The Girls' Guide to Love and Supper Clubs

by Dana Bate

  As we land on the second floor of the museum, I see a huge sign for the First Ladies exhibit, which features gowns, accessories, and household trinkets of the nation’s First Ladies.

  “Ah, what could have been,” I say, sighing as I gaze at the placard.

  “You wanted to be a First Lady?”

  I shake my head. “No. But my ex-boyfriend wants to be president someday, I think. I wasn’t exactly the First Lady type.”

  “Let’s see about that, shall we?”

  We enter the exhibit, and I immediately stumble upon Helen Taft’s inaugural ball gown from 1909, the white silk chiffon glittering with rhinestones and beads and metallic thread. I remember coming across this dress on my first visit with my parents twenty years ago. I gazed at the dress and told my mom I wanted to be a First Lady so that I could wear a dress like that someday. My mom then proceeded to give me a five-minute lecture on how the institution of the First Lady was sexist and dated and how I should want to be the next president instead. And so began my years of occupational dysfunction.

  We meander through the exhibit until we end up in the room with the inaugural gowns and corresponding archival photos. The first dress I see is the sleeveless off-white dress Jacqueline Kennedy wore to the inaugural ball in 1961, the silk chiffon top encrusted with sparkly stones and glittery thread. Next to the dress is a photo of her walking arm in arm with JFK as they leave the White House, both looking radiant and classy, like two Hollywood stars.

  “You don’t think you could’ve handled that role?” Jacob asks, pointing at the photo.

  “Poise and grace aren’t exactly my thing.”

  “You were totally gracious at the dinner I went to. And anyway, poise and grace are overrated. I’ll take sexiness over poise any day.”

  “Jackie Kennedy was incredibly sexy,” I say, nodding toward her photo.

  He wraps his arm around my waist and gently squeezes my side. “Not as sexy as some people I know …”

  I pull away slightly and gently nudge him with my elbow. “Well, well, well. Don’t you know all the right things to say, Mr. Smooth Talker?”

  Jacob pokes me in the side with his finger and flashes a wry smile. “How did you manage to turn a compliment around and make me look like a bad guy? You really are superwoman.”

  “I guess I am.”

  He laughs and pushes me along by the small of my back. “Come on, then, superwoman,” he says. “Time to fuel your superpowers. Let’s grab something to eat.”

  Jacob and I manage to snag a bar seat at Central, the local bistro run by renowned chef Michel Richard, and given our early six o’clock arrival, there are only about six other people at the bar. We each order a burger and fries, and as we wash the juicy burgers down with a hearty zinfandel, we talk about his career—how he started writing for newspapers in high school and how he hopes to launch his own digital news outlet someday. He tells me about the band he toured and played with in college and his thoughts on the current music scene. When I try to get more personal, asking about his family and his past relationships, he clams up, and I notice he keeps things a little close to the vest, not wanting to open up or expose too much. But the more he talks, the more I want to know about him and the more willing I am to wait until he’s ready to tell me everything.

  “So what about you?” he asks. “What’s your game plan?”

  “In terms of …?”

  “Life. Career. Yada yada.”

  I shrug. “Not exactly sure. I’m waiting to see what happens with this supper club. If it continues along this trajectory, I might give the cooking thing a try for real.”

  “You’d quit your job?”

  “With any luck, yeah.”

  He presses his eyebrows together. “Why would you do that?”

  “So I could cook full-time.”

  “Can’t you do both? I mean the supper club is awesome, but so is working for someone like Mark Henderson.”

  I feel the burger churning in my stomach. Why does everyone think my work is so great? My parents, Adam, Jacob—they all value my career a thousand times more than I ever have. Maybe I’m missing something. If this many people support what I do, maybe I’m the one who has it all wrong.

  “We’ll see,” I say. I fiddle with my napkin. “I signed up for the GREs. I’m taking them in three weeks.”

  “Right on. See, I thought you had a game plan. You can be the chef-scholar-baker-economist. It’ll be awesome.”

  I force a smile as Jacob signals for the check. I wish the idea sounded half as awesome to me as it does to him.

  Jacob pays the bill, and we wander back toward the Federal Triangle Metro stop, strolling beneath the arches and lanterns, which now light the dusky walkway of the EPA building. When we turn around a bend, Jacob pulls me by the arm and ducks behind a hidden archway and presses me against a cool, limestone column. He runs his hand down the front of my cardigan and brings his face close to mine.

  “Hey there, superwoman,” he says. He kisses me, softly at first, then more forcefully, pushing against me with desire as he moves his lips down my neck. When he pulls away briefly, his eyes glittering in the light of the lanterns, he smiles in a way that turns me into a puddle of goo.

  “There are a dozen fresh cinnamon buns waiting back at my apartment,” I say.

  He grins. “There’s only one set of buns I’m interested in tonight.”

  I start shaking with laughter, unsure how to respond to a comment that is both totally sincere and totally cheesy. Truthfully, the buns I’m interested in tonight don’t involve cinnamon either.

  Jacob plants another kiss on my lips and then grabs my elbow and pulls me toward the escalator.

  “Come on,” he says, nibbling at my ear as we approach the escalator steps. “Let’s give that air mattress another try.”

  CHAPTER

  twenty-seven

  I am not the kind of girl who sleeps with men on the first date. I’m not even the type of girl who sleeps with men on the second date. But since I met Jacob at the first Dupont Circle Supper Club, the museum night is almost like our third date, and so sleeping with him isn’t so bad. At least that’s what I tell myself.

  When we return to my apartment, Jacob and I have sex twice on my Aerobed—sweaty, aggressive sex, the kind Adam and I used to have after having a big fight or after he spoke on the phone to his parents. Jacob kisses my shoulders and rubs my thighs and whispers in my ear that I am hot and sexy and wild. I’m tempted to inform him that, deep down, I’m not any of those things, but if I learned anything from my past relationship, it’s that showing my hand too soon will ruin everything. And so I pretend I am hot and sexy and wild, or at least as wild as my self-conscious, uptight personality will allow.

  Around 4:00 A.M., Jacob rouses me awake with a kiss on my shoulder. “Hey,” he whispers. “I’m going to head out.”

  I glance at my alarm clock. “It’s four in the morning. You really have to go now?”

  He nuzzles me with his chin. “Busy day ahead of me. I have to file a story for Monday.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  He kisses my shoulder again and then looks into my eyes, which crinkle at the edges as he smiles. “I’ll call you next week, okay?”

  I smile back. “Okay.”

  “I had a great time tonight,” he says, grabbing for his clothes.

  “Me, too.”

  He smirks. “Sounded that way.” I throw his boxers in his face, and he laughs. “I’ll talk to you soon, superwoman,” he says.

  Then he throws on his clothes, runs his fingers through his hair, and gives me one last kiss before he heads out the door.

  Jacob does not call all week. Correction: Jacob does not call for two weeks. I consider sending him a text or calling him instead, but he specifically said he would call me, so I don’t. I tell myself I am taking the high road. Consequently, I have no contact with Jacob for two full weeks and am plagued by feelings of self-doubt and insecurity. Apparently the high road is for losers.<
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  I hate that he hasn’t called me. What I hate even more is how much I care—how much I want him to call me and kiss me and shower me with displays of affection. After dating Adam, I feel as if I’ve opened some sort of Pandora’s box. I’m Relationship Sensitized, and now when a man so much as buys me dinner I’m ready to hop into bed with him and make him my boyfriend. This is why I never dated anyone seriously before Adam. I was protecting myself. But now I’m ruined, and so instead of spending the past two weeks finding a better location for our next supper club or studying for the GREs, I’ve spent nearly every waking hour obsessing over Jacob and why he hasn’t called me. Well, that and helping Blake with his stupid costume party.

  The Friday before Halloween, my phone rings as I flick through some documents for Mark, and I quickly grab the phone before the call goes to voice mail. Much to my dismay, it isn’t Jacob. It’s Blake.

  “Hey—what are you up to right now?” he asks.

  “Immersing myself in the life and times of Nelson Aldrich,” I say, leafing through a stack of papers festooned with neon yellow Post-its.

  “Who?”

  “Republican Senator in the early 1900s. He wrote up a plan that became the basis for the Federal Reserve Act.”

  “Wow, that sounds …”

  “Mind numbing?”

  “I was going to say specific.”

  “Yeah, that, too.” I stop flipping through my papers and click the cap back on my highlighter. “So what’s up? Why are you calling me at work?”

  “I was wondering if you could get out of work early today. Maybe leave after lunch or something?”

  “Not sure. Why?”

  “I need some help picking up stuff for the party.”

  Here we go again. I’ve spent all week getting ready for his Halloween party—making blood orange sorbet, baking and freezing dozens and dozens of cupcakes—and yet Blake continues to interrupt my flow by coming to me with his inane requests. Tuesday he wanted to discuss serving pieces and paper goods, a conversation that should have taken fifteen minutes, tops, but that Blake managed to stretch out to a full hour. Wednesday night he asked me to come along to pick up a bunch of cases of wine and beer and hard liquor, which involved mainly moral support on my part, since I neither own a car nor possess the strength to carry cases of booze more than a few feet. All I did was sit in Blake’s passenger seat and talk to him for a while. Then yesterday, he asked me to help him hang decorations, an activity I actually enjoyed, but one that, again, Blake managed to draw out for an extensive period of time. All of this togetherness would be only mildly annoying if Blake weren’t Enemy Number 1 of The Dupont Circle Supper Club. By spending time with him, I am forced to continue lying to his face.

  “Yeah … I don’t know, Blake. My boss needs me to get going on this book research.”

  “Aw, come on. What’s a few hours on a Friday afternoon? You probably wouldn’t get much work done anyway.”

  This coming from the workaholic who allegedly hasn’t taken a day off in six months. “Don’t you have stuff to do on the Hill?”

  “My boss is letting me take off early. My deputy will cover for me until close of business, and then I’m off for the weekend.”

  I lean back in my chair and sigh. “Okay, fine. Where should we meet?”

  “Can you swing by my office around two-thirty? I’m at 327 Cannon.”

  “Remind me which building Cannon is again? I always get the three House buildings confused.”

  “Easy—it’s the one right across from the Capitol South Metro stop. Can’t miss it.”

  “Okay. See you at two-thirty.”

  “Great. Oh—before I let you go, what are you wearing today?”

  “Excuse me?” This conversation has taken an uncomfortable turn.

  “Are you wearing a skirt or pants?”

  “Pants. Gray ones.”

  “Good. Pants are good.”

  “Yes, generally speaking I’d say pants are good. And in case you were wondering, I’m also wearing a cream V-neck sweater and white underwear. Are we done here?”

  “We’re done here,” he says, through what I can tell is a smile. “See you soon.”

  I hang up the phone and lean back in my chair and wonder where the hell Blake is taking me.

  As I’m on my way to meet Blake, Millie accosts me in front of the elevator with her signature blend of nosiness and gall.

  “Where are you off to?”

  “I haven’t been feeling that great,” I say, faking a cough. “I’m heading home to rest up.”

  She looks me up and down. “You seem okay to me.”

  “Tell that to my tonsils,” I say. You nosey biatch.

  “Well, I hope you feel better by tomorrow. It would suck to be sick on Halloween. Speaking of which, if you’re feeling better, give me a call. Adam and I are throwing a Halloween party at my place.”

  She and Adam are hosting a party? Together? I refuse to acknowledge what this could mean—that, after all this time, Millie’s wish has come true, and the two of them are actually an item. No, I’d much rather live in denial and believe they are throwing the party together as friends. I will do what I must to forestall a rapidly descending spiral of self-hatred and McFlurries.

  “You’re welcome to come,” Millie says.

  “I’ll let you know,” I say. Like I’d ever attend that party. I’d rather walk barefoot on a bed of flaming hot coals. Naked. While being stabbed.

  “You should come! It’s going to be a blast. Adam is dressing up as the secretary of defense, and I’m going to be a sexy soldier.”

  “I’ve never thought of female soldiers as being particularly sexy.”

  “They are when they wear camouflage rompers,” Millie says, winking.

  “Soldiers wear rompers? Since when?”

  Millie scowls. “Since now. God, Hannah, you’re so literal. It’s Halloween. Loosen up a little.”

  And it is in this moment, when Millie Roberts—tension personified—is telling me to loosen up, that I realize how dire the situation at NIRD has become, and how desperately I need to leave this place.

  The escalator at the Capitol South Metro stop dumps me out directly across from the Cannon House Office Building, where the smooth, white marble and limestone facade towers five stories above the street, the narrow windows arranged in perfect lines, as if someone pricked the side of the building with the tines of a fork. I scurry across the intersection and make my way up the marble steps to the First Street entrance, pushing my way through the double doors and into the security line. I lay my black nylon tote on the conveyor belt and pass through the metal detector, noting the unapologetic prominence of the handgun sitting in the holster of the Capitol Hill police officer in front of me.

  I grab my tote and move toward the building map posted on the wall. The map informs me “You Are Here,” which, given my appalling sense of direction, means absolutely nothing to me. All I know is that Blake works in 327, an office I can only assume is on the third floor. I push through the doors to the elevator bay, a cavernous, trapezoidal cove that houses two elevators and a broad staircase with a brass and wrought iron banister. The alcove smells sweet and chalky, like old books and sweet tea, and the cool air makes the hair on my arm stand upright. Men and women wearing suits in varying shades of gray, black, and navy pass in and out of the elevators, carrying stacks of papers and typing furiously on their BlackBerrys.

  Instead of waiting for the elevator, I ascend the two flights of stairs to the third floor and meander in the direction of room 327. The hallway ceiling rises twenty feet, dotted with textured globe lights, and the stark white walls are peppered on either side with American and state flags. After passing an office for a congressman from New Jersey and a congresswoman from California, I come upon room 327, which bears a plaque for Congressman Jay Holmes. An American flag hangs to the left of the door, and the white-and-red Florida state flag hangs to the right, beside a sign that says WELCOME, PLEASE COME IN.


  I open the door to the office, which is lined with plush blue carpet, and find myself standing right next to a young woman’s shiny mahogany desk, which takes up most of the space in the cramped office reception area.

  “Hi,” she says as she finishes jotting a message onto a pad of paper. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m here to see Blake Fischer?”

  “And you are?”

  “Hannah Sugarman.”

  She gestures toward a small seating area to my right. “Have a seat.”

  I sink into the blue-and-gold-striped couch, which is nestled in the corner of the room, in front of a small windowed office at the back of the reception area. The woman watches as I hug my tote against my side and offers a faint smile. At least she didn’t ask why I’m here because, quite frankly, I have no idea why I’m here. To help my landlord with his grocery shopping? To let him torture me with inane Halloween tasks? Not exactly the kind of thing I want to share with some congressional receptionist.

  As I pick a piece of black fuzz off my cream sweater, a camera crew and a woman dressed in a red suit emerge from the door behind the receptionist’s desk. A strikingly tall man with salt-and-pepper hair follows behind them. He wears a gray pinstripe suit, an American flag pin, and a navy tie with small red polka dots.

  “Thank you so much for your time, Congressman,” the woman says, shaking the man’s hand. “The story will air on The Situation Room tonight.”

  “My pleasure,” the congressman says. “This issue isn’t going away anytime soon.”

  Blake emerges from behind the congressman and beams when he sees me sitting in the waiting area.

  “Hannah—hey,” he says, coming toward me. “Sorry, we just wrapped up an interview with CNN. Do you mind waiting one sec while I hand stuff off to my deputy?”

  “No problem.”

  He waves me up from my seat. “Come here a sec.”

  I fumble with my bag and cautiously follow Blake across the room.