Regrets Only

by Sally Quinn

  “Not at this one, Tilda,” said Sadie. “This is my baby. We can start working those others in for the next ones. But I want this party to be just right. I’m not going to have some tobacco-chewing slob from Oklahoma just because somebody on my husband’s staff owes him a favor. Is that clear? I want you to be tough about this.”

  Sadie hadn’t said so, but they knew she was talking about Everett Dubois.

  “Lorraine Hadley has to be invited. Also, I would like Desmond Shaw on the list. He has been enormously helpful to me. But I suppose he falls into the category of the press. Jenny, we’ll get to them in a minute. I have a feeling that will be the hardest part.”

  “The press, you’ll soon learn, is always the hardest part about everything,” Jenny said, smiling.

  “I think I already have.”

  “The main thing you have got to decide is how involved you want the press in the dinner. There are a number of ways to do this.”

  “The one thing I always hated at the Kimballs’ dinners was the way the press came in after dinner and just hung around bombarding the President and his guest of honor with questions,” said Sadie.

  “Believe me,” said Jenny, “the press hates it worse than you do.”

  “Well, what can we do about it?” asked Sadie.

  “Oh, God, I wish there were an easy answer,” said Jenny. “But you’ve got to keep the press behind ropes when the First Family and the guest of honor come down from the family quarters.

  “I do think we ought to let the print journalists into the East Room for the receiving line so they can talk to them then. It gives the reporters a head start on their stories, they can meet earlier deadlines, and they aren’t so desperate after dinner.”

  “Brilliant thinking, Jenny,” Sadie said. “Also, the guests will be more sober.”

  “Then you’ve got all those TV cameras, and they could decapitate any guest who made a wrong move. Most of them will leave after the photo opportunity. But it would be utter chaos without barriers. And we do let them in after dinner for the toasts, but still behind barriers. There’s no other way.”

  “What about during dinner?” asked Sadie.

  “I think you’ve got to do what our predecessors have already done. Invite several journalists as guests. I think we ought to try to fit more in. I’m not saying they can be bought, but for most of them it’s a big thrill and it just creates a good atmosphere. Some will accept an invitation and do a hatchet job to prove they haven’t been bought. There’s nothing you can do about them. Des, by the way,” said Jenny to Sadie, “falls into that category.”

  “I suppose that means that Allison Sterling does too,” said Sadie.

  “I suppose so. Though she’s a little shell-shocked at the moment. Breaking up with Des and then Kimball leaving. She’s not really her old self.”

  “Is she working on something particular at the moment?” asked Sadie, trying not to sound too interested.

  “As a matter of fact, she’s about to be reassigned to the White House. It was her editor’s idea. They felt it would be like falling off a horse. The quicker you get back on, the easier it would be to ride again. Sonny wasn’t too crazy about the idea at first. But she was the best White House correspondent The Daily ever had. Now she can go back to covering without any conflict.”

  “That’s what worries me,” said Sadie.

  “Why should that worry you?”

  “I don’t think she likes me very much.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Look at that great piece she did on your husband when he was Vice President.”

  “I’m not talking about Rosey. I’m talking about me.”

  “She’s never given me any reason to think so,” said Jenny. “And I’m her closest friend.”

  “Won’t she try to pump you?” asked Tilda, her voice darkening with suspicion.

  “She’s a professional and she knows I’m one too,” said Jenny. “She would certainly ask me questions relating to any story she was trying to do, but she would never pry for personal details. She would work the rest of the staff before she would come to me on that. She would never compromise me.”

  “You reporters have such odd rules,” said Tilda. “It’s all so arcane and tribal. I just don’t understand it and I wonder if I ever will.”

  “It’s really very simple,” said Jenny. “There’s only one thing to understand. A reporter is always a reporter first. That’s it. That’s all you have to know.”

  “Ugh,” said Tilda, shrugging. “I just don’t know how people can live that way. How could you ever trust your friends?”

  “You just trust them a different way,” said Jenny. “You trust them to be as good a professional as they are a good friend. You trust them to do what they have to do. You trust them to be honest and straight. You don’t trust them to lie or cover up for you. If you’re in public life you don’t trust them to protect you. You trust them to protect the First Amendment.”

  “Journalists must live in a state of conflict, then?” asked Sadie, who had been silent for a while.

  “Of course,” said Jenny, looking surprised to hear something so obvious said aloud.

  There was another silence.

  Tilda excused herself for a moment to confer with the calligraphers. Sadie wondered if Jenny would mention Des or Allison in the context of trust. She had never forgotten her conversation with Des on the subject. She knew she couldn’t ask directly about Allison.

  “Tell me,” Sadie said finally, “what was it like being a woman on the national staff at The Daily? Did you feel that you had to work harder than the men?”

  “What brought that up?” Jenny laughed.

  “Well, I’m just curious about what it must have been like for a woman on a big-city paper. Did you have to fight for stories? Was there more competition between the women than between you and the men?”

  Sadie thought she had slipped that in neatly.

  “I guess I just took it for granted and I didn’t think about it that much. We all fought for stories, but I don’t think I had to fight harder than the others. There were only four women, and two were older and had been around for a long time. The only other woman was Allison. I didn’t have any problems with Allison. She’s a good friend. Allison had problems. Some of the men were jealous of her, and a few editors gave her a hard time.”

  “I don’t really know her very well,” said Sadie. “There was that birthday party…”

  “I remember,” said Jenny.

  “Of course, she’s an attractive woman,” said Sadie after a pause. “It probably didn’t help that she was the President’s goddaughter.”

  “No. This has been a difficult time for Allison.”

  Jenny was making it easy. They were both playing.

  “That’s right. I heard that when she and Des Shaw broke up—wasn’t it over a story or something?”

  Jenny looked at her quizzically. “Well,” she said after some hesitation, “it was a little more complicated than that. Allison didn’t have any choice, really.”

  Obviously Jenny thought she knew more about the whole business than she did.

  “I don’t know, though,” said Sadie. “I think it would be awfully hard to do what she did, considering the risks. I mean, I wonder if she thinks now that it was worth it.”

  Jenny was still trying to figure out where Sadie was going.

  “I was brought up to believe that a woman’s role is to support her man, to stand by him,” said Sadie. “One’s perspective must be very different in your profession.”

  “Honestly, I don’t know whether I would have had the courage to do what Allison did either,” said Jenny, drawn in by the discussion. “Most of the women I know, professional women, admired Allison tremendously, but I don’t think many of them would have done it. The problem was that it was so public. I mean Des was publicly humiliated. Allison insists that if things had been the other way around Des would have done it to her, and I know in my heart that she’s right, but still…
a good man is hard to find. And don’t I know it.”

  “Do you—do you think these things are irrevocable?” asked Sadie.

  “I think it’s over. I don’t think that he will get over being shown up in front of his colleagues that way. Desmond Shaw is a male chauvinist pig. Just because he was living with one of the superwomen of Washington doesn’t mean a thing. Allison put up with a lot. Nobody knows. In fact, nobody really knows Allison except for Des and me and a very few other people.”

  Tilda reappeared and put an end to their conversation.

  “So what would you like to do about Allison Sterling at this party?” asked Tilda, picking up her pad and resuming the guest list.

  “I would like not to invite her.”

  “Fine.”

  She didn’t look at Jenny.

  “What about serving the covering press some champagne and hors d’oeuvres during the dinner so they will be in a jollier mood?” asked Sadie.

  “It’s six of one, half a dozen of the other,” said Jenny. “It really doesn’t matter. What you have to understand is that many of the people who cover the distaff side of the White House are old hacks who couldn’t write their way out of a paper bag. They depend on the largess of the White House staff for little tidbits so they can keep their little columns. Serving them champagne and food is not going to make them write any more favorably than they do. The winners, the good reporters, probably wouldn’t drink anyway while they’re working, and they might feel we were trying to buy them off.”

  “So, should we do it or not?”

  “Sure—why not?”

  “Okay,” said Sadie, laughing, “so how do we handle the mob scene after dinner when the reporters are let in?”

  “As long as one reporter is near the President or head of state, every other reporter will be there too so they won’t miss something or get beaten out,” said Jenny. “What I would like to do, immediately after dinner, before the entertainment, is to take the President and guest of honor into the Red Room and tell the reporters they can talk to them for a few minutes. Then after that they leave them alone.”

  “Sounds good to me,” said Sadie. “Let’s try it.”

  “Now all I have to worry about is what to wear and what to do with my damn hair,” said Sadie. “I have discovered the single most important question and problem that any First Lady must deal with. It’s the greatest potential crisis, the make-or-break issue of the East Wing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Hair,” said Sadie.

  * * *

  Sadie hadn’t been this nervous since the day she was married. Nor would she ever be more on display than she would be this evening. Her palms were sweating. Not just perspiring. They were dripping. She clenched another Kleenex to blot them. How in God’s name would she ever be able to shake anybody’s hand? What if it got into the gossip columns? The First Lady has sweaty palms. Oh, God. Surely there must be something more high-minded to think about than sweaty palms on the night of her first White House party. Perhaps she was focusing on her sweaty palms because it was something concrete to worry about instead of worrying about the unknown disaster that was waiting out there to happen.

  She had spent the afternoon tasting food in the kitchen, downstairs in the basement. Chef Stengel had outdone himself with a beautiful cool pastel meal. She had walked over to the White House florist’s, just through the basement hallway, and worked hard with Willy on the table arrangements. She had inspected the tables, the china, the tent out on the lawn—everything.

  Her dress had been brought down from New York by her own designer and fitted the day before. It was one of the prettiest dresses she had ever seen. It was very pale green chiffon, slim, with a single sleeveless shoulder, the chiffon draped down almost to her elbow, the other arm and shoulder bare. She wore no jewelry except for tiny pearl drop earrings and a pearl-and-diamond bracelet that had belonged to Rosey’s grandmother.

  Her hair had been given a softer-than-usual set, and she was letting it grow. Ivan had agreed that she would look better with her hair a little longer, framing her face. She had never believed she would be spending so much time with her hairdresser. She and Ivan had always been friendly, but now she might as well be sleeping with him. Her entire schedule and her entire life revolved around her goddamned head. At least Ivan was married with two children, was discreet, sweet, and unbitchy. That made it easier, particularly for the publicity she knew was to come.

  Sadie was a little nervous about having invited Desmond Shaw. He was really not a crucial name on the press list. He had never done much for Rosey. But even though she had had almost no contact with him since their encounter, she sensed that he was a friend, a silent ally, and she thought his presence would make her feel more secure. That was what she allowed herself to think when she invited him. Everett and the press secretary had sent over a list of press they thought ought to be invited and his name had not been on it. As Everett explained it, they wanted to “pay off some of the boys who have kissed a little ass” and to ensure that they would continue. Sadie had added Shaw’s name, trying to be casual. After all, the Weekly Bureau Chief was not a bad friend to make. Nobody really gave her a hard time, and Tilda was delighted because she needed an extra man. Jenny hadn’t said a word. She had just looked at Sadie when Sadie suggested it.

  Allison Sterling’s name was on the list because Rosey had put it there. She had been through so much. They had ridden to the White House together when Roger Kimball collapsed. She had done a fine story on him. She was a nice person. She had just been reassigned to the White House. He had a lot of convincing arguments. Sadie was at a loss. She knew one thing. She would be damned if Sterling was going to be a guest. There was no way. She would have to think of something. She did.

  She had countered that it would be bad for Allison to come for all the same reasons Rosey had listed. Her problem had been that she was seen as too close to the White House. If she was invited she couldn’t very well refuse gracefully. It would be doing her a favor to let her come as a reporter to cover it if she wanted, to be a professional at the White House again, something she hadn’t been for two years. Rosey bought it. Again, Jenny had just looked at her as she got her way.

  Ivan was finishing her hair and exclaiming about how beautiful she looked. She told him to knock off the compliments, that she didn’t even have her makeup on yet. He laughed. He had sneaked in his makeup lady from the salon, someone Sadie had used for a few formal occasions before and who knew how to do a good, subtle job, something she was incapable of doing herself. She hoped the press wouldn’t find out. Jenny had said they would have to admit it if anybody asked, but so far nobody had.

  When she had finished, she pulled her robe tightly around her and slipped back across the hall, through the family sitting area in the long hall, to their bedroom. She winced once more at the red-and-yellow flowered print the Kimballs had left. She was going to have to redecorate everything, and the awful part was that Molly had done some things and Molly’s predecessor had left the place horribly over-decorated. They would have to use Rosey’s money again, too. Raising money from private friends just caused too much trouble. As soon as the summer was over she was determined to do it.

  When she got back to the bedroom, Rosey was standing in front of the full-length mirror tying his bow tie. He turned to her and smiled.

  “You’d better hurry, sugar; the Da Silveras will be here in a half-hour.”

  “Oh, are they coming tonight? I forgot,” she drawled. “Shall I open a can of chili or should we go out?”

  Rosey looked a little surprised for a moment as they both contemplated how impossible either of those suggestions was anymore in their lives.

  Suddenly all the excitement and optimism she had begun to feel in the days leading up to the party vanished. She tried to hold the tears back from the mascara, but her eyes welled over and she stood in the middle of the room and watched the birds on the Chinese wallpaper blur into one. She kept waking up
in the middle of the night imagining she was in one of those Alfred Hitchcock movies. That would have to go too. Oh, God, what the hell was she thinking about wallpaper for? She was desperate, that’s what. She could focus on wallpaper. She could not allow herself to focus on several hundred guests, members of the press, the Marine Band, and millions of people all over the world just waiting for her to fall on her face. That she could not deal with. That’s what she thought of when she didn’t concentrate on her sweaty palms or her wallpaper.

  Rosey stood staring at her as he watched the black streaks run down her cheeks. He looked stricken. Sadie watched his expression go from exasperation to anger to fear to sympathy. Finally he walked over to her. He took her by the shoulders and pressed her close to him. He didn’t say anything for the longest time. Sadie knew he didn’t know what to say and was afraid of saying the wrong thing.

  “Help me, Rosey,” she said. “You’ve got to help me. I can’t do it by myself. I’ve never been so terrified in my life. I need you. I can’t do it without you.”

  “I, uh, you’ll be terrific, darlin’,” he said. “I don’t know what you have to worry about. You’re beautiful, you’re gracious and charming, you’re intelligent. I’ve seen the tables and the tent. It all looks just perfect. I’ve never seen it look prettier. You’re a wonderful hostess. What could you possibly be afraid of?”

  “Rosey, aren’t you afraid? Ever? I mean haven’t you been frightened? Tell me, please. Make me believe I’m not just a hopeless mess.”

  She heard his voice speaking very softly and very carefully. He led her over to their king-size bed and sat her down with his arm around her. She decided that he was speaking to her the way a policeman would talk to a nut who was about to jump off a building or a crazy person who had just taken twenty hostages.

  “Of course I feel self-doubt too,” he said slowly. “Everybody does. I’ve been more scared these last few months than you’ll ever know. Afraid I wouldn’t be up to the job, that I wouldn’t be able to handle it, that I would let the American people down. That I would let you down.”