The door shuts and I look at all the members of my cabinet, letting the taste of the silence sink in.
“We’re going to have so much work, there’ll be days when we sleep very little, eat very little, and can think of very little else but the things we’re going to do. I want to be sure everyone understands, I’m taking no prisoners for the next four years. What I aim to do is vast, extensive, and very concrete. Let’s get started, then.” I slip on my glasses, take a sip of my water, and we begin.
4
WHITE HOUSE
Charlotte
There is a majesty about the White House that envelops you even from miles away. Today, though, I cannot help but be overwhelmed by its size, its splendor, its very whiteness as I’m led by my new chief of staff, Clarissa Sotomayor, into the White House and along the second floor of the residence—more specifically, to my bedroom. If being transferred from my apartment to the White House in a black car by men with guns wasn’t enough to blow my mind, walking down the White House’s endless wings certainly is.
I’m going to be the youngest first lady in history—as Matt is the youngest POTUS in history. Speaking to Kayla about Jackie and Lady Di last night, I sort of blow my own mind that I’m even comparing myself to these women—is this really my life?
I’m in love with the president, for god’s sake!
And Matthew asked me to be here, asked to see me, asked me to take on this role.
It’s actually happening—and I can hardly believe that it is.
It’s barely after lunch, and here I am.
“And this will be your bedroom,” Clarissa declares as she swings the door open.
My jaw just . . .
Drops.
I didn’t have to lift a finger—every one of my belongings that I wanted to take was transferred from my “shitty, unsafe” apartment (as my mother called it) to the secure, huge, and glamorous White House.
To this room.
My room.
My room in the White House.
“Charlotte, are you sure about this?” my mother asked this morning.
“Yes,” I lied, as I packed, nervous, excited, knowing only that I’d do anything to make a difference, and that this is the best chance I’ll ever get to make a mark. Knowing, also, that I’ll do anything for him—to be close to him.
As I spoke, I was fully aware of a group of Secret Service agents, my new detail, outside my door.
“Charlotte,” my mother said tearfully.
“Don’t tell anyone yet, not until the president gives the press conference.”
She hesitated. “I don’t know if I’m terribly proud or terribly concerned right now.”
“It’s okay, you can be both.” I exhaled. “I won’t disappoint you.”
“You never could.”
Oh yes, I thought to myself, I could, but I didn’t want to think of the one selfish act that, if discovered, could have shamed my mother terribly. The one thing I took for myself, without concern for anyone else. The affair I had with Matthew Hamilton before he became president. I was so afraid of a scandal.
I still am. He made it clear from the start that he didn’t want a family, and I’m not sure I’ll bear my heart getting broken twice. Still, not for a second would I think of denying him. I guess I’m hoping.
Hoping we can make things work. Hoping that maybe . . . I belong here. Determined to try.
Matt began his presidency without a wife. I know his greatest fear is not being able to have both, and he sacrificed his personal needs for those of his country. I admire him for it. If he can put his country first, so can I.
We can take things slow. I can try this role on for size—and even though it already feels gargantuan, I’m excited. The only other time I’ve ever been this excited was when he asked me to join his campaign.
But for slow, things sure are moving fast. The Secret Service at my door, very early this morning. Now here I am, inhaling as I take in the room.
“It’s the Queens’ Bedroom,” she explains.
I clear my throat as I take in the luxurious bedroom before me. Oh god, the man I love is . . . sleeping somewhere near. Night after night after night.
“The president will be right across the hall. His chief of staff asked me to take you to see him, once you were ready.”
I inhale, stepping into my room in the most photographed residence in the land, overwhelmed, happy, honored . . . and afraid that I won’t be able to fit the shoes of all the first ladies before me. I set my things down, then I look at Clarissa and smile, nodding, terribly humbled as I stride down the long, busy halls and toward the West Wing.
“Miss Charlotte Wells, here to see the president,” Clarissa tells Matt’s assistant. She worked with us on the campaign, but she was stationed in San Francisco and I didn’t have the opportunity to talk to her. I say hello now, and she smiles and quickly steps away from her desk.
“He’s expecting you. I’m Portia. It’s very nice to meet the first lady.”