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Perhaps she was merely extending an extra dose of kindness to a girl from Mrs Kennedy’s school, but Miss Baldrige had clearly given thought to my visit.After the interview, she added me to a line-up of children meeting the President that day.This, then, was the girl sitting at her desk when she took a call from Dave Powers, the President’s special assistant.I’d met him only briefly, but he was asking me to come for a midday swim in the White House pool.Dave, I felt, had an avuncular interest in making sure I didn’t get hurt.Of course, now I realise that he wasn’t taking care of me at all; he was taking care of the President.All that summer, I’d swim with the President, race back to my desk, and then wait for a call to come upstairs.After that first night, we never went back to her bedroom.
I was treading water with Fiddle and Jill when the President himself walked in.
Then he’d close his eyes and lean back in his rocking chair while I massaged some tonic and an amber-coloured ointment into his scalp, and brushed his hair into place.
As the summer wore on, I was pulled deeper into his personal orbit.
I sat in a room with ‘the girls’, as the secretaries were called, and my job was to collect the streams of paper spitting out of the teletype machines, clip them into foot-long sections and hand them to the President’s press secretary, Pierre Salinger.
To say that I lacked sophistication is an understatement: I was a skinny 5ft 9in former debutante — nicknamed Monkey at school — who wore no make-up and had a singular lack of success with men (total experience: one kiss in the eighth grade).
After sliding into the pool, he floated up to me' The pool room had one mirrored wall, with the other three sides painted with floor-to-ceiling scenes of palm trees and sailboats.