The Obamas had also eschewed her advice on the White House dog. She’d advised Michelle, in private, of course, that a smaller dog would be more flattering to Michelle’s shape. A low lying animal would draw attention to her solid calves and slender ankles. Instead, Bo’s height meant that every shot of the dog focused squarely on Michelle’s hips and waist. A nightmare for every woman, black or white, no matter how fucking fabulous her arms are.

But, no, the Obamas had acquiesced to the Portuguese American Federation and now nearly all of the Ironbound section of Newark, NJ, was squarely in Obama’s court on health care. It wasn’t worth it if you asked Desiree Rogers. Nothing was worth having your ass photographed every time the dog went after a Frisbee on the White House lawn.

After hanging up with Hillary, Rogers returned to her lunch and the magazine she’d smuggled into her office in the bottom of her brief case. Normally, if anyone saw her reading a gossip magazine, she’d pretend that she was doing research or just keeping up with what was being written about the Obamas. But, in fact, she was addicted to gossip magazines. And, the fact was, they were usually right. When they’d recently reported that Michelle working in the White House’s organic garden was a farce, Rogers was privately amused at how close to the truth they’d been.

She was just settling into a photo montage of Swayze and his wife when her phone rang again. “Jesus Christ,” she moaned and looked at number on the screen. This time, she closed the magazine and put her sandwich down. “Yes, sir. Yes, I understand. I’ll make the reservation. I know. I promise. Just the two of you. No one will know you’re going to be there.”

This was the part of the job she hated. The lying, the deceit. It wasn’t in her nature. But, it came with the territory and she knew that when HE asked her to do something it didn’t matter what kind of mockery she had to make of her own values, she would do what she had to do. And, poor Michelle. It was must have been so difficult for her to put on such an act in public. She pretended like nothing at all was wrong. But, Michelle knew it came with the territory, too.

Desiree Googled the restaurant and found the number. It was one of the hottest new organic restaurants in Georgetown. She dialed the number on her cell. “Hello. Yes, this is Desiree Rogers, White House Social Secretary. I need to make a reservation for Mr. and Mrs. Obama this evening. It’s their anniversary. And, you know, Mrs. Obama insists on only eating organic.”

Oh, the deceit, Desiree thought. It was definitely the worst part of the job.