Happy Endings

by Sally Quinn

  Des. She didn’t want to think about him now. She missed him terribly. Was he still in love with Sadie? She knew they hadn’t seen each other for three years. But now Sadie was free. Well, she had finished with Desmond Shaw. If Sadie wanted him now, she could have him. If she really believed that, why did she feel sick to her stomach?

  She looked over at Julian, sleeping quite soundly on the sofa. He was beautiful and he loved her. He loved her because he couldn’t have her. She knew that much.

  She walked over to the sofa and knelt down beside him, kissing him softly on the lips, the neck, the ears.

  He pretended to be asleep at first, but as her kisses became more insistent, he reached out to her silently, pulling her on top of him, then rolling her easily off the sofa onto the carpet. She raised her arms behind her head and he grabbed her wrists with his hands, pressing them against the floor. She was slipping away into a state of distracted desire as Julian made love to her as if he were expecting her to evaporate any moment.

  Neither of them spoke afterward. They lay in each other’s arms on the floor, their clothes disheveled, listening to the noise from the wire machine with its urgent clacking, its insistent little bells.

  “So,” he said after a long while. “What will all of this mean?”

  He was trying to sound casual.

  Allison pretended not to understand.

  “It means that we now have a very liberal President from Tennessee, Freddy Osgood. It means that our country will go through another tormenting and soul-searching period about where we went wrong. It means that in about an hour… what time is it anyway?”

  “Half six.”

  “It means that any minute now my phone will start ringing with requests for me to go on British television to talk about the moral decay of America, the inadequacy of our gun control laws, and the wild west mentality of our countrymen.”

  “What will this mean for you?”

  He couldn’t bring himself to say “us.”

  “It means I’ll have to go back to the States for the funeral. Muchnick will insist that I stay here to cover British reaction, but the Prime Minister will go, so nothing will be happening here. Besides, Rosey was a friend. Uncle Rog will be there. This will be tough on him. He adored Rosey. I think he was almost relieved when he had a stroke and had to step down from the presidency. I think he really believed Rosey was a better President than he was. He was right. I want to be there with Uncle Rog and Aunt Molly. God, I can’t believe I’m talking about Rosey’s funeral.”

  She was talking rapidly.

  “Well, then, I shall miss you, my sweet,” he said rather flippantly.

  “I’m sure Lady Clarissa will be overjoyed to hear that I’m out of the country.”

  “She won’t hear it from my lips.”

  “I think I’ll seal them myself right now, just to make sure,” she said and climbed on top of him, straddling him and this time pinning his arms back behind his head as she playfully began to munch at his mouth, taking little bites and then pulling away.

  “Ah, a lovely little farewell fuck,” he said, grabbing her and pulling her down to him, pressing her mouth against his.

  The phone rang. It rang again.

  “Shit,” said Julian.

  “Right on the button,” she said, as she pulled away from him and ran to get it.

  “The Daily,” she answered. “Oh, hi, Nigel. Yes, it’s horrible. I know, right. What time? Yeah, I don’t. I’ll have to talk to my desk to see what they want. Moral decay, gun control laws, the usual. I got it. Right. I’ll get back to you. Yes, I’m sorry, too.”

  She turned to Julian.

  “BBC,” she said. “I’d better check in with the desk again.”

  She started to place the call when the phone rang again. It was Cotes.

  “Allison? Are you going back?” He sounded very businesslike.

  “Yes, though I haven’t informed the desk yet.”

  “Will you go with me?”

  “Oh Cotes, I have to think about this. When are you leaving?”

  “Late this afternoon or early evening. I talked to Sadie. She just got back from the hospital a few minutes ago. She’s still in shock. She wants me to be an honorary pallbearer. She wants me back as soon as I can get there. I’ve got to go over to Downing Street and advise the PM on their plans to attend the, uh”—he cleared his throat—“the, uh, funeral. I’ll be going on an Air Force plane.”

  “I don’t know, Cotes. How will I pay for it?”

  “You don’t have to pay for it. You’ll be my guest.”

  “You know better than that. I’m not even sure the paper will let me even if we can figure out a way to pay for it.”

  “Allison, find a way, please. I don’t want to go by myself. I don’t want that plane ride alone.”

  Okay, Cotes. I’ll call you back.”

  Her conversation with Muchnick was worse than she had feared. At first he refused to let her come back at all, claiming he couldn’t leave England uncovered and he couldn’t spare any of his correspondents in Europe to cover for her.

  “Look, Muchnick,” she told him finally. “This is not negotiable.”

  She had to go over his head to the managing editor, Walt Fineman, to get them to allow her to go back with Cotes. They would figure out the problem of payment later. She convinced Walt that it would be to their advantage to have access to the ambassador for six hours alone. He would be in touch with the White House from the plane and that would be invaluable to the paper later. She felt a little sleazy even arguing the case that way. What she wanted to say was that her friend was hurting. But journalists weren’t supposed to talk that way. The story always came first. So she sold it as a story and he bought it.

  She wondered when she would start feeling sad. She hoped not until after the funeral. She had too much work to do.

  Julian drove her to the embassy, a block from her office on Upper Brook Street. They hadn’t had time to talk all day because she was so busy.

  She could tell he was trying to be nonchalant about her departure, yet both of them sensed that this trip was going to be a turning point.

  He stopped the car and turned off the ignition. He didn’t look at her right away. She instinctively clutched at her bag, wrapping both her arms around it on her lap. They sat in silence for a moment.

  “I think the script calls for an embrace,” he said.

  She tried to smile, then reached up and wrapped her arm around his neck, burying her head in his chest. The only sound was the rustle of her raincoat and the rain pelting the roof of the car.

  “Don’t stay away too long, luv, or I shall soon be beating them away with clubs.”

  “If only that weren’t true.”

  “Actually, I think I’ll go down to Sussex and bury myself in my work.”

  “Great idea. You’ll be safe there.”

  “I don’t know; Clarissa is rather persistent.”

  She blinked back the tears. Fatigue and the events of the day had brought her emotions to the edge.

  “Goodbye, Julian.”

  He took her chin gently in his hand, leaned over, and kissed her softly on the lips.

  “I love you,” he said under his breath.

  She did not respond.

  It was only later on the plane that she realized he had never told her that before.

  * * *

  Cotes was waiting for her in one of the seats at the back of the little Air Force Gulfstream 3. She took the seat facing him. She was relieved to see they were alone.

  Cotes, with his choirboy face and mop of sandy hair, actually looked his age at this moment. There were dark circles under his bloodshot eyes.

  He wore a crewneck sweater. She had slipped into a knit pullover and socks. He was sipping a bourbon on the rocks. She ordered a beer, a proper antidote to her hangover.

  As the plane took off, the steward brought Cotes another drink and a cheese tray, then disappeared into the galley to the rear.

&
nbsp; Cotes seemed calm as they compared notes about what had happened to Rosey.

  By now they knew that the gunman had been a Vietnam veteran and a former communications expert at the White House who had gotten deeply involved in drugs and been fired as a result. He had tapped into the White House communications system to learn the President’s habits and schedule, had rented an apartment in the building behind Lorraine Hadley’s house in Georgetown, and had waited for an opportunity to kill Rosewell Grey. He had been diagnosed recently as psychotic. He had left a note saying he was acting on his own, that he wanted to punish the President personally for destroying his life.

  He had been gunned down by the Secret Service minutes after they discovered him on the other side of the wall from Lorraine’s backyard. There appeared to be no conspiracy.

  Cotes consumed an entire bottle of wine at dinner. Against her better judgment she had submitted to his pressure and had drunk over a half bottle herself.

  It was only after the steward had retired that Cotes, sufficiently plastered and working on a brandy, let down his guard.

  “Jesus,” he said at last. “Jesus, I loved that som’bitch.”

  Cotes’s accent by now was so Southern it was almost unintelligible.

  “He was closer to me than my goddamn brother. He was so private. He never let on about his problems; he never bragged on his triumphs. But he talked to me. And he was the one I talked to. We were each other’s only confidants.”

  Tears rolled down Cotes’s face and Allison, who had tried to keep herself together all day, found his grief catching. He put his head down on the table between them and began to sob. She hadn’t heard a man cry like that since her father, Sam, wept when her mother died. It was her first memory. She was two. Sam had been dead for over ten years, murdered by a burglar. Now, exhausted and confronting Rosey’s death for the first time all day, the anguish of Sam’s death overwhelmed her.

  She was crying softly when Cotes raised his head and began to howl like some wounded animal.

  Then he began to sing, quietly at first, almost whispering, until finally he was belting out “Amazing Grace” in a beautiful baritone.

  Allison listened, tears streaming down her face. Once she had allowed herself to start she couldn’t stop.

  When he finished, they were both so drained that there were no tears left. She closed her eyes, hoping that Cotes would let her sleep. She was drifting away when he called her name.

  “I just want you to know that I know everything,” he said abruptly.

  “What do you mean?” She was still half asleep and confused.

  “I know about Sadie and Desmond Shaw.”

  “Sadie and Des?”

  She was awake now. She knew very well what he meant. She waited to let him tell her. An old reporter’s trick. He might not know everything. Or he might know more than she did.

  “Rosey told me. It damn near killed him.”

  Allison just stared at him. Why did it still hurt as though it had happened yesterday and not two years ago?

  “Sonny, I know that Sadie and Des had an affair. I know you found out about it and broke up with him. That’s why you requested a foreign assignment. Sadie told Rosey everything when she ended it with Des before the convention. I could have strangled her for it. I still don’t see how she could have done it. Christ. The risk. The humiliation for Rosey if it had gotten out. The First Lady fucking the bureau chief of the Weekly. Bitch. That’s what I called her to Rosey’s face. Bitch. It was the only time he’s ever been really mad at me. Gentleman to the end, he blamed himself. But she was. She was a goddamn bitch.”

  Allison closed her eyes again.

  “Cotes,” she said, “I really don’t want to talk about it. Please.”

  “You’re still in love with that bastard, aren’t you?”

  “I hate his guts.”

  “It’s worse than I thought.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “What about Julian?”

  “I care deeply about Julian.”

  “That’s the kiss of death. Well, I can’t say I’m pained to hear it. He’s managed to knock off every great piece of ass in London. In fact, you’re the only woman who’s given him any trouble at all. The elusive Miss Allison Sterling.”

  “If I fell in love with him he’d lose interest in me in a minute.”

  Despite herself, Cotes had drawn her into the conversation.

  “So what are you saving yourself for? You’re not getting any younger.”

  Cotes’s tone had suddenly changed and she stiffened slightly.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, I mean you’re forty years old. You’re a very beautiful woman. I can’t imagine any man not wanting you. Time’s running out if you want to have babies.”

  “That’s my problem, Cotes.”

  She was just tired enough and had had enough to drink that she didn’t feel like being diplomatic.

  “Well, I might be able to help you out.”

  “Cotes, what the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’d like to throw my hat in the ring, Sonny. I’m just drunk enough and just pitiful enough tonight to have the courage to ask you.”

  “Oh God,” she said and buried her face in her hands.

  “I probably didn’t say it right. I mean, I know this isn’t the best timing, it’s just that I’ve admired you for so long, but I thought you were in love with Julian so I didn’t, then tonight when you… I just wondered… oh, shut up, Tennant. You’re making an ass out of yourself. Forget I said anything. It’s just the booze talking. I don’t know. Sometimes I get so goddamned lonely. God, I get lonely. And now… now Rosey’s dead. My buddy, my friend is dead.”

  He put his head down on the table. Allison reached over and put her hand on the top of his head, stroking it gently.

  He was asleep in seconds. She leaned her head back and immediately fell asleep as well.

  The steward didn’t wake them until the plane was landing. They avoided each other’s glance as they took turns going to the bathroom to freshen up. Cotes disappeared up to the cockpit to chat with the pilots until they were on the ground.

  The White House had sent a car to meet Cotes. Allison accepted a ride, insisting that she sit in front while a staffer briefed Cotes. They dropped him at the White House first.

  “Goodbye, Allison. I’ll probably see you tomorrow,” he said, matter-of-factly, as he got out. “Thank you for coming with me.”

  Once she had checked into her room at the Jefferson Hotel, a block from the Daily, she called the desk. It was after ten.

  Unfortunately Muchnick was still there.

  “So, did you get a story?”

  “There was no story, but…”

  “Great. That nonstory probably will cost us a cool five thousand bucks. Well, how was the food?”

  “I’m going to bed. It’s been a long day. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t be late. We’ve got a funeral to cover.”

  “So I’m told.”

  3

  Willie woke her up, bounding into her room and jumping up onto the bed. She could feel his warm breath on her cheek, his pudgy fingers around her neck. It was his usual morning ritual. Released by his nanny to attack them he would come wake them up, sometimes earlier than they had hoped. Still half asleep, she wound her arms around his body.

  “Ummmm,” she said, burrowing her face into the sweet folds of his neck. “I’m gon’ get me some sugar.” She began to kiss him until he giggled with delight. She squeezed him even tighter and began to rock back and forth with him from side to side.

  “Where’s my daddy?” he asked suddenly.

  She felt a shock as she realized she had forgotten. She had been sound asleep when he came in.

  Rosey was dead. There was no daddy. Their world was shattered. She let go of Willie, helpless in front of this two-year-old child. A numbness began to creep up her body. She hadn’t read the books th
at tell you what to say.

  “Mommy, where’s my daddy?”

  He gestured to the empty side of the bed. Queen-size. Rosey hated king-size.

  “I like to hold on to you,” he had said. “You get lost in a king-size bed.”

  She looked over at the fresh pillow, undented; the sheets neat and tucked in. Willie was right. He wasn’t there. She touched his pillow just to make sure it wasn’t an illusion. Acceptance hadn’t really taken hold yet.

  Willie was watching her as she moved her hand along the pillow, as though she saw something he could not. As though it were some sort of magic trick where his daddy would come leaping out from behind the pillow.

  “Wheeeeeeeeeeere’s Daddy?” squealed Willie with pleasure and pounced on the pillow, picking it up and looking underneath. But nobody said, “There he is!” and popped out.

  Willie, undaunted, tried again. “Wheeeeeeeeeeere’s Daddy?” Sadie buried her face in her hands.

  Willie quieted down. He put his hand on her arm and said softly, “Mommy?”

  “Mommy’s very sad, Willie.”

  Willie put his arms around her.

  She really believed that he understood, because he didn’t let her go for the longest time.

  Then he asked again. “Where’s my daddy?”

  “Daddy’s gone to heaven.”

  “What’s heaven?”

  “It’s a beautiful place where everybody’s very happy. And Daddy can sit in a big chair and watch over us. He can protect us in heaven and make sure everything is okay. He’s watching us right now, and he wants us to be happy, too.” She could barely speak.

  “Do they have candy there?”

  “Yes, lots of candy and everything.”

  “I want to go there, too.”

  “So do I, my precious. So do I.”

  * * *

  There were so many things to think about. So many things to do, to plan. She had never really thought that Rosey might die despite the premonition. They’d never even discussed it. He’d left everything to her to be divided among the three children. He’d told her that once. That was the extent of their talks about death. He never said where he wanted to be buried. What kind of funeral. It never occurred to either one of them that he would die so soon. That was probably unrealistic, his being President. What did they think all those Secret Service had been for? They were there because there were people who wanted to kill the President. But there was something invincible about Rosey, some inherent belief he had about himself that he imparted to others. Maybe it was his upper-class background, his WASP mentality. They wouldn’t dare.