Jack's Widow by Eve Pollard

inadequacy by a lifetime of incessant dieting and spending a lot of money on her hair and her clothes.
    Now that she was married to a millionaire, she owned dressing rooms full of French couture, furs, and jewels that were typical of their well-heeled set. But the Kennedy publicity machine and her own good sense made her pinpoint very early on that the media was changing politics. More people would see her, and her husband, in a newspaper or a magazine or through the growing power of television, than would ever go to an election rally or a debate.
    She made a cool appraisal of her wardrobe. Anything overtly luxurious was dispatched to the bank vaults or to cold storage. From now on all her clothes would look so simple that any house wife inthe land would feel that she could comfortably wear them. In truth every garment still cost many hundreds of dollars as each one was handmade by the finest designers to fit and flatter her—but because they were uncluttered they seemed very affordable.
    She wanted women to admire not envy her.
    She found experts who advised her on camera-happy colors. It may not have been intellectually challenging, but if it was simply a matter of tacking down collars so that they would lie flat or sticking nonslip rubber soles on top of expensive leather ones to ensure that she wouldn’t trip, it was worth it.
    Her appearance was so faultless that even her mother-in-law was impressed and passed on a tip from the British royals who had their dressmakers sew tiny weights into the hems of dresses and skirts so that they wouldn’t fly up.
    What started as a way of looking approachable on camera became a way of life. Even the large sunglasses, worn to hide tiredness or unhappiness, became her signature.
    Foiling irritants like the newly named paparazzi and persuading Jack that it was not just the rhetoric of political speeches that swayed opinion—his style mattered, how he looked was important—was interesting to her. She persuaded him to memorize parts of his speeches so he could look the audience in the eye and learn foreign phrases that would please the crowd.
    Soon this ploy had become something more. Looking immaculate was the beginning, but the hours of preparation acted as a shield. Having intimate knowledge of exactly what the day held for her gave her some feeling of control, that she would never be caught looking flustered or nervous.
    And now that she had to attend the great occasions of state alone she added a further layer to safeguard herself.
    She went into what she called “dream mode.”
    She had discovered this by accident. It was the way she had coped with his funeral.
    Exhausted but finding sleeping pills gave no rest but simply clogged up her veins, she found that she needed all her concentration to keep a tight hold on the children or to follow the steady pace behind the coffin. She was determined not to cry in public so she made herself block out the noise, the crowds, and the military music. Because she had planned every detail of the day she knew where to stand, when to turn.
    In front of the world she appeared calm.
    After this technique had helped her endure that terrible day she made a habit of using it whenever she was “on parade.”
    Over the last year the dream mode had been severely tested.
    Utilizing it at the launch of a destroyer named for him, she had been able to keep her emotions in check when presented with his old navy dog tag that he had left on his last naval voyage.
    It worked really well at the dedication of a new airport when she was presented with a gift of a previously unseen photograph. It was of the two of them looking carefree lolling in a gondola. It had been taken by the in-house photographer at the Cipriani Hotel in Venice. Although all those years ago they had waved him away, he thought that they were such an attractive young couple that he put the picture in his shop window to brighten it up.
    There it had sat, in a quiet passageway off the Grand