"I have moved out of our townhome for the time being, in an effort to allow Michael the utmost concentration in his bid for re-election," I say into the microphone. "At the end of the day, it was the job that came above all else for him. While it was bad for our marriage, I believe it will only lead to good things for our city. While he may not be my husband, he shall continue to have my vote."
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.
"It's a fair question because it begs the question as to whether the child you're carrying is from a sexual relationship with the Mayor's son," the reporter cuts me off.
"Stepson," I say and quickly add. "He's not related to the Mayor."
There's a pause and I see the reporter smile. He's got his story.
And I've just well admitted to sleeping with Lance while married to his father.
This situation is now out of control. I'm about to be burned at the stake-figuratively, but hell, maybe even literally.
"Is the child Lance's?" a random reporter shouts out.
"How long have you been having sex with Lance?" another reporter yells out.
"Did the Mayor know?" yes another reporter asks.
They're all clamoring for the juiciest story in years. And I just handed it to them on a silver platter.
How could we not have prepared for this question?
And then I see him.
Michael. He's standing at the back of the crowd, but I can recognize him.
Did he set this up?
Did he set me up to crash and burn? Is this some twisted game to win the election and get rid of me?
I can tell I'm panicking on the podium. I'm frozen.
I have a lawyer who's with me, but that's it. I don't do public appearances. I don't have a PR person or Chief of Staff. Kenneth set everything up for me.
Where is Kenneth?
I'm about ready to faint, when I hear another voice.
"Jesus fucking Christ, do you think you guys could learn some fucking manners?" the familiar voice says out and I snap my head to the right.
Dressed in an impeccable suit that hugs his body like a glove is the 21-year-old love of my life and father of my child. Lance Anders.
He apparently didn't bother to listen to his father or to me and he's here anyways.
"If you're done picking on my girlfriend, I'll take the rest of her questions and tell you whatever you want to know," he says with the confidence of just being a superior human being to most men. Then he turns to me and says, "Don't worry, I'm here now. Everything is gonna be all right."
And I just know that no matter what happens, I'm going to be okay.
We are going to be okay.
125
Lance
Yeah, yeah, I know I'm not supposed to have been here. I'm not supposed to steal the fucking thunder or whatever the fuck it is that I'm doing right now. Well, I'm here. So fucking sue me.
"If you're done picking on my girlfriend, I'll take the rest of her questions and tell you whatever you want to know," I say to the gaggle of journalists who were getting ready to tear into Jocelyn.
Besides, it looks like she actually is appreciating the fact that I'm here.
"Don't worry, I'm here now. Everything is gonna be all right," I tell her. She nods to me. She's overwhelmed by what she had to go through-she hasn't had something like this that she's been thrust into ever. It takes a lot of fucking balls to do that.
If I ever had any fucking doubt that she loves me, it's all gone now.
Now it's time for me to save the fucking day.
"Get your cameras ready folks, because that baby, as far as I know, is mine," I say into the microphone.
And boom. The photographers just let that shit fucking fly. They're taking so many fucking pictures of me I'll probably be on every single magazine and newspaper cover in the morning.
They'll probably put the most controversial fucking headlines they can. Think about it. The son of the mayor of New York City just admitted to fucking his wife.
Only let's get one thing straight right from the get go here, folks.
I am not fucking related to Michael Anders. Or to Jocelyn Carter.
That's right. It's about time we start using her maiden name because by the time I get done, there won't be a person in this city who will want her to stay married.
"Did your father know at the time the baby was conceived?" a reporter from the front row asks.
"Are you ashamed of yourself?" another reporter asks over him. I turn to him on that one. It's the same guy who brought out the whole line of questioning as to whether or not the babe was mine-the one who torpedoed a perfectly good press conference.