by Sally Quinn
“Walt, Walt, Walt, it’s the game. The pursuit, the big score. What do all those guys on Wall Street want with another billion? What do the leveraged-buyout artists want? They can’t begin to spend it all. They want it because it’s there. Another conquest. It’s like playing championship chess. When there’s a change in administrations… for them it’s the Olympics. Howard trains for four years.”
She looked over to Shirley Walker’s table and watched her turn girlish as Howard moved in for the kill.
“I mean this boy is in shape. Do you realize how much work goes into his vocation? Not only does he have to know who’s in with the President, their best friends, relatives, and staffs, at least three levels down, but also the enemies. That’s just for starters. He’s got to know everything about the Vice President, the secretary of state, all the top cabinet officers, senators, congressmen, Embassy Row, the top lawyers and lobbyists… and don’t forget the press. He’s got to keep tabs on all the governors of both parties. One of them is always sure to run. He’s got to stay in favor with whatever hostesses are left who haven’t gone broke or died of old age. Plus, he’s got to be very careful, being a bachelor, about who he takes out. He can only take out people who don’t matter in case he upsets them. He can’t take out his ‘old flame’ Shirley, for instance, because if he takes her to bed and there are hard feelings afterward he could get in trouble. He can’t take out anybody too cute or sexy or too famous or successful or too smart or opinionated. But they can’t be stupid, ugly, or without some social graces either. They have to be totally inoffensive, boring, neutral. What you might call a Swiss lay.”
Walt was laughing when the waiter brought their risotto.
“Quite a change from the old lunch hangouts,” she said.
“Yeah,” he said. “It gets a little trendy sometimes.”
“I still pine for good ole Chez Camille with its grungy decor and those fabulous moules marinières,” said Allison.
“God, Sonny. It’ll be good to have you back. I really have missed you.”
He began to put his hand over hers. His eyes looked a little misty. He could feel her pull back a bit. Not physically. He pulled back, too, taking her cue.
“It’s the historical perspective I miss,” he said, and smiled.
“Historical perspective! You can go fuck yourself. I’m not that old.”
They were both relieved when the emotional moment had passed.
“So tell me more about Howard Heinrich. How does the guy do it? It must be exhausting.”
“It is exhausting. It’s exhausting training for the decathlon, too. I was once ruminating with Heinrich over lunch. It was while Uncle Roger was having such a rough time in the White House. Before his stroke. I said I couldn’t understand why anybody would want to be President. And Howard said to me, ‘I can’t understand anybody not wanting to be President. At least I can’t understand why anybody would want to live in this town and not be President. It’s the only game in town. If you can’t be President then the name of the game is to be as close as possible to whoever the son of a bitch is.’ ”
“Who’s doing the interview over there?” Walt was craning to see what was going on as bright lights went on. There was a sudden commotion at one of the center tables in the middle of the restaurant.
The waiter who was clearing the table answered Walt’s question. “It’s Jules Lowen and a camera crew from ‘Good Night.’ They’re doing a piece on business as usual in Washington after the assassination.”
The waiter looked embarrassed as he left to get their coffee.
“I don’t believe it,” said Allison. “That’s disgusting. But then Benton Halloran was never known for his taste. Is he still a lush?”
“Yep. But you’d never know it on the air. I’m told he can be three sheets to the wind and still put on a flawless performance. Anyway, that’s not Halloran. That’s his new correspondent, Jules Lowen.”
“How can they do this?”
“Sonny, you’ve been in Colorado with Roger Kimball for nearly a week. This town has made its transition. The king is dead, long live the king. Besides, you’re a journalist. It’s a good story. Less than two weeks after the President has been assassinated let the games begin. With your old pal Heinrich carrying the torch. This scene is part of the story. Don’t tell me you’ve lost your touch?”
“No, I, it’s just that I…” she felt on the verge of tears.
“Sorry, Sonny. I guess I’m just too cynical. Oh, oh. Look. Heinrich is about to make his move on the correspondent. He’s circling around the table making sure they see him as he passes. Now they’ve caught him. Now he’s resisting. Ladies and gentlemen, this is touch and go. Will they be able to persuade him? Ah ha. Got him. He’s down in the seat, next to the correspondent. This is risky, ladies and gentlemen. A real high-risk move. A gamble. He could come across looking crass and insensitive. But no. I think he’s pulled it off. He’s looking mournful. Wait. Oh God, he’s beautieeeful. He’s pulled out his handkerchief. He’s wiping his eyes. He’s blowing his nose. He’s sighing heavily. He’s motioning to the rest of the room. He’s patting the correspondent on the hand, now the arm. He’s standing up. He’s walking slowly, sadly, head slightly bowed out of the restaurant as the camera follows—bravo.”
“Take me out, Coach,” whispered Allison.
“Jules is a pretty nice guy. He probably hated this assignment. Here he comes…. Hey, Julie. I see you’ve just interviewed the quarterback. What did he have to offer?”
Lowen sat down with relief.
“Christ, the guy is something. He was crying actual tears. He was saying that the city was so grief-stricken that people just wanted to be together, to mourn together. That’s why the restaurant was so full. It was like a giant wake. Nobody wanted to be alone. But it was too much for him, he said. He was going home before his meal arrived. He couldn’t swallow. But it helped to be with friends when you were in such pain.”
“He’s only just finished his third meal,” said Allison.
“Do you enjoy your work, Jules?” asked Walt.
“Oh, give me a break. This is not my idea. Although it’s not a bad story, given the results. Anyway, I’ve got to run. Nice to see you back in town, Allison.”
“That’s television for you,” said Allison, after he had left.
“Speaking of which, Des has become quite the TV star, you know. He’s doing ‘Dateline: Washington’ regularly on Sundays and he’s really good at it.”
Allison was surprised. Des hadn’t mentioned it. But then, they were hardly having a career talk the only time she had seen him.
“So I gather,” she said.
“What’s with Mr. Wonderful?”
“You can’t help it, can you?”
“Sorry.”
“I’m having dinner with him tonight.”
“Is he the reason why you accepted the new job so quickly?”
“Sure, Walt. I’m just an airhead bimbo who makes all her career decisions based on the men in her life.”
“Sonny, I don’t know why I react this way to Des. I apologize. It’s just that he hurt you once very badly and I don’t want to see you get hurt again.”
“I can’t be angry with you, Walt. I know you care about me. But you’ve got to trust me. I haven’t been in London for two years for nothing. I’m older and wiser. In other words, I have historical perspective.”
He was signing the check. He looked up at her, his eyebrows furrowed.
“Well, in that case,” he said, “I hope Des is history.”
* * *
Nora’s restaurant was as crowded at dinnertime as i Ricchi had been at lunch. The public Washington “wake” was clearly in full force.
Allison had agreed to meet Des there at 9:30 because it was Thursday night and the magazine would be closing.
She had had a chance to go back to her hotel and shower and change and she felt a lot fresher and more relaxed.
The afternoon had been exhausti
ng and, though she wouldn’t admit it to anybody, scary. She had accepted Walt’s offer to be assistant managing editor for national affairs without really thinking about it. It was one of those offers you couldn’t refuse. Then, later, thinking about it, it made her crazy. How could she possibly have accepted this job? She had never been an editor except for filling in occasionally on the national desk when people were away on vacation. People would resent her, she’d been away for two years, and she was a woman, which would make it tougher. There were a lot of negatives.
But they had all insisted. Walt, Alan, even Calhoun, who was leaving. Nobody would resent her. They all respected and admired her as a reporter. She was the best. And the toughest. Being away for two years gave her a fresh view of things, she’d ask the right questions. In the end, what it all boiled down to, and what none of them would come right out and admit, was that she was a woman. They needed a woman. They had to have a woman. They were desperate for a woman in one of the top management jobs. They didn’t have anybody remotely close in the other sections. She was to be the sacrificial lamb. If she screwed up she would blow it for all the other women at the paper. Not to mention journalism, not to mention the fate of all women in the entire world. Not that she was being melodramatic or anything.
She hadn’t decided whether to tell Des tonight. What if he thought she was coming back just because of the other night? She didn’t want to put any pressure on him. On the other hand, she’d had it with London. There was really no story there. She’d done all the great eating trips in Europe, she’d O.D.’d on English country weekends, and she was never going to be an Anglophile. Then there was Julian. She had to break it off with Julian. She just needed help. Maybe it was convenient to have a profession that allowed you to move every time you ran into man trouble.
The truth was, it was time. Washington was the news center of the world, she was a journalist, and this was where the story was. She wanted to be here. If Des misunderstood, that was just too bad.
She was thinking all this as she walked into Nora’s, fully expecting him not to be there. In all the time they had lived together and met at restaurants, he had never managed to get there ahead of her.
She was greeted effusively by the owner, an old friend.
“Des is here. He’s waiting for you at your table in the back corner. Welcome home.”
“Being here really makes me feel like I am home,” she said.
He led her through the small room filled with print tablecloths, soft candles, and quilted walls to “their” table in the back, small and round and intimate.
Des was sitting to the side, having saved the back corner seat for her so that she would be facing the room, her favorite place.
He looked quite spiffy for Des, especially for Des having come directly from a hard day at the office. His hair was combed, his shirt was buttoned at the top, and his tie seemed devoid of spots. He had shaved and the minty smell of his breath when he leaned down to kiss her hello indicated that he had brushed his teeth. A bottle of champagne stood in a cooler next to the table.
“Okay, what’s wrong?”
She hadn’t meant to sound accusatory. When Des was on his best behavior it meant bad news.
“What have I done now?” His look was one of surprise and a little hurt.
“Nothing. That’s the problem. It’s all too perfect.”
“Jeez. A guy wants to take his little gal for dinner, a little champagne, a little hearts and flowers, and all he gets is shit.”
“I’ll have a glass of champagne.” She nodded to the waiter.
She turned to Des and they both smiled uneasily. When the waiter had filled her glass she held it up to his and he clinked his glass to hers. They looked at each other and smiled again. Then they both looked down at the table.
“It’s warm in here,” said Allison. “I think I’ll take off my jacket.”
She slid her white linen jacket off and let it drop on the back of her chair as Des leaned over with one hand to help her. She was wearing a white silk camisole top. She rubbed her arms nervously, gazing around the restaurant for something to talk about.
“Good idea,” he said. He took off his jacket, crumpled it up in a little ball, and stuck in on the empty seat next to him.
“I feel like I’ve been living out my whole life in restaurants lately,” she said, with a slight laugh.
“Yeah, I know what you mean.”
“Being single,” they both said in unison. They looked up at each other in surprise and laughed.
“Which reminds me,” he said and began fumbling in his pocket.
“I have some news,” she said, running her hand through her hair.
“Save it.”
“What?”
“It can wait.”
She was puzzled and relieved at the same time. She was really dreading telling him she was going to move back. The way this dinner was going it was clear he wasn’t going to be too thrilled.
“I think I’ll have another glass of champagne,” she said, reaching for the bottle.
“No, here, let me help.”
“Des, you’re being so goddamned polite. I can’t stand it.”
What she didn’t say was that it reminded her of a night years ago. He had broken up with her after she scooped him so badly on a cabinet nomination story. She had humiliated him in front of the whole town. Afterward, he had taken her to dinner. He had been so polite and gentlemanly all the way through that it had given her the creeps. He had even opened the car door for her. She had known all along that something was terribly wrong, even before he dropped her off at her door and said goodbye, not goodnight, and drove away. This, when they had been living together. He’d never even told her he was mad. Just goodbye. Just like that.
“Well, don’t get used to it. It’ll never happen again.”
He had pulled something out of his pocket.
“Shall we order?”
This whole scene was making her edgy. It was not going at all the way she had planned. She picked up the menu and began to scan it. She couldn’t concentrate. She put the menu down and reached for a sip of her champagne.
Something sharp and metallic hit her lip and she jerked her head back in surprise.
“My God!”
“What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know. There’s something in my glass.”
She put down her glass and peered into it. Before she could reach in Des had put his finger in her champagne and pulled out something gold. Without saying anything he took her left hand and slipped it on her finger.
It was a moment before she realized what was happening.
Then she looked down at her hand. A gold ring was on her finger, two hands holding a crown over a heart. It was so worn and old-looking that it was hard to discern the design. Just the outlines were clear.
“A claddagh ring. My great-grandmother’s claddagh ring. It was her wedding ring when she was married as a girl in Ireland.”
He cleared his throat.
Allison stared at him, then stared down at the ring, then looked back at him. She didn’t know whether to laugh or not. She didn’t know how to behave. Was this a joke? What was he saying to her? What was she supposed to say to him? She was afraid to respond.
“Des, I’m not sure I understand.”
“Sonny?”
Suddenly he looked so vulnerable and sweet and scared. He cleared his voice again.
“I love you and I want to marry you.”
She couldn’t answer. She could only-feel her jaw drop slightly as she stared at him in disbelief. This was the last thing in the world she had expected from him tonight. She said the only thing that came into her mind.
“Now you’ll think that the only reason I’m taking the job as national editor is so that I can come back to marry you.”
“I take it that means yes.”
He was grinning with relief.
“No one’s ever said those words to me before.”
She
was talking out loud, musing to herself more than speaking to Des.
“I’ve never said those words before.”
“Not even to Chessy?”
“Never. She proposed to me, steamrollered me into marriage before I knew what had happened. I was too smitten at the tender age of twenty-one to know what a bad idea it was.”
They sat quietly for a moment. She took another sip of champagne.
“What about Nick? I thought Nick asked you to marry him.”
“Nick asked me to go with him to Vietnam when we graduated from Columbia Journalism School. He had a great job offer. So did I. In New York. He didn’t ask me to marry him. He asked me to give up my job and follow him around the world. I presume he meant to marry me, but he never asked. Not like that.”
There was another silence. They had never been this awkward with each other.
The waiter took their order. Allison couldn’t remember, after he left, what she had asked for. She didn’t care. She couldn’t have been less hungry.
“So what’s the job?” Des was backing away from the proposal.
“Assistant managing editor for national affairs. Replacing Calhoun. He wants to go off and write books. I guess I’ll start out as national editor. Basically, Plumley and I will exchange jobs. Then after I’ve completed my apprenticeship, approximately six months, I’ll move into Calhoun’s job.”
“That’s a pretty big job.”
“For a woman?”
“I didn’t mean that. You’re the most capable person I know. I just mean you’ve been out of the country for three years, you’ve never been an editor and you’re a woman. Meaning a lot of those guys are not going to want to take it from somebody in a skirt.”
Her impulse was to get defensive, tough it out. But Des was not challenging her. He was clearly being sympathetic, and she really needed to talk to somebody. She’d spent the whole afternoon pretending to be cool. Besides, she was on her third glass of champagne. And somewhere in the dark recesses of her mind was the recognition that she had just been proposed to for the first time in her life at age forty.
“Des, I’m scared. I don’t know whether I can handle it or not. I mean, I know I’m smarter than Plumley and I’m just as smart as Calhoun, but there’s something different about them. They exude a certain attitude. Like they’re owed. Like it’s their due to be editors, to be in charge, to lead people. I don’t feel that way. I feel as if I don’t want to be responsible for anybody but myself. I also feel it’s my duty. They need a woman. They don’t have one. If I don’t do it who will? I’m surely the most capable woman in the office right now. It would be a disaster for them to go outside, bring a woman in as AME national from some other paper. But if I fail… even if I don’t like it and want out… I’ve told them I’ll do it but I still haven’t really decided.”