by Sally Quinn
“If I had to guess? Oh, I don’t know. You know, after you’ve lived in Washington any length of time you’ll believe anything. And anything is always true. If I had to guess… I’d say I think it’s probably true.”
“So what do you think your colleagues will do with this?” He was more intent now.
“Chase it down, of course. But nobody’s going with a story like this unless they’ve got it nailed. And it will be tough to nail. It is an election year, though. It would be great copy.”
“Good God. This is all Roger needs, with his other problems.” He shook his head and stared out the window for a moment.
“Other problems?”
“Molly told me you were the only other person she had talked to.”
“I just didn’t know how much you knew.”
“I’m deeply concerned. Roger could have another anytime. I know it’s been almost ten months, but he doesn’t look well, and the pressure seems to be getting to him more and more. And I don’t see how we can keep it quiet forever. I must say the doctor certainly managed to keep his mouth shut.”
“Well, he is the old family doctor from Colorado. He kept his last stroke a secret too. I’ve been agonizing since last Christmas. I’ve never had such a conflict. It was an interesting moment when I realized that when the crunch came my first loyalty was to Uncle Roger and not to the paper.”
“I have a more serious problem. Whether my loyalty is to Roger or to the country.”
The plane was beginning to descend, and Rosey fastened his seat belt. He was ending the conversation.
Allison was trying desperately to squeeze her feet back into her shoes and put her notebook away at the same time.
“Mr. Vice President,” said one of his aides as Allison was getting up. “The limo will take you directly to the Vice President’s house. You will only have a few minutes to change before the dinner party at the British Embassy. It’s black tie, sir. Mrs. Grey will be waiting for you there.”
“Righto,” said Rosey, looking slightly distracted as an aide handed him his schedule for the next day.
“We’ll see you later, then,” said Allison as she slipped beyond the curtains into the back of the plane toward her seat. “And I understand that the Corwins will be there too.”
He suddenly looked up, alert.
“And remember what they say,” she added. “All gossip is true.”
* * *
The Vice President’s house was next door to the British Embassy on Massachusetts Avenue. The limousine pulled up under the arched driveway, and a doorman stood waiting to let them out. He waited in the foyer at the foot of the massive circular stairway as Sadie slipped into the ladies’ room to leave her coat and take a last look in the mirror. She was pleased with what she saw—a long boat-necked black silk dress with long sleeves and a three-strand pearl choker with a diamond clasp. Elegant. Quite British. Except that they never dressed that way.
Edwina Abel-Smith was got up like a circus tent as usual. She stood at the top of the staircase amidst the grand portraits of British monarchs and hailed her guests with great swoops and shouts and expressions of pleasure as Rodney stood stiffly by her side, greeting his guests as if they were arriving at his funeral. Sadie did quite like Edwina, even though she was a bit of an ass.
The Greys moved into the large reception room where guests were sipping cocktails among the marble columns. The party was in honor of Lord Trittenham, the publisher and owner of one of London’s largest newspapers, so there were more journalists than usual.
Sadie had been around long enough to know that this was a relief. Edwina, like most wives of British Ambassadors, had never really gotten the hang of Washington guest lists. They relied on hand-me-down lists, some as much as ten or fifteen years old, and consequently there were always an alarming number of climbers, “formers” (former ambassadors, former Senators and Congressmen, former administration types), and B’s and C’s—aging Washington cave dwellers. British Ambassadors’ wives seemed to have a weakness for the fashion press. Even members of the Georgetown inner sanctum, who held to the idea that the British Embassy was the icon of social diplomacy, had to admit that the guest lists were often unsettling.
As Lorraine had sighed to Sadie earlier that day, “One is never safe at the British Embassy.”
Allison and Desmond were among the last to arrive and Sadie and Rosey were standing directly in their path as they entered the main reception room.
It was not the first time that Des and Sadie had run into each other since the “incident” at Great Falls. But both had chosen to pretend that it had never happened. So when they were thrown together socially they simply avoided each other. If they ended up in the same group they rarely spoke and averted their eyes. This night was no exception.
Allison was wearing a pale pink silk, and she knew she looked good. She was feeling terrific.
“I see you made it before I did, Mr. Vice President,” she said. The tone was vaguely intimate.
“Not by much,” said Rosey in a friendly way.
The teasing note was not lost on Sadie, who was irritated by the familiarity. She was about to say something when there was a slight hush and people began turning toward the receiving line. There, the last to arrive, were Helene and Bud Corwin, flushed and out of breath, but aggressively there.
“Oh, Edwina darling, you must forgive us,” said Helene in a loud voice.
Edwina beamed. What fun to have the latest scandale at one of her dinner parties. The British greatly admired those who toughed it out in public.
“Scandal or no scandal, one simply keeps a stiff upper lip and faces the bloody buggers down,” she had once remarked to Lorraine. She deplored the American custom of going into seclusion or retreating from disaster. There was nothing people liked more than seeing others retire in shame and defeat. It was much more effective just to go about your business and defy people to challenge you about it. She had half-expected that Helene and Bud would send their regrets.
So the evening was made. All she had to do was sit back and watch the party take off. It had been a little stuffy up until now. She felt like hugging Helene. In fact, she did hug her. Helene was too flustered to realize that it wasn’t sympathy but gratitude.
“Balls,” said Des. “The guy’s got balls.”
“Either that or he’s more of a jerk than we thought,” said Allison.
Rosey and Sadie were standing apart.
“Poor Helene,” whispered Sadie. “Even if it isn’t true, it must be horrible for her. I don’t see how she manages that brave face.”
“Stupid,” said Rosey out of the corner of his mouth. “The man is stupid to have allowed himself to get involved in something like this. And recklessly irresponsible, not only to himself but to his party.”
Lorraine Hadley was approaching both couples. “And I thought we would have to be contented with Addison Marbury and Harry Saks and their boring little feud this evening. I feel a little tingle up and down my spine. Oh, my dears, and here they come. They’ve spotted us as an appropriate sanctuary. I can’t imagine why.”
Lorraine opened her arms to Bud and Helene as they headed their way, looking for a harbor.
“Helene darling,” said Lorraine. “I want to congratulate you on that marvelous piece in Fashion. It was a triumph. And here we have your two stars. Don’t you both agree?”
“It’s lovely,” said Sadie quickly. “I only got my copy today. I lied about doing my exercises every day, of course.” And she laughed.
“Sadie,” said Helene, “you mean you don’t really jog on that trampoline each morning? We have misrepresented the Vice President’s wife to our readers?”
“I lied about everything. I am a lazy slob. It’s all I can do to do Miss Craig’s facial exercises each day without collapsing from exhaustion.”
The men laughed, and Allison was annoyed. She waited until Sadie wasn’t listening before she said quietly to Helene, “It was my understanding that the piece was
to be about Washington’s working women.”
“But Allison, it is. Certainly no one could deny that the wife of the Vice President is a working woman.”
Helene knew she was on dangerous ground, taking on Allison, especially when she was not exactly dealing from strength.
But Corwin caught the tension in his wife’s and Allison’s voices.
“So,” he said loudly, turning to the Vice President, “how did the trip go? From what I read, it was a great success. You seem to have captivated the press. Even Ms. Sterling. I’d like to know how you managed that fancy trick.”
There was a small awkward silence.
“It’s not so hard,” Allison remarked. “All you have to do is flatter the reporters, give them exclusive interviews, let them ride in the front of the plane, and serve them drinks. Good stories will naturally follow.”
“I suspect,” said Sadie, “that being a woman is often to one’s advantage, especially when dealing with Southern gentlemen.”
“Of course,” Allison continued, “nobody should ever trust a reporter. Just when you think you’ve got them charmed, they strike.”
Just in time, Edwina swooped over to the group and linked her arm with Rosey’s. “Come, dear boy,” she said, then turned to Sadie.
“Rodney is in seventh heaven at the idea of having you for a dinner partner. I’ve had to restrain him all during cocktails from talking to you. And Rodney is usually such a stickler about things like that. A seating chart at the door is a fundamental of civilized behavior as far as he is concerned.”
She guided Sadie to Rodney and whisked Rosey away, not without a flirtatious glance at Desmond.
Des took Allison’s arm and led her toward the dining room. “That was a little heavy,” he said. “What were you trying to prove?”
“What do you mean, what am I trying to prove?”
They were whispering in hisses.
Rosey managed to extricate himself from Edwina’s grasp long enough to lean over to Sadie. “Don’t you think you overdid it a little?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Ah, my dear Mrs. Grey,” said Rodney, taking Sadie by the arm. “It is my greatest pleasure to have you sit next to me at dinner.”
The dining room was dimly lit, with one long table where the forty or so guests were to be seated. There were footmen behind the pink leather chairs to help the ladies, and the heavy silver and crystal and china glistened in the candlelight.
Allison’s heart sank when she saw that she was seated between two men she had never heard of. Sadie, of course, was on the Ambassador’s right, and on her right was Allison’s dinner partner. Allison was not in the mood for competition. She was tired and wanted to sit back and have a gossipy conversation with somebody she knew. Now she would have to draw these men out, whoever they were.
On her left was a British book publisher, Lord Bumbry, who was traveling with the guest of honor and on her right a New York investment banker. The banker had turned to her at the beginning of dinner and asked what her husband did.
“I’m not married.”
“Oh,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s quite all right,” said Allison, smiling. “I’m sure my life will take a turn for the better.”
“Yes,” he replied.
“And what does your wife do?”
“What do you mean?”
“What does your wife do?”
“Oh, well, we have three children. And she’s taking art courses. And, of course, she does a great deal of charity, and, well, she has her hands full.”
Allison was sympathetic.
“I’m sure she’s a very worthwhile person.”
She settled back to have a boring conversation with him, dribbling out bit by bit what she did until he finally realized who she was and was embarrassed. It gave her only marginal satisfaction.
The publisher was worse. She asked him endless questions about his publishing house, what books he was putting out this season, what his opinion was of the New York publishing world and of some literary agents they both knew. He answered perfunctorily. He never bothered to look at her place card.
Sadie looked bored too. Rodney was not the most scintillating of dinner partners, and they had barely sat down before he had his hand on her knee. They wouldn’t believe this back in Savannah, or in Richmond either. The British Ambassador was feeling up the wife of the Vice President under the table at a black-tie embassy dinner. She decided to let old Rodney have his fun. He was obviously getting such pleasure out of his little debauchery, and if this was his answer to Edwina’s sleeping around, it was harmless enough. The one nice thing about Rodney was that he was so easy to entertain. Sadie was free to turn her attention to Lord Bumbry, since Rodney was perfectly content. She could see Allison was having a rather tough go, working overtime. Lorraine had known Lord Bumbry well when she lived in London and tipped Sadie that he loved a good gossip. She decided that the way to get his attention and charm him was to be slightly titillating. Allison was pumping him about the publishing world with little success.
Bumbry beat her to it.
“Well,” he said, as the table finally turned. “You Americans can finally hold your heads up to us at last.”
“Why do you say that?”
He was looking at her with considerably more interest than he had at Allison. She was the wife of the Vice President, and since he was not that high-ranking he was flattered to be seated next to her. He suspected, correctly, that Rodney was planning to write his memoirs when he retired from the Foreign Service.
“At last you have a potential scandal right here in your capital that may equal even the best of ours.”
“Really?” she said, raising her eyebrows.
He leaned a little closer.
“My dear lady, I have been on the telephone with Lorraine Hadley all day. One never comes to Washington without checking in with Lorraine. She has filled me in on this deliciousness about your good Senator Corwin.”
Sadie tried to participate just enough so as not to seem stuffy yet not to want to be indiscreet. She was amused to notice that Allison hadn’t missed the fact that Lord Bumbry was enjoying himself immensely. When he finished with the Corwins, they moved onto the safer ground of wonderful British scandals.
Shortly after the guests had retired to the salon for brandy, Lord Bumbry made his way over to Allison, a stricken look on his face, flustered. “My dear girl,” he said. “You’re Allison Sterling. The Allison Sterling, the famous American journalist and White House correspondent.” He didn’t add that she was the President’s goddaughter, but it was written on his face. “My dear, I’ve been thinking of asking you to write a book about Washington and I didn’t even know who you were. Now sit right down here and let’s talk about it.”
“It’s too late,” she said, and walked away.
She found Des listening restlessly to Lorraine and Archie Hadley discussing, inevitably, the Corwins. Everyone who was not actually talking to the Corwins was talking about them.
Archie had a deeply somber look as he listened to Lorraine.
Finally, when she stopped speaking, he sighed and, with total sincerity, made his pronouncement.
“Well,” he said, “there’s only one thing to do.”
“What’s that, Arch?” asked Des, knowing how he detested being called Arch.
“We must all have them to dinner.”
* * *
Her father had always said that he and Allison’s mother, Kate, had the perfect relationship, although Nana had intimated that Kate had too many career ambitions for her own good. Nana blamed Kate’s death, when Allison was two years old, on her ambition. “She certainly never should have gone off on that trip to France when you were so little,” Nana would say with nothing but reproach in her voice. “But then, I probably shouldn’t say anything.”
Even though she had never really known her mother, there were times, like now, when Allison longed for
her, missed her almost as much as she missed Sam. She needed a woman to talk to, somebody she could trust, somebody who would understand the feelings she had about Des, the conflicts about the relationship.
This was a real problem between them. Des never wanted to talk about anything that involved the two of them.
The relationship.
It had taken on a huge meaning in their lives. It had acquired all capital letters.
THE RELATIONSHIP.
Before Des her career had come first, second, and third. There was never any room for a serious relationship. She had had affairs, but nothing that would get in her way, tie her down, nothing that demanded any kind of commitment or that would take her away from her work. She had to work on a weekend? Fine. The Saturday-night date got cancelled. Last-minute out-of-town trip? The weekend in New York would have to wait. Late nights to meet a deadline? The dinners would be called off. Now she was surprised, amazed to find herself rearranging her work schedule to be with Des. She found herself begging off good assignments, making excuses for not being able to work late, resenting the trips she’d used to fight for.
* * *
It was Friday morning. They lay in bed listening to a quartet, holding hands. They had just made love. Allison was feeling wonderful.
“Do you ever think about us?” she asked.
“Never. I’m here. It would be a waste of time to think about it.”
“Ever? I mean, what if we were having a terrible fight?”
“Then I might think about it from time to time during the day.”
“About how much time do you figure you’d give to it?”
“Half an hour altogether during the day, usually a couple of minutes at a time. But it isn’t productive. It only makes me depressed. As you know, I don’t like to be depressed. So how about you?”
“Oh, about the same,” she lied. “Maybe a little more. It’s just that I like to talk things out more than you do.”
“But what good does it do? You ask me to tell you how I feel. Then I tell you and you get upset. You don’t want to know how I feel. You only want to tell me how you feel.”
