Confessions of a First Daughter (9 page)

“What’s going on?” I asked. Then I spotted the cameras with high-powered lenses attached. “Oh god. It’s paparazzi!”

Konner straightened the front of his shirt. “How do I look?”

“Max!” I gave my Secret Service agent an agonized look.

Max was already chattering into his wireless mic to the advance detail in the restaurant.

The limo slowed curbside. People started flowing toward the car, waving their cameras and snapping photos.

Max chirped off his com. “Word leaked, Morgan. Do you want to cancel?”

I looked at Konner. He didn’t seem bothered by the media attention.
Enthralled
would be a better word.

“It’ll be okay,” I said reluctantly.

Max nodded. He mumbled into his com again. Suddenly a phalanx of Secret Service agents emerged from the sushi bar and cleared a path from the doorway to the limo.

“Wow, it’s just like a red carpet,” Konner said. “C’mon, babe.”

Konner grabbed my hand and yanked me out of the limo. I nearly twisted my ankle in Hannah’s boots. Konner flashed a smile as paparazzi snapped photos and shouted, “Morgan, look here! Thanks, honey! Morgan, where’s your bustier and hot pants? Morgan, Morgan, Morgan…”

Mom always said it was important not to look blindsided when confronted with unexpected media, even though you’ve been, uh, blindsided. I raised my head with a confidence I didn’t feel, and smiled at the crush of photographers. Cameras whirred and clicked.

Max, grim faced, herded us through the line to the door. Just as we reached it, I felt my hair being tugged. Someone snatched away a butterfly clip and a curl fell across my face. I hurried along, hoping more of my clips wouldn’t be ripped off my head only to end up at auction on eBay.

The door shut behind us. All eyes from the patrons in the restaurant turned our way.

“Yo, that was awesome!” Konner exclaimed.

I felt like we’d just run an army obstacle course. “Let’s just sit down.”

Konner grinned and gave a
wassup
nod to the other restaurant patrons as Max ushered us to our seats at the sushi bar before melting into the background a discreet distance away. No way did I want to sit under the full glare of the bar’s track lighting. Paparazzi were still trying to take shots through the window of the restaurant; the last thing I needed was a front-page photo of me macking on a California roll.

Konner got a little sulky when I asked if we could have a back table instead. “It’s too dark back here,” he said.

“That’s the point.” Since Konner wasn’t doing it, I unwound the macramé wrap from my shoulders and draped it along the back of the chair before sitting down.

Konner’s attention immediately zoomed on my cleavage. “Maybe after dinner we can take a stroll along the Mall. You know, to ‘look at the lights.’” He gave me a big wink-wink.

“Shh. Keep your voice down.” I peered over my shoulder.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want anyone tipping off the media. You know the situation. I can’t risk another scandalous headline.” Though I’d love to do something spontaneous like take a walk with Konner among the breathtakingly beautiful monuments on the Mall, I got cold chills thinking about Mom opening the
Gadfly
and seeing the headline:
MORGAN ABBOTT MAKES OUT WITH BOYFRIEND AT JEFFERSON MEMORIAL.

Konner grabbed my hand and started planting slobbery kisses on my wrist. “I’ll make it worth the risk.”

I tried to ease my hand away. “Come on, Konner. Everyone can see us.”

“So?” He tightened his grip on me and something close to anger flashed in the back of his eyes.

I wrenched my hand away. “Just cool it.”

Konner slumped back in his seat, arms crossed. “Fine. Let’s order.”

“Konner—”

“Drop it.”

I did. But I felt awful.

The mood between us soured. All through the tempura and sushi rolls, I plastered on a smile and kept a stream of light chatter going, but it got harder and harder. Konner’s sulk deepened to scowling silence by the time the kimono-clad waitress served the green-tea ice cream.

“We can still take a drive along the Mall as long as we don’t get out of the car,” I said, trying to appease him.

“And have your Secret Service agent watch us make out? No, thanks.”

“How about going back to the White House movie theater? My dad ordered the new James Bond movie—we can see it before anyone else in America does—”

“You know what? I think I’ll take a cab home instead.”

The spoonful of ice cream froze on its way to my mouth. “What?”

“I said, I’ll take a cab home, Morgan. The atmosphere will be less
frigid
, if you catch my drift.”

I stared at him, speechless.

“I’m sick of having a girlfriend who drags her Secret Service agent along on a date,” he continued. “And who can’t take a walk with her boyfriend because she’s afraid of the bad publicity.”

“Are you breaking up with me?”

“Yeah. I guess I am.”

“All right.” Carefully I folded the napkin on my lap and set it next to my bowl of melted ice cream. A painful lump formed in my throat, but I swallowed it down. Konner had every right to break up with me. But I thought he could at least be honest. I knew it wasn’t the media attention that he was sick of. It was the fact that I wasn’t letting him get past first base.

I signaled to Max, who was waiting in the shadows of the wait station.

“I’ll have one of the agents call you a cab,” I said with a graciousness I didn’t feel, conscious of potentially prying ears at the nearby tables. “Thank you so much for the lovely evening. It was very…special.”

“Whatever,” Konner mumbled. He didn’t look up from his folded arms.

“See you around.” I rose and went around the table to give him a kiss on the cheek. He didn’t respond.

When I straightened up, Max was waiting with my wrap. He placed it around my shoulders without a word and I leaned into him. I was glad to be ushered out of the restaurant before the first tears spilled. As soon as I was inside the safety of the limo with its tinted windows, I let them fly. I knew I was crying about more than losing Konner, though. The last two days had been horrible and it was all catching up with me.

A tissue appeared in my hand. “Thanks, Max,” I gulped, and scrubbed at my wet cheeks.

“I’ve got a whole box here if you need them.”

He placed the tissues next to me on the leather seat. I expected him to say something inane about how life goes on, yada yada. But he didn’t. What he said was: “It’s his loss, Morgan.”

He buzzed the driver up front to take the long way home, and let me bawl.

Chapter Twelve

Midnight came and went on my googly-eyed
digital clock before I admitted that I wasn’t getting to sleep anytime soon. I’d only eaten three bites of California roll and a nibble of tempura at the sushi bar. Now that my crying jag had ended—thanks to a reassuring emergency phone call to Hannah—and resignation over Konner dumping me set in, my stomach kicked at me. I needed a snack.

I ran into Nigel shelving a hotel pan in the walk-in refrigerator. “What are you doing here so late?” I asked.

“’Allo, Morgan. Shouldn’t I ask you the same thing?”

“I’m just getting a snack. You?”

“Your mum’s hosting a banquet for the American Business Leadership Council in a little over a week. I thought we’d go Caribbean for that one. Conch soup, shredded pork with coconut garnish. The whole works.”

“Sounds yummy.”

“I never get time to experiment during the day and I need a few days to order the ingredients in bulk once my recipes are perfected. Do you have a minute to try a tropical fruit salad? It’s a new recipe and it’s not quite right, I’m afraid. I need a fresh palate to tell me which direction to go.”

“Mine’s pretty fresh right now.” As soon as he said “tropical fruit,” my mouth started to water.

The mango, papaya, and cilantro worked wonderfully together. “But it needs a kick,” I told him. “Maybe a jalapeño pepper?”

Nigel took a mouthful of the fruit and nodded. “Heat—that’s exactly what’s missing. A few drops of scotch bonnet essence would work and stay within the theme. Thanks, luv. You’re becoming quite the gourmand, you know.”

“Gourmand?”

“Foodie.”

“Aww, thanks, Nige.” Nigel Bellingham was the best chef in the country. Getting a compliment like that from him was really something.

I surveyed the piles of coconut shells, banana leaves, and other exotic ingredients heaped on the stainless steel countertops. “How much is this thing setting back the annual budget?” I asked idly while I popped another chunk of papaya in my mouth.

“With wine, about three hundred dollars per person.”

“Yikes! You’re kidding, right? That’s outrageous!”

“Well, we can’t serve the titans of industry Ding Dongs and Cheez Doodles, can we?”

Point taken. Still, my mind spun at how much money the whole banquet would cost.

I sipped a cup of Nigel’s special cinnamon-spiced hot chocolate and flipped on the kitchen TV. The laughter from the live audience at
LateNite Skits
(or LateNite Skewer, as Dad called it) blared into the kitchen. I giggled at a Harry Potter spoof.

The next skit opened with one of the comediennes dressed in a bustier and PVC hot pants bounding into a set that looked suspiciously like the White House’s Oval Office. “Hi, America! I’m Morgan Abbott, and I’m here to talk to you about the dangers of plastic clothing—”

Oh. My. God.

Frozen with horror, I watched the comedienne’s gel enhancers burst into flames. When did I become a national joke?

My late-night munchies vanished. I clicked the TV off. “I’m heading back up, Nigel,” I called to him. To put a pillow over my face. And possibly die of embarrassment.

A muffled answer came out of the pantry. “Righto, Morgan. Thanks for your help tonight.”

“No biggie.”

Even after midnight, the White House buzzed with staff, cleaning crews, and ever-present security. I gave the straight-faced marine guarding the entrance to the West Wing a nod of acknowledgment as I passed him, even though he wasn’t allowed to respond.

I breathed a sigh of relief that in front of the Palm Room, which connected the West Wing to the White House residence, someone had swapped the vase of white lilies with roses. A sneezing jag was the last thing I needed. I was ready to pull the covers over my head and end this rotten day.

Just then, the door to the Palm Room opened, and my mom swept out with an entourage of aides and Cabinet members surrounding her. Her mouth was pursed in a way I recognized, and I knew she was holding back her temper. She walked so rapidly, her aides puffed to keep up with her.

Yep. Mom was pissed off about something.

The marine and I exchanged looks. “Let’s just hope she doesn’t take it out on Canada,” I joked, and headed up to my room.

When I woke the next morning, I still felt rotten. Maybe it had gotten a little worse, actually, which was weird for me, because once I managed to drag myself out of bed I was usually ready to rock and roll.

By around seven a.m., when I should’ve been goofing with my hair and demolishing a bowl of Cap’n Crunch, Dad tapped on my bedroom door and stuck his head in. “What’s going on, Puddin’ Pop? Why aren’t you ready for school? Are you sick?”

I groaned and rolled over on my side. “You could say that. Sick of having a bad day.”

“Come on, honey. Everyone has bad days.”

“Let’s see. In the last two days, I’ve lost an election I’d worked really hard on, a horrible photo of me has become the most popular download in the history of Celebricity.com, my boyfriend broke up with me, I had to quit the musical for national security reasons, I’m a staple on sketch comedy shows, and Mom says I’m grounded if I don’t get my grades up. And I think I got Denny fired, but I can’t be totally sure of that.”

“Denny’s fine, Morgan—he’s just on vacation. But your ability to pack a lot of trouble into a short amount of time is highly developed.”

“Har-di-har-har.” I threw a sheet over my head.

“C’mon, Morgan.” I felt the edge of the mattress sag. Dad eased the covers back down.

Dad was wearing his charcoal-gray suit he’d had made in London, which made his tan look fantastic. He’d shaved his goatee when Mom started running for the presidency, but nothing could shake his overall air of Cali business cool.

“The best way to solve problems—”

“—is to face them head-on. I know that, Dad. But facing this many problems could mean I’d be run over, killed, or at the very least maimed. Honestly.”

He patted my bed head. “All right, Morgan. I’ll tell your mom that you can stay home today. But put it to good use hitting the books.”

“I will.”

He rose. “And come Monday, you walk through school with your head high and your integrity intact. Remember, if you keep living life on your terms, people can mock it all they want, but they’ll respect you in the end.”

“I’ll try to remember.” Good lord, the man had read too many business management books.

He kissed my forehead. “I’ll be in London for the ribbon cutting of Abbott Tech’s European division for the next week or so, but I’m only a phone call away.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

I did feel better. Sometimes a girl needed a pep talk from her father.

I’d just finished eating a bowl of cereal in bed and scrolling through my MP3 playlist (no way was I turning on the TV today), when Mom came in, wearing silk pajamas. “Dad told me you’re staying home from school,” she began.

“Yeah. It’s a mental health day.”

Mom grinned and scooted me over on the bed so she could sit next to me. “What I wouldn’t give for one of those myself.”

“Rough couple days?”

“I’ve had worse.” She slung her arm around my shoulders and gave me a hug. I remembered when Mom used to wake me every morning with a kiss and a cuddle. Then she became the president, and I grew up.

Still, this was nice.

“How was your dinner with Konner?” she asked.

“Not so good. He broke up with me last night.”

“Ouch.”