Domestic Affairs (13 page)

“That's true,” Olivia said, grateful to have a new ridiculous thought to focus on. Why were carpet samples always so small?

With that, Stephen led them into the adjoining conference room. Olivia tried not to drop her jaw to the ground in amazement, but the governor didn't hide his awe.

“Holy Moses! I have certainly picked the wrong field!” he yelled with a loud Southern twang.

“This is really amazing,” Olivia said in agreement, trying to have her reaction appear polite without seeming naïve.

“You've never seen this, Olivia?”

“No, sir,” she said, realizing the meetings she usually had with Stephen were quick and rarely passed the front office, much less the
back two. The room was incredible. She guessed it was at least four thousand square feet. She had no clue what that really was, but she knew her apartment was six hundred and fifty and this was definitely five times the size, if not more. There were floor-to-ceiling windows on three walls, giving a view of the entire city, all the way up to the Chrysler Building. The only wall that wasn't windows was literally a snack counter from a movie theater. The governor leaned his head against the far window.

“Sakes alive, I'm not sure I'll ever get over how big all the buildings are here.”

Olivia smiled, loving how free he was with all of his thoughts. She was so careful with her words, always conscious of how they seemed, how they made her seem. He, on the other hand, had such an expressive naïveté. She thought it must have been the fact that he was so clearly intelligent that made the naïve things he said, like how big the buildings were, sound honest rather than stupid.

They always said JFK was like that, with a natural curiosity. He was never afraid to ask questions. Her mind flashed momentarily back to Marilyn before she could bat the mistress idea out.

Stephen sat down at the head of the long glass table and the governor pulled himself away from the window and took the modern-looking black leather and silver seat next to him. Olivia and Lisette, Stephen's assistant, who seemed too pretty and too well dressed to be the person Stephen barked orders at, sat in the seats next to their bosses.

“Let's get some coffee.” Stephen pressed down on a big button on a small, beige-colored square that looked weirdly similar to the garage-door opener Olivia's parents had before garage doors had codes. Within seconds, a man in his forties dressed in all black came into the room equipped with a small pad and pen.

“Yes, sir?”

“Uhhh, I'll have a skim cappuccino with extra foam. Gov?” Stephen looked to the governor, who hadn't yet lost his look of childish bewilderment.

“Hiya. How are ya doing today? I would just love a coffee with some sugar. Thank y'all so much.” He bowed his head toward the waiter.

“You sure?” Stephen asked. “We can do mochas, lattes, anything. I swear they're better than Starbucks here.”

Olivia wondered who “they” were and where “they” worked.

“Ma'am?”

Olivia looked up. “Oh, nothing for me. I'm good.”

“Have something!” Stephen shouted. “Have a mocha. It's fuckin' great. Bring her a mocha. Everyone loves a mocha. And bring us some muffins. Thanks.”

Olivia smiled. “Okay, sure, that sounds great, thank you,” she said.

Lisette leaned back in her chair toward the waiter. “I would love a skim latte. Thanks so much, Jeffrey.”

They had barely started talking when Jeffrey reappeared with the tray of drinks and muffins. Olivia lasered into her mocha, which did indeed look delicious, but was topped with tons of whipped cream.
Curses!
she said in her head, knowing there wasn't a chance anyone, much less her, the clumsiest and messiest person in the world, could drink that drink without becoming a disaster of whipped cream. The cream sat upright in the large round blue porcelain mug, complete with the Bronler logo. Jeffrey placed one small cloth napkin, also with the logo on it, next to the mug.
Super
, Olivia thought to herself,
that is going to be a gigantic help
.

“Now is that a fuckin' mocha or what?” Stephen said, banging his hand down on the table.

“It's incredible!” Olivia tried to figure out how to attack the milky enemy that seemed to stare mockingly at her from the table as Stephen rattled on and on about the summer event they would do in Martha's Vineyard—complete with rock star performances, movie stars emceeing. Suddenly the glitz of it all seemed to take a backseat to the work she was going to have to do to make it happen.

“Get a date,” Stephen said to Lisette.

“Is there a specific month we want it in?” Lisette asked.

“I don't fuckin' care. Olivia will just fuckin' get it done.”

Olivia nodded her head in agreement, giving Lisette a look of understanding shared worldwide by assistants. She wondered how Lisette stayed so polite with a boss who used the word “fuck” much more frequently than he did “please.”

“Okay, honey?” Stephen asked Olivia, a seemingly funny follow-up to his more boisterous outbursts.

She smiled, knowing there was something nice about him. Actually, a lot. Even when he called you a fuckin' idiot, which he was bound to do at least a few times a meeting, he did it with a weirdly endearing sincerity. It was like he was in on the jokes about himself and by playing along, he allowed you to be in on them too. There was something “inside/outside the family” about it that actually made you feel more included with every “fuck.”

By the end of the meeting, an event had been planned and the governor had given a ten-minute policy pitch on film incentives, but Olivia felt as if she had not taken a single real breath. She had not even officially started her new job and here she was sipping—well, clumsily inhaling was probably a better description, but nonetheless drinking her mocha in Stephen Bronler's back conference room and scrutinizing Taylor's every move. After saying their good-byes, Olivia silently escorted the governor out of the building, watching him type away on his BlackBerry. As the SUV drove away, taking Taylor back to Georgia, she wondered what world she had just entered and whether or not she should be dropping bread crumbs.

Over the next few days, Olivia woke up feeling like she had given a cute guy her number and was waiting for him to call. She was back to working campaign hours, better known as “all of them,” wrapping up things with Adams (which, she reminded herself, included getting the boxes that filled her small office into a storage space for keeping until the next campaign) and starting unofficially with Taylor.

She wished switching campaigns could be more like sports-team trades. The minute a professional basketball player got the call that he would be playing for the Knicks rather than the Bulls, his hat switched from red to blue; the former hat simply disappeared under a table at the press conference. With campaigns, there was always a window of a few weeks when two organizations considered her an employee—one excited to have her start and the other anxious about her impending departure, so both grabbed all the attention they could get. At nine-thirty
p.m., when her BlackBerry buzzed with a private number, she reached down for the phone, assuming it was Adams, who had been calling regularly that evening.

“Hey, Hoya.” The Southern accent on the other end of the line startled her and she fumbled with her BlackBerry.

“Hi. Hello. How are you?”

“Not as good as when I'm in New York.”

“We feel the same way here.”
What? “We feel the same way here”? What does that even mean? Who does?
She was so busy ridiculing herself that she completely missed whatever he was saying.

“Hello?” he asked as if the line had dropped.

“Hi. Sorry. You cut out there for a minute.” It wasn't a lie. He had cut out from her train of thought.

“How's it going?”

“It's good, thank you.” She could feel herself flustered and wondered if through the phone he could tell her cheeks were getting red. “How are you?”

“You know,” he said with a campaign-like energy, “things are good. Really good. You see the
Washington Post
today?”

Washington Post
? She could barely find the time to get through all the New York papers these days.

“I haven't. Not yet. Which article?” She held the phone to her ear with her shoulder and ferociously typed his name and “Washington Post” into Google News.

“Oh, you gotta read it. It's a great one. All about how our campaign is bringing back the younger generation. I have to tell you,” he said with a pensive pause, “for me that's everything. For the first time in the history of this country, we may be at risk of leaving our children in a worse place than our parents left us. To me, that's incredible. And just plain unacceptable. I won't stand for it. We have to be able to ask ourselves if we're willing to pay the price tomorrow for the poverty and indifference we allow today. If I can get this generation to ask those questions, to believe in the power of politics to do good, to renew just a bit of their hope in government . . . well, that would really be success.”

“I think you're doing that already.” Olivia felt her own sincerity.

Forty-nine minutes and thirty-three seconds later, as so recorded by her BlackBerry, Olivia hung up the phone, once again unsure of what had just happened. She had listened intently to him speak about poverty in a fashion fit for one of her books on historical speeches, feeling as though she should be taking notes. She looked down at the pad in front of her where she had scribbled “We have to first believe that within all of us is the power to change the world and then we have to have the courage to use that power.”

As she stared down, she wondered how they had moved so seamlessly from a book-worthy speech to stories of the biscuits his grandma used to make, to her need to play peacemaker in her family, a characteristic she rarely admitted, much less shared with others. He had told her he saw “a great spirit” in her. She had even convinced him that Yanni's party in the Hamptons the next weekend, though totally apolitical, would be worthwhile. There was an ease in talking to him—one that seemed more befitting of a friend, not her longtime political hero. It left her smiling as she closed the Adams list and opened a new Excel file of prospects for Taylor.

J
[email protected]
:
Hey. You're coming with us. We'll pick you up at 2.

Olivia's heart fluttered as she read the message that popped up on her BlackBerry. The campaign had become like a new crush—every time it was mentioned, she felt giddy. She had been awaiting Jacob's text, knowing from her conversation with the governor that they would go to Yanni's party after the scheduled fundraiser in New Haven, but she wasn't sure Jacob knew that she and the governor had spoken. The campaign was doing a lunch at the Swannee. (Olivia Googled and figured out the Swannee was the Swann Club in New Haven, Connecticut. Campaign Lesson #7—no campaign staffer worth his or her salt ever says, “What's that? I've never heard of it.”) She wasn't required to go, as she didn't officially start until the next week. But she had been hoping they would invite her. She tried to play it cool.

[email protected]
:
Huh?

[email protected]
:
Gov wants you to come to lunch fundy w/ Stanton, then to Filipaki's in EH. Will RON and get back sometime tomorrow.

She effortlessly decoded the campaign-speak: Manny Stanton—a big Connecticut-based trial lawyer who had the kind of goofy commercials where the badly made-up litigator looks into the camera and says, “If you've ever been injured in an accident and need help
now
call 1-800-GET-RICH”—was hosting a fundraising lunch in New Haven. Then they would head to Yanni's in East Hampton and spend the night (RON = “remain overnight”). It was going to be fun.

Before she could reply, another message from Jacob blinked on her BlackBerry.

[email protected]
:
And try 2 look good tonight. If I have to see that Banana Republic suit one more time, I'll blow my f*cking brains out.

“Jerk,” she said aloud, smiling ear to ear at the Banana Republic suit she had laid out to wear.

[email protected]
:
Jerk. I'm not one of ur lackeys that says how high when you say jump. Will try to move mtgs around and let u know if I can make it.

She pressed SEND knowing damn well she was going. She figured she'd give it a few minutes. Besides, she needed to focus on picking out a new outfit. She grabbed the skirt from one of her Express suits and paired it with a white sequined tank top she had gotten at Forever 21 for $8.99, much to the chagrin of her friends. Olivia held tight to her addiction to the store despite the mocking it brought on. Aside from the store's being a big, chaotic, loud mess that she could get lost in, the clothes spiced up her boring suits, especially when she was reminded how boring they were. And yes, she understood that instead of buying ten of the $9 shirts she could buy one $90 shirt that would last longer than all of them combined, but the truth was she never really had $90 to spend on a shirt at once and the $9 at a time she did have could change her wardrobe rotation for three weeks. She remembered a line Jacob had once told her:
Campaigns and long-term thinking don't really go together.
Her shirts and her savings, or lack thereof, were good examples of that.