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man, in a rumpled suit and bowtie. 
     “Yes?” Gina said.
     “Hi, I’m Christian Bale.  I know,” he said kind of geeky-like.  “But no, I’m not the actor.  I’m the president’s assistant.  He wishes, that is, the president wishes to see you, ma’am.”
     Gina’s heart dropped.  “To see me?”
     “Yes, ma’am.”
     “Why would he want to see me?”
     “Why?”  Christian said as if he could not believe her lack of insight.  “Well, let me see.  It may have something to do with the fact that you just told him off on national TV.  I don’t know, he doesn’t share his innermost thoughts with me, but I’m just saying.”
     He reminded Gina of LaLa: a jokey, almost flippant quality about him.   She, in fact, looked at LaLa.
     “What you looking at me for?” LaLa said.  “The man is the President of the United States.  It ain’t like you got a choice.” Then she exhaled, and her look turned serious, more somber.  “I’ll meet you back at the hotel, girl,” she said.  “And, Gina,” she added as she began to leave, “don’t get blinded by the lights.  What you said today needed to be said, whether these other organizations, or the president himself, gives you credit or not.  You told the truth.”
     Gina nodded and stiffened her resolve.  “Okay, Christian,” she said with more gusto, “take me to your leader.”
     Christian smiled.  What a piece of work, he thought.  “This way, ma’am,” he said.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
FOUR
 
Christian’s “leader” was her leader too, in fact the leader of the free world, and to her surprise she wasn’t taken to some side office on the West Wing, or even to the Oval office, but to what Christian said was the West sitting room of the second-floor residence.  It was a less formal room in an almost living room style, with a big, lunette window that overlooked well-known landmarks like the Old Executive Office Building, a room with a yellow sofa, flanking arch-top chairs in pastel colors, sweeping gold curtains with yellow and blue trim. 
     Gina took a seat on the yellow sofa and Christian sat with her.  Although he seemed willing to talk, she mainly kept her own counsel.  It wasn’t everyday that a girl like her got to have an audience with the president.  The president!  And it was exciting her in a way she didn’t think that it would. 
     But LaLa was right.  She wasn’t going to be blinded by the lights.  She’d just, in Christian’s words, “told off” that same President and he was probably royally pissed.  And the fact that they’d met before under circumstances neither could want public, made clear that this meeting wasn’t going to be a congratulatory one.
     He arrived nearly an hour after she and Christian had been seated.  And as soon as he arrived, both she and Christian stood up. 
     “Sit down, sit down,” Dutch said, moving fast across the room toward the large wet bar.  “Have a drink, Miss Lansing?  Did you offer her a drink, Chris?”
     Christian’s already pale face turned ghostly.  “Ah, no, sir, I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t think--”
     “What would you care to drink, Miss Lansing?” Dutch asked, pouring himself a drink.
     “Nothing for me, thanks,” Gina said.
     “Nothing?  Nothing at all?”
     Gina started to say water, just to sound non-combative, but she didn’t want water.  Or anything else.  “No, nothing,” she said.  Then awkwardly added: “Sir.” 
     This felt almost surreal to her, sitting in the White House residence, being offered a drink by Dutch Harber.  She was almost waiting for Ashton Kutcher to jump out of a closet and announce that she’d been punk’d .
     Dutch grabbed his drink and headed for the sofa where Gina was seated.  Although Gina had sat back down when Dutch urged them to,