Each December, Time magazine names someone Man of the Year.  Or Woman of the Year.  Person of the Year, I think they call it now.  Technically.  I'm privately in favor of the whole gender-neutral thing, but the current winner of this dubious honor has stated a preference for Man of the Year.

He would.  The big macho dork.

But, as I have pointed out to him on several occasions, it is a fleeting honor at best.  I mean, honestly, who even remembers the winner of the 1999 title?  I don't, and it's exactly the sort of thing I usually do remember.  So what does that tell you?

And, considering the complications the whole "Man of the Year" thing is causing in our lives right now, who needs it?  I mean, it's not as though Josh has never seen his picture on the cover of a magazine before.

Besides, I keep remembering all the things that happened the last time Josh won the news cycle.  I simply cannot go through that again.

On the other hand, the story in the National Enquirer was much more fun.  Disturbing, in terms of the success of the Moss-Lyman Defense, of course, but kind of a thrill.

I've never been described as a "mysterious blonde" before, much less been accused of taking part in an "illicit liaison."  Oh sure, everyone who knows us will probably look at me suspiciously, and that will be annoying.  But the liaison in question was perfectly licit, so I'm just going to enjoy my new aura of mystery.

Donnatella Moss-Lyman, femme fatale.  Who knew?

***

I really don't know why Donna's glaring at me.  For once, I am perfectly blameless.

It is absolutely not my fault that Time magazine took one glance at my scholastic achievements, my political acumen, my boyish charm, my sparkling wit, and, of course, my rugged good looks and said, "Hey, Josh Lyman, Esquire, is Man of the Year material!"  Who can blame them?  I am da man!

I am also grinning like an idiot.

"Joshua," Donna interrupts my thoughts, "would you like me to walk a few paces behind you?  So you can, you know, continue to commune with your ego?"

"Donna," I say in my wounded voice, "I am merely mulling over the possible complications due to this prestigious honor."

She snorts.  She actually snorts.  "You're smirking, Josh."

"So?"

"So you're obviously not thinking about possible complications.  Clearly, you're thinking about how perfect a choice Time magazine made by selecting you."

"True," I admit.  "So why are you glaring at me?"

"Dancing, Josh.  You promised me dancing."

"We danced," I point out, somewhat defensively.

Donna tosses a mint at my head.  "Josh, you hummed two bars of a waltz and twirled me around once in the parking lot.  The parking lot!"

"That's romantic!"

"It really wasn't."

"You, me, dancing underneath the stars -- how is that not romantic?" I demand, popping the mint into my mouth.

"It's not romantic, Josh, because your motivation wasn't a desire to hold me in your arms or dance with me in the moonlight, but was rather a desire not to break a promise while avoiding the risk of public exposure at the same time.  And besides, you're tone deaf."

"I am not!"

"Trust me."

"C'mon, Donna," I argue.  "We've made it through hell this year.  Forgive me for being a bit paranoid that something might screw it up."

She looks over at me for a long time, shivering in the winter air.  "Nothing's going to screw this up," she vows.

I reach for her and we're kissing, right here on Copley Square.  So much for my fear of public exposure.  Her kisses significantly reduce my powers of cogitation.  In fact, if we don't get back to our room within ten minutes, there's going to be some public exposure of the prosecutorial kind.

Donna must read my mind -- She pulls away and tugs me toward the hotel.  "Let's see if you can live up to your title."

"Oh, I'm definitely up to it."  That suave thing I have going is ruined when I promptly stumble over a pile of snow.

Donna rolls her eyes but otherwise ignores my comment.  "Should we talk to CJ?"

As always, it takes me a moment to catch up with her incomprehensible subject changes.  "Why?"

"Your face is on the cover of Time magazine, Josh," she answers.

"I know."  I'm grinning again.

"Would you please concentrate?" Donna asks, exasperated.

"On what:  My face on the cover of a national magazine -- again -- or living up to my title?"

"Joshua, we've hardly been discreet the last five days."

"Donnatella, we were at a resort.  In northern New Hampshire.  Do they even read Time up there?"

"Josh--"

"Seriously.  Wouldn't they read, I don't know, Mountain Living or Dairy Farmer Journal?"

Donna snickers.  "You are incorrigible."

"I love it when you get all polysyllabic on me."

She sobers.  "What if someone saw us?"

God, I hope this doesn't come crashing down around our ears.  I am loving being married to Donnatella.  I am loving it.  I refuse to let anyone or anything destroy what we have.  "We'll deal with it," I promise.

"How?" Donna asks.

"I don't know," I admit.

***

"How did we not know about this?" Josh asks.  It's our big night in Boston, the last night of our vacation.  Dinner turned out not to be half as romantic as planned because all Josh wanted to do was get to the nearest newsstand and see what had been written about him.  I was promised dancing, however, and I was determined to get at least one waltz.  Even if I did have to settle for the small piano bar in our hotel.  Which was actually quite nice.

"But, Donna," Josh complained, "people are looking at us."

"Do any of those people know us?"

"No, but--"

"Do any of those people have press credentials?"

"I doubt it, but still--"

"Are there any cameras in our vicinity?"

"Not that I notice."

"Well, what harm can one little dance do?"

I gave him my forlorn face, which always works, and I got my dance.

What can I say?  Even personal assistants extraordinaire occasionally have lapses in judgment.  Especially when confronted by the sight of Joshua Lyman in a tux.

I mean, if he'd absolutely refused, I would have respected his decision.

He let me talk him into it.  He wanted it as much as I did.  It's really all his fault.

It was kind of comical, actually.  Josh was still so worried about people looking at the newly appointed Man of the Year that he held me at arm's length.  There we were, our big chance to have this wonderfully romantic moment, and he wasn't even holding on to me that tightly.  It was just like the Inaugural when we danced with much more than the required space between us due to the combined pressure of the whole boss/assistant thing and the glares we were getting from Mandy Hampton.

Mandy never did like me.  Can't imagine why.

This time around, I did what I didn't have the nerve to do at the Inaugural.  (All right, yes, I admit it:  I was longing for a romantic dance with Josh even back then.  Are you satisfied?)  I moved in closer, and I rested my head against Josh's shoulder.  (I had avoided high heels in anticipation of this very moment.)  After that, Josh conceded, pulling me tighter and generally acting like a man dancing with the woman he loved.

I'm storing that image away.  I want to take it out and replay it when I'm an old woman on her deathbed and my life is flashing before my eyes.

In fact, I've replayed it several times since that night.

I still can't figure out who had the camera.

***

I can't believe we made it to the room.

There are two reasons why our room is quite alluring to me right now.  First, Donna is holding our copies of Time magazine hostage until we arrive in our room.  Second -- and more importantly -- I have been waiting to get her alone since that searing kiss in the middle of Copley Square.

Then there was the sensuous dance at the piano bar and the way she nibbled on the side of my neck--

God, where is the room key?

"Give it to me, Josh."

I flash her a suggestive grin.  "What do you think I'm trying to do?"

She snickers and snatches the cardkey away.  With incredible poise -- considering where I've got my hand right now -- she gets us into our room.

I am conflicted.  Donnatella or the magazine?

I know this should be a simple choice, but I'm also insatiably curious about--

Donna is stripping.

I am reduced to staring at her, incredulous and incredibly turned on.

She gives me a seductive smile and shrugs out of her jacket.  When it hits the floor, our copies of Time magazine fall out of the pocket.  Unfortunately, Donna notices that my gaze has wandered.

"Joshua Lyman," she yells, her hands on her hips.  "Are you seriously considering reading that article right now?"

"No," I lie.

She looks very pissed off.  "You understand that if you do attempt such a feat, I may actually kill you."

"Understood."

"I will then call Time magazine myself and tell them horrible things about you," she threatens.

"Like what?  I am a model husband and a master politician."

"A model husband," Donna says, "would not have any trouble deciding between enthusiastic sex with his wife or some lame newsmagazine!"

Enthusiastic sex?  "Point taken," I say, tossing my jacket on top of hers.  And, conveniently, the magazines.  Out of sight, out of mind.  I hope.  "I guess now I have to live up to both titles."

She furrows her brow at me.  "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Man of the Year," I explain, "and model husband.  Both at the same time."

She is softening.  I can tell -- She's got those little crinkles at the corner of her eyes that she gets when she's trying not to smile.  "Sure you're up to it?"

"I told you," I say as I step into her personal space.  "I'm absolutely up to it."

Donna's gaze travels slowly down my body.  God, she makes me crazy without even touching me.  Finally, she meets my eyes again and nods. "You'll do."

"I'll do?" I repeat.  "I'll do more than do!"

"Joshua," Donna laughs, "you are impossible!"

I pull her into my arms and maneuver us toward the bed.  "I am also indefatiguable."

***

Now here's something you may not know:  Time magazine keeps the selection of their Person of the Year very hush-hush.  Only a few individuals on the editorial staff are privy to the selection process, and they apparently take an oath of secrecy.  As for the story itself, well, read it carefully.  It's all canned quotes -- stuff that has been used in past stories with maybe one or two new quotes from unnamed sources.  "White House insiders" seems to be a favorite source in this particular case.

The "White House insiders" quoted here have what you might call distinctive speech patterns.

"Ainsley Hayes," I suggest.  "It's got to be Ainsley Hayes."

We're back in our hotel room, snuggled up in bed, with our copies of Time.  (On the way home, we stopped by a newsstand where I played faithful assistant and bought a couple of copies while the Man of the Year waited outside.)

"I don't think so," Josh says.

"Notice the twisted syntax," I point out.  "It's just screaming Ainsley Hayes."

"But it's talking about stuff that happened before the shooting. Ainsley Hayes wouldn't have known that.  My money's on Margaret.  This quote has that slightly obsessive quality that I associate with Margaret."

"Margaret wouldn't talk to the press.  Leo'd kill her."

"Who says she knew she was talking to the press?"

"A reporter from Time magazine wouldn't identify himself?"

"Yes, but if you get Margaret when she's going off on whatever crisis she's obsessed with that day, she might not notice."

"You're seriously underestimating Margaret.  It's Ainsley Hayes.  The Republican."

"I don't know.  This doesn't make me sound bad.  If a Republican is going to talk to the press about me--"

"As much as I dislike Ainsley Hayes, I have to admit that she's just serious enough about working in the White House to control her antipathy toward us when talking to the press.  Then, of course, there's the whole Sam issue where she's concerned."

"Not that again."

"It could be a factor."

He turns the page.  "Oh, God."

"What?"

"You.  Me.  Innuendo."

I find the offending passage. "'...his faithful assistant Donna Moss.'  What's wrong with that?  I'm faithful."

"Keep reading."

I keep reading.  The gist of it is that the same White House insider (or maybe it's another one; these attributions are way too vague) uses the phrase "wrapped up in each other" to describe my professional relationship with Josh.  I am offended.

"I am not wrapped up in you!" I protest.  To further illustrate my point, I disentangle myself from his arms.  "I have a life, you know."

"I know."

"I have my own interests."

"I've noticed."

"I am an independent woman."

"I've never doubted it."

"Well, this is just wrong!" I finish.

"And also vague enough that we can't, you know, officially protest."

"Especially without calling attention to-- to--"

"To just how wrapped up in each other we really are?" Josh suggests.

"Yeah.  That."

We read on for a few minutes.  Josh groans when he gets to the end of the article.  "Well, it's nice to know I have a bright future ahead."

"Or not," I add.  "Gotta love those vague newsmagazine cover story endings."

"I can't believe that CJ didn't give us a heads up on this."  He reaches for the phone.

"Josh," I say, "please tell me you're not calling CJ."

"But--"

I take the phone out of his hand.  "Point number one," I say.  "It's 2 a.m."

"I'm aware of that."

"Point number two:  We'll be back in DC tomorrow, and you can talk to her then."

"Damage control can never start too early."

"I'm sure CJ will be glad to know that when you wake her up.  I'm sure she'll have a few things to say on the subject of your paranoia."

"Point taken."

"Point number three:  If you call her from here, the phone company will have records.  Records, Josh.  Records that the press can trace if they get interested."

"Okay, now, you should have made that point number one."

"Point number four--"

"I'm convinced.  I don't need point number four."

"You really do," I say, moving back into his arms.  "It's my best point."

"And it would be?" he asks, sounding much too amused.

"This is our last night of vacation.  Tomorrow night we are going to be sleeping in our respective apartments, in our respective beds.  Do you honestly want to waste tonight worrying about a magazine article?"

"Well," he says, "it's an important article.  There may be ramifications."  He's looking too damned pleased with himself.  I want him, he knows I want him, and that means he's winning.

"Fine," I say.  "I have my own interests.  I have recently thought about taking up stamp collecting."  I move back to the other side of the bed.  Josh, I am pleased to say, moves with me.

"Stamp collecting?" he asks, too damned amused again.

"Yes, you know, philately."

"How many times do I have to tell you--"

"Philately," I whisper in his ear.  "Philately, philately, philately."

We spend the rest of the night engaged in a variety of activities, none of which has anything to do with stamp collecting.

***

Once we're back in D.C. (and we very nearly missed our train, thanks to Donna and her philately), I head immediately for the White House.  Okay, in point of fact, I head immediately for Donna's place.  She then drives me to National (I refuse to call it "Reagan" -- that name still makes me shudder) to retrieve my car, and then I head for the White House.

At any rate, I arrive eventually and head straight for CJ's office.

"How could you not know this?" I demand.

CJ looks up and smirks at me.  "Well, the Man of the Year decides to grace us lowly peons with his presence."

"I'm serious, CJ," I close the door to her office. "Donna and I were away together. We were being, you know, not entirely discreet."

She quirks an eyebrow. "Indiscreet, in other words?"

"It's not like we had sex in public, CJ."

CJ gives me a pained look and holds up one hand. "Okay, way too much information, there, buddy. Just tell me no one recognized you."

I cross my arms.

"Oh, god," CJ jumps up. "Someone recognized you?"

"Many, many people," I confirm.

"When? Where?" she demands. "Why did you not *call* me?"

"Last night, Boston, and it was 2 a.m."

"So?"

"So," I answer lamely, "I didn't want to wake you up."

CJ glares at me. "Next time, wake me up." She shifts into overdrive. "I'll have Carol pull the tabloids--there's been nothing in the legitimate press, or I'd know about it by now. Did anyone have a camera?"

"Don't you think I would have mentioned photographic proof?"

She's glaring again. "I thought you would have *called* me immediately, but I was mistaken about that--"

"No one had any cameras, CJ," I assure her.  "We were having dinner and there were some people staring, and then someone asked for an autograph.  Which is how we found out about the -- By the way, how come you didn't know about this in advance?"

"I'm not omniscient, Josh," she snaps.  "Time magazine isn't in the habit of calling the White House to explain their choice for Person of the Year."

"Man of the Year," I correct, which is a slight misstep, given the look on CJ's face.

"Whatever.  They like to keep it a secret."

"Why?"

"Does it really matter at this point?"

"No," I admit.

CJ gestures at the door.  "Go away.  I have to work now."

*

CJ appears at my office door looking worried.  Panicked even.

She closes the door behind her and tilts her head in the direction of Donna's desk.  "Can you get her in here without rousing suspicions that this is a meeting about the National Enquirer?"

I raise my eyebrows.  "Is this a meeting about the National Enquirer?"

"Yes."

"Then why can't I arouse suspicions--"

"Josh," CJ snaps, "this is serious."

Oh, here we go with the return of my least-favorite phrase.  I am experiencing dread.  I gesture at the door, and CJ opens it a crack.

"Donna!" I bellow.

CJ cringes and mouths something unintelligible, which I ignore.

Donna appears in the doorway.  "How many times have I--"

"Did you bring me coffee?" I interrupt with a meaningful look.

Donna pales and closes the door.  "Oh, God.  What now?"

CJ drops a copy of the National Enquirer on my desk.  An item titled "Non-Partisanship in Action" is circled in CJ's trademark purple.  Right next to which is a small picture of--

Donnatella Moss-Lyman and I, dancing in a piano bar in Boston.  It's actually quite a nice picture:  Our hands clasped on my shoulder, my attention wholly captured by the woman in my arms, and -- thank God -- Donna's face nestled into my neck.

Still, I look up at CJ in horror.  She shrugs.

"Josh," Donna says impatiently.

"There's a picture."  I hold it up for her to see.  "Of us."

Donna's eyes get very wide as she examines the picture.

I pull it back and read the caption aloud.  "'Interoffice Love Blooms.'  Couldn't they at least lay off the clichés?" I glance up at Donna, who does not look amused, then continue, "'Political watchers with sources inside the White House report that the mysterious blonde--'"  I stop and swallow hard.  This is so not good.

"Josh!" Donna prompts.  Her hands are twisted together in front of her.

"'The mysterious blonde that Deputy Chief of Staff Josh Lyman has been pol-ing around with is none other than Republican--'"  I choke.

"Republican?" Donna squeaks.

I look at CJ, horrified.  "Ainsley Hayes?"

She nods, waiting for the explosion.

"They're suggesting that I'm secretly married to-- to-- a Republican?"

CJ shushes me -- apparently that last bit got a little loud -- then corrects me.  "Dating.  No one has any idea you're secretly married.  Actually, I believe the term they use is 'illicit liaison.'"

"But-- but-- with a Republican?"

Donna looks shell-shocked.  "Sam's going to be pissed," she notes.

"Donna!" I yelp.  "Are you listening to this?  They think you're--"

"Don't even say it," Donna orders.

CJ jumps in.  "It's in the National Enquirer.  We ignore it.  I just wanted--"

"What?"  I am standing.  "Ignore this -- this hideous piece of gossip?"

"Yes," CJ nods.

"No," I argue.

"CJ's right."

I turn on Donna.  "What?"

"Think about it, Josh," Donna says.  "This isn't even a story.  It's an item in a gossip column of the National Enquirer.  CJ comments, and it's in the Washington Post."

"Good," I exclaim.  "They're saying that I'm with Ainsley Hayes!"

CJ shakes her head, exasperated.  "Josh, the White House is absolutely not going to comment on this--"

"It's not true," I point out.

"But we can't say that to the press," Donna shrugs.

"Why not?"

"Because," CJ explains, "then there'll be even more curiosity about the mysterious blonde, and someone's going to uncover the truth."

"Again," I say.  "Good."

"Joshua."  Donna glares at me.  "This is for the good of the Moss-Lyman Defense."

CJ gives us both a strange look.  I ignore her and narrow my eyes at Donna.  "You just like being called a mysterious blonde."

Donna smirks at me.  "Pot, meet kettle."

"What?" I sputter.  "No one's calling me--"

"A mysterious blonde?" CJ observes dryly.  "No kidding.  But your swagger intensified to nearly obscene proportions after that Man of the Year issue hit the newsstands."

My mouth drops open.  "I do not swagger."

Donna is biting back a smile. "Strut?" she suggests.

CJ nods.  "Oh, that's much better.  He definitely struts."

I am about three seconds away from stamping my feet.  "Could we please get back to the offensive suggestion that I would sully my Democratic body with a Republican?"

Donna rolls her eyes.  "You're an idiot."

"Not according to Time magazine," I counter.

CJ gives Donna a sympathetic look.  "Is he like this at home?"

"Worse."

CJ looks over at me, amused.  "Did you just stomp your feet?"

"Shut up."  Where's that famed wit when I need it?

CJ shifts back into business mode.  "We're not going to comment.  I'll talk to Leo."

"But, CJ--"

"No, Josh."  With that, she gives Donna a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and slips out.

I glare at my traitorous wife.  "Why doesn't this bother you?"

Donna grins at me.  "My amusement at your utter horror far outweighs my annoyance."

"We've really got to work on that supportive wife thing."

***

I figured that if I took an early lunch I could avoid unwanted questions.

I figured wrong.

Two minutes into my chicken Caesar salad, I am joined by Carol, Bonnie, Ginger and Kathy.

God help me.

"So," Bonnie starts, "Josh and Ainsley Hayes?"

I nearly choke.  "No," I answer.  "Definitely not."

Ginger eyes me skeptically.  "She meets the criteria."

"She's blonde," Kathy agrees with a nod.

"She's also a Republican," I point out.  "And we're talking about Josh."

"Politics makes strange bedfellows," Carol says.

"Is that an original thought?" I ask.

The four of them look at each other, then turn their collective gaze on me.  You can just see how much they pity me.

God, when did I become that obvious?

"It would never have worked, Donna," Ginger says.  "You're his assistant, and Josh is much too professional to do anything like that."

"This is not about Josh and me," I respond a little too quickly.  "There is no Josh and me.  I have Irving, remember?"

"You'd drop Irving in a minute if Josh told you to," Carol answers.

"I would not.  I love Irving."  This is not a lie.  Irving Seymour Hackenbush has been very good to me.  Hell, he saved my marriage practically singe-handedly.

Once again, the four of them -- women I used to consider my friends -- look at me with pity.  Kathy actually pats my hand.  "We know you do, sweetie," she says in this condescending voice that indicates that they know I love Josh.  Who loves -- Dear God, I can't even think such a thing, and I know it's not true.

At least Mandy Hampton and Joey Lucas were Democrats.

Bonnie pulls the Enquirer article out of her purse.  She sets the photo on the table.

God, that is so obviously me!  Why doesn't anyone see that?

"It's Ainsley," Bonnie says.  "Blonde, long hair, right height."

"Ainsley Hayes is shorter than that," I protest.

"You can't see her shoes," Ginger points out.  "She could be wearing heels."

"Who else could it be?" Carol asks.

"The world is filled with women who have long blonde hair," I answer.  I take this moment to put one elbow on the table (Hey, Ms. Manners, this is an emergency!), prop my chin on my hand and give my long blonde hair a bit of a shake.

The clueless four don't even notice.

"It has to be someone he met at work," Carol suggests.  "Josh is never anywhere except work."

"Right," Kathy adds.  "Mandy, Joey -- it's his pattern."

"If it isn't Ainsley, who else would it be?  Who does Josh know who looks like this photo?"

This is too much!  I am right in front of them; I work with Josh.  I work with Josh more than anybody does.  How can they not get it?  I mean, too professional?  Josh?  Have they lost their collective minds?  Why do they find the idea of Josh and me together so incomprehensible?

"It's blurry," I say.  "It could be anyone.  It could be me."

And Ginger laughs.  She actually laughs.

I used to like Ginger.

Kathy giggles.

Carol looks at me like I'm breaking her heart.

Bonnie hugs me.

I want to kill them.

Right after I kill Ainsley Freaking Hayes.

"Josh would never have an affair with a Republican," I repeat.  "And it is definitely not Ainsley Hayes in that photo."

"I told you she'd have trouble accepting this," Ginger says.

Carol nods.  "We're all here for you, Donna."

Kathy pats my hand again.  "You can call us any time," she says.  "Day or night.  We'll listen."

"We'll help you get through this," Bonnie offers.

"You should think of asking for a transfer," Carol suggests.  "Make a fresh start.  Get away from Josh before this thing between him and Ainsley gets too serious."

"There is nothing between Josh and Ainsley!"  I think I may have said that just a little too loud.  People at the next table are looking at me strangely.  And not one of them looks as if they're suspicious of me either.

Shit.

I mean, honestly.  What is the point of being a mystery woman if nobody knows you're one?

***

I thought if I holed up in my office for the day, no one would bother me.  I figured Donna would keep the curious at bay.  I hoped I could avoid any more "sly" jokes about Republicans and illicit liaisons.  I prayed to about ten different deities that Leo McGarry would, I don't know, be held hostage in the Oval Office by President Bartlet for the duration of my workday.  Basically, I just wanted to forget all about that ridiculous item in the National Enquirer.

I didn't count on Donna taking an early lunch.

And so I am treated to hostile Sam.  He knocks sharply and enters my office without permission.

I give him a pointed look.  "Come in."

"You need to talk to Dwyer about Social Security," Sam says without preamble.  His attitude is obviously confrontational.  For him, anyway.

I am not in the mood for this.  I am the wronged party here -- I have been publicly linked to a Republican!  I do not have the time or inclination to cater to Sam's bruised ego.  "Merry Christmas to you too, Sam."

"Yeah," he nods.  "Happy holidays.  You know, you could tell people."

Here we go.  Maybe I can postpone the discussion by playing dumb.  "Tell people what?" I ask innocently.

"I'm just saying, you could tell people when you start dating people."

I can't help but grin at his excessive use of the word "people."  Sam is nearly incomprehensible when he's upset.  "You realize that made no sense, right?"

Sam crosses his arms.  "Anyway, you shouldn't have much trouble with Dwyer, given your new street cred."

"My street cred?" I repeat incredulously.  "Sam--"

"Yeah," he continues, "you should be able to get Dwyer's vote no problem with your newly publicized fondness for Republicans."

Oh, this is too much.  "I do not have a fondness for Republicans, Sam.  In fact, I have the exact opposite of fondness for Republicans.  All Republicans.  Especially Ainsley Hayes."

He narrows his eyes.  "There's a picture."

"There's really not," I say.

Sam, of course, has the picture with him.  He pulls it out of his pants pocket -- where, I might add, it has become quite crumpled -- and thrusts it at me.  "It's right here.  You.  Ainsley Hayes."

I take the proffered paper, squish it into a ball, and toss it in the trash.  "That's not Ainsley Hayes.  Trust me."

He narrows his eyes at me but doesn't speak.

I am offended by this silent accusation.  "When have I ever lied to you?" I demand.  "That is not Ainsley Hayes!  And if you don't believe me, ask her!"

Sam gives me a childish look and reaches for the door.  "I just might."

"Wait," I say.  I really can't have him flitting all over the White House keeping everyone focused on this.  Confession time.  To be honest, I don't know how anyone could think that picture is of Ainsley Hayes and not Donnatella Moss-Lyman.  "Sam, close the door."

Sam hesitates, apparently debating with himself, before heeding my request.  He doesn't come any closer though.  "What?"

"That's not a picture of me and -- and Ainsley Hayes."  I still choke trying to link myself with that Republican.  Ick.

"Then who is it?"

"The mysterious blonde?" I can't help it.  I'm enjoying the last moments of my secret marriage.  Sam has always been the weak link.  Once he knows...

"Josh," Sam warns, his hand on the doorknob.

I wait just a second more, then sigh and say, "It's Donna."

Sam stares at me blankly.  "What?"

"Donnatella Moss--"  I manage to leave off the hyphenate.  "You know, the other woman in this office with long blonde hair?"

Sam takes a stumbling step forward.  "Wait -- you and Donna?"

Why is this so surprising?  This man witnessed all the kissing during my long hospital stay.  "Yes," I answer, sounding somewhat defensive.  "Donna and I are -- together."

Sam is still staring at me, somewhat slackjawed.  "Really?"

"Yes, really!  God!"

"Sorry." Sam is beginning to recover.  "I just thought that with Irving on the scene and all--"

"There is no Irving!"  I am almost yelling now.  "That was a ruse to throw Leo off the scent!"

Now Sam looks wounded.  "So you did lie to me."

I do not have the patience for this man.  "Sam, we lied to everyone.  Well, except CJ, but that was just because--"

"You told CJ before you told me?" Sam asks.  "I thought we were friends, Josh."

"I didn't tell CJ," I argue.  "Donna slipped up.  It was inadvertent."

"Still," he says.  "How long has she known?"

Oh, for crying out loud!  "A couple of months."

"Months?" he repeats.  "I can't believe you!"

"Sam, can we focus on the issues, here?  I am not with -- Ainsley Hayes.  You are free to obsess over the loquacious Republican all you want.  All you have to do is promise me you won't tell anyone about Donna and me."

Sam still looks upset, but I think he's enjoying the idea of being in on a secret.  "Really?  No one knows?"

"Donna, myself, you, and CJ," I nod.  "That's it."

"Okay," Sam agrees, grinning.

"You realize, of course, that if anyone else finds out, I'll know who told," I point out.

Sam frowns at me.  "That really isn't necessary, Josh.  I'm very good at keeping secrets."

With that, he turns and leaves the office, whistling Secret Lover under his breath.

We are so screwed.

***

Walking back from the mess, Bonnie, Ginger, Kathy and Carol continue to plan my future.  They've decided that I need a job in the First Lady's office.  I won't have to see Josh or Ainsley, and I can still have lunch with my self-appointed support group.

Just kill me now.

I'd say that things can't get worse.  But, you know, every time I think that, something happens.

Like Sam Seaborne smiling at me and humming Once I Had a Secret Love.

Oh, please tell me that Josh hasn't--

"Donna," Sam asks, "how's Irving these days?"

"Irving's fine, Sam," I reply.  I nod my head to indicate our extremely interested audience.  "I was just telling everyone how good things have been with Irving lately."

"That's terrific," Sam says.  "That's just great!  I couldn't be happier for you and Irving, you know."

"Yes, Sam, I know."  And I pray to God you'll shut up before the entire bullpen knows too.

"He's a great guy, your Irving," Sam says.  He has this smile that can only be described as beatific.

"Yes, Sam, Irving is an amazing man."  God help me, I'm smiling back.  Sam can have that effect on you.

Sam goes on, in case I missed the point before.  "Irving's lucky to have you; you're exactly what Irving has always needed."

"Thank you, Sam."  This is very touching; it really is.  And I wish he'd shut up, but I can't stop smiling long enough to stomp on his foot or use any of those other subtle signals that work so well on Josh.

"Well," Sam says, "I just wanted to say good for you and Irving."

And then, as though he just can't contain his joy over my relationship with Irving Seymour Hackenbush, Sam grabs me and gives me a quick hug.  Then he moves off, still humming.

Bonnie, Ginger, Kathy and Carol look at me, frankly astonished.  Kathy says what they're all thinking:  "When did Sam meet Irving?"

***

I am very nearly asleep at my desk, having finally banished Sam and his stupid whistling from my office.  I'm supposed to be analyzing the political ramifications of a bill about trucking standards, but I am perilously close to unconsciousness when my office door slams shut with a loud bang.

I jump about three feet in the air.  When I am again able to breathe, I look up to find a pair of pissed-off women glowering at me from the doorway.

"What?" I ask, stupidly.

I think CJ is grinding her teeth.  "Joshua Mateusz Lyman!"

All three names?  That doesn't bode well.  I turn to Donna.  "What's wrong?"

Donna glares at me.  "You told Sam Seaborne?"

Oh.  That.

"Yes," I answer, although I don't sound very certain.

"Why?" CJ demands.

"He was going to storm down to the basement and pester Ainsley Hayes about this," I yell.

"But why would you tell Sam?" CJ says.  I swear she didn't even hear me.  "The man cannot keep a secret to save his life."

"Who did he tell?" I ask.  I swear, the idiot just left my office -- How much damage could he have done already?

Donna points a finger at her chest.  "He told me how happy he was for me and Irving!  In the bullpen!  In front of Kathy and Ginger and--"

"People," I summarize.  "I'll kill him."

CJ is pacing now, in full rant mode.  "How did this happen?  What did I do in my past life to be saddled with this insanity?  I mean, it should be relatively easy to keep a secret marriage secret.  You just don't, you know, tell people!"

"Who are you talking to?" I ask.

"Shut up, Joshua!" CJ snaps.  "You told me there was no camera.  You told me people recognized you, but there were no pictures.  Well, guess what -- There were pictures!  And now the National Freaking Enquirer is bound and determined to prove that you're sleeping with Ainsley Hayes.  Ainsley Hayes!  Which will, of course, get the attention of the Christian Right, not to mention all of our enemies in Congress!  'How dare that morally ambiguous Democrat seduce our pious, dainty Daughter of the Revolution?'  I will have to answer that question, Joshua!  I do not want to answer that question."

I open my mouth to reply, but CJ keeps talking.  "And then there's the little matter of what happens when Ainsley Hayes produces proof that she was in Hicksville, North Carolina, or wherever the hell she's from when the damn thing was taken!"

"CJ?" Donna ventures.

CJ doesn't even acknowledge Donna.  "So now we've got a few unscrupulous 'reporters' who are more determined than ever to figure out who's in the damn picture with the Man of the Year, and then they take a look at their file pictures from various events and say, 'Hey, Josh Lyman's assistant is a tall blonde woman.  Hmmm...'"  CJ stops abruptly and points an accusatory finger at me.  "And then you know what happens?"

I hesitate, and then ask, "Am I allowed to talk now?"

"Joshua!" CJ yells.  "What happens next is that all three of us are unemployed!  And while you two may be perfectly content to be the scorned White House lovers, I happen to want to be remembered for being a great press secretary, not for my part in this ridiculous affair!"

Donna and I exchange shocked looks but don't speak until it's apparent that CJ has run out of steam.

"CJ?" I ask quietly.

Her tense frame relaxes slightly, and she sighs.  "What?"

"We couldn't have made it this far without you," I say.  "And I'm sorry our situation put your job at risk."  I glance over at Donna, who nods.  "We'll go to Leo right now if--"

"No," CJ interrupts me.  "I'm just frustrated.  This picture has complicated things.  And you know how Sam is."

"I don't think he'll tell anyone," Donna offers.  "He seemed genuinely happy about all of this."

CJ straightens up and gives us a grim smile.  "Oh, we're going to take care of Sam right now."

***

"Samuel, may I see you in my office please?"

CJ is deceptively calm.  I told her about Josh telling Sam and Sam going on about how happy he was for me in front of the entire bullpen, and she is, in reality, royally pissed.

Having already expressed her disapproval to Josh, she is ready to move on.  Sam comes in, still too happy for his own good.  I swear he is bouncing.  He looks at me, Josh and CJ and closes the door to CJ's office.

"Are we holding secret meetings now?" he asks.  "Are we going to have a password and a secret handshake?  Maybe a decoder ring?"

"Sam," Josh says in his "CJ's pissed" warning voice.  Sam should recognize that voice by now, but he just goes on talking.

"Aren't they cute together?" he asks CJ.  "I always said they were cute together.  I noticed their subtext first, you know.  Remember?  We were on the campaign bus in Georgia that night, and I said, 'CJ, those two definitely have subtext.'"

Josh sits down on CJ's sofa and buries his head in his hands.  I sit down beside him, not so much for the supportive wife thing as for the fact that this is the best seat in the house.

"Sam Seaborn," CJ says, "you will shut up and you will listen to me.  This is not some secret society; this is not The Dating Game.  This is a serious matter.  People's jobs are on the line here.  People we love."

"Oh, CJ," I start, "that is so sweet."

"Shut up, Donna," she says.  "You were supposed to keep the Man of the Year over there out of trouble, and you failed miserably."

"Yes, ma'am," I say in what Josh calls my Minnie Mouse voice.

"As for you, Sam," CJ continues, "you will stop whistling, humming, hugging, smiling and making cryptic comments about Irving."  She turns her attention briefly to my husband.  "And he's not crosseyed, so shut up, Josh."

Josh, who was in the process of opening his mouth, closes it again.

"No one," CJ says, "will do or say anything to give the press an indication that Josh and Donna have any kind of private relationship.  We will make no comment to anyone, not even to issue a denial.  Is that clear?"

Sam and Josh are speechless.  I can barely manage another squeaky "Yes, ma'am."

"This is a small item in a tabloid," CJ points out.  "Obviously the man in the picture is Josh.  No one in this room, however, has the slightest idea who the woman is."

"I do," Josh says as he stands up.

CJ glares at him.

"Well, I mean, I'd have to.  I was dancing with her.  I'm not completely stupid."

"That's debatable," CJ mutters.

"I'm just saying," Josh mumbles as he sits back down.

"You will say 'no comment,'" CJ repeats.  "In fact, Joshua, you won't even say that much.  You will, for once, keep your mouth shut.  We will get past these next few weeks and then we will start planning a sensible strategy for breaking the news to Leo and announcing Josh and Donna's marriage.  Always assuming that Leo doesn't immediately fire the lot of us for criminal stupidity."

Sam looks at us, clearly confused.  "What do you mean 'Josh and Donna's marriage'?" he asks.

Oops.

***

I give CJ what can only be described as a superior look.  This blunder is one hundred percent her fault.  CJ slumps into her chair and buries her face in her hands.  Her shoulders are shaking, but I think it's that end-of-your-rope helpless laughter.  At least she's not crying.

Sam is still looking back and forth between Donna and me, shocked.

I glance at Donna, but she merely shrugs.  Turning back to Sam, I nod.  "Donna and I are married."

He points at us, as if he's no longer sure who we are.  "You?  And Donna?  Are married?"  His forehead crinkles up in confusion.  "Actually married?"

"Yes, Sam," Donna answers.  She is using a tone that I don't recognize; it sounds like she's trying to talk a mentally incompetent child out of stabbing a small furry animal.  "Josh and I are married."

"Married," he repeats again, his gaze on me.  "Josh Lyman is married.  I..."  He trails off with a shrug.

"Yes," CJ snaps, having brought herself back under control.  "They're married.  This doesn't change anything."

"Wait," Sam shakes his head at CJ.  "You knew they were married."  He gives me a hurt look.  "I can't believe you told her all of this first!"

"Oh, grow up, Sam," CJ stands and rounds her desk, stopping inches from Sam.  "Josh and Donna got married in June.  In secret.  No one knew about it.  They slipped up, and I found out.  The four of us are currently the only people on earth who know this."

"Well," I tentatively raise one hand.  "My mother has some suspicions."

Donna whacks me on the arm.  "What?  You told your mother?"

"She guessed," I say, my tone defensive.

"You couldn't lie to her?" Donna demands.

"She's my mother."

"I lied to my mother!" Donna stands, her hands landing on her hips.  "I told her I had to work through the holidays so we could go to New Hampshire--"

CJ nearly shrieks.  "You went to New Hampshire?  Are you insane?"

"Northern New Hampshire," I point out.  "Nowhere near the Bartlets."

"Joshua, I am going to lock you in your office," CJ warns.  "You have -- to the best of my knowledge -- done about forty-seven stupid things in the past week."

Great.  This is just perfect.  CJ is threatening me, Sam is still giving me that annoying kicked-puppy look, and Donna is seriously pissed.  I don't think my day could possibly get worse.

Then CJ kicks us all out of her office, and I see Ainsley Hayes headed our way.  I hate to throw Donna to the lions, but sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.

And I gotta read this incredibly fascinating report on the trucking industry.

***

"I must speak to Mr. Lyman immediately.  At his earliest convenience."

I'll say this for Ainsley Hayes:  Even when she's making demands, she's polite.

Lucky for Josh that I don't feel compelled to return her courtesy.

"Josh is busy.  All day.  He has ten minutes free at the end of the week, but that's it."

"This is in the nature of an emergency," Ainsley protests.

"A government emergency?" I ask.  "Or are you just pissed off at the National Enquirer?  'Cause, in that case, you'd be better off talking to CJ."

"I did, I will have you know, attempt to discuss this matter with CJ.  Her response was unreasonable in the extreme."

"So you thought you'd harass Josh instead.  It's not going to work."  Thank God CJ talked me into taking those Tae Kwon Do lessons.  They may finally pay off.

My defensive posture apparently makes Ainsley think twice, as she backs off and calms down a bit.  "I am certain," she says, "that Mr. Lyman cannot be any happier with this current situation than I myself am."

"I'd say that's a safe bet," I answer.

"Surely he must want a resolution that would include a formal apology from the National Enquirer," she says.

"I don't think tabloids are big on formal apologies.  And anyway, all that would do is cause more people to wonder about who he was with."

"I have less than no interest in who he was with or in how many people are foolish enough as to find themselves speculating about the love life of the White House deputy chief of staff.  I only want to clear up this highly mistaken assumption that I am the woman in question."

"Again I point out that this is the sort of thing they pay CJ to handle."

"But she foolishly refuses to do anything to stop these ridiculous speculations.  This entire situation is, as it continues, causing me great embarrassment and inconvenience and humiliation."

"Is it?"

"Yes.  So far today, Mr. Tribbey, Mr. McGarry's secretary Margaret, three dear friends of mine and my parents have all asked about this-- this unfounded rumor."

I suppose I can sympathize.  To a degree.  I can at least offer some practical advice.  "Okay.  Here's how you handle Margaret.  Did you see her in the mess?"

"Yes."

"Ask about the calorie count in the muffins."

"Excuse me?"

"Margaret has a thing about the calorie count in the muffins.  She'll start in on that and completely forget about you and -- the other thing."

"But my conversation with Margaret is, in my opinion, the least important discussion I have had."

"Your opinion is wrong.  The only thing more crucial around here than talking to Margaret is talking to Mrs. Landingham."

"I do not understand your point."

"It's simple really -- from Margaret to Leo.  You don't want Leo taking an interest in this."

"But I have done nothing that could, in any way, be construed as inappropriate."

"That is so not the point.  Leo won't believe the idea of you and Josh for a minute.  He's known Josh forever.  But he might start wondering why you're so upset.  He might start noticing how much time you spend with Sam, and that could be a problem, given the Mallory situation."

I notice that Josh has opened his office door.  He's leaning against the door, grinning. Ainsley doesn't even notice him.  She's too lost in thought now that I've redirected her toward Sam.  The Man of the Year is too damn pleased with his wife's ability to work the opposition.

He's cute when he's smug.

"This would be Mallory McGarry to whom you refer?"

"She prefers O'Brien.  But I'm referring to Leo's daughter, yes.  She and Sam had sort of a thing last year."

"But not, I take it, this year?"

"No.  Rumor has it she got upset when the thing with Laurie hit the papers.  You can't really blame her for that."

"Laurie," Ainsley muses.  She says that name the way I used to say "Joey Lucas."

I could feel sorry for Ainsley if the tabloids weren't linking her to my husband.

"I take it the thing with Laurie is over, so maybe there is hope for Sam and Mallory after all," I tell Ainsley.  "But Leo's understandably concerned about Sam's interests in other women.  Not that Sam can really be blamed.  I mean, he is kind of attractive in a nerdy sort of way."

"Nerdy?  I would not describe Sam Seaborne's looks as nerdy.  There is, from a strictly aesthetic perspective, something quite pleasing about him.  What I mean to say is, well, as compared to--"  She starts to look over toward Josh's office.  Josh catches the direction she's moving in and shuts the door quickly.  Coward.

"Compared to whom?" I ask.

"Well, for example, compared to Mr. Lyman.  It's bad enough being publicly and erroneously linked to a-- a liberal Democrat in the national media.  But to be linked to such a homely man; it's positively humiliating."

"Homely?"  I can feel my blood pressure rising; I really can.

"Yes.  I mean, that hair.  Who could be attracted to a man with hair like that?  And his eyes -- they're positively beady.  And that look on his face -- he always has that look on his face, like he's -- I don't know what."

"Smirking?"

"Exactly.  Smirking.  And he's not at all well built."

Does she need glasses?  I mean, seriously.  Because we have an excellent health care plan here (well, except for that tendency to sue people for having life-saving surgery), and I'm sure she can afford glasses if she needs them that badly.

"I've been told," I say, in a valiant attempt to remain neutral, "that some women find Josh attractive."

"Some women must be quite, quite desperate.  Can you imagine what that man's children would look like?"

"Excuse me?"  I am shouting now.  I am literally shouting.  The door to Josh's office opens up again. Ainsley still doesn't notice.

"With a father like that, the poor things would be decidedly homely."

And I am about to lose it.  Right there in the middle of the bullpen, I am about to lose it.  Hey, Josh is a grown man; he can defend himself.  But don't you dare attack my children that way!  "I will have you know that Mol--"

I suppose it's just as well for the aforementioned children that Josh rushes to my side at that moment.  I mean, considering that I was just about to tell Ainsley Hayes that Molly Jordan Lyman is going to have her father's eyes, which are quite spectacular.

Yes, that would probably have been a mistake on my part.  So it's just as well that Josh ushers Ainsley into his office.  Let him deal with Ainsley Hayes and her skewed Republican sense of aesthetics for awhile.

I'll just sit out here and wait for my blood pressure to lower.  And if Ainsley Hayes has the least bit of sense, she'll leave via CJ's office.

***

My children couldn't have a better mother.  Hypothetical children.  But still.  Donnatella Moss-Lyman was about three seconds away from breaking out the Tae Kwan Do -- and let me tell you as someone with some experience, that drop kick thing she does hurts!  And all of this because Ainsley Hayes was making disparaging remarks about our -- mine and Donna's -- prospective children.

Anyway, this amusing recollection is probably the only thing that's keeping me from kicking Ainsley Hayes out of my office immediately.  Especially considering the fact that she closed the door -- I can only imagine the rumors flying about the bullpen already.

Speaking of Ainsley Hayes, she's giving me a rather expectant look.

"Huh?" I ask.  Hey, give me a break here -- I've been yelled at by no less than three people so far this morning, and now I've got to deal with an offended Republican.

"I said, sir, that the accusations of which you're obviously aware have caused me some degree of personal upset.  And since, as this was published only today, the stories -- completely untrue, of course -- will probably linger about this administration for quite some time.  And so I would suggest demanding an apology from the National Enquirer."  With that twisted statement, Ainsley clasps her hands and awaits my response.

I drop into my seat and gesture at the guest chairs.  "Why don't you sit down."  Especially since it'll take me a moment to untangle her words.

"No, thank you, sir," she answers, straightening her spine.

"Call me Josh."

"Considering the situation, Mr. Lyman, I would think that any overt appearances of familiarity would serve to support the unfounded--"

"First of all," I interrupt, "we're in my office--"

"Still," she says.

"Fine.  Call me whatever you want.  Hell, call me Man of the Year," I suggest with a grin.

Ainsley doesn't appear to be amused.

"Okay," I say, my tone brisk and businesslike.  "For whatever reason, the National Enquirer has us--"  I choke, but manage to get the words out--  "romantically linked."

Ainsley is grimacing.  The woman is actually grimacing!  How dare she!  I am -- to the best of her knowledge -- an extremely attractive, witty, intelligent single man.  Man of the Year, no less!

"Which is why," she says, "an official retraction, which will of course not convince the more evil-minded of the citizenry, may alleviate some of our immediate concerns.  Such as our friends and families being subjected to such hideous accusations."

"Hideous?" I repeat.  How dare she imply that I'm hideous!  I'm tempted to call Donna in here for a Tae Kwan Do demonstration.  "Look, Ainsley, I understand that you're a Republican -- I don't understand why you're a Republican, but that is a question for another time -- but being publicly linked to the White House deputy chief of staff can't possibly be a bad thing.  I'm a major player in the Democratic party--"

"Which is precisely why, if you'll permit me to interrupt, I cannot possibly be, as you say, publicly linked to you.  In any capacity, especially one of a--"  She has trouble with the words too-- "romantic nature."

I stare at her for a moment.  "Okay, this is getting ridiculous.  We both know that's not you in the picture.  Tell your Republican friends and family the truth, and this will all blow over in a few days."

Ainsley narrows her eyes at me.  "That is precisely what CJ told me, but I have to say I disagree with her analysis.  The National Enquirer is not a magazine -- and I use that word with the loosest possible constraints on its definition -- that places a premium on truthfulness.  In fact, they go to great lengths to link unrelated and, sometimes, untruthful statements and situations together to produce a stunningly false picture of perfectly innocent women -- people.  Furthermore--"

"Ainsley, please."  I hold up a hand in supplication.  "If you're so convinced of the immorality of the National Enquirer, you can't seriously expect them to apologize for this?"

She crosses her arms stubbornly.  "A retraction--"

"Is not going to happen, either," I say, with no small measure of regret.

"But with the full weight of the White House demanding--"

"There will be no such demands," I interrupt.  Apparently that's the only way to get her to stop talking.  "Right now, this is a small item in the gossip column of a tabloid.  CJ opens her mouth on the subject, and we're on the front page of the New York Times."

"I don't think that's necessarily true," Ainsley protests.

"Trust me," I say.  "You don't want to find out.  At the very least, you'll have reporters and photographers camped out at your house.  Also here.  Following you around, waiting for you to contact me and set up one of our 'illicit liaisons'--"

"Mr. Lyman," Ainsley says with an expression of distaste.  "I beg you to refrain from referring to the more offensive of the spurious accusations."

I stand up behind my desk.  Maybe she'll take the hint and leave.  "I'll make you a deal:  We'll never speak of this again.  Sound good?"

"But Mr. Lyman, I'm sure you, with your close personal friendship, can convince CJ to--"

"No one can convince CJ to change her mind once she's made it," I answer with a grin.  "The Creggs are a stubborn lot.  And even if she wanted to comment, Leo McGarry would forbid it.  This is how it works, Ainsley."

She stares at me for a long moment, then sighs.  "I really have to say that my opinion of the courage of this White House--"

"Courage?" I sputter.  "Ainsley, I think we all more than proved our courage when we pulled ourselves up off the pavement after being shot!"

Sensing she may have blundered, Ainsley gives me a quick nod.  "You're right, sir.  I'll be going."

She leaves the door ajar when she exits, and I find myself staring at Donnatella.  Who knew this would get this incredibly complicated?  I am seized with the urge to confess to Leo immediately and end the charade, but I know that my hasty actions would end up with unemployment for my entire family.

Three more months, I tell myself.  I can do this for three more months.

***

"It's 7:30, Josh."

"Right," he murmurs absently.  He's immersed in that briefing book I wouldn't let him take to New Hampshire.  I could have told him I was going to strip naked in the middle of the bullpen and vote Republican, and it wouldn't have registered.

Well, okay, maybe the "vote Republican" part would have registered.

"Josh, look at me."

"Uh-huh."

"Irving's taking me to Hawaii."

"Yeah."  And he never looks up from the briefing book.

"We're charging the trip to your credit card."

"Okay."

"Time magazine called.  It was all a mistake.  Tomorrow they're announcing that they really meant to name Tom Brokaw Man of the Year."

"What?" He finally looks up, the words "Man of the Year" having registered.

"I said it's 7:30.  Time to go home."

"Oh."  He has that look -- that "I don't want to hurt my wife, but I have to" look.  I hate when he gets that look.

"What is it now?" I ask.

"I don't think we should go home together until this thing with the picture blows over."

"Isn't that a bit paranoid?  I mean, it isn't as though there will be photographers waiting on your doorstep."

"We didn't expect a photographer in the hotel lobby either."

"So what you're saying is that not only can't we live together like normal people, now we can't even spend a couple of hours together?"

"This thing about the photo will blow over in a week or so, CJ says."

"A week or so? "

"That's what she says."

"And in the meantime, we're supposed to keep our hands off each other?  Even in private?"

"I think it's the wise thing to do."

I want to scream and throw things, I really do.  But he has that look.  He's beating himself up over this already, and I know my role here.  It's time to go back to being Comedy Relief Girl.

"Well," I tell him, "I have to tell you that being a woman of mystery is not half as much fun as I thought it was going to be."

"I'm sorry."  Oh, look.  He's got his "I don't deserve to be loved" face on.  Comedy Relief Girl had better get inventive.

"You don't think that the National Enquirer is bugging your phones or anything, do you?"

"Why?"  He is beginning to look just a tad amused.

"Because it occurs to me that if we can't, you know, spend any quality time together, we can do something we haven't done before."

"Well, besides the fact that the list of things we haven't done before is getting pretty small, there is the fact that we're going to be apart physically.  Which further limits -- oh," he says as the light dawns.  "You are perhaps referring to an extended phone discussion on the subject of stamp collecting?"

"Exactly."

"Not as much fun as physical contact."

"Still, I believe in making creative use of technology."

"Yeah, the last time we tried to be creative with technology, Leo got hold of the emails."

"But we're not planning on using White House phones.  Just the phone at your place and the phone at my place."

"Not the same as--"

"No, it isn't."

"Not a very good substitute for--"

"Not at all."

"Still, it requires talking.  We're good at that."

"No one gives better banter."

He looks at his watch.  "Okay, I'm leaving now.  Call me in an hour."

***

There are photographers waiting on my doorstep.

I cannot believe there are photographers skulking around my townhouse.  I have had quite enough of CJ yelling at me though, so I manage to hold my temper and not say a thing.  Not even one little "no comment," which, given the tenor of the questions being shouted at me, I consider quite an accomplishment.

I do, however, slam my front door as hard as I can.  It makes a satisfyingly loud noise, but I'm still irritated.  At least I had the good sense to tell Donna -- Donna!

I check my watch -- which no longer sucks, since Donna insisted on having it fixed and set to the atomic clock -- and realize I have a couple minutes.  Tossing my backpack on the couch, I shrug out of my coat and slide my tie the rest of the way off.

So Donna and I are going to have a discussion.  An interesting discussion.  A discussion with accompanying, well, acts.  There is no reason at all for me to feel nervous -- This is my wife.  We can have phone sex if we damn well please.

Except -- What if there is a bug on my phone?  I mean, there were like six or seven guys camped out on my front stoop!  And these isn't really the kind of papers that reward ethical journalism.  So maybe my phone is--

Ringing.  My phone is ringing.

That's Donna.

I snatch the receiver and thumb it on.  "Hello?" My voice sounds strange.

"Josh?" Donna asks.  "What's wrong?"

"There are photographers on my doorstep!"

"What?"

"There are--"

"I heard you the first time," she says impatiently.  "What the hell are they doing there?"

"Waiting for the mysterious blonde to appear, one can only assume."

"Well, apparently she's not going to appear for a while."  She sounds upset.

I hate this.  I really hate this.  I wish I could go to her place and be with her.  I have a feeling I'd be followed.

Fucking reporters.

"I'm sorry, Donna," I say.

She sighs.  "Josh, this isn't your fault.  We'll deal with it.  Eventually the reporters will get bored, right?"

"Well, my neighborhood does offer the excitement of regular trash pickup and weekly street-cleaning."

Donna is laughing.  I have made her laugh.  Also, that note of sadness is gone from her voice when she says, "Who could resist trash pickup?"

I let the comfortable silence linger for a moment before I disappoint her again.  I am a total bastard.  "Donna, I'm not sure about this."

"You're kidding me," she says, incredulous.  "You really think those idiots tapped your phone lines?"

"They may have.  They're not the most scrupulous people, Donna."

There's a pause before Donna speaks again.  "Think about it this way, Josh.  If someone is listening in, we've already more than given ourselves away.  You've used my name."

"Yeah, but I don't want an audiotape of us having phone sex to end up on Hard Copy," I point out.  "I don't think Leo would be too happy with that, either."

"The way I see it," Donna says in that low, throaty voice she uses in bed.  "There are certain FCC rules that could work in our favor."

It takes me a minute to understand what she's getting at, and then I am laughing.  "Are you suggesting that we pepper our conversation with expletives?"

"Wouldn't fucking hurt," she notes dryly.

God, I love this woman.

"Donna," I say after a moment, "have you ever seen Jerry Springer?"

There's a short pause, then, "What the hell are you talking about, Josh?"

I am grinning.  "Don't you mean 'What the fuck are you talking about'?"

"Josh," she warns.

"I'm saying Hard Copy can just bleep out the swears," I note regretfully.  "And then they'll be left with us, you know, moaning and stuff."

"Joshua, you're being ridiculous," Donna purrs.

"Maybe," I admit.  "But I can't help--"

"Being paranoid?"  The sexy voice is gone; now she sounds thoroughly annoyed. Dammit.

"I'm not paranoid, Donna, there are photographers on my doorstep!"

"You should call CJ," Donna says.

It takes me a moment to switch gears.  "What?  Why?"

"Because there are photographers--"

"Yeah, but I didn't say anything."

"Are you sure?"

"What do you mean, am I sure?" I ask, offended.  "I would know if I said something, Donna, and--"

"You didn't know there was a camera," she points out.

"Okay, you were there too, and I don't recall you noticing any flashbulbs," I argue.  "Besides which, we never would have been dancing in the hotel bar if you--"

"I'm just saying you should call CJ."

"Right now?"

"Yes," she answers, sounding completely unconcerned.

"But I thought we were--"

"Josh, I know you," she says.  "It's best for everyone if you just indulge your paranoia and hang up the phone.  Call CJ, tell her you're being stalked by tabloid photographers, and get ready for bed."

"But, Donna--"

"Say goodnight, Josh."

"Goodnight, Josh," I echo.

"You're impossible," Donna laughs.  "Goodnight."

And she hangs up.  I stare at the phone in disbelief.

Then I resign myself to a night without Donna and dial CJ's number.

***

At least Ben & Jerry still love me.

I haven't felt this urge to binge on self-pity and ice cream since the days when Josh was chasing after a certain California polling expert.  So here I sit in my decidedly unsexy blue plaid pajamas, mainlining from an economy-sized tub of Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream.  In my own apartment.  Alone.

Not my original plan for the evening.

Not my revised plan for the evening either.  But my idiotic, paranoid husband won't even, you know, banter.  The phones, he says, are tapped.  May be tapped.  Whatever.

Let me get this straight:  Any number of third world countries are acquiring nuclear technology, powerful corporations are continuing to rape the environment, and sexual violence against women is increasing.  Yet the national media's current agenda centers around discovering the identity of the woman who had the temerity to dance with the White House deputy chief of staff.

What's wrong with this picture?

I mean, besides the fact that everyone thinks Ainsley Hayes is more likely to make time with my husband than I am.

You know, my husband -- the man who thinks that registering to vote Republican constitutes evidence of a serious character flaw.

The man who won't even, you know, talk to me on the phone.

Which I don't believe is tapped.  Not for one minute.

Paranoid freak.

Sometimes I wonder why I love him.  I really do.

We should have worked out a code -- a secret language so we can have an intimate conversation despite his unfounded paranoia.  I am in desperate need of intimate conversation.

Desperate.

It's been more than twenty-four hours since I had a truly intimate conversation.

Irving Seymour Hackenbush wouldn't neglect me like this.

Irving...  Wait a second.

Oh, this is good!  This could work.

Where did I put the phone?

*

Josh answers on the first ring.

"CJ, what did you find out?"

"It's not CJ.  It's the other woman in your life, Irving."

"Why are you calling me Irving?"

"Because, Irving Seymour Hackenbush, you are a completely paranoid freak who thinks the phone is bugged, and I love you."

"I'm not paranoid, for all we know the phone could be bugged, and I'm not indifferent toward you either, um...Viridis."

"Irving?"  I give him my deepest, most sultry, woman-of-mystery voice.  Which is pretty damn sexy, if I do say so myself.

"Yes, Viridis?"  He sounds entirely too amused.

"Tell me all about your stamp collection."

***

I slept well last night.

And without Donna there, I had nothing better to do then climb in bed and have an invigorating discussion about philately.  With Viridis.  Who is incredibly sexy.

But I think the events of last night may have lulled me into a false sense of security.  It takes me longer than it should to figure out that the jig is most definitely up.  To my credit, it's not unusual for Donna to be standing in the foyer when I arrive at work, especially when circumstances require us to spend our nights apart.  It is, however, unusual for her to be wearing her petrified face while doing so.

"What's wrong?" I ask immediately.

"Leo wants to see us," she answers, falling into step beside me.

"Okay," I answer.  I haven't had any coffee yet, so it takes a moment for the significance to hit me.  I stop in the middle of the hallway.  "Wait, 'us'?"

Donna nods.  "CJ's already in there."

"Oh, God," I say.  This is it.  Leo's not stupid.  He's got to know, given the whole email thing a few months ago, that the woman in the picture is Donna.  Apparently today is Judgment Day.

"Okay," I say, trying to convince myself.  "We'll go in there, and we'll tell him the truth, and everything will be fine."

Donna gives me a skeptical look.  "Josh, he's already made his opinion on the matter very clear," she points out.

Damn her and her insistence on facing facts.  I rather enjoy my illusions.  "Yeah, but it's us, Donna.  How can he fire us?  We're a great team."

She nods again, but she doesn't look convinced.

"Okay," I repeat.  "Let's do this."

I am tempted to take her hand as we make our way to Leo's office, but I think she would actually kill me if I tried.  Instead, I concentrate on remaining calm and trying not to, you know, hyperventilate.  Donna is paler than usual, and her hands are clenched together.

And all too soon, we are at the door.  Which is closed.  Which is a terrible sign.

Donna and I exchange a look.  Then she reaches up and knocks sharply.

"Come in," Leo calls.

And so we enter the dragon's lair.  CJ is sitting, tense, in one of the wingback chairs.  When I screw up the courage to look at Leo, he is leaning on the front edge of his desk, arms crossed and looking quite displeased.

Donna and I stop side by side, awaiting judgment.

"CJ," Leo prompts.

We shift our gazes to her.  CJ gives us a sympathetic look and says, "Danny told me that Ainsley Hayes--"

"Oh, no," I groan.  "She's issuing denials?"

CJ nods.  "Well, she tried anyway.  Danny politely explained that he reports news and sent her on her way.  Luckily, he gave me a heads up, and I gave her a talking to."

"If you need to," Leo interjects, "send her to me.  She will not make statements to the press about her personal life."

I am studiously avoiding looking at Donna.  "It wasn't Ainsley Hayes, Leo."

Leo pushes away from the desk and glares at me.  "Don't you think I know that, Josh?  Of course it's not Ainsley Hayes.  You wouldn't date a Republican if your life depended on it."  His gaze drifts over to Donna.  His face is turning quite an alarming shade of red.  "I'm just amazed that no one has made the obvious connection yet."

I hold up a hand.  "Leo--"

"Don't even think about it, Josh," Leo bellows.  "I do not want even a hint of a confirmation here.  Right now I have," he pauses, his jaw tightening, "suspicions about the identity of the woman in that picture.  I do not know anything for sure.  I do not want to know anything for sure."

He pauses for breath, and I jump in.  "Leo, the truth isn't nearly as incriminating as you seem to think--"

Donna elbows me sharply.  CJ just groans.

And Leo's eyes get incredibly wide.  "How long have you been a player in D.C.?" he demands.

"Twelve years."

He turns his gaze on Donna.  "And you?"

"Three years, sir."

"Have you both learned nothing in that time?"

"Leo--" I try again.

"The truth doesn't matter, Josh," Leo says scornfully.  "In politics, the only thing that matters is the perception of the truth.  How this will play in the press.  And I've got to tell you, this is going to play badly."  He looks at Donna again.  "You're going to be called some pretty terrible things--"

CJ stands up.  "Leo," she warns.

Leo tosses his hands in the air.  "Hypothetically, of course, Donna."

Donna nods slowly.  "I know that."

"Do you?" he asks.  "Do you really?  If this goes where I think it's going, it will be very ugly.  Vicious, even."

I look over at Donna, and she's close to tears.  "I know," she repeats bravely.  "That doesn't matter."

Leo meets my gaze.  "It should matter," he says quietly.  "For the president, for this administration, and for the people you care about."

I nod silently.  I don't need Leo to point out that I placed Donna in an incredibly bad position.

Leo crosses his arms and regards us for a long moment.  Finally, he shrugs and says, "Fix it."

CJ, Donna, and I exchange looks.

Leo holds up a peremptory hand when CJ opens her mouth to question him.  He shakes his head.  "Just fix it."

There's nothing for it but to heed Leo's command and leave the office.  CJ pulls the door shut behind us, and we stand there in a pathetic huddle.

Then CJ squeezes both of our hands and departs without a word.

I look at Donnatella, and she's got this expression on her face like she thinks I can fix this.  I have disappointed Donna many times in our relationship -- both as a boss and as a husband -- but I am finally starting to understand how bad this is going to get.

I have managed to set the woman I adore up for a scandal that may just take down the White House. Either way, Donnatella Moss-Lyman will be vilified in the press.

And I have only myself to blame.

THE END

01.11.01