by Sally Quinn
Des Shaw was ending his twenty-five-year marriage with Chessy. She hadn’t had a chance against Allison. Now Des was the flamboyant and aggressive Bureau Chief of The Weekly and Allison the famous and controversial Daily reporter and goddaughter of the President. The two of them were the stuff of legends.
And they were all Lorraine’s best friends.
As if that weren’t enough, the honeymoon was over in Kimball’s Administration. The President was an amiable professor who couldn’t have organized his way out of a paper bag. When his staffers feuded, Kimball went off to his family quarters and locked himself in his study, leaving word that he was not to be disturbed unless the Russians were coming. The press was off and running. Scapegoats were sought out, victims chosen, sides drawn. The whole thing made Lorraine shiver with pleasure. It was the beginning of July—normally a time when things start to get dull in Washington—and there was the smell of blood in the water. People were in a state of lustful anticipation. What perfect timing for a party! Everyone would be in great spirits. What luck. Something ghastly just before the party.
This time it was the President’s Chief of Staff, Addison Marbury, formerly on the faculty of the University of Colorado with Roger Kimball before Kimball had gone into politics. He was of good old New England stock, an excellent mind but short on balls, as they say in the trade.
Anybody who had lived six months in Washington knew that it was essential for the President’s Chief of Staff to be a killer.
Addison Marbury had proved a disaster. One of Marbury’s assistants, and a Harry Saks protégé, Kurt Weyhauser, had even gone into Marbury’s office at lunchtime and moved his desk out into the hallway.
Now, in the week before the Fourth of July weekend, the whole town was waiting for the ax to fall. The Daily had had stories on the front page every day, and the Living section had reports of parties where the talk was of nothing else. How could anyone compete with Lorraine when she had this kind of luck?
* * *
It was a coincidence that Sonny Sterling and Sadie Grey had the same birthday, though they were four years apart.
Lorraine had had an idea for a joint party more than a month ago, and she had gone to Des Shaw and the Vice President to help her plan it. She was rather surprised when they both agreed. She had assumed it would be at her house, but Shaw wanted the party on neutral ground, and he had insisted on sharing the cost. Rosey had gone along in a rather distracted way. “I’m sure whatever you all decide will be fine.”
The guest list, of course, was a problem. Lorraine and Des struggled over it. This would be one of the most sought-after invitations of the season. Lorraine had a lot of people she owed. Shaw insisted on having all those dreary Boston Gazette people who drank too much. Lorraine wanted a good mix of politicians and Administration types; Des wanted to keep that to a minimum. Lorraine wanted to sprinkle an ambassador or two. Des vetoed that. So she compromised except on a few crucial points. And she found that all she had to do was say that Sadie liked somebody and he capitulated.
So the guest list was eclectic. Des would have Sadie on his right. Rosey would be between Lorraine and Sonny. Des told Lorraine she could do the rest; he would just like to be sure she didn’t put any of her friends next to his buddies. Lorraine practically drew names from a hat for the seating.
There was one thing troubling her which she had not discussed with Des. Sonny and Sadie had not exactly developed a great mutual fondness and she had never really been able to bring them together. Lorraine suspected that they were jealous of each other.
It had been clear to her from the beginning how the two felt about each other. Yet here were the men in their lives leaping at the idea of this party. It was probably as simple as the fact that men never really knew how to celebrate the women they loved and were happy for an idea when it came up, no matter what it was.
The question of the President had arisen. Lorraine had brought it up, trembling with anticipation. She had yet to have a President of the United States. Granted the party was not being held in her house, but she was doing the arranging and the organizing. She would be dealing with the White House appointments secretary, the social secretary, the press secretaries. From then on they would all be sure to know her. This entrée would make it easier for her to invite them at some later time.
She always hated those awkward moments at the door when you had to introduce yourself to your guests—or worse, they had to introduce themselves to you. Everyone did it; it was perfectly acceptable. Still, it was preferable to be acquainted with one’s guests.
Rosey and Des had agreed that the President should be invited.
Lorraine was still working on the logistics as Leo, her driver, took her over to Nora that evening. As he drove the sparkling brown Mercedes up past Massachusetts Avenue and the grand old Cosmos Club, Lorraine thought how much Washington had changed. There was this impressive old white stone building, once an imposing private residence in the best part of town. Now it was a private men’s club for “intellectuals” who were long since out of fashion with the important and powerful elite of Washington. It seemed ironic that the new “club” in Washington, only a block away on the corner, would be so different. A tiny little red brick building with a glass front, Nora had a makeshift frame of railroad ties on the sidewalk in front, enclosing a small kitchen garden.
Inside, its exposed brick walls, large bar, quilts hanging from the walls, shelves of country artifacts, and small tables covered with French country prints were a testament to its studied informality.
Most of the luncheon customers had left, and the Secret Service was swarming over the place to ready it for the President’s visit. The waiters had begun rearranging the tables.
Everything was humming along to Lorraine’s satisfaction. And the best part was that Archie had already gone to his family’s summer house at Fishers Island. It was going to be a good party.
* * *
Allison couldn’t figure out why Des was behaving so oddly all day. She had called him several times at the office and he seemed distracted. Was he fighting with Chessy over money? The divorce seemed interminable. It had been a year since he’d told her he wanted out and she had moved back to New York, yet they still weren’t speaking. It made her wonder about marriage. Marriage was something she hadn’t contemplated seriously for a very long time, not since Nick. Only now that she and Des were living together—though he still kept the house on Twenty-first Street—did she occasionally start thinking how easy and convenient it would be if they were married. She usually brushed those thoughts away. Listening to Des’s tales of hassling with his lawyers and her lawyers made the whole idea of divorce demeaning. After twenty-five years, two dignified people were haggling over petty details of money, and it had nothing to do with what they were haggling over at all.
He had been acting mysterious and secretive, and she thought it must be about her birthday. He was obviously going to give her something special. He was not a great present-giver. For Christmas he had gone to Bendel’s and bought her a big hand-knit mohair sweater. It would have been perfect for Chessy. She had managed to wear it a few times when they were at home alone together. She had bought him a new Burberry which had set her back six hundred dollars. Naturally he was embarrassed.
She was preparing herself to be disappointed tomorrow. One thing she was relieved about was that he wasn’t going to give her a birthday party. “No surprises,” she had warned him. “I loathe surprises. They are a hostile act.”
* * *
“Baby?”
“Yep.”
“You up for tonight?”
“Not particularly.”
“Now, come on, Sonny. Don’t be such a downer. It’ll be fun.”
Allison signed her story off on the computer and cradled the phone. “I still don’t believe this. I can’t believe you really want to do this. It’s so uncharacteristic.”
“Keep ’em guessing. It would be awful to have you always know exactly what I
’m thinking and doing. A little mystery is important.” “Don’t you have some work to do at your office? It’s Thursday. There is a magazine to get out.”
“Oh, I’m not worried. It’ll get out without me.”
“That’s not what you usually say. How come you can get Thursday night off? I thought you had to be there until midnight every Thursday. Or have you been staying late so you can get a blow job from your secretary?”
“Poor Mabel. She would faint to hear you say something like that. She’s a good Christian.”
“Poor Mabel.”
“Sonny, I can’t understand what’s gotten into you.”
“Go screw yourself.”
“I am getting the impression that you’re not exactly thrilled with the prospect of tonight’s dinner.”
“What would lead you to conclude that?”
“Intuition.”
“Look, Des, I’ve agreed to go. I just don’t understand what we’re doing taking the Vice President and his wife to dinner at Nora. It seems phony. Nora is no place for them. In fact, just why are we doing this? Sadie Grey will probably be dressed to the teeth. I have a good mind to wear jeans. And it looks like we’re sucking up to them.”
“I told you. When I was talking to Sadie at the Elgins’ she told me that all she heard about was Nora, that she would love to go there. So I said why didn’t they join us for dinner there one night and she said ‘Great, when?’ Well, what was I supposed to do?”
“You didn’t have to come up with a date.”
“I didn’t. She said they were going to have to be here for the fireworks on the White House lawn tomorrow and then they were going up to their house in East Hampton. The Vice President had been traveling a lot and this was one of their few free nights. Gimme a break. I was caught.”
“And I bet you hated every minute of it, too.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t suppose you’ve lost your senses of sight, smell, hearing, taste, and touch?”
“I give up. What are you talking about?”
“I am talking about the fact that Sadie Grey has the hots for you.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“God, men are so dumb sometimes I just don’t believe it. When she bats those great big turquoise eyes at you and tosses that mane of auburn curls and implies that you’re just the ‘handsomes’, stronges’ ol’ devil theah evah was in this great big ol’ world,’ you go limp.”
“Better limp than hard,” said Shaw, laughing.
“Funny.”
“Look, I think she’s an attractive woman. In case you’ve forgotten, she happens to be married to the Vice President of the United States, who also happens to be a pretty attractive guy.”
“I think he’s a wimp.”
“She obviously doesn’t.”
“I’m telling you she is not in love with him. I bet she hasn’t had a good lay in her entire life. She’s hungry and she’s got the sign out. And she’s got it out for you.”
* * *
“Hey, darlin’.”
“Uh-huhhh.”
“What’s the matter, Sadie?”
“Oh, nothing. I just wondered if we really had to go to this restaurant tonight. We’ve got a big day tomorrow with all the fireworks, and then we’ll be leaving for East Hampton the next day.”
“But you’ve been dying to see Nora.”
“I now, but… we don’t really know Des and Allison that well. I’m not sure that they aren’t using us in some way.”
“I think they’re trying to be friendly.”
“Friendly?”
“I told you how it happened. I was talking to Sonny…”
“Sonny? Since when do you call her Sonny?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Sadie. Everybody calls her Sonny. That’s her nickname.”
“I don’t call her Sonny.”
“Well, I can’t help that. I was giving her an interview several weeks ago and she suggested it would be nice if we could get together.”
“It just seems that nobody in Washington ever does anything for no reason.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, that’s Lorraine talking. She is turning you into a very cynical person, and I don’t like it one damn bit.”
“I don’t think it’s cynical to recognize it. I heard your conversation with Allison at the Elgins’. She was asking you confidential things about the White House.”
“Listen, Allison is a good reporter. But I’m not exactly stupid either. Besides, I don’t think she’s after information for the paper. I think she is worried about her godfather.”
“If you believe that, you’ll believe anything.”
* * *
Des had agreed to invite the British Ambassador and his wife. “Rodney Abel-Smith bores my ass,” he told Lorraine, “but Edwina is a piece. No other ambassadors.” Lorraine wanted John T. Hooker, the Secretary of State. Des thought that was excessive, but Lorraine had prevailed. “Okay,” said Des finally. “He’s a rogue. I like the old son-of-a-bitch. He’s going to keep things lively. Sure, let’s have him.” To Lorraine’s delight, Des wanted Malcolm Sohier, the attractive junior Senator from Massachusetts, and his wife, Abigail. The Sohiers were old Boston—Beacon Hill, Somerset Club. Des had covered Sohier when he ran for the House, then for the Senate. Lorraine had not really gotten to know the Sohiers. She had invited them in the past but they had never accepted. Lorraine suspected that they didn’t want to get involved. The Sohiers picked and chose.
The guests, who had been told to arrive promptly at seven thirty, included a slew of Allison’s and Des’s friends whom Lorraine did not know. But Rosey’s list was almost identical to hers. That didn’t surprise Lorraine, since she had introduced Sadie to almost all her new friends. It had been decided by all that they would not invite out-of-town guests. This was to be a simple evening.
* * *
Des and Lorraine met at Nora early to go over the final arrangements. President Kimball was arriving at eight. Nora looked like a stakeout for a mob drug bust. Lorraine’s heart beat faster as she saw the police and agents. She was part of the real thing tonight. This was power. This was the stuff of life.
“Here comes the Vice President,” said Des.
William Rosewell Grey walked through the double swinging doors of Nora and into the brick front room. He smiled politely when he saw Des and Lorraine standing at the top of the short flight of stairs.
“Well,” he said. “Well, everything certainly looks fine. My congratulations, Lorraine. It looks splendid.”
“You look about as nervous as I do, old man,” said Des. “I guess I’m just not cut out for the role of hostess with the mostes’.”
“I must say,” said Rosey with a sympathetic smile, “you’re pale as a sheet. You look the way I feel.”
“You think this is a good idea, huh?” said Des to Lorraine.
“If you two don’t cut it out you’re going to start making me nervous.”
One of the waiters approached Des and Rosey and asked if they could advise on the bar. After discussing the bar arrangements and complimenting Lorraine, Rosey and Des kissed her goodbye and headed out the door.
They stepped out onto the sidewalk and looked at each other. They both wore summer suits. The temperature had to be nearly a hundred degrees, and the humidity was unbearable. Though it was almost seven thirty, the sun was still shining, and the perspiration began to appear on both their brows—and it wasn’t just the heat. They took out handkerchiefs and wiped their foreheads, put their handkerchiefs back into their pockets, and burst out laughing.
“What do you think, Mr. Vice President?”
“I think this could be a disaster.”
“I’m with you.”
They shook hands solemnly like soldiers going into battle together. The Vice President stepped into his waiting limousine. Des walked around the corner to the house on Twenty-first Street and got into his old white Thunderbird convertible. “Get more pussy with this
baby than you can get flies with honey,” he muttered routinely to himself as he patted the car on the dash and turned the corner into Florida Avenue.
* * *
Allison was in a grim mood as they drove over to Shaw’s house. He took the long way around Dupont Circle and up Nineteenth. “Traffic jam on Florida,” he said.
They parked in front of Shaw’s cream-colored town house and walked slowly around the corner to Nora.
When they got to the door it was clear that something was going on.
“Jesus,” said Allison, “what’s going on here?”
The President and Mrs. Kimball stepped out of the crowd where they had been waiting with their backs turned, and everyone shouted, “Surprise, surprise, surprise.”
Allison put one hand to her hair, the other to her skirt. She was wearing a pale blue linen skirt and matching knit top—pretty, but not necessarily what one would wear to a party in one’s honor. The President came over to her and put his arms around her. “Happy Birthday, honey,” he said in a voice loud enough that everyone could hear. “We love you.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Allison finally. The President seemed pleased.
“It’s a surprise party, babe,” whispered Des.
“You bastard,” whispered Allison as she smiled radiantly.
She saw Jenny Stern, her best friend on the national staff.
“Do I look all right?”
“You look gorgeous, as usual.”
“Well, there’s nothing I can do about it. I might as well have a good time. This is better than dinner with Rosey and Sadie Grey.”
Before Jenny could ask what she was talking about, the door opened to the Greys.
“Oh, noooo,” said Allison.
“Surprise, surprise, surprise,” shouted the crowd.
