COME FLY WITH THE PRESIDENT

In an extract from her book, Beck Dorey-stein discusses romance and Michelle with Obama – on his helicopter

Teddy, one of my colleagues, is explaining Clash of Clans to me when Jason comes over and asks, ‘Is it true today is your birthday?’

We haven’t spoken since I saw him with Skye at Normandy, but my knees go weak when I smell his stupid mint gum.

I nod, yes, today is my birthday.

‘Have you ever been on Marine One?’ he asks. ‘No – and no,’ I tell him, so that he understands to wipe that idea straight out of his brain. I have no right getting on Marine One. On a staffer’s last day at the White House, they may get to fly on the president’s helicopter as the ultimate parting gift, but no one in my office has ever flown on Marine One.

Despite how many times I’ve ridden in the presidential motorcade in the last two and a half years, I suddenly feel like a lost duckling trying to cross an intersection. Jason swings his bag over his shoulder and says, ‘Come on! Just follow me.’

I watch as the president, surrounded by his Secret Service detail, traverses the field like a pitcher after a shutout. As I draw close to the stairs, Jason slows and then stops. So I stop. ‘Go ahead,’ he says. I climb the stairs on to Marine One.

Josh Earnest, the press secretary, pats the empty seat next to him, and my heart stops as I see I’ll be sitting across from POTUS, who is looking out the window. As the helicopter lifts off I notice how quiet Marine One is, and how if I straightened my arm, I could touch the sleeve of the leader of the free world. Jason leans forward from his seat in the back and tells POTUS, ‘Sir, we’ve got a birthday girl with us today. It’s Beck’s birthday.’

POTUS turns to me and cocks his head. ‘Is that so? Well, happy birthday! This isn’t too bad, right?’

‘No, sir, this is pretty magical.’ I’m aware of Pete Souza taking photos from the back of the helicopter, next to Jason, who also takes photos with his iphone. I must look like a cartoon character that’s just been run over or fallen in love: my eyes popping out several feet from my head, my mouth halfway to the ground. I sit on my shaking hands to conceal how nervous I am. My insides are tangled as the president asks me how old I am.

‘I think 28 is a good age,’ he says when I tell him. ‘Do you have someone taking you out to dinner when we get back?’

A colleague had told me POTUS likes to know the marital status of his staffers, but I can barely string an answer together, especially since Jason is sitting a few seats behind him.

‘Yes, sir, I do,’ I tell him, folding my hands together as if I’m back in Sunday school.

‘I’m happy to hear that,’ POTUS says. I smile and try my hardest not to stare at him the way reporters do, as though he’s living history, but it’s difficult to strike the right balance between rapt attention and stalker-crazy. ‘And if it doesn’t work out,’ POTUS continues, ‘just let me know, and we’ll find someone great for you.’ He winks and smiles, and for a second, I wonder if he knows I’m in love with Jason. But he can’t, can he?

‘Thank you, sir. Thank you for having me on your helicopter.’

The president gazes out of Marine One’s large square window that is probably six inches thick, bombproof and bulletproof. I assume we won’t speak for the rest of the flight.

But just a few seconds later, POTUS is thinking aloud. ‘Twenty-eight, 28… I was just starting law school in the fall,’ he says, ‘which means it was this summer that I met Michelle.’ He nods to himself. ‘It might have been this week, or even today, that we met for the first time 24 years ago.’

He looks at me, and I feel compelled to say something. ‘Twenty-four years ago! We should have champagne!’ I venture my first glance around after having sat down. It’s a very nice helicopter, but it’s small. There’s no trolley service, that’s for certain.

‘Well, you sure got comfortable quick,’ POTUS teases, his eyes glimmering with mischief. ‘You sit down all nervous and now you’re already trying to drink champagne on Marine One!’

‘Just to toast to 24 years!’ I say. My voice sounds like a mouse who’s just inhaled 20 balloons’ worth of helium.

‘Oh, I’ll toast to that.’ POTUS then goes on to tell me the story of the day he met Michelle, how he didn’t own a suit but had an internship at a corporate law firm, and how the day before he’d gone out and bought two suits feeling like a complete sellout. It was raining on his first day, and en route to the office building his umbrella broke, and he had already gotten mixed up on the subway so he was running behind schedule. When he walked in the door, the receptionist scowled at him, displeased with his dishevelled appearance, and sent him back to the office of Michelle Robinson, who was going to be his supervisor for the summer.

‘She was taller than I expected, long legs, and I thought –’ he says nothing here, but instead shrugs and gives a sly grin. ‘The first thing she said to me was, “You’re late.” I responded with “And wet.”’ POTUS continues, telling us about how he asked her out multiple times before she finally said yes. After Michelle tried to pawn him off on her friends, he finally got her to just go get ice cream with him. ‘Very low-key, very casual – she didn’t even see it coming,’ he says, grinning like a proud hunter. ‘Like shooting fish in a barrel.’

POTUS sighs and takes a sip of tea out of a white to-go cup stamped with the gold presidential seal. And then he looks over at me. ‘And you were only four when all of that happened 24 years ago, when that whole story started with Michelle,’ POTUS says, and it feels a bit like an accusation. I nod respectfully. I can only wonder at the speed of time passing, at the happenstance that dictates the direction of our lives.

‘Yes, sir, and 24 years from now, I’ll be able to tell my kids that 24 years ago I got to fly on Marine One.’