Regrets Only

by Sally Quinn

  She ordered a kir, very light, and for the first time since Des she allowed herself to think about the possibility of another man. Could there be any chance that she and Nick could make it work again? They had always loved each other. There had never been any question even when they broke it off. Why couldn’t they just pick up where they left off, mellower, more experienced, wiser? They had both known some pain and disappointment. They would be better suited to each other now. Maybe she would leave Washington and go with him to the Middle East. It might be nice to get away from Washington. Of course, she couldn’t work full time for The Daily, but she could string and maybe do some free-lance, write a book. She didn’t have a book to write, but she would certainly come up with something. She needed a break. She was getting stale. She was an emotional mess too. Maybe a change of environment would renew her confidence, her enthusiasm, her energy. She could picture herself and Nick in the desert outside Jerusalem in safari clothes, tanned and windblown, looking out over the rolling hills toward Jordan. And she would be away from Des. Why was she thinking of Des if she was going off with Nick?

  Dear Nick. The emotion had not come as anticipated. Perhaps when she saw him? It might take a while to uncover the old feelings. She had buried them deep. Dig a hole to China. Throw Des in there with Nick. Cover them up with shovels so full they could never get out. But was there a hole deep enough? All afternoon images of her years with Nick had surfaced, and surprisingly, she was relishing them. It was rather like looking through your old high school yearbook and seeing a picture of the football captain who had jilted you. “Keep your nose clean,” he had written.

  The first time she had seen Nick he had taken the seat next to her in the back row of the foreign-reporting class at Columbia Journalism School. He was cool, so sure of himself. He seemed not to notice her. She planned a birthday party for one of his closest friends to get him to her apartment. Even then he paid no attention to her. She found herself, toward the end of the evening, staring out at the lights over the Hudson. She didn’t notice him come over.

  “I’m very flattered you contrived this whole party just to end up with me,” he challenged.

  “Conceited bastard,” she whispered to him.

  “Listen, I really dig you.”

  “I’m going to see if the others need any wine.”

  He had grabbed her arm. “You started this, you finish it.”

  He cupped his hand under her chin and pulled her face to him, kissing her gently, just touching her lips with his—a butterfly kiss. “I want you, Allison,” he whispered, then let her go. All she could do was steady herself against the wall and let her breath out slowly. She watched him as he motioned to the others, and she said nothing as they all left. When they were gone, he took her by the hand, pulled her down to the sofa, and put his arms around her. “Now” was all he said. She didn’t have time to tell him she was a virgin.

  “Another kir, madame?”

  It was quarter to nine. She felt strangely peaceful.

  “Please.”

  It was all so perfect. Holding hands in the park, foreign movies, Chinese on Sunday nights, wandering through the Village, drives to the Hamptons for walks on winter beaches. Splurges at the Russian Tea Room. “J” school was inconsequential. Love was all that mattered. Making love. It was never going to end. But it did. She ended it. She still couldn’t believe it.

  Politics was her passion, the war in Vietnam his. He wanted to go, she wanted to stay. The AP wanted them both—her for the political campaigns, him for the war. They both said yes. He asked her to go with him and didn’t understand why she didn’t want to go. She couldn’t believe he expected her to give up everything for him. It was his celebration dinner. She saw the waiter bringing their food and she fled, leaving him sitting in the restaurant. He called all that night and the next day. She couldn’t answer the phone. Finally he came over. They sat in silence for a while.

  “I don’t get it,” he said finally. “I’ve asked you to come with me. I thought you would be so excited. We’ll be together. It’s the opportunity of my life. You could get some work stringing, I’m sure. What’s your problem?”

  He really didn’t get it. She knew that. “My career, my interests are here,” she said. “Would it occur to you to stay here to be with me?”

  The look on his face made her laugh even now. He literally couldn’t speak. She had uttered the unspeakable. Finally she got up and went to the door. He followed her and opened the door himself.

  “I’ll call you before I leave,” he said finally, embarrassed.

  He never did.

  Allison sipped her drink and leaned her head against the back of the velvet banquette, trying to feel the pain of that summer just as an exercise. Three months of staring at the ceiling.

  “Jesus, Sonny, I’m sorry. I was way out in Chevy Chase and I had to wait forever for a cab. Please forgive me.”

  “Only if you order a bottle of white wine instantly. I can’t drink another kir.”

  “And a Scotch-and-soda, please.” He nodded to the waiter, who went off to fetch a wine list. He turned to her, taking her in with an admiring and frank appraisal.

  She tried not to return his stare, curious as she was.

  “You look fine, Sonny.” As though she had been sick. He was serious at first; then the familiar mischief crept into his gaze. “Nothing a little wrinkle cream couldn’t take care of.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Now, there’s my Sonny. I’d recognize her anywhere. Sweet, demure, gentle, ladylike.”

  She remembered why she had loved him.

  “How did you know about the wrinkle cream anyway, you bastard?”

  “Older women. I had a number of older women. In my youth. Those days are over, though.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m too old to be a younger man. Besides, something happens to a woman’s skin after a while.”

  She and Nick were the same age. She unconsciously put her fingers under her eyes as if to smooth the skin away and lifted her chin slightly just in case. At the same time she was thinking how insidious and demeaning it was, particularly since she was tyrannizing herself.

  “I’d forgotten what pretty hands you have,” he said.

  “What is this with you and skin?” she said, taking her hands quickly away from her face. There was an edge to her voice. She had never even thought about her age until she and Des split up. Now she thought about it all the time.

  “You’re being a little paranoid, Sonny. I was just thinking what graceful hands you had. I didn’t say anything about your skin, though I’ve clearly gotten under it.”

  “Sorry. I think I had a bad reaction to my last birthday.”

  “We’ve both had a lot of birthdays since we saw each other. The few times I’ve been back you’ve been out on assignment.”

  “I know. People thought I was avoiding you.”

  “Were you?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s coincidence.”

  “Maybe.”

  “So why aren’t you married with three kids by now? I thought you always wanted to have lots of children.”

  “I still do. But it’s hard traveling so much. There just never seems to be a time to settle down. It isn’t fair to your wife or kids. And practically every correspondent I know has split up with his wife. Most of the women correspondents are single. It’s just easier.”

  “I have a shrink friend whose motto is ‘You get what you want.’ It used to piss me off a lot when she told me that. But she finally persuaded me she was right. If I’m not really happy, it’s hard to accept that I’m not really happy because of my own choices. If you really wanted a wife and children, you’d have them. So would I. Have a husband and children.”

  “Is that why you blew it with Shaw? Did you do that on purpose?”

  “What do you know about him?” she asked—almost a challenge.

  “I know what everybody else knows. Shit, Sonny, just because I’m in the Mid
dle East doesn’t mean I’m cut off from the real world. We’re journalists, don’t forget—good at reporting, good at trading information. Your breakup was a big story even in Jerusalem. One whole lunch at the American Colony Hotel in East Jerusalem was devoted to a debate over who did the right thing. You are a hero among the women. The men sympathize with Shaw. And they all think he was right to leave.”

  She was on the verge of tears. She hadn’t wanted to discuss Des with Nick. It opened up the old wounds with Nick as well. She could feel the pain engulf her.

  “What do you think?” She was grateful for the dimness.

  “You really want to know?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Monsieur, madame, would you like to order?”

  She was relieved by the interruption. They joked and laughed over the menu, finally deciding on one forty-dollar meal and one sixty-dollar meal. Plus a good bottle of Meursault. They chatted during the duck salad with radicchio, made light conversation through the quenelle in lobster sauce and the veal with mushrooms, but when dessert came there was a strained silence. Nick finally spoke.

  “Do you mind if I indulge in a little amateur psychology?”

  “I do, but I’m too curious to stop you.”

  “It wasn’t all that different from what happened between us, Sonny.”

  She started to speak.

  “Please, let me finish. You had a choice between your man and your career and you chose your career. I think—no, I’m sure—that in our case you did the right thing. I wasn’t ready to settle down. I was obsessed with my work then too. It would have been a disaster. But we’re fifteen years older now. You have your career. Jesus Christ, do you have your career. You’re the most famous woman journalist in America. And the most respected. You have nothing more to prove. And even so, you’ve let one of the best guys around slip through your fingers. This time, Sonny, you made the wrong choice. That’s what I think.”

  She had had just enough wine that she couldn’t stop the tears when they started. She sat there quietly and let them run down her cheeks.

  Nick didn’t say anything either, but he put his arm around her and held her for a while.

  All those sessions with Rachel hadn’t hit home the way Nick’s words had. He was right. She had made the wrong decision about Des and she had been defending it ferociously ever since. The more she came to doubt it, the more staunchly she defended it. This time she hadn’t gotten what she wanted because she hadn’t known what she wanted. Now she knew it and it was too late.

  “Let’s blow this joint,” he said. She searched for a handkerchief, finally, in desperation, relying on the large pink napkin which was already wet with perspiration.

  “I’m coming home with you. I’m not leaving you alone in this shape,” he said once she was behind the wheel.

  “Oh, Nick, I don’t think—”

  “Shut up and drive.”

  She found a place to park and they walked the block and a half in the balmy August night arm in arm.

  On the ground-floor entrance level she stopped at the kitchen and turned to Nick.

  “Why don’t I fix some coffee, and we can take it up to the roof?”

  “Oh, fuck coffee, Sonny. We’re both half shit-faced as it is; we might as well go all the way.”

  She shrugged, pretending not to catch his double entendre, and got a bottle of white wine out of the refrigerator. They walked up past the third floor and out onto the tiny railed observation roof, where they could see most of the city. The lights were brilliant against the clear night sky, and it was unusually cool and dry for August. For a long time they sipped their wine, looked out at the view, and said nothing.

  “I still love you, Sonny.”

  She drew a breath.

  “Do you think we could try again?”

  She still said nothing.

  “I’d like to throw my hat in the ring.”

  She felt drained. Somehow this evening was Nick’s responsibility. It was up to him to keep it going. Whatever he wanted was okay with her as long as she didn’t have to do anything about it.

  He sensed that and moved closer to her. She didn’t move. He put his arms around her, pulled her to him, and kissed her gently on the lips. She did not resist. She wanted to be taken. She didn’t want to have to make any decisions. She wanted to be done to.

  Nick took her by the hand and led her downstairs to her bedroom. He laid her on the bed and slowly undressed her, then himself. Now he was kneeling over her, caressing her breasts and her thighs, just looking at her.

  “Oh, God, you’re more beautiful than I remembered,” he whispered, and she sighed and said nothing.

  Now he was on top of her, kissing her body and holding her, fondling her, and she sighed again because it felt so good to be held again. She didn’t want him ever to stop holding her; but she couldn’t say anything, she couldn’t even lift her arms or her legs to receive him when he came into her. He was kissing her neck and shoulders and hair and ears and whispering loving things to her and she was sad and grateful and touched. She wanted to love him back, but she didn’t have the energy. He seemed not to mind, and when she sighed he would whisper, “Oh, yes, my love,” and she knew it was all right.

  When he came with a shudder it was familiar, even after all those years, and it made her feel secure.

  Still, she couldn’t control the sobs once they began—this time not quiet tears but from deep inside her body, from a hurt that was still new and an old hurt that would always be remembered.

  They held on to each other for a long time.

  She cried forever and he kept on holding her, and when she stopped she saw there were tears in his eyes. She could see them shining in the darkness.

  “Sonny?”

  “Yes, Nick?”

  “It’s gone, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “It just ain’t no mo’.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Oh, so am I, babe. So am I. But it’s okay. It really is. We’ll be all right, both of us. Because we still care about each other. We’re still friends. We’ve still got each other to hold on to. That’s not all bad.”

  He caressed her cheek, kissing her gently on the forehead, the eyelids, the chin.

  “And I still do love you, for what it’s worth.”

  “I love you too, Nick. And it’s worth a lot. Now will you shut up and hold me? It seems to me that you’ve been doing an awful lot of talking tonight and I’ve hardly said a word. In fact, all I’ve done is cry.”

  “I was wondering when you were going to notice.” He laughed as he got up and turned on the light. “I need a cigarette. Do you mind?” He rummaged around in his coat pocket and found a half-empty pack of Marlboros. “I know, I know, I’m trying to quit. It’s just that it’s not easy to give up the hard-drinking, hard-smoking, hard-driving, shit-kicking foreign-correspondent image. I’ll make it, though. I’m a tough mother.”

  He was standing in the middle of the room with nothing on, and she gazed at his perfect, beautiful slim body, so different from Des’s stocky Irish build.

  “What are you looking at?”

  “Not a bad piece o’ meat,” she said. “I was just having second thoughts about us. Maybe it isn’t over.”

  “Forget it. It’s too late. Besides, I can’t take myself off the market yet anyway. There are too many women who would be devastated. I’m going to have to ease my way off. Let them down slowly.”

  “Speaking of other women, we haven’t discussed any of your girlfriends, past or present. Why don’t we start with present and work back?”

  “Do you want to start with Jerusalem, Tel Aviv, Damascus, Beirut, Cairo, Riyadh, or maybe Rome?”

  “You conceited bastard. Now I remember why it would be impossible with you. You’re not a legend for nothing, you know.”

  “Legend, am I? I’m just a poor reporter trying to do my job, and if I get a little pussy on the side now and then, why, that’s just an added bonus.�
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  “Actually, that’s pretty much the way I see it.” She laughed.

  “You know, you’re no less a legend than I am.”

  “What have we got to show for it?”

  “Well, we’re both pretty good lays.”

  “Be serious.”

  “A lot of dead clips and an empty heart.”

  “You’ve got one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A friend who loves you.”

  He put his arms around her and they just held on.

  * * *

  Lorraine really couldn’t bear to have people think she was crass. No matter how successful a Washington hostess might be, it never did to be thought a social climber. And it was a very fine line—oh, was it fine—to walk. The problem was that she had been hearing whispers about herself. Not that Claire Elgin understood the meaning of the word whisper. Nevertheless, Claire had let her know that there were certain people around Washington who felt that Lorraine had dropped Allison like a hot potato after Roger Kimball had a stroke and Desmond Shaw had walked out on her. To make matters worse, they were suggesting that she was sucking up to Sadie Grey. Well, the facts were that she had invited Allison dozens of times since all of that happened and Allison had turned her down each time and didn’t seem inclined to continue their friendship. Lorraine was a bit hurt by that. Also, she and Sadie Grey had been very good friends before Rosey Grey was President. It was just that now that Sadie was First Lady her activities were more publicized and everyone knew and cared if she and Sadie had lunch together. Still, if they thought she had abandoned Allison and befriended Sadie, even if it was untrue and unfair, it was the appearance that mattered. Lorraine would not have all her hard work go down the drain with something like this. She wanted to be admired as a hostess, not condemned as a social climber. She would have to take matters in hand. She would have to have another party. In September. A party to kick off the season. A party for Allison.

  Whom to invite? That was the problem. Should she have Desmond Shaw? It didn’t seem like a very good idea, but how could she not? Besides, he was a great catch. She’d have to consult Allison about whether she could have a party. Lorraine had gotten ahead of herself. She found she was like a great artist. Once she had conceived the idea for a party, her imagination began to race and she couldn’t stop. This one was beginning to form in her mind. She would invite as many attractive bachelors as she could find, and as many pretty women and have—although she would never dare say the word—a glorified singles party. She would make sure everyone was someone in power, and she would even import if she had to. Ironically, it would be single women she would have to import. There were always plenty of attractive and powerful single men running loose in Washington. Contrary to myth, it was the easiest thing in the world to find an extra man. The women were the big problem. She already knew which men she would have, all ostensibly to meet Allison. Ali Habib was the new Ambassador from Oman. He was the Sultan’s closest friend, confidant, and adviser. He was not an Omani at all: rather, he carried four passports. Oxford-and-Harvard-educated, he was brilliant, sophisticated, and sexy. And rich beyond words. He had already bought “his” country a newly restored mansion on Decatur Place for its embassy residence, complete with gym, screening room, ballroom, pool, and enough security for a President of the United States.