Lettre à France

Day -989

'I'm going to be sick,' she kept thinking to herself as the car zoomed through the city unimpeded towards its final destination while the boulder forming in her stomach just kept increasing.

"What if I make a mistake?" she asked her husband this morning as she tried to get out of it.

"You're not going to make a mistake, Olena," Volodymyr reassured her warmly, full of pride at his brilliant wife, even if she was having doubts at the moment as to her true genius. It was natural, after all, neither one of them were born politicians, and she had chosen a field behind the cameras for a reason. "You're going to be marvelous. I promise."
That exchange kept playing over and over again in her mind as she thought through what comes next. All too soon the car pulled into the courtyard in front of the palace, what were the the protocols again? Where to stand, when to smile, how to greet this woman, who she was convinced wasn't going to like her, after all, other than the fact they were blondes, what did they have in common?
She was a little reassured by the smile on her counterpart's face as she climbed the steps, but she was more focused on not tripping and not missing her outstretched hand than anything else.
"Madame Macron," she greeted, going for as tight of a grip as they shook hands as her unsteady hand could manage. 'Just don't screw this up,' she told herself.
"Brigitte, please," the elder blonde corrected with a warm smile, still gently holding her hand. "It's very nice to meet you."
Olena blinked twice at that, at the sincerity that seemed to be coming in droves from this woman who seemed so kind, who still hadn't let go of her hand. She had heard the stereotypes about French women, their aloofness, their haughtiness. She had thought that a woman this glamorous, who seemed so sophisticated would wear the distance and cruelty French women seemed to be known for as well as she was wearing her expensive, designer cream dress, that she would be as sharp as her extremely high heels.
Taking a deep breath, Olena decided to risk it, rolling the dice that the welcoming smile wasn't an act for the seemingly hundreds of cameras around them, and admitted quietly, "I'm very scared."
"No! That's okay," Brigitte comforted, pulling her in for a half hug and a quick kiss to her cheek to punctuate her point, "don't worry," her megawatt smile back in place. Squeezing her hand which was still in hers, Brigitte leaned in to whisper, come on," as she quickly pulled her through the glass doors, into the relative safety of the gilded corridors.
Olena appreciated how hard her host was trying to make her feel welcome in her home, appreciated the little jokes she punctuated the tour with, how hard she tried to communicate with her without the use of the translator who was hovering just over their shoulders. Slowly but surely, she started to relax, her shoulders dropping from her ears to their normal position. 'Maybe I can do this after all,' she began to think to herself.
"Everything is dangerous with our high heeled shoes," she heard Brigitte warn with a smile, pointing to the ground as if to indicate it was their public enemy number one.
"Yes!" Olena agreed with a laugh, thinking that as much as she hates the hazard that was the kitten heels she was currently sporting, they must be no match for the stilettos with which the French First Lady was prancing around on uneven, slippery floors.
"You go sliding, and you are pulled everywhere!" Brigitte joked, as they finished the public spectacle of the tour, pulling her into yet another gilded room, with another fabulous painting, at least this one had a plush looking white couch.
Olena stood there in the center of the room, feeling a little like deer in the headlights as she watched Brigitte dismiss everyone else. She couldn't tell yet if it was better to be alone with this woman or in front of the dreaded cameras.
"Should I call the translator back, or do you think we can manage this?" Brigitte asked, a conspiratorial glimmer in her eye, as if they were old hats at this game, friends for ages, and not two women who had met for the first time 30 minutes ago in a situation that was almost comically out of the ordinary in the most charitable description. Seeing that there was no immediate answer, Brigitte smiled, and answered her own question, "that's probably not a bad idea," sticking her head back out and pulling her back into the room.
"Please, sit!" Her host offered after a minute, seeing that her guest hadn't followed her lead. "I don't bite - although do remind me to trade notes with you on which spouses you should befriend, and which ones you should stay away from. Word to the wise, avoid the US president as much as you can."
"Oh?" Olena asked, more than a little shocked that her host was being so free with gossip that could have serious diplomatic ramifications if it leaked outside this room into the wrong circles. Why was she sharing this with her? Was she this free with everyone?
"Yes, the first time I met the man, he looked me up and down and said - with absolutely no shame! - 'you're in such good shape' as if I was cattle or something up for auction! I don't know who I felt worse for, his poor wife who was standing right there next to me or Emmanuel who had to spend the rest of the day with the man fighting the urge to cause an international incident by 'avenging my honor' or something like that. He's also a fan of the longest, weirdest handshakes," she shivered as if she was recalling the feel of the man's hands, not just recounting the memory. "She - Melania- is actually rather fun, she is just trapped in a gilded cage and can't do anything or say anything. Unlike us. There are perks to it being an unofficial position, you know. And to having a husband who wants you to be happy."
"Can I ask you something?" Olena offered, sensing that she may finally have found the one person she could ask all the questions that had been haunting her for months since her husband first was elected and she assumed this role with no script, no manual, no safety net.
"You can ask me anything." She hedged for a moment, "Well, almost anything."
"How do you do this job? How are you so good at it? How do you know what you are supposed to do, or say?" The questions all came tumbling out.
Brigitte looked at her sympathetically, as she started her reply. "You know, when my husband first told me he was going to run, I thought he was crazy. And then I consoled myself with 'it would be a fun run, but he'd never win.' Then I watched as the impossible became possible, the possible became likely, and suddenly I found myself on stage at the foot of the Louvre holding his hand and scared out of my mind.
"When we were voting, I forget if it was the first or the second round, but there was a man who pulled me aside desperately, he wanted to tell me about the 'curse of the Élysée' and I laughed him off. I mean, he wasn't wrong, none of the other wives have been particularly happy here, but I refused to let that happen to me, happen to us.
"Which is a very long winded way to say, I understand how you feel right now. I too took this job without any preparation or any guidebook or role model because my husband decided this is what he was going to do, so of course I was going to follow him and support him, come what may. Those are the vows we take. But knowing what I know, being where I am, two years into this job, the thing that you need to hear the most right now, more than my advice, or my experience, although I am happy to give it, is this: you are going to do great. You will be a great First Lady. You will figure it all out, one step at a time."
"How can you be so sure?" Olena asked.
"Because you are so worried about it. I've met a lot of spouses of Heads of State, spouses of Heads of Government, and very few of them care as much as you do. You want to help your husband and make a difference for your country, right?"
"Of course I do -"
"That's all I've ever tried to do. I always told Emmanuel, I wasn't going to be a vase. I want to leave my mark, and I am, in my own way, in my own time.
"You are a brilliant woman, Olena. You have a husband who loves you, and only you. Trust me, in this job, that's not a given, and should not be taken for granted. And you have two lovely children at home, yes? So you have the support network you need.
"But, in case that isn't enough," Brigitte trailed off as she searched her Louis Vuitton bag, ever at her side like a walking advertisement for the brand, and smiling triumphantly when she was able to pull out her phone, she ordered, shoving it in Olena's direction, "enter your number."
"I'm sorry?"
"Enter your phone number. I'll text you after the meeting so you will have my number. So that if you ever need any more support, or have any questions about a seating chart for your first state dinner, or just want to vent or gossip about our little 'First Wives' Club, you can just text me."
The ride back to her hotel was a lot calmer than the ride this morning, as she found herself glancing again and again at her phone with a smile on her face.
Hi Olena, This is Brigitte. It was lovely to meet you earlier today. I meant what I said, you know. Please do not hesitate to text me if you ever need me or want to talk. I have a feeling you and I are going to be good friends. :) Safe travels home, BM
She could do this, she knew now. After all, she's made her first friend.