“I am,” she says. “Sometimes. Most of the time I am.” She is happy with Helen but she'd like to have a deeper connection with her husband. She knows she's capable of it and still hopes that he is.

A husband ought to follow up at a time like this but Mitchell wants no part of this conversation and says nothing.

Evelyn continues, “We were born into rich families, went to good schools, got all the breaks our whole lives. If we want something we get it. It's a good lot.”

Mitchell's chin is back over her shoulder and he looks at the wall behind her. “A person's happiness and his circumstances overlap by only about ten percent. If you're happy, it isn't because of any of that stuff. If you're unhappy, it isn't because of any of that stuff either.”

“I suppose you're right.”

“I am,” he says.

“So you're happy?”

“I am,” he says and holds her tighter. “You're at the heart of that.” He says in a whisper, “You're the love of my life, my partner, my soul mate. And you're my First Lady.” He pinches her and she smiles. “I couldn't do any of this without you. I'd be lost. With you, I can do it. And I'm happy.”

The tension in her arms is static and she stares to the side at their bed. “I am too.” He can't read me, she thinks. Or he doesn't want to badly enough. Our relationship, as it is, is well charted and he doesn't want to move beyond that. We work with what we have.