Campaign Widows

by Aimee Agresti

  It had certainly taken a lot to get to this point. The planning process had sent Birdie running to her painkillers drawer again. For one thing, she’d had to circulate the invitations without the party location determined, which had never happened in all her years of event planning and fund-raising. She had simply typed “RSVP for the secret location,” spinning her failure into something exciting and exotic. Bronson had shot down twenty-two places—and frankly, was beginning to piss her off—when finally, with just a week until the party, she’d pitched something so far outside the box it was almost laughable: the dive bar from Cady’s Best Day DC segment. “Just what I was looking for,” Bronson had shocked her. “The kind of place I used to go when I was a young staffer.”

  Unfortunately, Cole had been dispatched to tour it with her.

  “I was wondering when I would get to see you again,” Cole had greeted her with warm eyes as he hopped out of a cab.

  She had been out front smoking a cigarette, a vile habit she had resurrected during this hiatus—she dared not call it a separation—from Buck. It was still the safest of her go-to vices.

  As they’d roamed the space with the familiar-looking owner, Birdie caught Cole studying her, as though trying to gauge whether he had just imagined that spark that had kept her at his apartment until dawn the night of their first meeting, smoking from his secret weed stash and admiring his record collection like they were courting in the seventies. Since then, with the exception of dropping by her party, it had been strictly business-related emails. He had called, but she had not returned.

  She hoped to avoid him tonight.

  The red and blue klieg lights blazed out front now, the balloons jerking around in an oddly fierce April wind. She had hired scores of extra bartenders and servers, not leaving anything to chance. Inside the bar, the drinks flowed, the small plates streamed out from the kitchen, a photographer snapped for the society pages, the reporters circled, and the guest list of senators, congressmen, industry titans, lobbyists and even a celebrity or two seemed to be enjoying themselves. Young donors flowed in, so many that the room became too crowded, a line forming outside. They brought new life to the proceedings.

  She kept one eye on Arnold at all times, to be sure he was happy, cared for, feeling like a king. But otherwise, this was the time in any event when she could breathe a sigh, shift into her version of autopilot and have a glass of champagne. Sure, there was still plenty to do to keep it running smoothly, but she always felt a slight easing when she saw the star of the show was pleased, the guests were joyous, the libations were flowing, the food plentiful. She had set the fete in motion and now it could nearly propel itself, like an aircraft at cruising altitude in clear skies. She loved her work.

  * * *

  Jay’s phone pinged as he and Sky got dressed for a long-overdue night out: You sure you guys don’t want to at least pop by? Don’t make me play the pregnancy card #RatherBeHomeInSweatpants #FriendsDontLetFriendsGoToBoringFund-raisersAlone, Reagan had texted.

  Jay would’ve loved to join her, actually, but it wasn’t up to him: I wish. Have ceded control of evening to oligarchy comprised of paz, kat and johnny or steve or johnny and steve. Who knows. I’m an eighth wheel #GottaKeepMyMan.

  With Rocky campaigning in Maryland ahead of the primary, the Haze media pool was enjoying some time back home in DC, and Jay was determined to be his best self: easy, breezy, affable, the perfect totally supportive and unthreatened boyfriend. He realized this role would require acting chops he just might not have. The very idea of having to share Sky tonight made Jay downright sulky. He’d dreamed of ordering in from their favorite Thai place, talking all night, curling up in bed, silencing their phones until Sky had to be back on the trail in another two days.

  Instead, they caught a cab to Sax nightclub, DC’s answer to the Moulin Rouge with its burlesque performers set amid a luxe gold-and-burgundy palette. Paz, earthy-beautiful in that Coachella way, had reserved a table. (“She knows a friend of a friend of a friend to get us all in for free,” Sky had informed Jay, making Jay feel even less cool than he already felt.) Their group soon ballooned to a dozen as they all got drunk on bottle service and danced into the wee hours.

  Before the night’s end, an overserved, self-medicating Jay lay on the velvet couch, head pleasantly spinning. “I love them all,” he said. “You all, I love you all. Why are you so much fun? Why can’t you all be dull and boring?”

  * * *

  “So you’re really going to this?” Jackson asked, disappointed.

  “I’m sorry, it’s just one of those things, it’s work,” Cady said, pulling on her black Narciso Rodriguez cocktail dress. Reagan had turned her on to the joys of renting party attire: “It’s what you do when you’re on a Hill salary, or, you know, in any non-lobbyist job in this town,” she’d informed Cady. No need to admit to Jackson that she thought it might be kind of fun to dress up and mill around a party with a presidential contender—who also happened to be the current vice president—and two hundred of his closest and most well-to-do friends. She’d never been to a fund-raiser before, and this one promised some star power. And a possible POTUS sighting.

  “I just mean, I’m home tonight. I thought we could actually hang out,” he said, flopping on the bed.

  “I know, I would’ve loved that—zip me?” She turned around, and he sighed as he yanked the zipper, then returned to the bed, sulky.

  “If you had told me even twenty-four hours ago, then I could’ve lined up a replacement,” she explained. Though honestly it would’ve been tough. One of their three reporters had been laid off this week, concerning on many levels, though Jeff claimed there was no reason to worry. “But this is where we are now. I have to cover it.” She eyed herself in the full-length mirror, fluffed her hair. “I’ll try to make it fast at least.” She and Max had a good shorthand now; this probably wouldn’t take long. But why should she have to rush anyway? She was more than a little irked that Jackson was dictating how she should do her work. Why couldn’t he just sit back and let her do her job? She had a nagging feeling the answer was that he just didn’t attach the same value and respect to her job as to his own.

  “Whatever. I still don’t get—what do you like to call it? The ‘news value’—” he said it like “news” was the nasty kind of four-letter word “—in going to someone else’s fund-raiser. I’m kind of offended, you know?”

  “Look, when you invite Best Day DC to cover one of Carter Thompson’s, I’ll be there too,” she said, buckling her strappy black stilettos. Birdie had said she envisioned making this event the talk of the town and had therefore lined up plenty of press, but promised Cady the exclusive on video. (Probably because she believed no one watched the show, so it wouldn’t irritate her guests. But Cady didn’t mind; she would take what she could get.) Jeff had humored her. “Cady, you’re hearing me but not hearing me,” he said whenever she snuck in anything campaign-related to their broadcast. But she liked the idea of incorporating some of the primary season razzle-dazzle, and she didn’t think she was the only one excited by it. Their viewership had already begun to see the slightest uptick. Why shouldn’t their show get to cover these things and have a little fun? It seemed absurd to outsource it all to the networks, no matter what some focus group said.

  “That’s not fair,” he said, sounding hurt. “I think you’re...betraying me. It’s like you’re sleeping with the enemy or something.”

  He almost, almost seemed vulnerable and because of that, she bit her tongue, took a deep breath. She thought he was being awfully dramatic, but was she possibly being insensitive? She started to feel guilty now. “It’s just a work assignment,” she said finally. “Be back before the Caps win, okay?” She spritzed her perfume—Birdie had gifted her a bottle of Chanel Nº 5—and kissed him goodbye.

  * * *

  When Cady arrived, the party was already in full swing, music thumping, red, white and blue l
ights dancing. The dive had been transformed into a club. She spotted Max roaming, capturing the revelry, and Reagan stationed at the center of it beside Ted—who she recognized from the photos on the walls of their home. Beside them, Vice President Arnold himself. Reagan was always so ho-hum when talking about him that it was easy to forget he was the second-most-powerful guy in this town. Six feet tall, mild-mannered, the lean, gray-haired sixty-something had been dubbed a “silver fox” in People magazine’s Sexiest People issue, in the early days of the administration. Now he seemed a little battered by the years and the campaign, some of the sparkle gone. This might have been why Carter Thompson, fourteen years his junior, had taken up the mantle as the sexy young upstart, sucking up all the sexy young votes.

  Reagan nodded in Cady’s direction now, bobbing her head at the talk, talk, talking she was being subjected to, as though she had heard it before many times. When Arnold got pulled away, she beelined for Cady.

  “You look so pretty,” Cady said, adding in a whisper, “and I still can’t tell...”

  “Neither can he,” she said, eyes on Ted. “I’m telling him this weekend. He’s home for a few days.” Then, in her best soap-opera-bad-acting voice, “I can’t live a lie anymore! Kidding. Want a sound bite with Arnold?”

  * * *

  In no time, Reagan whisked Cady and Max over, made introductions, and delivered this from the man of the hour:

  “You know what is the greatest joy?” Arnold said, looking around the room, then in Cady’s eyes, sincerely. “Mixing old friends with so many young supporters here tonight. You don’t often see that at these kinds of events. It was important to me to lower the threshold to allow this new guard in the door,” he said, grinning. “I treasure the support of all our voters.”

  After that coup, they needed only one last sweep with the camera to be sure they had footage of the major stars, and then they’d be all set.

  Across the way, Cady spotted Parker in dark jeans and a gray Henley beneath a tuxedo jacket. When he raised his arm to wave, she saw his sleeve was rolled up and a red cast with blue stars encased his right arm. He must’ve noticed her confusion; he shook his head and smiled, looking embarrassed.

  While Max finished up, Reagan provided her own off camera running commentary on the party attendees. “Don’t get that one talking,” she whispered, pointing to a woman in a pantsuit. “It’s like listening to a C-SPAN call-in show. She’s a Hill lifer, a superwonk—which I totally respect—I’m just, frankly, not up on all the minutiae of the bills going through Congress at the moment and not in the mood to smile and nod.” Reagan paused to drink her club soda. “This hottie over here with the rest of the press—” she gestured toward a leggy blonde in a black cut-out sheath sipping wine in a group of young suits and twentysomething ladies in knee-length cocktail dresses “—she’s a gossip reporter for which one, Capitol Report? I think some of those are Politico, Axios, some are The Hill, a Postie or two, Roll Call...”

  Cady felt a tap on her shoulder and turned around to find Parker standing behind her.

  “Hey! Pretty good bash,” he said.

  “Ohmagod, what—?” On reflex she took his arm, cradling it like a baby bird.

  “This? This is nothing.” He laughed. “Yeah, a broken heart and a broken arm in the same week. What are the odds?”

  “That sounds like a pretty lousy week,” Reagan said.

  “You remember Reagan,” Cady reintroduced her.

  “Oh, hey! My sliders made you sick at Birdie Brandywine’s house.”

  “Actually, you’re off the hook. Wasn’t you, it was my husband’s fault.”

  “Oh?” he said. “Well, I changed the recipe anyway. They were too spicy.”

  “Maybe a little.” Cady laughed.

  One of Arnold’s beleaguered body men appeared, summoning Reagan back to one of the VIP rooms, just as the music cranked up even louder.

  “So what happened here?” Cady had to lean more closely into him to be heard now. “Kitchen injury?”

  “Yeeeeahhh, no.” He ruffled his hair with his good hand, looking away before turning back to her. “Actually, I had a little hoverboard mishap. You were right, those things are dangerous.”

  “Who knew?” She feigned surprise.

  “Who knew?” he repeated.

  “Consumer Products Safety Commission?”

  “Consumer Products Safety Commission, yes. This guy—” he gestured to himself “—no.”

  She laughed and threw her hands up.

  “I kinda blame you, though.” He smiled, leaning closer. “If you must know.”

  She tucked her hair behind her ear to hear above the pulse of the music. “Me? What did I do?” Her phone buzzed in her clutch, and she peeked at a text from Jackson: when U coming home? He sounded like a caveman. She hoped he was kidding.

  “This was on your watch. After the interview?”

  She thought of him completely wiping out that day and began to laugh, then put her hands over her mouth.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, go ahead, kick a guy when he’s down.”

  “I’m sorry!” She patted his arm, still trying to stifle her giggles.

  “Yup, went to the emergency room as soon as you left. Made sure you and the camera dude were already back in the truck and driving away, at least. But, yeah.”

  “This is a totally inappropriate response, but for some reason, I can’t help it.” She abruptly stopped laughing. “Wait, are you gonna sue us? Because the show isn’t doing so great, we probably don’t have the cash to pay you...”

  “I’ll let it go this time. The free press was kind of helpful.” He looked around the packed room.

  “Well, you’re welcome, then,” she said. “But this is kind of embarrassing.” She gestured to the cast. “No one has signed this?”

  “Are people still supposed to do that when you’re older than the age of ten?”

  “Absolutely.” She pulled a felt-tip pen from her bag, good enough, and then started scribbling. Her phone buzzed again.

  “Injuries aside, I do owe you. Have you noticed there are some super important people here, besides ourselves, of course,” Parker went on.

  “Of course,” Cady said. Her phone buzzed again, another text. She finished writing. “There you go.”

  “This is great, now there isn’t even room for anyone else to write.” He read her message and laughed out loud. “‘The things some people will do to get on TV! Just kidding. And sorry!!—Cady & your pals at Best Day DC.’”

  “Glad to help,” she said. “And that’s an old-fashioned emoji. It’s called a sketch.” She pointed out the small TV she’d drawn.

  “Ohhh,” he said, joking. “That is definitely old-school.”

  “Hey, you should get Arnold to sign.” She wasn’t serious.

  “I met him!” he said, like a kid. “I wasn’t very cool.”

  “Well, you look pretty calm.”

  “Nope, I’m pretty much never calm. It’s a social anxiety disorder thing, self diagnosed. But I try. Fake it till you make it, right? Hey, isn’t that a TV thing?”

  “You’re ready for your close-up now!” Her phone started ringing, easy enough to silence, but she was annoyed and had to put an end to this. “Sorry, mind if I—?”

  He put his hands up. “Go, I’ve gotta go play darts with the VP,” he joked. “Even with this—” he held up his hand “—I’m pretty killer.”

  She nodded and picked up her phone as he slipped away. “Still working. What’s up?” she launched right in, just curt enough, rolling her eyes.

  “I’ve thought about it, and I don’t want you at this fund-raiser.” Jackson slurred his words like he’d been drinking. “I don’t like the optics.”

  “Are you serious right now?”

  “Yeah, I’m serious. You’ve gotta pick a side.”

  “I�
��m not writing any checks here. What’s the big deal? There are probably plenty of reasons to fight with me, but honestly this one doesn’t seem like such a big deal.”

  “I could go out too. There’s a lot I could be doing, with a lot of people. You’re making a choice not to be here.” His words came out garbled.

  “What? I can’t even understand you.” She stopped in her tracks, then started pushing through the crowd toward the door. “Why are you turning this into a thing? Have you been drinking? Alone?”

  * * *

  Reagan had that feeling again. For some reason it flared when she was wearing heels and a cocktail dress, as though her body was allergic to anything not made out of Lycra and intended for use at the gym. She instantly wished she had just told Ted weeks ago.

  From the corner of one of the private rooms, where Arnold was shooting pool with George Clooney, she scoped an escape route to avoid people she knew: too bad she knew everyone here. It was a minefield. Ted was speaking with some of the big money around the billiard table, and Reagan pulled out her phone, pretending to read an important text before stepping up and touching his arm with a bright smile. “I’m so sorry to interrupt. Natasha has a fever so I’m going to have to sneak out for a moment, call our sitter.” She nodded and pushed through the main room, packed wall-to-wall with people under thirty, finally making it outside and breathing in the cool night air.

  Ted followed close behind. “You’re not leaving are you? Can’t Stacy just give her some Tylenol and then let us know when the temp goes down?”

  “Um.” She kept walking to the curb, bringing up her Uber app.

  “I’d like you to be here to circulate. Arnold likes having you here. He likes a team effort, shows the campaign is about family values, blah blah, you know.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I got it, look, I’m sorry,” she said, struggling. “I just don’t feel so good.”