Regrets Only

by Sally Quinn

  Wells Harmon, a tall, well-groomed man with a slightly weak chin, approached Sadie and bowed. “Madame,” said the Secretary of State, “may I have the pleasure?”

  “Let’s make sure they don’t play a tango,” said Sadie. “I really don’t need to make a fool of myself. I can’t imagine that I approved this music when this is the one kind of music I cannot dance to.”

  “Sugar, I think we are about to start the entertainment,” said Rosey. “Perhaps afterwards, Wells,” he said.

  Up on the platform Rosey introduced the singer, who appeared to be an overly seductive Latin type if Sadie had ever seen one, but she had been assured by everyone on the White House staff that he sold more records around the world than any other living singer. He sang several ballads, directing most of his attention to Sadie as though he were making love to her in front of Washington, and all she could do was grit her teeth and smile.

  Mercifully, it was over sooner than she had expected and Rosey was again up on the stage, this time clutching her by the hand and telling the singer how terrific he was. Sadie smiled again, amazed that the guests seemed to approve of him.

  “Mrs. Grey,” said the singer, “this is the thrill of my life to greet you. I have only seen your pictures, but you are even more beautiful in life. Like a painting.”

  Rosey grinned and Sadie nodded.

  President Da Silvera was on his feet clapping and demanding encores. The singer obliged him with one more tune; then the band began to play songs for dancing.

  “Sadie,” said Tonio, leaning over to her, “it was such a pleasure the first time. If I may, would you honor me with another dance?”

  “Mr. President, nothing could delight me more,” said Sadie, “but I fear there are so many people here who want to have a chance to chat with you and so many other women who would like to dance with you that we may offend them if you don’t give them some time. Besides, if my husband doesn’t dance with me, we will read in the press tomorrow that our marriage is in trouble. You know how they are.

  “Of course, of course, you are absolutely right,” he said quickly. “They are terrible, the press.”

  “Yes, yes, Tonio,” chimed in Kiki, “the President must dance with his wife.”

  Did she know? God, how humiliating.

  “Don’t you think that was a little rude?” Rosey said on the dance floor. His voice was curt.

  “I did not want to get raped on the dance floor, for one thing,” she said, “and I don’t think you would have liked it much either.”

  “What?”

  “That man is a disgusting lecher. He was trying to feel me up in front of the entire world.”

  “Sadie, you’re exaggerating as usual.”

  “Well, Rosey darling, if you don’t believe me, then I will simply dance with him again and let you watch, not to mention read about it tomorrow. Shall we go back to the table and get him?”

  She started to pull his arm.

  “All right, all right, I believe you. It’s hard to, but I’ll take your word for it. What is going on with you and men tonight, anyway? They’re all over you like bees to honey. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Does it surprise you?”

  “Now, darlin’, you know I think you’re beautiful. It’s just that this sudden attention is unsettling.”

  “Would you rather no man paid attention to me?”

  “Do I have to make a choice?”

  “Suppose I said yes?”

  “Well, then, if I had to make a choice I suppose I would wish that men found you attractive.”

  She had not seen his hand tap Rosey’s shoulder, only Rosey’s startled expression. Before she could say anything she was in his arms. His voice was husky and unnervingly close.

  “Your wish is granted, Mr. President,” Shaw said.

  * * *

  It took her several seconds to catch her breath. “You’re not supposed to cut in on the President, you know.”

  “I had to do something bold to get your attention. You were obviously so taken with the Brazilian President. Don’t think I didn’t notice how close you two were dancing.”

  “Oh, God, was it that obvious? I thought I would die I was so embarrassed. But what could I do?”

  “To be honest, I can’t blame the poor son-of-a-bitch.”

  She blushed.

  “And now that you’re the First Lady, an admirer has no choice but to woo you in public.”

  “I can’t imagine that that will be a problem,” she said. She was embarrassed. She could feel that funny sensation she always had when she was losing control.

  “I’m afraid it already is.”

  “What do you mean?” Her voice caught in her throat. She clung to him more tightly than she wanted to, but she wasn’t sure her legs wouldn’t give way.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I don’t.” Why was her mouth so dry? She couldn’t even swallow. His face was becoming a blur. She could feel his thighs gently against hers as they danced. She wondered how she was able to move.

  “Are we just going to pretend it never happened?”

  “No, I… yes, we…”

  “I want to make love to you again, Sadie.”

  Somehow she would have to keep moving, have to stay on her feet, though she didn’t know how she would do that. She tried to speak, but nothing came out of her mouth, so she said nothing and just held on, counting on him to support her. She had the same feeling she usually had at the sight of blood—slightly faint, almost nauseated. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew she had to get hold of herself or someone would begin to notice that something strange was going on.

  “I’m going to request an interview with you for The Weekly. We’re going to do a cover story on you. I will be in charge of it. It will require several long interviews. I think the solarium would be a nice private place.…”

  She could vaguely hear him, as though they were talking long distance and had a bad connection.

  If only her heart would stop beating. It occurred to her that it was pointless to worry about what people would think. Nobody would think this. It was the safest place imaginable. As her mind was leaping from one thought to another she couldn’t help but be amused by the whole situation.

  “Will you agree to it?” she heard him ask.

  “What?” she said, focusing on him for the first time. But as she did so she went weak again.

  “The interview?” It was the way he said the word “interview” that had started her shaking.

  “I don’t know,” she said, and added quickly, before she had time to think, “I’ll have to ask Rosey.”

  “It’s time you started making your own decisions, Sara Adabelle McDougald Grey. Baby, it took guts for me to tell you…” His husky voice broke, “…that I wanted to make love to you again. I’ve already been rebuffed once. And I could never have done it if the whole fucking world weren’t staring at us. Don’t just leave me standing here.”

  “Sorry, old man, but I’m afraid that’s just what I plan to do,” said Wells Harmon in his silky Southern accent. He had clearly heard only the last sentence, Sadie noted with relief. “This lovely lady has been eluding me all night and I’m taking the liberty of rescuing her from you.”

  “Mr. Secretary,” said Des with a slight bow, and he released her so quickly she felt as though she would sink. Wells had her in his arms in a moment, and before Sadie could say a word, Des had backed away. As Des headed for a drink, the orchestra broke into a tango, and all her concentration was required not to collapse on the dance floor until the music mercifully came to an end and Wells escorted her back to her table and her husband, the President.

  Sadie tried to concentrate on her conversation with President Da Silvera, who had turned to her, his eyes gleaming. This was, he was saying, except for the brief unpleasantness with the reporter, the most enjoyable official dinner he had ever been to: good food, good music, interesting people, and of course, he had never had a more beau
tiful hostess.

  She smiled her polite smile. Thank God Mama had taught her how to do that. She could fake it in the midst of most national disasters if she had to.

  But she was on her own now. What if she fainted, which was exactly what she felt like doing? That wouldn’t solve anything. She would still be confronted with the problem. The problem? That was when she knew she was in trouble. She was dealing with this situation as though it were a problem. Why hadn’t she laughed in his face, told him off, rejected him on the spot? She had rebuffed him before and she wasn’t even First Lady then. That was what any normal, sane person in full possession of her faculties would have done.

  Da Silvera was telling a story to her and a Brazilian plastic surgeon who had flown up for the party. Normally Sadie would have been interested. She suspected the surgeon had had occasion to work on Kiki, perhaps several times. She did have a slight Oriental cast to her expression. She could see he was eying her. He seemed to be the only man in the room who was interested in her face.

  She could feel her head nodding as though she were listening. She was trying to digest what Des had said to her. Or rather, asked of her. She couldn’t believe that she was actually contemplating granting him a request for the “interview.” For one thing, she would have to convince Rosey that she should give an interview. She suspected he would rather, given a choice, have her go to bed with Des than talk to him on the record.

  Nothing made any sense to her. She was trying to think rationally when her gut told her she wanted to. She was in love with him. She had never admitted it to herself until now. She was in love with this man who was not her husband and now he wanted her. They could never get away with having a real affair: it was too dangerous; it would jeopardize her marriage, her husband’s job, and in some way the stability of the country. The idea of a President’s wife having an affair was preposterous.

  One of the uniformed White House aides was approaching their table. He came quickly over to her side of the small table and, it seemed to her, waited until the others were not looking at her before he quietly handed her a note beneath the table. She could feel her throat constrict before she even opened it. She brushed her hair back from her face and neck quickly. It was suddenly developing into one of those horrible hot Washington summer nights.

  She was perspiring now, and she hadn’t even noticed when the weather had turned. She unfolded the note. On a blank piece of paper was a single phrase: “Regrets Only.” The aide was standing by, waiting. She dismissed him with a smile, then looked back down at the note. When she looked up she met his gaze across the room. He was standing at the end of the tent, as though he were about to leave. She stared at him for the briefest moment; then, without hesitating any longer, she nodded.

  He smiled, turned away, and disappeared into the blackness of the White House lawn.

  Why did she feel as if she were about to self-immolate?

  * * *

  “Oh, God, did you see The Daily? And look at these other papers! They’re all fantastic. With these reviews we could enjoy a very long run,” said Tilda. “Oh, Christ, it’s just too wonderful. Don’t you think so, Jenny?”

  “It’s great,” said Jenny. “I never expected to get such raves. They’re unanimous. Even that fascist creep Da Silvera came through all right, miracle of miracles.”

  “Oh, I thought he was attractive,” said Tilda. “He was very debonair. And his wife was adorable.”

  Jenny backed off. This was not the time to pick a fight.

  “Well,” said Tilda, changing the subject, “if the President had any doubts about how well you would do, Sadie, he certainly had them laid to rest this morning. They all say you were glamorous, beautiful, and the White House hasn’t been this exciting in years.”

  They were sitting in the West Sitting Hall having coffee, tea, and sweet rolls.

  It was only 10 A.M., and Sadie had thrown on a summer cotton shift to join the other two women for breakfast. She was sitting on the sofa, staring out the large Palladian window at the Executive Office Building. She was only vaguely aware of the conversation.

  “I must say you certainly didn’t lack for gentleman admirers last night,” said Jenny, mocking Sadie in a lilting Southern accent.

  Sadie didn’t respond, but sat slowly sipping her tea.

  “Especially one Mr. Desmond Shaw,” said Tilda, one eyebrow raised in a slightly disapproving way. “I’m not sure we approved of cutting in on the President. He certainly had his nerve.”

  Sadie didn’t respond.

  “Sadie? Sadie? Are you with us? Come in, please; come in, please.” Jenny had raised her voice to get Sadie’s attention.

  “Huh?… Oh—what?”

  “We just wondered if you would care to join us,” said Tilda.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I guess I was just preoccupied. What were you saying?”

  “We were saying how awful the coverage was of the party last night and how they all did hatchet jobs on you.”

  Sadie chuckled absentmindedly. “Oh, is that what you were saying? I guess that means we’ll go to war with Brazil and Rosey will drop fifteen points in the polls.”

  The phone on the table next to Sadie rang and Jenny picked it up.

  “You’re kidding,” she said. “Really? Oh, my God. That’s amazing. Okay. Did he say when? Okay, then I’ll call him back. Right. Okay. Talk to you later.”

  “What was that?” asked Tilda. “More news about the party?”

  “You’re not going to believe this,” said Jenny, looking at Sadie. “But Des Shaw has just called to request an interview. It seems The Weekly wants to do a cover story on you.”

  * * *

  What worried her most was the monitor, the little computer the Secret Service had which kept track of the President and the First Lady no matter where they went. They went to the bathroom—the Secret Service knew about it. They went to have an affair…

  She was out of her mind, she decided. She should be locked up in St. Elizabeth’s instead of the White House. Maybe it was the fact of being locked up that was making her so crazy. She could use that as an excuse when Congress voted to impeach her. She would be elegant, restrained, pathetic at her impeachment hearing. She would wear pastels—pinks and other soft colors—to make her look ethereal, and she would act slightly delirious, maybe even allude to the fact that she had been having her monthlies. That would work now that the feminists had adopted it as an excuse for demented female behavior. “I’m sorry, Mr. Speaker, but I did what I had to do.” Maybe a tear or two, but no sobbing. It made men nervous and angry when women cried. A perfectly formed tear sliding down an alabaster cheek was the right touch. Rosey would be furious. Would he win or lose votes? He might get the sympathy vote… poor man, how he must have suffered with that bitch, and trying to sail the Ship of State at the same time. On the other hand, he might be regarded as a cuckold—never an attractive image for the macho American male. If he can’t handle his wife, how can he handle the country?

  The advance on her book would be incredible. Perhaps the highest advance in the history of publishing. Movie rights, first serialization…

  The movie would open with the hearing. It would be summer. Both Allison and Des would be covering the hearings, and there would be occasional cutbacks to the Oval Office, where the President would be watching, along with millions of hypnotized Americans.

  She was crazy. There was no doubt about it. She had to be to even think of enjoying that sick little fantasy. Jesus Christ.

  So. Here she was upstairs on the third floor in the solarium waiting for her “interview.” It had been set up for two thirty. That way they would have the entire afternoon to talk.

  She had not talked to Shaw since the White House dinner. The whole thing had been set up by Jenny. Sadie had asked Jenny to talk to Rosey about it rather than broach it herself. He had been reluctant at first, but Jenny had persuaded him. The Weekly was not a hatchet magazine. It would never do a job on a First Lady. Shaw was genuinely fon
d of Sadie (she said that with a straight face) and admired both the Greys. It wouldn’t behoove him to do a number on a new First Lady, particularly one who had come in under such difficult circumstances. Rosey had asked Jenny to sit in on the interview.

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Mr. President,” Jenny had said. “Shaw is a first-rate journalist. The really good ones are offended if you have a press person sit in on the interview. They see it as an accusation that you don’t trust them. It makes them hostile, and it almost always backfires. I would leave them alone. I think we’ll get better results.”

  Rosey had agreed, finally. Sadie had commended Jenny for her astute judgment. Did Jenny have any idea? Sadie didn’t think so. She certainly didn’t act like it.

  “I don’t need to tell you how important this interview could be for both of us,” Rosey had said.

  “No, you don’t,” Sadie answered. Why did everything everyone said these days seem to be a double entendre?

  She thought she had prepared everything perfectly for the interview. She had looked at the door of the solarium and found to her satisfaction that there was a lock on it. That would have been difficult to order just before the interview. Apparently a former President’s daughter used to take her boyfriends upstairs to neck and she had had the lock installed. Not that they would be needing a lock today. Not in the White House.

  She had told Jenny that she thought the interview would run at least two hours.

  It was funny how one’s mind worked. Since the dinner she had not been able to think of anything else. It was like being sixteen again. Sometimes it seemed like the most natural thing in the world. Other times, the implications were too awful. One repressed it because one couldn’t deal with the consequences.