by Sally Quinn
“Not until the afternoon. So don’t worry about keeping us up,” said Aunt Molly. “You’re the first honest-to-God company—I mean, real friends—we’ve had to dinner since I can’t remember when. It’s nice.” She went over and gave Allison a warm hug. Allison was afraid she was going to cry again.
“Now, Molly, don’t go maudlin on them,” said Kimball. “It’s just that what Molly means is that you get to feeling so besieged here, and you begin to feel as if you have no real friends, that everybody is out after a bite of your ass. It’s nice once in a while to be able to sit and talk with people you trust.” He walked over to Des, took his hand, and shook it hard.
“It was great to get to know you,” he said. “You take care of that girl of mine there. She doesn’t like me to say this, but she has a soft side to her. Underneath all that toughness, there’s a real pussycat.”
Des looked down at the floor. He was genuinely embarrassed.
“Oh, for God’s sakes, Roger, next you’ll be asking him when he’s going to make an honest woman of her.”
“Well, when are you?” asked the President jovially.
“Okay, it’s time to go. Good night, everybody,” said Allison. “This has gone far enough, folks. Now I want you both to have a wonderful Christmas and great skiing. Try to keep your minds off Washington. You need a little diversion. I’ll check in with you when you get back.” She hugged them both a little harder than usual as they walked to the elevator.
Neither Allison nor Des said a word as they reached the diplomats’ entrance, met the Secret Service agent, and walked through the garden terrace and out the door on the West Wing side, up the driveway in the snow, and out of the gate, waving good night to the guards as they went.
Finally Des spoke. “I feel like total shit,” he said.
“I know.”
“I don’t think I ever quite realized how tough a position you’re in, Sonny.”
She didn’t respond. She wanted him to talk.
“They really are nice people, aren’t they?”
She didn’t say anything.
“I mean, Jesus, why would anybody want to be President? What a crappy job. Who needs it? You’re never going to win. You’re never going to please everybody. You’re destined to four or eight years, assuming you don’t get shot or die of a stroke”—he didn’t notice when she flinched—“of taking nothing but criticism for everything you do or even think.”
He was talking rather loudly the whole time as they crossed Seventeenth Street and automatically headed toward his office.
“I feel particularly bad because I really don’t think the guy is well. He looked like warmed-over death, and did you see the way he was walking? He was kind of bent over or something. It was weird.”
“Isn’t that funny?” she said, hoping to keep her voice light. “I was going to say just the opposite. I thought he looked so much better than he did a few weeks ago at his press conference. He was more relaxed than I’ve seen him in a long time. He has an amazing way of compartmentalizing. He just doesn’t let things get to him.”
“Well, you know him better than I do.”
They walked in silence for a few minutes. Suddenly he turned to her, reached down, and took her hands in his. It was still snowing lightly, and the white flakes were settling on her eyes and nose as she looked up at him in the darkness.
“I want to apologize.”
“Oh, Des…”
“Not ‘Oh, Des.’ I’ve been a jerk. And for the first time I see how hard it must be for you to love those people and have to write about them at all. And by the way, I love you a lot, in case I didn’t make myself clear last night. You’re one hell of a dame; you know that.”
He reached down and kissed the snow off her eyes, her nose, then kissed her lips.
Finally, when he pulled away, she looked up at him soberly, then smiled.
“I know,” she said. “The cover story. You have to go back to the office.”
“Yeah.” He grinned. “I’m afraid I do.”
“How long will you be? Should I come in with you and wait?”
“I may be here for hours. I’m going to have to re-create the whole conversation for background and prepare for tomorrow’s interview. And I’m going to have to struggle to keep the President’s confidence without looking stupid. And Sonny?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m not going to scoop you or make you look bad to your paper. I could see what you were thinking at the table. But now I’m in the same bind. I feel the same strictures. So don’t worry. Okay?”
“Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate that.”
“Okay, baby, here comes a cab. Let me put you in it and send you home. Lord knows what time I’ll be back. And then I’ve got to be at the White House at nine o’clock. I’m going to be a zombie by the time this weekend’s over. See you later, sweetheart.”
They kissed goodbye, she got into the cab, and he watched as the taxi pulled slowly out on Pennsylvania Avenue and disappeared in the snow toward Georgetown.
Then he turned and went inside his office building, taking the elevator up to his office.
Most of the staff were still there, poring over files and copy coming down from New York.
They followed Des into his office and stood while he took off his coat and jacket and tweed cap, rolled up his sleeves, loosened his tie, and sat down at his desk, deliberately putting his feet up on the desk before he spoke.
“Well?” asked one. “How was it?”
“Did you like them?” asked another.
“I like ’em all,” Des said with a grin, “until I sit down at my typewriter.”
* * *
She was tired when she got down to the paper. It didn’t really matter that much. She wasn’t writing, and it was Friday, the day before Christmas. Everybody was in a holiday mood. People were going out for long, wet lunches and planning to leave the office around four. Allison took off her coat and went down to the cafeteria to get some hot tea and a Danish. She knew she had to talk to Walt Fineman about last night and probably Allen Warburg too, and she wasn’t looking forward to it.
Des had tumbled into bed about three, his adrenaline pumping. He wanted to get laid, and even though she had moaned and made a joke and generally not turned on to him, he had finally had his way. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy it. There was something kind of sexy about making love when you were half-asleep, letting him do all the work, then drifting back to sleep. Des had awakened her again at around seven, kissing her gently, then caressing her, then making love to her before he crawled out of bed.
“Jesus, I don’t know why I’m so horny all of a sudden,” he said. “I guess nothing turns me on like a good story.”
“That’s flattering.”
“You know what I mean,” he said, biting her lip. “You’re exactly the same way. It just gets your blood going.”
“Unfortunately, I think I do,” she said.
Now she was sitting at her desk, staring blankly at her computer. She couldn’t get the specter of Uncle Roger and Aunt Molly out of her mind. Maybe the rest in Aspen would do them both good.
She put her feet up on the desk, a position she felt comfortable in when she was wearing pants, picked up the paper, and began reading as she sipped her tea. She was hoping for a little while to wake up before anyone came at her about last night. It was almost eleven, and she was waiting for a phone call from Des. She was still debating whether or not to tell Fineman that Des had got an interview. She decided she had better. They would know it when they picked up the magazine on Monday. The paper was pretty thin this morning. The town closed down over Christmas. It was dead the minute the President left and Congress called its Christmas recess. She was just as glad. It gave everybody a respite. The only problem was the boredom.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Sonny. We’re so pleased you decided to come in this morning. When you have a little free time, you might want to share last night with us.”
&
nbsp; She looked up and saw Allen Warburg and Walt looking down and grinning at her, and she relaxed.
“Feel free to bring your tea and Danish into my office if you like. We just thought it might be kind of fun to debrief you.”
“Sonny, you don’t look so hot this morning,” said Walt with a little more sympathy than Allen had managed. “Was it that late an evening?”
“Merry Christmas, boys. And many happy returns to you.”
“We’ve got some Christmas cheer in my desk, if you’d like a little spike to your tea,” said Allen. “Strictly forbidden except for medicinal purposes. You look like you could use a little something to bring you back to life.”
“Since when do we have booze in the newsroom? Does Wiley know about this transgression?”
“Relax,” said Allen. “It was a Christmas present from my brother-in-law.”
“That’s all I need,” said Allison. “Besides, wouldn’t that look great, me tipping the ol’ bottle in your glass office for the entire newsroom to see at eleven o’clock in the morning? ‘BOOZE PROBLEM AT THE DAILY OUT OF CONTROL.’ ”
“Okay, so do without,” said Allen. “We’re dying to hear about your evening. I suppose your friend is back at the office hard at work rewriting his cover story.”
“The Weekly likes to keep its cover confidential.”
“Believe it or not, we have high White House sources.”
“Oh, shit, is it all over the pressroom over there?”
“Your friend spent a little over an hour this morning with the man himself. Now, how did that happen? Are you going to tell me they already had that thing set up before last night?”
“Jesus, what is this, the Inquisition?” she said. “I can’t believe this. I told you yesterday we were having dinner over there. I can’t control Shaw or what he writes, even if he had told me what he planned to write, which he did not. Nor can I stop the President from doing an interview if he wants to. It came out at dinner that The Weekly was planning a cover story on the President’s staff and Kimball more or less demanded an interview with Des to talk about it. They had requested an interview weeks ago and Manolas had turned them down without consulting the President. But I didn’t have any reason to ask for an interview. I’m not doing any special story right now. I didn’t feel I could jump in and say, ‘You can’t give him an interview and not me.’ I’m sorry about it. I just didn’t think I should do it. But I don’t think Des is going to get much out of him this morning, and I also don’t think he’s going to be able to use much of what he heard last night. It was off the record.”
“So let’s hear about it,” said Allen. He was testier than usual this morning. “I was afraid this kind of thing might happen.”
After she had told them the headlines from the night before, both Walt and Allen sat looking at each other.
“Well,” said Allen finally. “How much of that stuff do you think Shaw will use?”
“I told you,” said Allison, “I don’t think he will use anything on the record. I think it mainly depends on what he got out of the interview this morning. Why don’t I go call him and find out?”
“So what are you waiting for?”
Allison put in a call to Des at the bureau.
“Well? How did it go?” she asked.
“You can tell Allen and Walt that they can relax.” He laughed. “I got blanked. Totally, one hundred percent blanked. If I hadn’t actually had you at the dinner last night as a witness, I would think I dreamed it. This morning it was all honeymoon and roses on the record and Kimball refused to go off the record and he had his press secretary sitting in. He sat there and looked me in the eye and told me that there was no problem between Harry Saks and Addison Marbury. I gotta hand it to your uncle. He plays hardball. He knew that I knew, and there was no give at all. Just those cold blue eyes staring at my bloodshot green ones.”
“What are you going with?”
“I’ll have to use his quotes in the story. What I’ll do is write it as ‘Although high White House sources close to the President say he is considering getting rid of both Saks and Marbury, the President denies it and says, quote, That’s absurd; they’re the two most valuable people in my Administration. Period. Unquote.’ ”
“Did he really say that?”
“I swear to Christ.”
“I’ve never known him to play that way.”
“Well, there it is, sweetheart.”
“Okay. I better go back and jolly them up. They were pretty unnerved when they heard about your interview. It was all over the White House this morning, of course. And by the way, that prick Manolas told the entire press corps what The Weekly’s cover story is about. Our guy was over there this morning.”
“I’m going to get his sorry ass for that one.”
“Yeah, well, good luck. Listen, I’ve got to go. What shall we do tonight?”
“I don’t know. Do you feel like Chinese?”
“Des, it’s Christmas Eve!”
“Oh, God, you’re right. I’m sorry. Look, I should be finished with this thing by about eight or nine. Why don’t I surprise you? We’ll go out somewhere, okay?”
“Okay. Are we going up to the mountains this weekend?”
“Absolutely. We may have to wait until tomorrow afternoon. But I really want to get out there. I’ve got to get some exercise or my muscles will atrophy.”
“I haven’t noticed any signs of that.”
“Oho, are we in top form today! I can see I’ve had a bad influence on you. Maybe we can continue this conversation later.”
“It’s not the conversation I’d like to continue.”
“All right,” said Warburg when she came back. “Let’s get our guy to put together a rumor story—you know, all the stuff Allison picked up last night. Then he can routinely ask the press secretary for a comment, Manolas will deny the whole thing, and we’ll carry the denial. We can run it Sunday. Below the fold. Maybe even inside, depending on what kind of news hole there is tomorrow. But unless there’s a natural disaster or an assassination, we’ll use it out front. I hope this won’t compromise you with the President—or your boyfriend, for that matter.”
“He’s a real shit, isn’t he?” said Allison to Fineman. “You know, I didn’t even have to tell you about dinner last night. It is, after all, my personal life.”
“Poor Allison. One of the gang, just like the rest of the reporters. Why single her out?” said Warburg.
“C’mon, Allison,” said Walt, steering her out of Warburg’s office as she glared at him. “Let’s go get some lunch. How about Chinese?”
“Merry Christmas,” said Warburg.
* * *
Allison decided to go back to the office after lunch to clean off her desk and answer some mail. She was reading press releases when the phone rang. It was Jeanette Radford, the producer of Meet the Media, one of the network Sunday talk shows.
“Allison, you’ve got to help me out. We’ve just landed Harry Saks on the show this Sunday. We need you to interview. You know there are all these rumors that he is trying to ease Marbury out of his job. We’ve been trying to get Saks for weeks and suddenly his office just called and offered him to us on a platter. I know I’ll have trouble getting family types because Sunday’s the day after Christmas. I thought maybe you would be free.”
“Oh, Christ, Jeanette, I was planning to go up to the country. I want to say yes. How late can I let you know?”
“You can let me know no later than one hour ago. I’m desperate. And you know that whole scene. I need somebody who can nail Saks down.”
“Which means, translated, you really need a woman.” Allison chuckled.
“All right, already. Now that we’ve dispensed with the formalities. I need a woman. You’re it. You’ve got to help me out. You’ll do it, of course.”
“Just let me make one phone call. I really did promise Des I’d go away for the weekend.”
“What if the sisters heard about this? The great Allis
on Sterling has to ask her boyfriend if she can go on Meet the Media? I hope it doesn’t get out.”
“Up yours, Jeannie. I’ll call you right back.”
She put down the phone and pondered for a few minutes. She knew Des would be furious. He would probably go without her. No. He wouldn’t do that. Not on Christmas. Yes. He might well do that. The real question was, What would he do if he were in her shoes? No contest. He would stay and go on the show. It was good exposure. He liked doing TV from time to time. He was good at it. He got paid. It didn’t hurt The Weekly’s image. He would stay and do the show. That was it. Well, then, she would stay. She really wanted to do it, and she couldn’t keep Jeannie waiting. She picked up the phone.
“Yeah,” Shaw answered.
“Hold the line, please, for the President of the United States.”
“I’m sorry,” he said solemnly. “This is Desmond Shaw, the Weekly Bureau Chief.”
“You jerk,” she said, breaking up.
“How could you do that to me? Here I am exhausted, trying to tie up this story, hung over, frantic… you’ll pay.”
“Listen, angel, I’ve got a huge favor to ask you.”
“Anything.”
“Could we possibly stay in town this weekend? I’ve been asked to go on Meet the Media. They’ve got Harry Saks and they want me on and I would like to do it. I think it could be a good story.”
“Oh, damn, Allison. Listen, sweetheart, get out of it, will you? You don’t need it. It’s just a bunch of hacks blathering on at the mouth anyway. Don’t screw up the weekend. I really want to get away. I’m just beat. I need to get away. Okay, sweetheart?”
She paused.
“C’mon, baby?”
“What would you do?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean if they asked you, what would you do?”
“If I promised you a weekend in the country, I’d go to the country. It’s no big deal.”
“Des, I’m sorry, but I promised Jeanette that I would do it. I want to do it. I think it would be good for me. I hope you’ll try to understand.”
