She looked in the mirror and said: “What just happened?”

I lost my virginity, she thought. I had intercourse with a wonderful man. He happens to be the president of the United States. I enjoyed it.

She put her clothes on, then adjusted her makeup. Fortunately he had not mussed her hair.

This is Jackie’s bathroom, she thought guiltily; and suddenly she wanted to leave.

The bedroom was empty. She went to the door, then turned and looked back at the bed.

She realized he had not once kissed her.

She went into the West Sitting Hall. The president sat there alone, his feet up on the coffee table. Dave and the girls had gone, leaving behind a tray of used glasses and the remains of the snacks. Kennedy seemed relaxed, as if nothing momentous had happened. Was this an everyday occurrence for him?

“Would you like something to eat?” he said. “The kitchen’s right here.”

“No, thank you, Mr. President.”

She thought: He just fucked me, and I’m still calling him Mr. President.

He stood up. “There’s a car at the South Portico waiting to take you home,” he said. He walked her out into the main hall. “Are you okay?” he said for the third time.

“Yes.”

The elevator came. She wondered if he would kiss her good night.

He did not. She got into the elevator.

“Good night, Maria,” he said.

“Good night,” she said, and the doors closed.

• • •

It took a while for George to tell Norine Latimer that their affair was over.

He was dreading it.

He had broken up with girls before, of course. After one or two dates it was easy: you just didn’t call. After a longer relationship, in his experience, the feeling was usually mutual: both of you knew that the thrill had gone. But Norine fell between the two extremes. He had been seeing her only for a few months, and they were getting on fine. He had been hoping that they would spend a night together soon. She would not be expecting the brush-off.

He met her for lunch. She asked to be taken to the restaurant in the basement of the White House, known as the mess, but women were not allowed in. George did not want to take her somewhere swanky such as the Jockey Club, for fear she would imagine he was about to propose. In the end they went to Old Ebbitt’s, a traditional politicians’ restaurant that had seen better days.

Norine looked more Arabic than African. She was dramatically handsome, with wavy black hair and olive skin and a curved nose. She wore a fluffy sweater that really did not suit her: George guessed she was trying not to intimidate her boss. Men were uncomfortable with authoritative-looking women in their offices.

“I’m really sorry about canceling last night,” he said when they had ordered. “I was summoned to a meeting with the president.”

“Well, I can’t compete with the president,” she said.