by Sally Quinn
She jabbed him in the ribs. Just as quickly as they had started to laugh they stopped, and he pulled her to him, pinning her arms above her head. She could smell him. He started to kiss her again, nibbling at her lips. “I don’t believe we’re doing this again,” she tried to say.
This time, afterward, he said it. She almost missed it.
“What?”
“I love you.” He cleared his throat. He was staring at the ceiling.
She didn’t look at him.
“I love you, Sara Adabelle McDougald Grey.”
“I love you too, Des.”
He reached over and took her hand.
“Jesus H. Christ,” he said finally. “What are we going to do?”
“That’s the woman’s question, not the man’s.”
“You’re right. See, I’m already losing my identity. I knew this whole thing was a mistake.”
“How can you say it was a mistake? Don’t you think I’m a good writer?”
“Pulitzer Prize material, but you’re changing the subject.”
“That’s what girls say. When men don’t want to talk about the relationship.”
“Yes, but you still haven’t dealt with the question.”
“We’re going to do nothing. What can we do? We’ll continue to meet here and work on my novel. Don’t you think it’s definitely a novel, not a short story?”
“I think we should talk about the novel when we have our clothes on. I’m not at my best when I’m lying nude with a hard-on next to a great-looking broad.”
“Well, then, Mr. Shaw, you are certainly not at your best at this moment.”
“That’s why I think we should talk about us.”
They made love again.
“I think that was only about fifty minutes between takes. This has got to be a world record.” Shaw was feeling very pleased with himself.
“I’ve certainly never heard of a man doing it this often,” she said softly. Flattery came instinctively. It was her way of dealing with men. She didn’t know any other way. And it was always successful. Although it was the truth, now.
“How many men have you known?”
“You say that as though you don’t think I’ve had any experience at all.”
She was only slightly annoyed.
“I can’t see how you’ve had much, since you were married almost immediately after you left college.”
“I never told you about Tag.”
“I give up. Who’s Tag?”
“College. He taught me everything I know about sex.”
“So why aren’t you married to him now? Why aren’t you making love to him this very moment if he was so fantastic?”
Des had gotten up off the sofa bed and got a glass of ginger ale from the small table near the window. He took a sip, but the ice had melted and it was warm. He grimaced, then got back into the bed, sitting up this time.
“I was too young. I hadn’t even finished Smith. So I went to New York brokenhearted. Then I met Rosey at a coming-out party in Richmond, and that was that.”
“That was that? So the fabulous Tag was your only lover before me—not counting the President, of course.”
“The President. God. We’re talking about my husband.”
“I know. I feel that we have to remind ourselves every now and then just who your husband is.”
“Not me. I just repress it.”
“Anyhow. Tag. Was he the only one?”
“Actually, no. I had an affair.”
“I’m not sure I want to know about this.”
He was sitting up against the back of the sofa bed very straight, looking as indignant as anybody can with no clothes on.
“You should know about this. It was while Rosey was Governor.”
He looked at her stunned, as though she had slapped him.
“His name was Stuart Cortwright. The tobacco Cortwrights.”
Des got up and felt around in his jacket pocket for a cigarette. “Shit,” she heard him mumble as he lit up. He climbed back into bed, putting the ashtray between them, his own little barrier. She knew there was something perverse about her insistence on telling him this. Yet his displeasure pleased her.
“I got caught. I was turning out of the drive of Stuart’s house onto the main road when a car sideswiped me. The police showed up and I had to get Everett to come get me.”
“Did Rosey ever find out?”
“Everett told him. It nearly broke up our marriage. It might have if Roger Kimball hadn’t asked him to run.”
“What about Cortwright?” He asked this hesitantly.
“I never saw him again.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I never loved him.”
She looked over at Des, sitting there being like a big little boy pouting, and she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. He sort of shrugged her away halfheartedly. She snuggled up to him, put her head on his shoulder, and began playing with his chest hairs.
“It’s true, Des. I was just using Stuart. I wanted Rosey to find out so that he would pay more attention to me. I was still trying to make our marriage better. It didn’t work. I tried to explain. But he was so hurt. He cried a lot. He really loves me, you know.”
“Is that what you’re doing now?”
“What?”
“Using me?”
She realized he was serious. She couldn’t give him a glib answer. She sat up and looked at him directly.
“Des,” she said finally, “I’ve never loved anybody in my life the way I love you.”
He took it in, stroking her hair with his hands, looking at her solemnly.
“So what are we going to do about it?”
She laughed. “We’re going to make love. What else?”
* * *
Monday. That was their day. Lagoon and Canyon. Jenny had said no more than once every two weeks, only in the afternoon. They couldn’t stay apart that long. Monday. Every Monday. Jenny had alerted the morning guard at the Executive Office Building.
Des stayed all day. Sadie informed her office. Beautiful, lovely, wonderful, anything-but-blue Monday. Only they never had enough time. They were always rushing out at the end of the day, at twilight, and twilight was getting earlier and earlier. Departure was a scene. Kissing, and getting dressed, and “Where is my goddamn shoe?” and “You’ve got lipstick on your shirt,” and “Is my hair messed?” and “How are you going to explain that bite on your neck?”
Sometimes they worked on her book. She was writing, or trying to write. Mostly she daydreamed. Des would read what she had written and comment very seriously. He was always complimentary, always supportive, so much so that sometimes she got suspicious. He was pushing her to work on a short story that he could arrange to have published under an assumed name.
“But it’s not as though I need the money or the recognition.”
“Ah, but someday you might.”
That sort of oblique comment made her as uneasy as his persistent encouragement.
“Do I detect a Pygmalion?” she asked one day. “Are you trying to make me into another Allison?”
She saw his jaw tighten.
“You two are so different, it’s ridiculous even to talk like that.”
“How are we different?”
She had been waiting so long for an opening in all these months. She had to broach it herself.
“I’m not going to fall into that trap.”
“What do you mean?”
“If I ever heard a no-win question, that’s it. What the hell am I supposed to say?… Well, let’s see now. Allison is beautiful, sexy, talented, smart… Forget it.”
“Well, I told you about my other men. Why can’t you tell me something about Allison?”
“I don’t want to hear another word about any of those guys again, and I don’t understand why you would want to hear about Allison. That’s in the past.”
“Is it?”
“Of course it is. I’m here, aren’t I?”
>
“Mondays.”
“Well, sweetheart, if that’s not good enough for you I’ll be happy to meet with you seven days a week. You just say the word.”
“You know I can’t.”
“Exactly. So what the hell am I supposed to do seven nights and six days a week? I don’t take out any women except for Jenny.”
“I just wonder what it is about Allison that keeps you away. She is all those things you said she was. So what’s wrong with her?”
She knew she shouldn’t pursue the subject. But she needed to hear it from him. The more she knew about the women he had loved, the more she knew him. Knowledge was power, and even though she didn’t quite admit it to herself, it was power she wanted. She had pumped him dry about the other women and he had never seemed to mind, though he would occasionally get bored and ask her why she wanted to know so much. He didn’t even mind talking about Chessy. He rather liked unloading on her. “You really love this stuff, don’t you?”
Allison was different. That was why she went about this one more delicately, because he didn’t want to talk. But something made her think that he might actually talk about Allison this time. Maybe he had decided he might as well get it over with.
“Sonny,” he said slowly, softly, “Sonny is a woman who doesn’t know what she wants. I got chewed up in her confusion. It’s hard to know what you want from a woman who doesn’t know what she wants. I like things to be clear. Not unsettled. Things were always unsettled around her. If she ever figures out what it is that she does want she’ll be one helluva dame. But she’s got a long way to go.”
This was not the answer she wanted. It made her sick with fear. Sonny was wonderful in every way except that she wasn’t sure she wanted him. What if she decided she did want him? They were sitting in the main office. They had decided to have a drink before he left, and they had gotten dressed and started a fire. Now they were both sitting on the sofa, Sadie in her usual sweater and slacks, Des in corduroys and shirt sleeves. She knew for her own good she should change the subject, but the will was not there.
“So how are we different?”
“Jesus,” he said. “There’s no comparison. If ever I saw a woman who knew who she was and what she wanted, it’s you. You are a man’s woman. You like men. You know how to please men. You like to be protected and taken care of by men. You don’t seem to need power over a man the way some of these feminists do. You understand that a relationship isn’t a power play.”
She was about to protest, but he cut her off.
“You have things in perspective. You’re not seething inside. You know who and what you are, what you want, and you’re happy about it. That is what I call the perfect woman. And that, my beauty, is you.”
* * *
“Desmond. I like your name. Des-monnd.” She drew it out on her tongue. “I like men’s names with n’s in them. I think I will call you Desmond. I like it when you call me Adabelle, too.” She paused. “Did you always call her Sonny?”
She was trying to sound casual.
“Mostly.” He didn’t look up.
“What did she call you?”
“Prick, more than likely.”
“Oh, come on.”
They had been working on the book, and she had actually finished a chapter. Des had had to go out of town, so they had missed a week. Her schedule had been light, and she had managed to do quite a bit of writing. He was sitting at the desk reading. She was lounging on the sofa. The fire was going, as usual. It was getting colder outside; November was in the air. She had tried to concentrate on a magazine while he read, but she couldn’t, and now she was trying to distract him, get his attention away from her manuscript.
“Let’s change the subject.”
“Okay. What do you want to talk about?”
“Politics. Let’s talk about politics. What’s going on in the White House? Why don’t you give me a scoop?”
“I thought you said real journalists never use the word scoop. That it’s a joke word.”
“It is. I did. I’m joking.”
“Okay, then. Let’s talk about politics. Why don’t you explain to me why most journalists are liberals.”
“Is that what you think?”
“Well, it certainly seems that way. And Rosey is always complaining that you can’t get a fair shake from the press if you’re conservative because they’re all left-wing. Do you think it’s true?”
“Christ, I don’t know. I think there’s a difference between reporters and editors, and I think age makes a big difference.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, there’s an old saying that reporters should wake up angry. Most reporters are young. They start out with an idealistic zeal which mellows as they get older. In the beginning there are only good guys and bad guys, right and wrong, black and white. There’s no gray for a young reporter—and that’s probably not all bad. They cover everything, people from all walks of life, and they see misery and injustice up close. They see it prevail and they believe they can change it, can make a difference.”
“What happens when they get older?”
“Me. I’m what happens. It doesn’t mean you don’t care. It just means that you’re more realistic, that you have to know what’s possible and what’s not, what you can change and what you can’t. And as you get older, things are never as simple as they once seemed. That’s why editors are generally less ideological than reporters. They have to listen to all sides. But I guess Rosey probably has a point. Journalists generally sympathize with the underdog, and that is seen to be a liberal position.”
“I’m a liberal.”
“Of course you care.”
“What makes you say that? My husband is a Southern conservative.”
“I’ve made love to you. I can always tell a woman’s politics by the way she makes love.”
“Desmond Shaw, you are you so full of shit.”
“Do you want me to finish reading your manuscript or not?”
“No, I want you to test my politics.”
Now when they made love it was slow and satisfying, not the frenzy they had been in in the early months. Now that they were getting used to each other, they could actually have a conversation. The passion was still there; it was just a little more in control. It was like being in a space capsule and sent off to Pluto. They were completely confined to their own environment. They could pretend that they were the only ones alive. Occasionally Jenny would buzz in to ask Sadie a question or to refer something to her, sometimes passing a message from Rosey. But everyone had been told that her writing time was sacred, and it had become more or less an accomplished fact over at the West Wing. Even Rosey had been made to feel reticent about interrupting. So far there had been no suspicions. The few times he had run into people he knew at the EOB, he had been with Jenny. And even she was beginning to be a little easier about it than she had been. At least for the time being, things seemed to be working out.
* * *
“My dear, it was too preposterous. Even I, in all my years in London and Washington, have never seen anything so absurd.”
“I don’t get it, Lorraine. Why did anybody go?”
“Sweetie, when the wife of the editor of the View section of The Daily has a musicale, everyone goes. It’s that simple. People are just scared. It’s an investment. Worth Elgin has a lot of power in this town, and Claire counts on it.”
“Was everybody making fun of her?” Sadie was curled up on the love seat in her private office, sipping tea. It was late afternoon, and she had finished with most of her First Lady chores. Now it was time for one of her favorite pastimes. A gossip session with Lorraine.
“Of course. Nobody could keep a straight face. But Claire simply refused to acknowledge it. She stood at the door chatting everyone up and talking about how thrilling and ‘delightfully un-Washington’ it was to have a musicale.”
“Well, that’s for sure. What did she wear?”
“She had on a long-sleeved
green velvet dress to the floor, so décolleté that even she didn’t dare lean over.”
Sadie could imagine the Elgins’ spacious Georgetown house. Nobody could figure out where they had gotten the money. Some old lover of Claire’s was the gossip. Although it seemed that everybody in Washington managed to live better than they should.
“Claire’s house is a little ratty-looking, though I have to admit she is clever with candlelight. It hides some of the rough edges.”
“Some of her rough edges too,” cackled Lorraine. “She lies about her age, you know. And she’s had at least one face lift. She’s the kind of woman who’s chosen her face over her figure, though she does manage to drape those dresses rather cleverly.”
“Who all was there?” Sadie wanted to move on. Lorraine would have been content to cut up her best friend for the rest of the afternoon.
“The usual crowd. The perfect assortment of diplomatic, Administration, Capitol Hill, and journalists. But it didn’t matter. She only had eyes for Des.”
“Des?” Sadie sat up, her body suddenly stiffening. Des had told her laughingly about the invitation to the musicale, but he’d said he wasn’t going to go.
“Oh, my darling, you wouldn’t have believed it. Claire was all over him. Laughing up at him flirtatiously, leading him around by the arm before the ‘entertainment,’ and then, it was so awful, after a few Lieder she actually sang several love songs to him. In front of le tout Washington, not to mention her own husband.”
Sadie tried to sound casual. “Oh, well, Worth is sort of a silly fop anyway.”
“I must say Claire has certainly advanced since the old days of feeling up other people’s husbands under the dinner table. This was one of the most extraordinary sights I’ve ever seen.
“Worth was flitting around the drawing room as if she’d just sung a love song to him. And at the end he said loudly after leading the applause, ‘Well, the old girl’s still got it in her.’ ”
“And how did Des…” She hesitated, afraid to ask. “How did he take it?”
“I must admit he did look a bit uncomfortable when she turned to him and started singing. But he was rather good-natured about it. After all, it goes with the territory.”
