jamie f. walsh

A year was far too long a period of time. While Theresa might be milking it for all its worth, the sight from Julian’s background perspective wasn’t as flattering. Surely that’s how voters see it, too. No one likes waiting for deliverance.

“She’ll pull through, I’m sure,” Julian says, shrugging. It was a passionless statement, without so much as a shadow of trust in the President they talked about. “But only if we help.”

At that, Julian nods. Now you’re seeing it from the right angle. “If.” Two letters bound together which made a sound just right for Julian’s ears. It gave off enough uncertainty to keep all weight off his shoulders; at least for now. “The reception in the Senate hasn’t been great, even amongst the Democrats. And, you said it yourself, numbers don’t lie. If there’s a tie I’d vote for it, of course—” Of course. “But we might be looking at a loss here.”

“How does the President’s Strategist say we prepare?”

Jamie shifted his weight forward, an elbow on each knee, and glanced up at Julian from beneath his brow. "If we help,” he echoed, incredulity curving the corners of lips into a smirk. “There’s another option?” With the question, his eyes fell to the royal blue rug peeking out from beneath the soles of his shoes. Jamie shook his head, hands clasped in the empty space between his legs. Obama’s own warm beige rug was long gone, rolled up and out of the White House the very day Theresa had taken her oath of office. Other things were gone, too -- but here, he remained.

The silence following Julian’s question was so loud that he could almost hear his own thoughts churning. As if they hadn’t spent months preparing for every eventuality, including this one. “Well, yeah, loss is always possible with something of this magnitude. If the bill fails, it's because it’s too ambitious. We frame it that way, too,” he said, pulling his hands apart to gesture in Julian’s direction. “And the thing is, most Americans believe that protecting the environment is more important than energy production. So it’s absurd, really -- we both know that Mitch McConnell doesn’t actually care about miners in, say, West Virginia. Coal employs fewer people now than fuckin’ Arby’s.” 

The expression on his face, all the shock left her swallowing cold air where there should have been words. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting his reaction to be, maybe she’d thought that there would never be a time to find out, that she would never bring herself to ask. Instead they stood staring at each other and she wished the earth would swallow her up so she didn’t have to comprehend the fact that he hadn’t said no- i would never, he said she told you that.

She didn’t want the details really, the tell all for the gossip magazines who cared about advisors and lawyers. But she wanted to know one thing- “Why?” It’s such a broken word, clinging to the hope that he’ll have some explanation that sounds like Jamie Walsh brother and idol, not anything else. “i just don’t…” A shrug falls helplessly from her shoulders, “I don’t get it.”

Her voice was so plaintive that he had to look away, eyes shooting up and over her head to the storefronts on the other side of the street. Jamie focused on the sign hanging above one of the liquor stores, as if it might’ve spelled DELIVERANCE in flashing neon, instead of the word OPEN. 

Julian checks his watch. “Thirty four minutes now.” To be fair, it was his own fault to have gotten there thirty minutes early, only leaving the four on Theresa’s back. But people would always choose a President that’s early rather than one that’s late; people, he suspected, included Jamie Walsh. 

Once the silence settles in, Julian finds himself dragging his attention away from the patterned carpet and the pastel wallpaper and onto that which was far more interesting: Walsh himself. Theresa’s lap dog, he’d always described her advisor as, but Jamie had to be smarter to have more going on behind the blank stare and lopsided smirk he wore to match the suit. With all his statistics, Jamie should know a disaster when he sees one. 

“Before she storms in yelling about those twenty Democrat votes,” — which were as much a blow to her ego as they were a stroke to Julian’s — “tell me: how do you feel like we’re doing so far?” His tone is light; casual, as thought it were a talk between friends, not politicians. “We’re almost at a year. You have to have thoughts.” He pauses. “And I’m asking Jamie, not his percentages.”

Thirty four minutes. Jamie nodded, brows raised, practiced enough in the art of feigning interest that he almost made it seem real. His eyes unfocused lazily over the wallpaper behind Julian’s head, long enough that they could both pretend. He drummed his fingers against his knee, momentarily, before Julian drew his attention back like a boomerang, posing his question as if there was nothing behind it. “You know, that’s the thing,” he said, propping an elbow up on the arm of the couch, jaw pressed against his thumb. “Numbers don’t lie.” 

But I might, he almost said. He swallowed it instead.  

 A pause followed. Jamie had to let his thoughts take shape before he could grab them. "She made big promises. They're still waiting on a lot of those promises. It’s only been a year, but...” he let the sentence wander away, slip underfoot and take a lap around the room, before it returned to him, “but it’s been a year.” Each word was chosen with care, blunted edges still sharp enough that he felt them.  “We’re at a crossroads. The energy bill is a move in the right direction, sure,” he paused, glancing at Julian again. “Could be legacy stuff. If it passes."

@jamiefwalsh

The rest of the day passes brutally slow. Natalie sits behind her desk, impatiently watching the minute hand move on the clock in front of her. She takes eleven Buzzfeed quizzes while she waits, eats an hour-and-a-half lunch, yells at her assistant three (no, four) times, and reads and rereads the unpublished article she has sitting on her desk.

It certainly isn’t what she sat down to write. She fully intended to make Jamie suffer on Evelynn’s behalf, but the longer she stared at the information she’d been given, the harder it was to paint him as the victim in this story; no, that was all Evelynn, who had finally earned the cold-hearted cruelty she always wanted. The bitch was out five thousand dollars for this, too. That’s what happens when you invest in Natalie fucking Meyer.

Somewhere between the eleventh and twelfth read, the minute hand ticks 7:11 PM and Jamie Walsh walks into her office. It’s arranged as promised– although nighttime has fallen over D.C., the blinds are open, the lights are on, the door is unlocked and her assistant sits just outside. For the first time in a long time, Natalie isn’t here to play the bad guy. 

“Sit down and read this.” Natalie thrusts the article in his direction as a form of greeting. Strictly business, as she said. “Then we can discuss what to do about it.”

Another man might’ve mailed her a check and blocked her number. A better man, maybe, if not a careless one. But some truths speak too loudly to be ignored. And Jamie Walsh was a lot of things, but never careless. Everything -- everyone -- could be useful to him, sooner or later. Naturally, Natalie Meyer became Natasha Miller (from CNN, no less), relegated to the graveyard of fake contacts he kept around just in case, a caveat which certainly covered situations like come to my office, it’s about your wife. And after seven o’clock, just like he’d promised, he did just that. Jamie couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Natalie without the veil of night to hide them. The scene was the same, but felt somehow different.

Jamie blinked as she shoved a mess of papers towards him. “This better be good,” he said, flopping down in the chair opposite her desk. After glancing at the title, he peered at her over the paper’s edge, skepticism plain on his face. As his eyes fell to the page again, he began to read. Halfway through, his eyebrows inched closer together, grip tightening so the paper bowed towards itself in the middle. “What the fuck is this?” he asked, quietly enough that it was unclear if he meant it for Natalie or himself. By the time he’d reached the end of the article, his mouth had fallen open, face twisted in a rare display of confusion and disgust. Jamie looked up at her then, echoing himself, “What the fuck is this?”

“You say that like I’d have to actually convince you to sell you anything.” It was perhaps a bit too brazen to be saying to someone like Jamie Walsh in public, but also the sort of thing that could be easily brushed aside as Olivia slid into the booth across from him without missing a beat, assuming she would be invited anyway. “And I live the phrase ‘time is money’. But anyway, I was just looking for a place to sit, this one happened to be open, and you look like you could use company. Or at least a distraction.” She mused, sipping from her own cup. “Interested in buying what I’m selling, then?”

As she slid into the empty seat across from him, Jamie hid a smile behind the styrofoam cup at his lips-- small, like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. Over the table, he regarded her carefully, nodding at her explanation. There was something refreshing in her boldness. As if they were friends who kept each other company, as if there wasn’t an empty booth right next to where they were sitting. “Ah,” he said, and clicked his phone away, sliding it into his pocket. Jamie could play along. “Well, that depends. Aren’t you going to make a sales pitch? I’m a pretty tough sell.” He leaned back against the booth, pressing his lips together. “You promised distraction...go on, distract me.”

jamie.

“Sure- yeah.” Her answer is distracted, questioning only until she realizes at least if they’re walking she won’t have to look at his face when she says what she knows. Whatever expression, set to shatter her heart and make her regret having ever tried to say anything, at least it will forever be hidden. A moment that she’ll have to fill in with guess work. For once she’s fine with not knowing the facts, she’ll focus on the outline of trees.

They stepped out into the brisk air, and she allows herself one glace up at him before starting, or trying to, explain herself. “I  talked to Evelynn about, well about….” The silence was excruciating for her, though it must have only been confusing for him, “She said…” No words felt good enough, everything was too rough, a deep sigh filled the void where her words should have continued. She was frustrated- with him, with herself more, dancing around the problem when she had to just spit it out. “Did you cheat on her?”

As she started, Jamie flipped the collar of his wool jacket up around his neck, a barrier against the wind. Hands found his pockets then, and he looked down at her, face unmoved. There were words missing here, falling off the end of her tongue, something about Evelynn, something unclear. Jamie listened, patient. When her question finally fell out, he felt it slice through the cold air. Did you cheat on her? The words burned, as if he’d tried to take a hot pan from the oven and scorched his palms, watching it fall helplessly to the floor.

[ SMS : JAMIE ] : if you spent less time asking questions and more time getting here you’d probably know by now

[ SMS : JAMIE ] : Jesus, I literally just said it wasn’t about me [ SMS : JAMIE ] : come to my office, journalistic purposes only [ SMS : JAMIE ] : blinds are open, door is unlocked, my dumb ass assistant in the room

@jamiefwalsh​

[ SMS : JAMIE ] : I have something for you [ SMS : JAMIE ] : and don’t ignore me, it’s important [ SMS : JAMIE ] : it’s about your wife

“Oh, he’s got jokes,” he laughs, though the act is hardly fueled by humour. This was the President’s advisor and– well, something about not burning bridges. Easier said than done. “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t really need to put much work into it. Women want to sleep with me even without a Santa suit. Go figure.” 

“Well, alright, I’ll cheers to that,” Jamie said, and lifted his drink to clink it against the other man’s glass. His wedding band clinked, too, warm metal wrapped around his finger. “Yeah, I guess if this grinch...shtick works for you, why knock it?” Growing bored now, he shrugged, glancing around the room at the other party guests.