by Sally Quinn
“Actually, I want lunch. And then I think I want a little nap with you afterward. It’s Monday, so I know you don’t have a thing to do over there.”
He didn’t say anything, so she tried again.
“Hey, Shaw, whatd’ya say? My treat?”
Another pause.
“Jesus Christ, do you have any idea how many men in this town would kill to have me ask them to lunch, not to mention offer them my body afterwards? What is this?”
“Okay. How about Mel’s?”
“I’ll meet you on the corner of Seventeenth and Pennsylvania in fifteen minutes and we can walk down. I don’t think we need to call. It’ll probably be dead today.”
“See ya.”
She met him on the corner in the snow and they walked down Seventeenth Street, making small talk about what a slow news day it was and what a bunch of jerks some of the White House reporters were. At Mel’s they walked down the circular staircase into the center of the underground room, all brown velvet and plush. Mel showed them to one of the front tables he reserved for his more illustrious customers.
He ordered a martini. She ordered a Bloody Mary. They said nothing until their drinks had arrived.
Meanwhile, everybody who came down the winding staircase had to acknowledge their presence, it was such a conspicuous spot. Almost everyone mentioned Allison’s appearance the day before.
“Hey, Allison, great performance yesterday.”
“Jesus, did you ever nail Saks.”
“What a show! You really had him going, didn’t you?”
Hardly anybody mentioned Des’s show, and if anyone did, it was “Marbury’s a crafty son-of-a-bitch.”
One reporter, an older man who had always been envious of Des and had his eye on Allison, took the opportunity to tuck it to Des.
“Hey, Shaw,” he yelled out in a joking manner from a nearby table. “You guys really let Marbury off the hook yesterday.”
Several people chuckled. Saks was Topic A at Mel’s that day. Des was trying to keep his cool. If it had been another reporter on her show who had gone after Saks, Des would have given as good as he was getting. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t come back at the Saks interview without putting Allison down. So all he could do was to sit there and try to be a good sport. But she could tell he was hurting, and it made her hurt too.
She was getting absolutely no pleasure out of her triumph at all. It would have been better if nothing had come out of her show and Des had cracked Marbury. She would have felt good sitting there, listening to him accept compliments. And nobody would have put her down or made cracks at her about not doing well with Saks. This, she decided, was a dangerous train of thought. She would have to get over it. She changed the subject.
“God, there are a lot of people here today. I thought the place would be dead over the holidays.”
He didn’t say anything.
“How’s the cover look? I didn’t get a chance to read it, but I saw a few copies of it over at the White House.”
“Frankly, I think it’s terrific. It may be one of the best things we’ve done out of this bureau since I’ve been here. I’m very proud of it.” There was a defensive tone in his voice.
“I have the afternoon off. I’ll read it.”
“You don’t have to.”
“But I want to. I’m sure I’ll learn something. You’ve probably got some great quotes from Uncle Roger that you didn’t tell me about, you S.O.B.”
She was trying to tease him out of his slump.
He shrugged but said nothing. They sat in silence for a while, looking at the menu, then ordered the crab cakes when the waiter came around again.
“So,” said Allison, finally. “I gather the Greys had a party for John T. and it was a big success.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Lorraine says our names were put on and taken off the list about ten times. Apparently Sadie just couldn’t make up her mind about us until the very end. Or I should say ‘me.’ ”
“Well, she obviously did, didn’t she?” He was trying to sound noncommittal.
“If she had invited us at the last minute I wouldn’t have gone.”
“Why not?”
“Because I think it would have been goddamned insulting, that’s why.”
She hadn’t meant to sound that upset.
“I’ll bet it was a good party. I would have gone.”
She just glared at him. Neither seemed to realize how childish they were being.
“Why?”
“Because,” he challenged, “I think she’s a dynamite dame.”
CHAPTER 8
If she could get through the next few weeks, Sadie decided, she would deserve a medal. The children were coming home, and at the President’s suggestion, she had foolishly agreed to have a huge party for the Secretary of State before Christmas. Also, her office had scheduled an interview the following day with The Daily which she had been trying to avoid for months. The director of the National Trust had told her that to get final funding from Congress on some projects they had been planning, he needed a meeting with her. And work was to be started on the new kitchen after the first of the year and there were men all over the place measuring and surveying.
She was sitting upstairs in her bedroom, in the lovely round alcove she had made into her private work space. From her window in the turret she could see the British Embassy and the park and she could watch the sun move around the house. It was a bright, cozy little hideaway where she had a desk, her files, her phone books, and an easy chair with a footstool and her cashmere throw. And, her telephone. Her telephone life was her most active social involvement since she’d come to Washington, a fact she was not planning to reveal to the reporter from The Daily, a rather harmless creature, relatively new on the staff.
It was ringing again. During the day the stewards were supposed to answer it. Occasionally, she answered it herself when they seemed to have disappeared, though you never knew whom you were going to get. The number wasn’t listed, of course, but it was one of those things that just got around fast. It was hooked up to the White House switchboard, which took their calls if nobody was home.
The phone had now rung at least eight times, and Sadie picked it up.
“Can I speak to Jarrell?” said a child’s voice.
There must be a conspiracy of children in Washington, a lobby set up to drive the occupants of the Vice President’s house crazy with wrong numbers. She patiently told the child he had the wrong number. When the next call came through a few minutes later she let it ring three times, then picked it up again.
“Hello,” she practically barked into the phone.
“Ah,” said the vaguely familiar voice, “I would know the sound of your voice anywhere, even after all these years. Though you have lost a little of that Southern accent. Yankee exposure, I presume.”
She was tempted to ask who it was in a brusque voice, but then she had to remember who she was, always. A servant of the people.
“May I ask who I’m speaking to?” she said softly, only the slightest edge in her voice.
“You don’t recognize my voice. And I thought I had made an impression on you.”
She had stiffened when she first heard his voice; now she weakened. She could feel her face redden. She felt a rush of bitterness, sadness, even longing.
“Is it…?”
“It’s me—Tag. Remember?”
Remember? Was the son-of-a-bitch kidding? After nineteen years. How could she forget the one man she had fallen madly in love with? Who had jilted her, broken her heart, made it hard for her to love again.
“Of course, Tag,” she finally said. Casually.
“Well, that’s better. You had me worried there for a minute.”
There was the old cockiness.
“How are you and where are you?” she asked.
“I’m right here in our nation’s capital and I couldn’t be better. I’m calling, in fact, to see if you would consider having lunch with an old flame. Any
restaurant of your choice. Just for old times’ sake. I’ll bet you’re even more beautiful than when I last saw you.”
“Well, let’s just say I’ve changed, Tag. It has been nineteen years.”
“It seems like yesterday.”
He might have done better than that. She was furious at herself for being undone and furious at him for springing up out of nowhere. Why now? Taggart. How she had loved him! He was tall and handsome and sophisticated and he knew everything and he had made her feel he understood her better than she understood herself. Romantic. Sexy. He was every girl’s fantasy in college. And he had loved her. Or so he had said. He had taught her about sex and given her her first orgasm. He had taught her the difference between making love and fucking. Tag had made love to her and he had been the object of her sexual fantasies even much later, even when she made love to her husband.
She blushed. He had always been so clever at knowing what she was thinking that she was afraid he might guess even now. Lunch was out of the question. She was too nervous for that. She was still so traumatized by her lunch with Des that she almost didn’t want to leave the house, and she refused to allow herself to think about it. Besides, it wasn’t so easy for her just to take a jaunt out in public for lunch anymore—legally, anyway. It was like a goddamned state occasion. She would need two reservations, one for her and one for at least two Secret Service agents. She’d have to have her car with the two agents in front and a follow-up car. They’d all want to know whom she was lunching with. She’d have to tell Rosey. He hated Tag, hated the fact that he had walked out of Sadie’s life. He had seen how sad she was afterward, and how long it had taken him to bring her out of it, to respond to him, to agree to marry him. The press would make a federal case out of it. An old friend from college days? They would know from the way she looked at him. And no doubt from the way he looked at her. Tag would most certainly try to turn on the charm. He couldn’t help it.
Maybe that was what he wanted: to be seen with her, to be mentioned in the gossip columns. Wasn’t it convenient that he would call her only after her husband was Vice President! Maybe he wanted something from her. How stupid not to have thought of that right away. He needed something. Didn’t everybody, these days? Nobody in Washington didn’t want something. Friendship was a rare thing—pure friendship, at any rate. God damn it, why hadn’t she guessed? He wasn’t any more interested in her than he had been nineteen years ago when he just walked away. Never to call again. Until her husband became the second-most-powerful man in the country. Well, he wasn’t going to use her this time to get himself in the columns. Should she invite him to the house for lunch? As a matter of fact, she really didn’t have time. Tea. She would invite him for tea. That was safe. If she enjoyed it, whatever that meant, she could always invite him again. If not, tea was fine. She had the perfect excuse.
“How long are you going to be in town?”
“Oh, a couple of days. I’m here on business. It depends on how things go. I’m pretty open-ended.”
“You know I would adore to see you.” The voice was sweet.
“Great,” he said before she could finish. “Just name the time and place. I’ll be there.”
“Oh, Tag, this is such a hectic time, with Christmas and everything. The kids will be home, I’ve got several interviews, I’ve got a crisis involving one of my projects, and we’re getting ready for a large party for the Secretary of State.” That’ll get him. “I just don’t see how I can possibly get away for lunch. It’s not simple for me to do that, as I’m sure you know. Why don’t you come by here for tea this afternoon? Around four.”
He hesitated on the other end of the line, but she knew that he had not missed the firmness in her tone. He debated, then dropped the issue.
“Great, sounds great,” he said. “I’m disappointed I can’t take you out. I’ll come for tea if you’ll give me a rain check.”
“We’ll see about that,” she said with a tinkly little laugh. “I’ve got to run now. See you at four.”
When she put down the phone, she noticed that her hands were shaking. “Shit,” she said out loud. “Shit. Shit. Shit. I don’t need this.”
She jumped up from the desk and walked over to the dresser in the bedroom. She looked into the mirror and gasped. Her hair was a disaster. Ivan wasn’t supposed to come until the next day to do her hair for the dinner.
She picked up the phone and dialed her hairdresser’s private number. “Ivan. I have an emergency. I’m having my picture taken this afternoon and my hair is a mess. Could you possibly come over now and do it instead of tomorrow? Maybe tomorrow I could get away with a comb-out. Please?”
“Oh là là! I’m going to lose all my business here if I have to keep cancelling my clients.” She heard him sigh. “But for you, Madame Grey, it would be worth it.”
She had her special hairdresser’s chair and dryer all set up in the bathroom when he arrived, fluttering about the room, complaining about how busy he was. The more she thought about it, the madder she got at herself. She couldn’t understand why she had even agreed to see him. She hated him. She always would hate him. It had taken her almost six years before she had stopped feeling sick to her stomach at the thought of him. Now he was intruding into her life again. Would she still be attracted? Would she feel anything? She had to appear completely in control.
She rang downstairs to tell the stewards to have tea ready in the small living room off the main drawing room, to lay a fire, and to use some of the cookies and cakes they had received as Christmas presents.
By four she had done her nails twice and had changed her clothes several times, settling finally on a winter-white cashmere cowl-necked sweater and white wool pants. Casual. Just running around the house and stopping for a quick cup of tea. The white sweater set off her turquoise eyes and her auburn hair. One quick dab of moisturizer around the tiny crow’s-feet. At four sharp the doorbell rang.
She had decided to be upstairs when he arrived. She grabbed some tissues, pressed them against her palms, which were perspiring, and wadded them into her pockets. With one last toss of her hairbrush, she went down the curving staircase and sailed into the back sitting room, where Tag stood, his back to the door, gazing at the collection of books on the Vice Presidency.
“Pretty obscure, some of them, aren’t they?” she said too brightly.
He turned to look at her. They both drew their breaths.
He hadn’t expected her to be so beautiful. His expression told her so. Though he had obviously seen her in countless magazine pictures, still, there was something luminous about her which cameras never managed to pick up. She was terribly unphotogenic—at least, she thought so.
He didn’t say anything, just looked.
She stared back. His face was a little fuller, his dark hair was wispy, curling down around his neck, and he was tanned and windburned, as though he spent a lot of time sailing. He was less taut, more relaxed than he had been as a young man. And he was still beautiful. His long eyelashes veiled his mischievous eyes; his grin was challenging. He was still an upper-class rogue, a bandit, a bad boy in Guccis, carelessly and elegantly turned out. Only the slight shift in bearing spoke of any pain or disappointments.
In one of their last conversations, he had told her that there were too many women out there he wanted to know, too many things to experience, which was why he couldn’t marry her as he had promised. It was such trash, such hypocritical trash that it made her furious even now. Except she wasn’t staying furious. She was succumbing again to his charm. It was obvious to her that he had experienced those things, those women. It just made him more attractive.
She reached out her hand and stiffened her arm just the slightest so he would not try to bend it or pull her over to kiss him. There was another flicker of surprise in his eyes. Did he still think he could have his way after all these years? She looked at him, determined. The outrageous sex appeal was still there. He knew too. Or did he?
She gestured to him to si
t by the fire. There were two chairs pulled up facing each other by the fireplace, where she and Rosey sat before dinner at night. Better that than sharing the sofa, she decided. Jackson brought the tea and placed it on the ottoman between them. As he stood waiting, she nodded to him that he could go. She poured the tea without saying anything, then handed Tag his cup.
“So,” she said finally, “tell me everything. Catch me up from when…” She didn’t finish. “Well, you know everything about me, I suppose. Tell me about yourself.” She didn’t want him to know she had been following his adventures in the movie magazines.
“I’m producing films. Just like I always wanted to. But I’ve been in Europe. In fact, I’ve been doing so well that I decided the time might be right to venture into the nation’s capital and see if I might pick up a little action here.”
Between the lines it became clear that he had been less successful than he had hoped, which explained why she rarely heard of any of his work. The publicity about him was almost always involving his love life. One of his problems, she suspected, had always been money. He had too much of it.
He had made a number of films in Africa, he told her, a few features in Italy, and a couple of documentaries in London. One on drugs, which he seemed particularly proud of, had had some success and had gotten some good reviews. In between he had been married and divorced twice, once to a woman whose name was well known in New York society, then to a French movie star.
He indicated with a chuckle that both had left him. Other women was the implication.
“What is it that interests you about Washington?” she asked finally. She was afraid of his answer.
“Ah, well, I was hoping you’d ask that,” he said.
Here it comes, she said to herself.
“Actually, I was thinking now was a good time to start making some political films, some campaign films, possibly even moving to Washington and setting up my headquarters here. There is so much material here in Washington and so many people who could use a little help. Most of the campaign films I’ve seen are pretty rotten. In fact, I didn’t think much of your husband’s, to tell you the truth. Very amateurish, I thought.”
