Regrets Only

by Sally Quinn

  “And first?”

  “And first.”

  * * *

  Allison practically ran back to The Daily and found Walt Fineman in his office going over her piece.

  “I thought that had moved,” she said suspiciously.

  “There were a few cuts I thought it needed. You do have a habit of writing long, Sonny,” he said.

  “Goddammit, Walt, that story has been on your desk since Thursday. I was in here yesterday making fixes, and this morning. It’s not fair to wait until I leave and then hack it up.”

  “I just thought you gushed a little over Grey. I took out some of the compliments. I think you’ll be happier with it. You can see for yourself. Besides, I didn’t get here until this afternoon. I tried to reach you at home.”

  She read over his cuts and had to admit he was right. She muttered something about “Okay, that’s fine.”

  “What did bring you back here, anyway?” he asked. “Reporter’s instinct that your copy was being butchered?”

  “I think the President is about to fire Hooker. He’s pushed him up against the wall with the Russians. He’ll know tomorrow. I think I can get the story.”

  “Jesus Christ. We just had a story conference. O’Hara has been over at State all day and he said there was something funny going on but he couldn’t get it confirmed. They were all running around there like chickens with their heads cut off. He said it had something to do with the dissidents but there was more to it. He couldn’t really get a story out of them, but then neither could anybody else. He’s been working on it for days. We just watched the network news and they didn’t have any mention. No, wait—let’s go in to Warburg with this one. He’s already intrigued. He sent O’Hara off to try to find out more.”

  Allison told them what she knew, emphasizing that it was off the record. Warburg told her to sit down at her machine and type out a memo in story form that they could have ready to go. It was only halfway through that she remembered to call Des. She tried him at home. No answer. She called The Weekly. He was still there.

  “I’ve been trying to find you all afternoon,” he said. “Where the hell were you?”

  She almost told him. “Oh, I went out shopping, then stopped back by the office to make sure they didn’t butcher my story. Caught them just in time.” She thought she sounded a little bit too casual.

  “Listen, sweetheart, we’re working on a big story here. I’ll tell you about it over dinner… on the condition it’s embargoed until Monday. Why don’t we meet at Germaine’s at nine thirty? Can you find something to do until then?”

  “Yeah, I’ll make Walt take me out for a drink. I think he wants to talk about his love life.”

  “That fucker. I know what he wants to talk to you about. You want to pick me up in front of the building at nine thirty? I’m pretty sure I’ll be finished. I may have to go back after dinner.”

  “Okay. See you then.”

  * * *

  Des was flying as they drove into Georgetown.

  “So what’s the story? I have a feeling I don’t want to hear it.”

  “You don’t. You’ll eat your heart out. But your curiosity will get the better of you and you’ll beg me to tell you, which I will after you’ve promised not to tell your desk until we’ve got it in print. But I don’t want to talk about it until I’ve had an Irish and a couple of spring rolls.”

  They got a table next to the palm tree in the front room at Germaine’s. The place was packed with journalists and politicians.

  Des was on a high, and not from booze. “It’s that postcoital feeling you get when you’ve finished writing a good piece on deadline.” He held her hand. “You know I really love you, babe,” he said. He seemed always to tell her this when he was pleased with himself. He was so up on his story that he “loved” her. It was the opposite with her. She loved him most when he was doing well and she was doing poorly. She felt most insecure then, most needy.

  “You know, baby,” he said, “I really do think that having both of us in the same profession is the best thing that could happen to a relationship. I didn’t think so at first. I thought it might just mean constant conflicts and misunderstandings. But the best part of it is that we understand each other. Like tonight. Well, this whole week, really, where we’ve both been working odd hours and both understand. Christ, it really works. I never would have believed it.”

  “All right, tell,” said Allison. “I’ll kick myself for knowing, but I can’t stand it. I won’t talk to Walt until Monday morning unless we have the story ourselves.”

  “If you had it, baby, you wouldn’t be sitting here as calmly as you are now, believe me. The story is that John T. and Henry Peterson have finally had a showdown. Hooker gave the Russians some kind of ultimatum in Vienna last week about releasing some of the dissidents and Peterson went up the fucking wall, said John T. was provoking the Russians and endangering the arms-control talks. He was taking a much tougher stand with them than Kimball has or than Peterson has. Peterson was also annoyed because John T. is so flamboyant and has got such a high profile compared to Peterson’s zero profile. I guess old Henry was upset that John T. would use the press to get leverage.”

  Allison felt a little sick. How the hell had Des gotten this story? Of course, he was 100 percent accurate. But Uncle Roger had told her that afternoon that nobody knew anything. And she had promised the President she wouldn’t use the story until he decided whether to fire John T., which he probably would do over the weekend. And now she had just promised Des she wouldn’t use the story either. What the hell was she going to do? If she was going to go with the story, she would have to tell Des now. She couldn’t very well listen to his story, say nothing, and then come out with it Monday morning and say she had known it all along. She felt depressed. She couldn’t bear the idea of his becoming angry. She really loved him so. And now, of all times, it seemed as if he loved her as much.

  On the other hand, if she told him she knew, he would be upset with her for not telling him, for lying to him earlier that afternoon. She would also be confirming his story, and he would go with it much harder. She decided to listen, to wait until he had finished. But when the waiter brought dinner, she found that she didn’t have much of an appetite. Des, on the other hand, wolfed down his food as he talked. She hadn’t seen him this turned on by a story in a long time. He always seemed so much turned on by her when he was turned on by a story. Too bad it was this story.

  “So what was the upshot?” she asked, afraid of the answer.

  “The upshot is that Peterson has submitted his resignation unless the President fires John T. The President called Hooker over to the White House this morning. The President told him to revoke his ultimatum and John T. refused. Said it would be too humiliating for him, for the President and the country for him to back down now. He claimed he would have no bargaining position if he did that, that he would lose his credibility. So he stood his ground. The President insisted. John T. left, so I am told, in a huff. He said he would be forced to resign himself if the President didn’t back him up.”

  Allison was barely able to contain herself. Somebody very much involved had leveled with Des. But who? He had the whole scenario in detail. It had to be Hooker.

  “At any rate,” continued Des, “after John T. got back to the State Department the President called him on the phone and agreed to several concessions on the condition they remain secret. He also persuaded John T. to stay on the job. So Peterson is going to have to go.”

  This was the opposite of what the President had told her, and she had left him at six. Des’s source was John T., of course, or one of his close aides. Kimball was going to fire John T., and John T.’s people had picked a “stooge,” as Aunt Molly had predicted they would, to get the story out, to forestall the President. Dangerous, but clever if it worked.

  Now she was in a jam. Des was being made the dupe. If The Weekly went with Hooker’s version he would look like a fool when the truth came out Monday
morning, especially if the truth came out in her paper.

  Des ordered another Irish and drank it down. What would he do if he were in her position? Would he let her humiliate herself? In the end, she couldn’t keep on thinking that way. She had to choose. She had to warn him.

  “Des,” she said, “I don’t think that is true. I have reason to believe that if anybody goes it will be Hooker. I don’t think the President is going to let Henry Peterson go.”

  The grin disappeared and the blood drained. She knew that he knew right away that she knew. His voice became hard.

  “How much do you know?”

  “How hard are you going with this story?”

  “Pretty hard. We’re saying that John T. has won a major battle and the President is keeping him on and letting Peterson go.”

  “Don’t go with it, Des.”

  “What the fuck are you trying to tell me, Allison? You sit here like a fucking Buddha all the way through dinner listening to me and now you smugly tell me not to go with the story after we’ve just remade the entire fucking magazine at the last minute to the tune of God knows how much money. This is too important to play games about, Allison. What has your Uncle Roger told you?”

  She resented it, but she had to stay calm. She couldn’t allow herself to be annoyed with him. She was too confused herself.

  “Look, I’ve already told you more than I should against my own interests. I can’t tell you any more than that,” she said. “I have made a promise, and I also have my own paper to consider. All I can tell you is that I wouldn’t go with it that hard.”

  “That hard or at all?”

  He stared at her for a few minutes. She had never felt such contempt from anyone in her life, such anger.

  “Des, what would you do if you were me?”

  “I wouldn’t be in your situation to begin with. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I better get to a phone.”

  After a long time he returned to the table. His voice was icy, his words measured when he spoke.

  “I have just talked to my source. He has confirmed everything he told me this afternoon. There is no doubt in my mind that he is telling me the truth—as far as he knows it, anyway. He says John T. is his source. He is very close to John T. and is with him right now. If you know differently for a fact, then I need to know your source, exactly what your source told you, and when you learned it. And I need to know now. Don’t fuck with me on this one, Allison. There’s too much at stake here. We’re going to have to tear up the bloody magazine, and it’s close to midnight.”

  If she told him, she would be betraying the President. She would be breaking her word to the President and she would be scooping herself. She had already gone further than she thought he would have. He wouldn’t do even that for her. She was sure of it.

  “I can’t tell you any more. If you have doubts, you should just kill the whole story.”

  “You know perfectly goddamn well there is some truth to it. I’m not going to kill it. We can’t do it anyway. It’s too late. I think you’re just trying to protect your own ass here. It’s not a very noble position.”

  He sat silently for a moment. “You’re going with it Monday, aren’t you?” She nodded. He jumped to his feet and went back to the phone.

  In a call to New York he changed a few lines to protect himself. “Though there are conflicting reports, sources close to the Secretary of State report that…” At least now he was laying it at Hooker’s feet, so that he wouldn’t look like a total jerk if it wasn’t true. He could believe John T. would make up the story, but not his second State Department source. It was too dangerous a game. And he didn’t believe John T. would mess with him like that. He could do too much damage to Hooker if the Secretary of State was playing with him. He decided that Allison knew something, or some version of it. He didn’t exactly feel secure about the whole situation, though. And he really felt like slapping her across the face, she seemed so smug about her own little story when he was facing a problem of crisis proportions.

  When he returned to the table he paid the check without a word and they left immediately, not speaking all the way home. They went to bed in silence. The next morning she got up to go into the office early, unable to deal with his anger and resentment. He went off to the Weekly office to try to make some sense of what was going on before the magazine finally closed early in the afternoon.

  Allison could not get the President on the phone for most of the afternoon. It was early evening before he called and confirmed that he had fired John T. Hooker that afternoon. He ordered her to hold the story from the first edition, otherwise it would make the evening news broadcasts. The White House would announce it the next morning. She would be allowed to insert it into the final edition.

  When she finally got home, Des was in the study watching television. She crept up the stairs without speaking to him and got into bed, turning off the light. It was only when he thought she was asleep that he came to bed. Neither spoke. About six o’clock the next morning, having slept not one wink, she got up while he was still asleep, got dressed, and walked the streets of Georgetown for several hours before going to the office. She didn’t want to be around when he got the call from New York about her story and heard the announcement from the White House. By this time she was half-terrified and half-angry. She knew perfectly well he would have done the same thing if he were in her position. She also knew that he expected her to behave differently because she was a woman. It made her furious.

  She became more and more upset as the realization grew that she had not really helped him. She began to feel even sicker, and yet she had her work, her career. Nobody could take that away from her. She wasn’t going to give it away. Somehow, though, it just didn’t seem right. If their relationship survived this, which she now doubted, it could never be the same for either of them.

  When she got to the office, about ten thirty, all hell was breaking loose. The White House had made the announcement after the final edition of The Daily had preempted it. The Weekly was out with a different version, and the White House press corps was in a state of confusion. The press secretary had had to deny The Weekly’s story and confirm The Daily’s story. Though Allison’s byline was not on the story—the decision had been made to let the regular White House guy have it—everybody in the office knew where it had come from.

  Walt and Allen Warburg were elated. And Allen was particularly gleeful about The Weekly. He had never liked Shaw. He felt Allison’s uneasiness, but he couldn’t resist rubbing it in a little.

  “I’m not sure I’d like to be around for the pillow talk tonight,” he said. “But I congratulate you, Allison. You are a journalist first and a ‘friend’ second.”

  Allison barely got out of Warburg’s office before tears welled in her eyes. Walt saw what was happening and steered her into his office, where he placed her with her back to the glass wall and closed the door.

  “Tough, huh?”

  She couldn’t speak; she was trying hard to contain the tears.

  “I know. I can only imagine what you must have gone through. You know he’s called several times already, before you got in.”

  She couldn’t speak; she only nodded her head.

  “Guts, kid,” said Walt. “You got guts. What will he do?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered.

  “Go call him.”

  She hesitated.

  “You might as well get it over with. You’re going to have to sometime. I’m here if you need me.”

  He came on the phone right away. “Congratulations on The Daily’s big story,” he said pleasantly.

  “Des,” she began.

  “I really called to ask you for dinner tonight. This calls for a celebration.”

  “Des…” she began again. But she was puzzled. She could detect no hostility, resentment, anger—nothing.

  “Where would you like to go? How about Tiberio’s?” It was one of her favorite places.

  She wanted to say so much,
but he seemed in a hurry. “I’ll pick you up at eight,” he said. “See you later, sweetheart.”

  She couldn’t work for the rest of the day. Walt had told her to try to get the President on the phone to follow up, but he had not answered her calls. She hoped he wasn’t angry. For some reason she worried that he hadn’t quite realized that her story would be out before the White House made its announcement, even though he had agreed to let her use it in the final. Other papers and the wires were calling the paper, and some even asked to speak to her to find out if she had been the source of the story. She refused to talk to anyone and finally had to stop answering her phone. It was not her favorite day, yet she was not relieved when the day was over and it was time to leave. She wished she didn’t have to go through with dinner. She had a ghastly feeling.

  Des had obviously gone home and shaved and changed. He looked very handsome.

  She hadn’t changed, but she had gone to the ladies’ room and redone her makeup from a little case she kept in her desk for emergencies, brushed her teeth, and reset her hair with her electric curlers. She looked okay, though she hadn’t slept and had been up and out since six in the morning. By chance she had worn his favorite peach silk blouse and a pale gray suit with pearls.

  “You look beautiful as ever,” he said to her as she got into the car, but his kiss was perfunctory.

  As they drove to Tiberio’s, Des asked politely about the reaction to The Daily’s story—what kind of feedback they had had, whether or not she had gotten any follow-up, how Warburg and Fineman were dealing with it. It was all over the networks, he said. He didn’t understand why she hadn’t allowed them to use her byline when everybody in town knew it was her story. She tried to detect a note of sarcasm in his voice, but it wasn’t there.

  At Tiberio’s he was attentive, complimentary. Allison couldn’t quite figure out what was wrong; nothing he said quite rang true. Then, as he poured her a glass of wine from the bottle in the cooler, she realized what it was. He was treating her as though she were a first date, someone he didn’t know. The compliments, the attentiveness were uncharacteristic. They had often joked about how he would go through a door first and let it slam in her face and he would tell her it was a compliment. If he really didn’t think she was equal, he would treat her with much more care. Tonight he was treating her like a doll.