Antiquated?

I love it when he feels he does a good job on something. I love his proud little boy smile when he comes out of the Oval Office after the President has said well done.

I love it when with his eyes and a little tilting of his head he can say "told you so" to Mandy. I even love his smirk in those moments.

I love it, despite those sometimes inevitable and always unbearable kegs of glory, when he wins.

I love it even more when I'm part of it somehow, in some incomprehensible, fathomable-only-to-Josh way.

I love it when we win together.

Thoughts on Ellie B's wedding, except of course that's not really what they're thoughts about at all...

He’s not sleeping.

I know he’s not sleeping.

And now this: he can’t even flirt with me. I’m all dressed up, looking pretty good, though maybe not as, well, a m a z i n g as I have on other occasions. But surely looking good enough for him to flirt with me.

And he, might I say, still looks pretty good in a tux. I wonder who did his tie for him?

I miss the intimacy of that.

Let’s be real, here: I miss the flirting.

Which I know is wrong, because after the flirting I would end up at home eating ice cream and drinking wine and throwing things at my flatmate’s cat (oh, wait, no – that’s someone else) and more often than not – sobbing my heart out into my pillow, hoping my flatmate wouldn’t hear, because how pathetic is that? The little secretary’s unrequited crush on her handsome, driven, ambitious, intelligent boss. Ugh. I hate the cliché. Hate it.

Do I really want that? That daily heartbreak? The feeling pathetic?

No. Of course I don’t want that.

I don’t want that part of it. But I miss the flirting part. The part where just for a few minutes, a few seconds, a few hundredths of a second sometimes, I see in his eyes what I saw at Inauguration or at the Hospital or that snowy December 23rd. Well, that wasn’t his eyes. That was him almost giving himself away with his words. But I miss that part too.

Not the emotions that hit afterwards. I don’t miss those. I miss the kidding-myself-that-this-might-be-ever-going-somewhere seconds. I miss those moments when I’m almost sure I see my own feelings reflected in his beautiful eyes.

I miss our intimacy.

I miss looking after him. He’s not sleeping. I doubt a vegetable has crossed his line of sight, let alone his lips, in a good few months now.

He can’t even flirt with me.

I know, I k n o w what I said about the peppermint creams. But he’s not okay, and someone needs to look after him, and I want that to be me. Not just because I can’t bear the thought of that being anyone else, though I will freely(ish) admit that’s a large part of it. Just because...

Because...

Oh, for Pete's sake, Donna. Say it. It’s a diary. No one is ever going to read it. You need to face facts so you can deal with them.

Because looking after him is what I want to do for the rest of my life. And have him look after me.

And have him tell me I look amazing more than once every eight years.

Oh, good grief. How did I end up back at Square One? How?

Focus, girl. There’s an election in six weeks. And you really want to win this thing. Remember?

After, after the "interview" or whatever that was...

Well, to hell with him. I’ll show him. I’m not doing this for him, anyway. Not anymore. I’m doing it for us – not him and me us, there isn’t one of those, never has been, never will be, I mean us as in the Party, us as in the nation, because a Republican President is in nobody’s best interests. Well, nobody that I like anyway. Except perhaps Cliff.

So I’m doing it for the nation. And a little bit for me. Why, after all, can a campaign not be a place to reinvent yourself and heal? To find your confidence and start over? Why can’t it be those things?

Look how well that worked out last time round. Ha.

I’ve found my corner and I will work harder than I’ve ever worked in my life and I’ll show him – I mean, me, I’ll show me, because it’s not about him anymore. I’ll show me, like Maria von Trapp, I have confidence that spring will come again... besides which you see I have confidence in me. So there.

Ahem. Whatever. I think I need to get some sleep now.

4th July 2003

He probably thinks I didn’t notice.
I always notice.

And then I go home, put on When Harry Met Sally, have a good cry, drink wine, eat Ben and Jerry’s Half-Baked ice cream, and pull myself together.

4th July. Independence Day. I am a strong, independent woman and I will not be reduced to a snivelling wreck by a man.

Not by this man.
Not again.

Are you in love with Josh? What was that, a warning shot? A pre-emptive strike? Watch out girl, if you are, because I’m gonna steamroller over you...

WHAT IS HE DOING WITH HER?

Surely the spell should be broken by now?

Anyway. I’ll go for white tonight. And maybe Cookie Dough. Just, you know, for a change.

Are you in love with Josh?

What kind of question is that?

I stared at the diary for way longer than I needed to, to compose myself, before I replied.

I hope I played it right.

Holy Nights and elephants

“It’s not what it looks like.”

What did he mean?

Man, I wish he would just come out and say what he means.

I’m just about running out of patience. And room in that metaphorical notebook where I keep a record of all the weird moments we are meant to ignore. (Well, okay, it’s not exactly metaphorical, since this is pretty much it.)

Let’s have this conversation, admit we are attracted to each other, decide it’s not a good idea that anything happens, but that maybe, in four years... And then maybe kiss a little bit. And then maybe...

Anyway, I’m being whisked off in a helicopter to spend a snowy, romantic Christmas with a very attractive man who looks a little like Christian Slater. So I’m not complaining.

Though Josh getting me drunk at the Hawk and Dove does sound like it could have been nice.

Sometimes I think us getting horribly drunk is the only way we’re ever going to deal with this elephant. You know, the one in the room. The one in the bullpen. The one, according to Wikipedia, where “people in the room who pretend the elephant is not there might be concerning themselves with relatively small and even irrelevant matters, compared to the looming big one”.

Except, in our defence, the issues with which we concern ourselves are not small and definitely not irrelevant. Child poverty? I mean, come on.

But, still. We’re just going to leave this elephant there? Does one of us have to have a(nother) near-death experience or something? I hope not. That was stressful enough the first time round.

Maybe we can get drunk some other time instead. New Year, maybe?

Come on, Donna, get a grip, and focus on the happiness that is here, right in front of you, very, very pleasant, and, you know, real, and not all in your head.

So let's recap.

I really like Jack and he is very handsome. And also, let us not forget, able to, you know, do something about how he feels about me. He is also powerful. And, well, lovely. I really like him. Did I say that already?

So I’m off to my snowy Christmas... romance on the horizon. At last. Sigh.

(A contented sigh, for once. Not a wistful or longing or frustrated sigh. At least I don’t think so.)

The diary thing, addendum

Can you imagine?

Can you imagine if he HAD read my diary?

Oh, my goodness.

I would have to – have to – I don’t know. Resign or something. Which, to be fair, may have some advantages. But, still.

---

But. Does he know? Does he even need to read my diary? Sometimes I think he knows.

Sometimes I think the chemistry between us is so strong he can’t possibly not know.

Sometimes I could cut it with a knife.

Sometimes like tonight it feels like he feels the same. I thought for one minute maybe he was actually going to put his arm around me and let me relax against him.

All that tension. All that fear. All the stress of the last few days and my anger at myself for making him angry with me. All the shame.

I just wanted him to hold me. I think if he’d held me long enough all that tension would have gone.

Instead I’m taking Nurofen and going to bed. Not quite the same.

Yeah, but thinking about it...

Okay, so. Maybe I should actually take that job.

Not just to spite Josh, either.

It might be good for me. Career advancement, and all that. Something different on my résumé. I don’t see me going many places with just Josh Lyman’s (Senior) Assistant on there. Although it apparently didn’t hurt my cause for Capital Scoop.

Something new and exciting.

Not to mention the fact that if Josh and I weren’t working together....................

..............but he’s with Amy now. So I’ve missed the boat on that one.

And I, let us not forget, am very happy with Cliff.

So, about this job. Yes, something new and exciting. Something where I would not have to stand by and watch idly while wives are told their husbands have been shot in Congo for reporting on situations that the Government does not want made public. Wives with seven-month-old daughters called Donna. It’s so hard sometimes.

I so want to make a difference to people like that, and I have this idea that in my job now I really can, but the fact is – I really can’t. I’m just a cog in the wheel – but that wheel is making the world a better place, and I guess that’s what I need to hold onto.

And can I really see me walking away from Josh? Is there really anyone else I would rather work for?

I guess that’s that then.

Phew. I had myself worried for a minute.

The new ambassador plentipotentiary...

Did I mention I love my job?

Getting paid to flirt with charming men in suits. Dashing, I believe is the appropriately Jane-Austen-esque term.

I notice he didn’t pour me a drink, though. It strikes me that a well-educated member of the British royalty really ought to pour a drink for a beautiful single young woman in need of entertainment.

Still, since Josh won’t take me to Hawaii, maybe Lord John will take me to England instead... Apparently there are plenty more royal, dashing young men over there.

A girl can dream... Meanwhile, back in the real world, I’ve got to be up in four hours to take orders barked by Josh so I guess I'd better sleep. Sigh.