Regrets Only

by Sally Quinn

“What am I supposed to do? Cool my heels all weekend and then pick you up at the studio Sunday so we can go for a day? That would blow the whole thing. There would be no point in it.”

  “Anyway, I have to be back for the eleven A.M. White House briefing on Monday. I’ve got the duty. Everybody else is off and our regular guy is in Aspen.”

  “The hell with it, Sonny. I’ll just go. I’ll try to understand if you stay here. You try to understand if I go. All right?”

  “All right,” she said finally.

  “Look, I can’t talk any longer. I’ve got New York on the phone. I’ll see you later.”

  “Okay. I’ll be at home when you’re through.”

  She hesitated only a moment before she called Jeanette back.

  * * *

  She was sitting by the fire with a glass of wine, watching the news, when he came in. She was surprised by the expression on his face. Instead of the locked jaw and steely gaze she expected, Des looked chastened.

  “Hi, angel,” he said, throwing his arms around her. He kissed her on the lips, then sighed and kissed her again, rubbing his hands over her behind.

  “Ummmmmm,” he said. “I’d forgotten how good that felt. I haven’t knocked off a piece since this morning. How can I still be horny?”

  She didn’t say anything. He fixed an Irish and came over and sat down next to her on the sofa, not his usual seat.

  “Where would you like to go tonight?” he asked. “I’m feeling in a good mood. I’m having my usual postcoital experience after I’ve finished a major cover.”

  “Why don’t we just stay here? It’s so awful outside, and we’ve got some steaks and some of that caviar left over. We could have dinner by the fire.”

  “Perfect,” he said. “I knew there was a reason I was in love with you.”

  It wasn’t until dinner that she brought it up. She was still surprised at his jovial mood.

  “So what are your plans tomorrow?” she asked as casually as possible.

  “Well, I thought we could get laid. Get up. Open our presents. Then maybe go over to O’Grady’s for Christmas dinner. Then we could come home and get laid, then maybe go out for supper and a movie later or just stay in bed and watch television, then get laid, then go to sleep. How’s that sound?”

  “Maybe I missed something,” she said, “but I could have sworn that you were planning to go up to the country for the weekend.”

  He smiled. He had had enough to drink so that his lip curled, and one lock of hair fell over his forehead.

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you?”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been asked to go on Dateline: Washington this Sunday.”

  “And?”

  “And I said yes.”

  She could have rubbed it in; she decided against it.

  “Who’re they having on?”

  “Addison Marbury. His office called and offered him up. I have a feeling that our dinner last night and my follow-up interview this morning with the President precipitated this. They’re anticipating a story in The Daily and a cover story in The Weekly. They know perfectly well that we’re going to say that they don’t get along and they both may be on the way out,” he said. “I’m sure the White House has cooked this one up to get them to say they love each other and have no intention of leaving. The show knew that I was working on this cover. Your show didn’t ask you by chance. I guess the White House put that one out over the wires. They’ll want us to counter whatever Marbury and Saks may say. They’re going to try to refute everything we’ve got. I added a footnote to the story about how the White House was sending these guys out to put a lid on the rumors, just to cover my ass.”

  “I’m glad you’re staying even if it’s not for me. I was going to miss you over Christmas weekend. I wasn’t looking forward to being alone.”

  “I’m glad too,” he said softly, taking her hand across the table. “I felt as though you were abandoning me. I was hurt, Sonny. I’ve got to admit that to you. I wouldn’t if I hadn’t been into the sauce a little tonight. But I feel like there ought to be times when a woman puts her man first before her career. And I always know with you which comes first. And it ain’t me, kid. It’s okay; I can live with it. And I know you think I do the same. But I’ve gotta tell you that it just doesn’t feel good. There are times when I want to be number one. I can’t help it. If that makes me a male chauvinist pig, then so be it.”

  She knew he was right. She gave the impression that her work came first. But it was only out of instinct for survival that she always chose her career first. It had never occurred to her that he even noticed, or that he might be hurt. She didn’t think he cared enough to be hurt by her. She was so preoccupied with her need, so afraid of her dependence that she had never really dwelt on what he might feel.

  Now she felt almost like weeping. She couldn’t let down her defenses even when it was safe. And here was Des telling her it was safe. Did she believe him? Could she trust him? She would try. She promised herself. She would try.

  “Now,” she said, getting up from the table and walking around to the back of his chair and putting her arms around his neck. “Now look who’s being an asshole.”

  * * *

  The two Sunday interview shows had not gone equally well. Allison had made news. Des had not. Addison Marbury had been his usual upper-class, boring self. He was a master at evasion and had turned every question, no matter how tough, into a compliment for the reporter. Des had tried to get something out of him; so had the others. They had tried to goad him and Marbury had made them seem like bullies.

  “Of course, we all have different styles and methods of operation,” he said. “That includes Harry Saks and myself. There’s bound to be friction from time to time because of that.

  “But as far as any out-and-out warfare, I’m not aware of that. Regardless of what the inevitable rumors are, isn’t it S.O.P., Mr. Shaw, that about this time in every administration, The Weekly comes out with a cover story on how the staffers are fighting with each other? I seem to recall one in every administration in the past, and as far back as I go, that’s a long way.”

  “Charming, evasive, infuriating,” Des said in disgust later that day.

  Allison had had better luck with Saks. Harry was irascible and given to outbursts.

  While she was being made up, Saks had stuck his head in and seen her. “Ah, Allison,” he had said sarcastically, “what fun to see you here this morning. I suppose now I should prepare for a little blood on the floor.”

  “Harry, what are you talking about?” They were both smiling, but the edge was there.

  Allison’s turn to question came last. The others had brought up the rumors of the infighting with Marbury and rumors that they both would soon be out, mostly because they had read the third-page Daily story that morning.

  “Why do you have so much trouble getting along with people, Mr. Saks?” she asked. “During the campaign you were always fighting or reported to be fighting with somebody. Since you’ve been in the White House there has hardly been a week when you weren’t engaged in some form of combat with some colleague or staffer. If it’s not having somebody’s desk moved, or leaking damaging information about someone, then it’s something else. Do you think there is something about you which provokes these kinds of reports, and in the end, is this kind of behavior really helpful to your President?”

  The reporter next to her gasped under his breath, “Heavy stuff,” and everyone sat rapt, waiting for Saks.

  “Well, Allison,” he began, his voice oozing with sarcasm, “leave it to a woman to ask a question like that.”

  Everyone gasped again. Saks realized he had made a mistake.

  “But seriously—” His face had reddened and she could tell he was about to let loose, although nobody was prepared for his outburst. “In campaigns and even in the White House there are people who don’t know what they’re doing. If you’re in a highly pressurized situation every day and dealing with the immense kind o
f power and making the kind of decisions we are making every day, you often don’t have time to be polite the way some people think you do. Maybe upper-class accents and Old School Tie manners are in order. But it is just not the way I see getting things done effectively. So if I appear abrasive or difficult to get along with at times, or some touchy staffers have their egos bruised, then I’m sorry, but that’s just the way I operate. I always have and I always will. And if the President is displeased he has the prerogative to let me go. So far, he has not seen fit to do so.”

  “A follow-up question, please,” said Allison. “I assume you’re referring to Addison Marbury when you speak of Old School Tie and upper-class accents?”

  “I’m not mentioning any names. I’m speaking in general.”

  Allison thought she had probably gone too far. Saks was practically apoplectic. The moderator was getting a little nervous. “Thank you, Mr. Saks,” she said, and let the moderator ask about the economy. By the time the show was over Saks had cooled down. He left without saying goodbye to anyone.

  Jeanette came barreling out of the control room, her face beaming.

  “Great television, Sonny,” she said. “And boy, did we ever make news! We were monitoring Dateline: Washington. Marbury was a bomb. Boring. They got nothing. They’ll make page eighteen of the A section tomorrow. We’re page one.”

  Allison felt a twinge. Des had hoped to get something out of Marbury. She decided not to bring it up. Des got home first and was reading the paper in the dining room when she got back.

  “Well, I see you really got that son-of-a-bitch to open up,” he said casually, then went back to the paper and his Bloody Mary.

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “I don’t think it will get much play tomorrow.”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  * * *

  Allison decided to walk to the White House for the eleven-thirty press briefing. It had stopped snowing, though it was still overcast. Even though it was Monday, it was the week in between Christmas and New Year’s and there wasn’t much going on. The President and his retinue were in Aspen, and Congress was in recess. This week would be one long Saturday.

  She trudged down to M Street from her house, turned left, and headed downtown toward Pennsylvania Avenue. The press adored Roger Kimball for at least that one thing. The vacation White House was in Aspen, so it was a great place to hang out. Many of the correspondents had taken their families with them, so for once there were no cries of anguish from those assigned the Christmas watch. In the past, there had been some Presidential hometowns that were dogs. This was a dream come true, and their organizations were paying for it.

  The walk gave her some time to think.

  Des hadn’t said a word about the rumor article when he read the paper that morning. Monday was a slow day for him. Often he didn’t even go into the office. If she didn’t have to file, they could have lunch together. As she approached the White House she reached into her purse, fished around for her wallet and pulled out her White House press pass on its metal chain, grimaced at last year’s picture, and flashed it at the guard in the window.

  “Hi, Allison,” he said as he pushed a buzzer and the metal gate to the left swung open for her. She slipped the pass over her neck so that it was visible, then poked her face into the guard box to say Merry Christmas.

  “Any action today?” she asked.

  “Are you kidding? The most exciting thing going on is that some of the network guys are chasing poor Mabel around trying to kiss her under the mistletoe. Last we heard, she had burst into tears and was hiding in the ladies’ room.”

  The guards all cracked up, and Allison laughed in spite of herself. She felt sorry for Mabel, a tall, stooped-over spinster who had worked for a small-town newspaper in upstate New York and had been covering the White House for nearly forty years. She was definitely the veteran White House correspondent. She was plain, boring, pushy, and obliging, and she was there from dawn every morning until midnight every night.

  Allison marched up the curved driveway toward the pressroom. Some TV cameras were already set up on tripods in the snow for the reporters’ stand-uppers.

  She shivered thinking about it. Thank God she didn’t work for television. The way those people had to hustle around, putting on makeup and memorizing lead-ins, standing out there in the cold and rain, redoing spots—it was such a bore. One thing about writing for a newspaper was that you could phone your story in if you had to.

  Allison could hear the laughter before she stepped into the pressroom. There was a mike set up at one end, where the briefings took place, and a TV reporter stood bellowing out a description of what was going on as though he were announcing a horse race. At the other end of the room the cameramen were standing on the platform screaming and cheering while one of the male reporters from quite a reputable newspaper was chasing Mabel up one side of the room and down the other with a piece of mistletoe held high above his head, shouting, in a deep Texas accent, “Pucker up, Miss Mabel; I’m a-comin’ to get ya.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said a voice from the mike. “If I may be so bold as to use that term loosely. Is it possible for us to put an end to this merriment for few moments so that we may reflect for a bit on some of the overriding problems of this nation? I realize that that is not why you are here. Immediately following the briefing there will be apple dunking and Pin the Tail on the Elephant and we will be serving punch and cookies for those of you who have behaved.…”

  The press secretary was just getting warmed up.

  “Boooooooooooooo. Hissssssssss. Get the hook. Sit down…. Bring on the clowns…. We want Santa.…”

  “Please, boys and girls. We will be forced to call your mommies if there is not more appropriate behavior. Now, does anybody want any news? Everybody who wants any news please raise your hand.”

  “Yeahhhh, news,” said one reporter, raising her hand. Even the women had begun acting like jerks at the White House press briefings. Equality.

  “What about the Saks stuff on Meet the Media yesterday? How has the President responded to that, and what does Marbury have to say about it?” They were all looking at Allison. Some shouted congratulations at her.

  All the reporters were clamoring with questions until the press secretary could quiet them down.

  “All right, all right, one at a time. I only have two brief statements. The President is satisfied that both of his two top aides have made it clear that there is no conflict between them and is pleased to announce that they both have his strongest support and confidence and that both of them will stay on.”

  Another clamoring of questions and comments. “Can you believe that horseshit?” “It’s Kafkaesque.” “Tough it out.” “Fantastic.”

  “What about Marbury?” someone shouted.

  “Marbury said that happily he has been assured by Saks that he was not referring to him during the broadcast because if he had been he would have been forced to challenge him to a duel.”

  “Is that it? Christ,” mumbled another reporter. “Leave it to Marbury. I can’t decide whether he’s the stupidest bastard I ever heard of or the smartest.”

  The press secretary refused to entertain any more questions about Saks and Marbury and insisted on telling the surly crowd what the First Family had exchanged for Christmas presents.

  “Now, boys and girls,” said Manolas, “I’m going to tell you what Santa brought President and Mrs. Kimball. Isn’t that fun?”

  “Hey, cut the shit, buddy,” yelled somebody from the sofa over on the sidelines. Edmond Smythe. He was new to the White House press corps. At some point, the circuslike ritual of the press briefing would be brought back to reality by somebody who was relatively new to the group and who was appalled by the abominable behavior of so many of the reporters. There were so many nut cases who called themselves White House reporters that they often outnumbered the real reporters from reputable news organizations. On a bad day the cries could get to the real people, and then the e
ntire briefing resembled something closer to Mondo Bizarro than any kind of serious vehicle for the dissemination of news to the American public.

  After disclosing what the First Family had exchanged (new ski outfits) the press secretary made a few brief news announcements which amounted to nothing and then ended the briefing. “That’s all for now, boys and girls.”

  Allison walked to the back room past the bulletin board, scanning it for any news items, checked through the holders for press releases, and then went to The Daily’s booth to call the office.

  “Whatd’dya get?” said Al, who was on the desk for the holiday shift. “Any hot breaking news?”

  She laughed. “You want a list of gifts the First Family exchanged?”

  “I don’t think so. Somebody’s just put a wire story on my desk with the list. I’ll shoot it back to Living. No need to file. What are you up to today? Are you working on anything?”

  “I’m supposed to be doing that piece Walt wanted on the economic program and the dissension between the White House and Congress on how to play it. But I’m kind of hung up because everybody’s out of town so I can’t get any interviews this week.”

  “There’s nobody here. The place is really dead. Why don’t you knock off for the day? If there’s an emergency I’ll give you a call, but there are enough shleppers around here I can work with.”

  “Make it a real emergency, okay?”

  “Okay. See ya.”

  Allison put down the phone, then picked it up again to call Des. His secretary answered the phone.

  “Hi, Shirlee,” she said. “Is Des there?”

  “He’s awfully busy right now.”

  “It’s Monday, Shirlee. You want to put him on for me?”

  There was ice in her voice.

  Des picked up the phone.

  “Yeah?” His voice was cool. He was still upset about blowing it with Marbury. She could tell.

  “I love you,” she said. “I love you a lot.” He didn’t answer.

  “What do you want?”