by Sally Quinn
How dare he? Who the hell was he, anyway? She didn’t have the nerve to say that to him. If only she could be more direct—but it just wasn’t in her.
“Nonetheless,” she said softly, “he didn’t do so badly, did he?”
“Oh, his winning didn’t have anything to do with those films,” he said in an authoritative manner. “Nobody could have beaten Kimball. He was golden. But your husband needs a better image. He comes across a little stiff, you know, too formal. He needs loosening up. These are just my personal observations, you understand.”
If it hadn’t been true she would have been less angry. And it wasn’t Rosey’s image Tag was talking about. It was Rosey himself. Tag knew her, knew what turned her on. He always had. And he would know that Rosey did not. At least sexually.
“I’m afraid you’ll have a hard time convincing him of that,” she said, seething. “He quite likes his image. So do I, for that matter.” Would he believe her?
He didn’t seem to hear. “Anyway,” he continued, “this is a great town, if”—he paused at the “if”—“if you’ve got contacts.”
She said nothing. Why didn’t she have the guts to throw him right out of her house? Once again she was furious with herself. It was her Southern upbringing. “A guest in my house can do no wrong,” she could hear her father saying. “I may not ever invite him back, but while he is here he is entitled to the best hospitality I have to offer.” She knew that that was in part why she couldn’t speak back to him. It didn’t seem to matter, though. He was smart enough to realize she was still confused about him, if nothing else.
“Sadiebelle,” he said finally, softly, “I can’t tell you how fabulous you look. I hadn’t expected to see you looking so beautiful. But then”—and he lowered his eyelids in a way he had clearly done hundreds and thousands of times before with some success—“you always were a spectacularly beautiful woman.” The emphasis, in a low, guttural, sexual tone of voice, was on the word “woman.” She could feel it between her legs.
“I’ve always thought,” he continued, “that a woman was never really at her most attractive until she reached thirty-five. At thirty-five, women begin to blossom, to ripen. The French have always understood that. ‘Un certain âge.’ You women are so silly. You all think you are over the hill by the time you’re thirty-five. I say that’s when you become worth paying attention to.”
God, he was using the same old lines, yet when he had told her that in college, alluding mysteriously to all the older women he had had in his past, she had been faint with desire and numb with awe. And even now, she couldn’t help herself from still being attracted to him.
“You know, I did you a favor, Sadiebelle, when I left.” He said it with such pride. She wondered if he dined out on that one. “I walked out on the Vice President’s wife. Sweet girl, but so naive.
“When I left, you weren’t ready for marriage any more than I was. You needed experience too. I can see that you got it. And you’ve become the kind of woman I knew you could be, the kind of woman you had the potential to be. I’m proud of you, kid.”
She could barely swallow, she was so outraged. How did he think he could just appear on her doorstep like this and talk to her as though she were some broad he had popped once in his life? He was trying to seduce her even now. What was it about her that made him think he could treat her this way? Suddenly she was filled with the same sense of insecurity and failure she had felt nineteen years ago.
Except for Danny when she was sixteen, and that was hardly what she would call experience, the men in her life had consisted of Tag, Rosey, her brief and near-disastrous affair with Stuart Cortwright when Rosey was Governor of Virginia, and Des. They were all of a type except for Rosey. She was inexorably drawn to rakes and bastards.
Tag was rattling his teacup. She could tell he was angling for something.
“Got anything a little stronger than this?” He obviously wanted to prolong the visit. It was nearly five thirty. She contemplated saying no. Then, caught up by her upbringing once more, she stood up, walked over to the bar, and took out a glass.
“Scotch neat; Glenfiddich if you have it.”
She poured the Scotch—Rosey liked Glenfiddich—and carried it over to him. She saw his approving gaze. She was suddenly overcome with humiliation. Somehow he knew she was not as fulfilled as she would like him to think. She was insulted by his presumption, after all these years, that he could flatter her, entice her into allowing him to use her and her husband’s position to further his pitiful little film career. It did not occur to her that he might really be attracted to her. And it made her wonder again, as she had many times since her encounter at Great Falls, whether Des was using her as well.
She handed him the glass and grasped the crumpled-up Kleenexes in her pocket.
“I’m sorry to make the drink so short,” she apologized, “but we’re getting ready for a Christmas party. I’ve got so much to do I don’t even know where to begin. I still have to go over the seating with my secretary.”
She was rubbing it in now. She wanted to feel superior. She wanted to diminish him.
“I’ve never been to one of these formal Washington do’s,” he said. “Of course, I’ve been to every kind of party in New York, on the Coast, in Paris and London, but Washington is a totally different scene.”
“Totally. Entertaining for fun exclusively isn’t done here. Every party has a reason. People work at parties. Parties are a wonderful place to make contacts, see people you wouldn’t be able to get on the telephone, have informal conversations with people, pick up or exchange information. They are really invaluable to people who want to do serious business, political or otherwise, in this town.”
She was painting a picture that he would find irresistible.
“I’d love to see one firsthand,” he said. The way he said it, so matter-of-fact, reminded her that he was a man used to getting what he wanted from women.
“I’m sure you will, especially if you plan to spend time in Washington. But think it over carefully before you do. This is a very rough place to break into. Unless you are in a position of power either in the government, in politics, in journalism, or in law, it is difficult. People won’t be interested. There are so many people who move here with high expectations…”
“Well, if you know the right people…”
“If you know the right people. But not everyone does. And now, Tag, I’m just sick at the thought that we have to end this delightful visit, but I really must get back to business.”
Her palms were perspiring. She had to get him out.
Jackson appeared at the door.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, “but the White House is on the line.”
That was his way of telling her she could get out of it. “The White House” could be the switchboard calling back with messages. Jackson was so clever. He had sensed something. And this was a no-fail way to end a conversation. Nobody ever questioned the White House. She glanced at Tag and saw that he was properly impressed.
“Tag, dear”—she stood up—“I’m going to have to run now. I do hope you will understand.”
She began walking him to the front door.
“I certainly hope your project will be a success.” Sweet, polite, noncommittal. He couldn’t complain, couldn’t pressure. Nothing about calling again or lunch or do drop by.
As she turned in the central hallway to go back to Tilda’s office to take the phone call, Tag stopped her.
“Oh, by the way,” he said. “I forgot to mention to you that I’m seeing a close friend of yours. She asked me to give you her love.”
Why did she flush? Why did her stomach flip over?
“Oh?” she asked, almost to herself.
“Chessy Shaw. The soon-to-be-ex-Mrs. Desmond Shaw.”
She caught her breath. She had been avoiding Chessy’s calls since the incident with Des.
“How nice for you. You and Chessy would be perfect together.”
He
winced. Sadie smiled. “Goodbye, Tag. Let’s promise to meet again in nineteen years.”
Before he could answer, she had turned her back. The door slammed with a bang, and she leaned against it and took a deep breath.
She had exacted her revenge. Yet why did she feel so unnerved? Even now, after nineteen years, she wanted to make him pay, wanted to hurt him. Even now that she knew she was no longer in love with him. Was it Tag who had a hold over her, or her fantasy? She suddenly felt depressed. If only he hadn’t mentioned Desmond Shaw.
* * *
“Have you made up your mind about Desmond Shaw and Allison Sterling?” Tilda was asking as they went through the guest list in order to do the seating.
Tilda Traina had given up her business in New York to come down and take the job of Sadie’s social secretary and special assistant. On the government payroll. For less money, she liked to point out. Tilda was from California and had been one of Sadie’s best friends at Smith. Her business in New York, Services Rendered, handled parties, gave advice on social problems, did special shopping for people, and essentially catered to the whims of the rich. She had money herself and had been longing for a break from her business. When Sadie had asked her to come to Washington she was thrilled to get away and glad to be able to turn her business over to her assistant.
Tilda was wonderful. Though she had never really spent any time in Washington before, she had dealt with the rich enough to know how to deal with the powerful. After a month one would have thought she had been there her whole life.
Tall, with blond hair, horsey-looking, slightly overbearing, some might have said bossy, Tilda had adapted to Washington’s played-down, low-key style despite the fact that she had not abandoned her New York upper-class, Fifth Avenue mannerisms. She had understood from the first that money was not the bargaining chip in Washington. She began reading the papers and studying the scene like an anthropologist. Sadie had been tutored by Lorraine, but Tilda had acquired Washington expertise by osmosis. It was the smartest thing Sadie had ever done. For one thing, she had a good friend she could trust, someone who was good at organizing and entertaining, who had taste and had helped her redecorate, and someone, as well, with whom she could hash over problems.
Sadie had taken up Rosey’s generous offer of three people from his own staff slots, and she had rapidly claimed the office space of the former Vice President’s wife at the Executive Office Building. But she had reorganized things. Instead of having a housekeeper at the house, an assistant for her projects at the office, and a secretary, she had made Tilda a combination assistant and executive housekeeper, though she wasn’t called that.
At the office, Sadie had hired a woman who had been a journalist and who had covered feature stories for a local paper which had folded. She was not a specialist but had written extensively about city projects, urban renewal, ghettos, local communities. She was invaluable because she took the onus off the potentially frivolous aspect of historic preservation—Let’s redo all the pretty houses—and made it a substantial concern. She was also astute at handling the press. “Don’t talk to them any more than you have to” was her advice, “and then limit the interviews to the topics you want to discuss. Historic preservation, the role of the Vice President’s wife. No personal stuff. They’ll kill you. You’re too candid. Just keep your mouth shut.”
Nan Tyler was a strong-minded, hardworking, efficient sort, rather tomboyish in dress and actions, a no-frills person who got along well with everyone and was respected by the staff and the press. She was not exactly Sadie’s type, but that was good. Nan and Tilda complemented each other. Sadie was satisfied with her team. They also both prodded her out of her lazy moods and got her “off her ass,” as Nan was wont to say.
Tilda seemed a bit more harassed this day than usual. She had been on the phone with the State Department protocol office half the day trying to work out the seating arrangements. “Those half-wits at Protocol,” she said. “Veronica, the woman I usually deal with, has taken a Christmas leave, and nobody over there knows what the hell they are doing. I can’t believe this. We’ll have ten international crises over seating in this town before the holidays are over with. God knows who we’re going to insult. And your husband’s office has just added more names to the list. They say that because the Saudi prince is in town, we have to invite him—Hooker wants him too—and because we’ve got him we’re going to have to invite those air-conditioning people. Now, I know it is good business for the United States to sell air conditioners to the Arabs. But it is bad party planning. They are such bores. Where are we going to put them? We can only seat seventy-two, and that’s if they’re packed in like sardines. We’ve got three tables in the front hall. This could be a disaster, Sadie. I don’t want to be downbeat about this party, but I’m getting very bad vibes.”
“You know what you need?” she told Tilda. “You need a good stiff drink. You’re letting this party get to you. It’s not worth it. It will be fun no matter what.”
“What’s gotten into you? I can usually work you into a state in no time. You’re not going to play tonight?”
“Nope. Sorry. I’m not in the mood. Why don’t I fix you a Scotch? I’m afraid to ring for it. Jackson has just about had it. They’re in a frenzy in the kitchen too.”
She went back into the living room and fixed Tilda a Scotch, poured herself a glass of white wine, added a little cassis, and went back down the hall to Tilda’s office.
“You never answered my question,” said Tilda. “Did you decide on Des and Allison yet? All the other invitations have already gone out. It is a little rude.”
“I don’t think so,” she said.
“I’ve said it before. They’re part of that crowd. It will be strange in this group if they’re not included. It’s such a large party. And John T. likes Allison.”
“I said, I just don’t think so, Tilda.”
“Hmmmmm,” said Tilda, raising an eyebrow. “You really don’t like her, do you? Or is it that you really do like him?”
Sadie’s face turned flame-red. “I don’t know why you say that. I don’t see why I should have to invite her just because her godfather is President. Especially since he’s not coming. I can’t exactly recall having been inside her house. I don’t owe them.”
“Come on, Sadie. You know it’s not the same. People are shy to invite the Vice President.”
It did startle Sadie how strongly she felt about Allison. She felt threatened by her in a way she had never felt since little Stephanie with the golden curls in Statesboro, Georgia, when they were six. She had actually tried to kill Stephanie. She had covered her with leaves and tried to light a match. It shamed her more than she could bear to remember even now.
“Of course,” said Tilda, “you could always invite just Des Shaw.”
Sadie ignored her.
“What about your old flame? Or have you decided not to confide in your old roomie Tilda?”
“Tilda,” she said, surprised at her own cool, “seeing Tag again may just be one of the highlights of my year.”
“Oh, no. He’s still that divine? Don’t tell me. You’re going to have an affair with him. We simply can’t have that kind of scandal, Sadie. It won’t do. I refuse to allow it to happen.”
“Relax, Tilda. He’s still attractive, I have to admit. But the glamour has definitely faded.” She was trying to sound noncommittal.
“Oh, how disappointing. I can’t bear it. He used to be so gorgeous. I thought then that he was the most divine man I’d ever met. And you were the luckiest girl.”
“Let’s put it this way. He’s not the same person I wanted to commit suicide over… but then, neither am I. Do you know why he called me after nineteen years?” She was surprised to hear her voice rising, and she noticed that Tilda was surprised too. “I guess I am a little upset about seeing him, even now,” she said, smiling a little in embarrassment. “He came here because he’s doing political films, or wants to, and he’s trying to get me to let him
do some of Rosey’s campaign films next time around. He wants to change Rosey’s image.”
“You should get him together with Everett,” snickered Tilda.
“Well, he didn’t exactly say that’s what he wanted, but he hinted rather broadly. And then he started hinting at being invited to the party.”
“Speaking of the party, my dear, we do have to make some decisions here. Wait a sec. Let me go to the little girls’ room first, before we get to the fascinating subject of flowers.”
She jumped up from her desk and slipped into the bathroom next to her desk. When she came out, she was fuming. “You know, I’m sorry to bring it up again, but this office is simply not suitable. The fact that you have to come through here to get to the only powder room on this floor is simply unacceptable. Every time we have a party I have to completely clear off this desk and hide everything so that your illustrious guests don’t snoop. It’s a hideous bore. Can’t we do something about it?”
“Stop whining, Tilda. I’ve asked Rosey and he says no. We’ve already hit up the Navy for a hundred thousand dollars for the new kitchen. There isn’t more money to add on another anything.”
“Well, the setup stinks; I just hope you realize it.”
“Weren’t you saying something about flowers?”
“The garden-club ladies are just swarming around. They’re thrilled to do the Christmas decorations for the reception hall and the rest of the rooms downstairs. Apparently they do it every year. It’s a tradition. They’ll be all over the house tomorrow, so watch your mouth. We’ve got plenty of greens from the greenhouse, but they’ll be bringing mistletoe and poinsettias and things like that. Red ribbons.”
“I don’t want a bunch of blue-haired little old ladies tackying up my house. I can’t stand most Christmas decorations. Tell them all fresh greens and no ornaments unless I approve. And no flower arrangements. That last group for the Thanksgiving decorations was the most hideous thing I ever saw. Better tell them beforehand what we like so we won’t hurt their feelings.”
