behind every man

(this was written without a glowing knowledge of american politics and current affairs, so forgive me if I offend anyone with glaring inconsistencies. It's only loosely based on familiar characters, I just fancied seeing how far I could twist truth)



I watch my husband over the breakfast table, covertly, appraisingly. Still good looking in a boyish, slightly hopeless fashion. His head bent over the morning paper shows a little more grey than usual, but the cabal of advisors all told him it adds distinction and gravitas to his image. I, however, am under strict orders to disguise every sign of my increasing years.

He seems engrossed, rapidly filing facts and information away. Sometimes in an irreverant moment I wonder how this scene plays out in my counterpart's breakfast room. Does she gaze fondly at him over the orange juice watching him struggle and mouth the words to himself? The thought makes me shudder slightly and my husband glances up.

He still carries a shadow of shame in his eyes when he thinks no one else is watching. And I have to remember to arrange my features into an expression of wounded nobility when I think they are. That image of betrayed womankind rising above all odds is what sells books, sells ideas. Maybe its fortunate our daughter is grown, the Mary-like connotations of babe in arms would be potentially ridiculous.

I stifle the urge to laugh and smile sweetly back at my husband.

'are you looking forward to the game?'


In those restless hours before dawn when dark thoughts surface, remorse is the sea on which they sail. Once we were young with shared passions, now we are middle-aged and sharing a burden of guilt. If I could ever hint at the truth about the affair and live, I perhaps would. But my death would not be at his hands, or with his complicity. This is a dangerous world and even my position would be no protection. Indeed the implications of my demise are catastrophic, great care would be taken. I just hope my own attention to detail was as thorough.

My remorse does not extend to the young woman, she has gained more from notoriety than she lost. Never will she know how she was manipulated, although perhaps with maturity she could learn to understand the reasoning behind it. Although she was an unwitting pawn in a far reaching plan, I cannot like her or pity her. Afterall she did have intimate relations with my husband.

He flashes me a grin 'sure am honey'


One of the unexpected things I have learnt over these long years, is that men can be deceptively simple creatures. Under those conservative suits, behind a carefully crafted facade, there still lies a small boy playing cowboys and indians in the woods. Whereas I am capable of complex and lasting deception on a far more emotional and intuitive scale. It sits strangely at ease with being a loving mother and liberal public figure too.

Back in those early times, of course I had ambition. But the climate was different then, we stood behind our men and pushed them out onto the world stage. And I was fortunate enough to have a man who pulled me out there with him so we could shine together hand in hand. Those were heady times indeed. To some we seemed like the touch of a warm sun, a golden couple to lead our people to a better brighter future. I guess we were just falible, careless, unfortunate. The dream soured, unseen forces conspired in boardrooms and gentlemen's clubs. Dark whispers surfaced in countries that haunted our pasts.

It was then I grew to realise a storm was coming, one we could not weather with our foundations intact. Another was being groomed to replace us, gradually I saw the only option was to bow down and let them be shattered in our place. But my husband had become somewhat blinded and left me no other option but to take him down with his own weakness.

The storm has hit, we are dwelling uneasily in the eye, waiting for the second wave.


I pour a rare second cup from the silver coffee pot, inhaling the rich steam and feeling it clear the last vestiges of sleep from my brain. My husband notices this minute deviation from my normal breakfast.

'you look a little tired this morning - did you sleep badly last night?'


The path I am set on is less than a knife edge, it may crumble beneath my feet without warning. I am playing a dangerous game against opponents who honed their skills in the years of my childhood, failure will mean the end of everything we know and love. Timing is vital, public opinion a treacherous sea I navigate constantly. Many voices clamour to see me in the ultimate position, many jeer derisively at the idea, none know just how high I intend to reach or to what depths I stooped to make it possible. Desperate times require desperate measures.

'I think I must have had too much rich food at dinner last night, nothing to worry about. But thanks for your concern Bill'


Sometimes in a less irreverant moment I wonder how this scene plays out in my counterpart's breakfast room