The last bit was put in by Michael himself. Slick. Way to turn every last thing about our sham marriage into a political point. Even as I announce how I’m leaving him, this is bound to get him a few points in the polls with people who think how dedicated he must be—that he’s willing to sacrifice everything.
“Michael and I are thus planning an amicable separation,” I conclude. “With a termination of our partnership to be decided at a later date.”
If I could, I would divorce him today. But Michael wants to do it quietly. A year or two into his next term. Lance and I will have to stay under the radar, but at least we’ll be able to openly see each other. We won’t be able to get married though. His child won’t have a father.
It’s the price we have to pay for our love, I guess.
“That concludes my statement, and I am now ready to take questions,” I finish and close my eyes for a second. Here it comes.
There’s a cacophony of voices but eventually one emerges.
“Ms. Anders, who is the father of your child?” a reporter for the New York Herald asks.
I’m fully prepared for this question and we’ve rehearsed it a thousand times. “At this time, I’d like to protect that information and would ask you to respect my privacy as I transition to becoming a private citizen,” I say calmly. I can’t show them if I get flustered. That only feeds the beast, apparently. “Next question?”
“Mrs. Anders, any date on when you and the Mayor plan to finalize your divorce?” a reporter from the Tri-State Gazette asks out.
I shake my head. Prepared for this one too. “At this time, I’m focused 100% on helping Michael win this election and then transition into his second term. While we both agree that we shouldn’t stay married, I want to stress that I still believe in him as mayor and the tremendous good he is capable of doing for this city.”
“Mrs. Anders, will you have any role in the new administration if the mayor is re-elected?” another faceless reporter asks.
I shake my head again. “The public spotlight is partially to blame for the collapse of our marriage and right now I want to transition to being a private citizen again,” I answer.
I’m starting to calm down. These questions were all predicted and prepared for. I may get out of this thing alive.
That’s when a reporter raises his hand from the front and asks a question.
“Mrs. Anders, what is your relationship with Lance Anders, the Mayor’s stepson?”
I freeze for a moment. The reporter is looking at me, and I realize this might just be a standard question that a curious journalist might ask.
“The Mayor’s son has been helping his father campaign after moving to the city,” I answer a bit weakly. I remember the advice Michael gave me. If I can’t answer the question, answer something and attempt to move on. Don’t get bogged down.
But I get bogged down and pause a little too long. The reporter follows up immediately. “The two of you have been seen on numerous occasions outside of campaign events. What is the nature of your relationship?”
Now I pause, thinking back to the advice desperately and as quickly as I can. Michael instructed me to not lie. Always be as truthful as possible. Don’t answer if I have to, but do not lie. But he also said to keep it focused on the election and do not let anything else dominate the discussion, otherwise this could spin out of control. Fast.
“I think that Lance is a fine young man…dedicated, strong, and more than capable…” I start, not knowing what else to say before I’m interrupted. I realize I broke another rule given to me. Always know what you’re going to say before you answer the question.
“Yes, but let me rephrase that question,” the reporter interrupts and everyone around him quiets down. They sense the blood in the water. “Is your relationship with the Mayor’s son platonic?”
There’s murmuring from the crowd. Of course there’s murmuring from the crowd of reporters.
“I…I don’t understand the question,” I somehow say. The truth is I understand the question completely, but I’m stalling for time. I’m trying to figure out what the fuck to say!
“Let me rephrase again,” the reporter says, obviously aware that he is the center of attention at this point. “Are you having an affair with the Mayor’s son, Lance Anders?”
Now the photographers just let their fingers fly and if it was ten thousand suns before, the glare is just too strong now. It hurts my eyes.
I need to fight back.
“I don’t think that’s a fair question…” I start. But again, I’m interrupted.