by Sally Quinn
“Well, one thing we talked about was having a series of small, intimate dinner parties upstairs here in the private quarters,” said Sadie. She had brought this up with Blanche shortly before the two men appeared and Blanche had seemed receptive, though a bit uncomfortable.
“It’s rarely done. In fact, Rosey and I never actually did it. We’d have friends to dinner in the family dining room and we’d have state dinners, but we never really entertained in the White House the way most people in political life would do at home. You might think of having twenty-four people at a time, two round tables of twelve or three tables of eight, something like that.” She paused and waited for his reaction.
“Who’ll we invite?”
“The point would be to invite journalists, people in Congress, lawyers, mixed in with some in your own administration. It would give people a chance to get to know you on a more personal level, to see you and Blanche at your best. It benefits those in your administration who need to do a little business on the Hill, cozy up to the press a little, meet and greet. It’s the kind of thing that used to be done by Washington hostesses who don’t exist anymore. The hostesses used to have kind of a marketplace where things got done, contacts were made. It was really invaluable to a lot of people. I don’t see why the President and his wife couldn’t fill the social vacuum. Plus the fact that just getting invited to the White House is a big thrill for anybody. Nobody would turn you down. It couldn’t hurt. There’s really no downside if your guest lists are good.”
“Hell of an idea,” piped up Foxy, who had been assessing Sadie while she talked. “Not only is she beautiful but smart, too.”
All three of them looked at Foxy, who suddenly seemed embarrassed at his heavy-handed compliment. He even appeared to be blushing, something he probably hadn’t done since he was fourteen.
“I think we were talking about parties,” reminded Sadie, but with a smile on her face.
“I told Sadie I thought it was a good idea,” said Blanche, “but it’s just somethin’ I’ve never done before. A state dinner they can put on without me. There’s a whole office that does that. If Freddy were a bachelor they’d still have state dinners. But this would be so personal. I am here to tell you that I have never had a seated dinner in my life except for the dinner before our wedding. I like to have killed myself by the time that wedding was over. I just don’t want to end up being a laughingstock.”
“You’ve got to make it personal. You can even bring up some singing stars and other entertainers who helped during the campaign. People like to be with interesting successful people in the power center of the world. Period. If you make that possible and if you can be yourself, it’s a piece of cake.”
“She’s right, honey. I think it’s a great idea. We’ll do it.”
“You know what, though, Sadie?” said Blanche. “I still think a lot of those people are horses’ asses. There are a lot of big mouths and big egos in this city, a lot of hypocrites and phonies and climbers. You’re nothing but a title or a job to them. I’ll do it. I’ll have these parties. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it, or them for that matter.”
“That was quite a speech, gal,” said Foxy. “You’re turning into a true patriot. Next thing I know I’ll be coming in here for a little bourbon and finding you sewing a flag.”
“Shut up, Foxy,” said Blanche, “and get your sorry ass into the dining room. We’re getting ready to eat. Sadie, you might as well stay. Too bad you didn’t bring a nightgown and toothbrush, you could spend the night.”
Sadie laughed, though a cloud of gloom spread over her at the idea of ever staying another night in the White House again. Too many sad memories.
Freddy and Foxy joined in the invitation and she finally agreed to stay for dinner. She called Monica to ask her to put Willie to bed without her. This was the first night she hadn’t been home to tell him goodnight since Rosey died. She didn’t want to think about that. She was actually enjoying herself. Though she was sitting in the room where she had known more pain than she had ever known in her life, she still was having the best time she had had since she left. These people amused her, and she wasn’t thinking about Des either.
“What are we having for dinner, doll?” asked Freddy.
“Barbecued spareribs, butter beans, spoon bread, and peach pie.”
“Blanche’s perfect spareribs, Blanche’s perfect butter beans, spoon bread, and Blanche’s perfect peach pie,” said Sadie in a mocking singsong voice.
“My my, how things are changing around the White House.”
8
“So who makes the coffee around here?”
Several male heads turned to look at Allison. She was standing next to the national desk. Nobody said a word.
“Did I say something wrong?”
Still nothing.
“Hey, guys, give me a break. I’m new around here. Let me try again. Who gets coffee around here?”
Dead silence.
“Okay, I’m going down to the cafeteria for coffee. Can I get anybody anything?”
“I’ll have mine light with no sugar and a glazed doughnut.”
“Make that two lights with no sugar and a bagel.”
“I like it black and a danish.”
They were all talking at once as they reached into their pockets for change.
“You can all go fuck yourselves,” she said with a sweet smile, and headed toward the cafeteria.
* * *
It was 11:00 A.M. on her second day back at the Daily from London. She had just had two meetings: a breakfast meeting at the Sheraton Carlton with Walt Fineman, the managing editor, and then a second with Fineman that included Alan Warburg, the executive editor. She was scared to death but she didn’t dare show it.
She had arranged to see Walt first. He was one of her closest friends and she knew he would make her feel more secure. She was wrong.
“Brainard quit Friday.” Walt had just finished ordering bacon and eggs. He said it casually, as though it were a part of the order.
“What? Brainard can’t quit. He’s my deputy. He’s the only one who knows what’s going on. How can he quit? You promised me Brainard. Why did he quit? Don’t tell me. He quit over me. I knew this was a mistake. I should have stayed in London. I should have married Julian and had babies. Who needs this career-girl bullshit. I quit. Now you don’t have a national editor or a deputy national editor. I like the sound of those words. I quit.”
Walt was smiling by the time Allison finished.
“You’re more nervous than I thought you’d be, Sonny.”
“God, Walt. I’ve never been an editor in my life except for that brief stint on the desk a couple of summers ago. Now I’m supposed to waltz in as the first woman national editor having just learned that my deputy has quit because of me. I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. My all-male staff is demoralized and hostile. I’m jet-lagged. And it’s Des’s birthday today. He’s taking me out tonight and I know he’s going to want to set a date for the wedding. All I can say is it’s a good thing I don’t have premenstrual syndrome.”
“And to think they call you the iron butterfly.”
“You’re not taking me seriously.”
“On the contrary. I take you so seriously I recommended you for the job.”
“Let’s get this clear, Fineman. Did you or did you not recommend me because I was a woman? Wasn’t that my major qualification?”
“I cannot tell a lie.”
“How much of a bubblehead would I have had to have been to have been passed over? Just out of curiosity.”
“Let’s put it this way. You wear a skirt?”
“You noticed.”
“That’s it. That’s all it took. You were the lucky winner.”
“This is outright reverse discrimination. No wonder Brainard quit.”
“Yeah, well, tell it to the EEOC.”
“It really makes me sick.”
“Let’s look at the bright side. You’re not a total a
irhead and you’re a great-looking piece of ass.”
“You better watch it, buster, or I’ll slap you with a sexual harassment suit so fast it will make your head swim.”
“God, Sonny, I’ve missed you.”
She grinned, then leaned over impulsively and gave him a kiss on the cheek.
“I’ve missed you, too, Walt. I wouldn’t have taken this job if it weren’t for you. But what are we going to do about Brainard? I really am scared without him. As pompous as he was, he did know his stuff. And he’d been on the campaign with all the guys. That’s such a tight little clique out there you can’t get near them unless you’ve been one of the recent boys on the bus. Brainard is a political genius. Where’s he going by the way? I hope not to the New York World.”
“He’s taking a leave to write a book. Big six-figure advance. Then he’ll come back for the next election as a reporter. I think he’s using you as an excuse, frankly. I don’t think he gives a shit about being an editor. He just liked the title political editor. Malkin’s actually a better editor and easier to get along with. You’re lucky.”
“So what else do I need to be warned about before we go see Warburg?”
“Two items on the agenda: Lauren Hope. Pregnant. Wants six months’ maternity leave and then to work part-time after that.”
“Oh, no. She covers the Hill. She can’t cover the Hill part-time.”
“She’s already having problems with morning sickness. We’ve missed a couple of stories. Plumley was in a real bind about it before he went to London. He felt that a man has a rougher time trying to deal with women in that situation. You’re going to have to handle it.”
“Great. One of three women on the staff and the way my luck is going the other two will probably get pregnant immediately. What’s the other problem? You might as well lay it on me.”
“We hired a new reporter. Pulitzer Prize winner from Savannah, Georgia. You might remember the stories. Corruption on the docks in Savannah and the drug connections. Really first-rate reporting and writing. The guy’s got balls. Risked his life several times. He’s covering Justice. He’d never been to Washington before we hired him. He reports to you. He’s got this theory that the drug connection is all over the place. Possibly on the Hill and in Justice.”
“What’s his name?”
“Tyson. Sprague Tyson. Mid-thirties. Attractive. Married. One child. You may like him. But I warn you. The story is tricky. And this guy takes no prisoners. It’ll be a challenge to control him.”
“Well, that’s some good news, anyway.”
Walt signaled for the check.
“What’s with you and Des? When’s the big day?”
Walt had never liked Des. And he had always liked her too much.
“I don’t know, Walt. He was really anxious to set a date at first. Now he seems reluctant. He’s pissed that I stayed in London so long. Frankly, I’d like to get settled in this job before we get married. Des is talking about Christmas. But I just can’t think about that right now. I’ve got to get in there and kick ass and take names.”
“Atta girl.”
“Atta person, atta person.” She laughed. “By the way. Who makes the coffee around the newsroom?”
“Boy, have you got a lot to learn.”
* * *
“Vision,” said Warburg. “That’s what I want from you: vision. Where have we been, where are we, where are we going?”
“What about the daily story?” asked Allison. “I mean, I don’t want to sound prosaic but…”
“Ah, the daily story,” he said, waving his hand. “The daily story will take care of itself.”
“I’ll remind you of that when we lose out on the Pulitzer for spot coverage.”
They were sitting in Warburg’s glass office looking out over the newsroom, and Allison was remembering what it was about Warburg that drove her crazy. She had never known anyone who was so brilliant and so stupid at the same time.
Warburg was short and pudgy with dark wavy hair and a heavy five o’clock shadow even after he had just shaved. He had piercing black eyes and zero sense of humor. He didn’t talk so much as he elocuted. He did not suffer fools, except for his kind of fools, and he had no time for small talk, gossip, or fun. There were those who thought he was mean, even cruel. Allison believed he was unaware of his impact on people, most of whom were scared of him. She wasn’t scared of him, but she did find it difficult to communicate with him. If his advice to her was going to be “vision,” she would have to look elsewhere for a mentor. Warburg was the brains of the operation. Walt Fineman was the soul. Maybe “vision” was his way of saying she had to be the heart.
“The hell with the Pulitzer,” said Warburg. “They’re worthless and everybody knows it. We don’t need the Pulitzer. Half the reporters who win Pulitzers couldn’t get hired here and half the stories that win them wouldn’t be fit to run in this newspaper.”
“I hope you don’t talk that way when you go to judge them,” said Walt. “You’d guarantee us getting aced out. Come to think of it…”
“Well, I’m certainly not going to play politics and kiss ass just to win a few meaningless prizes, that’s for certain.”
“Have you apprised the staff of your attitude?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It gives them incentive.”
“If you think the whole thing is so stupid, why don’t you resign from the board?”
“Actually, I’m thinking about it. They don’t have a woman now. They need a woman. I’ve got the perfect person in mind. A real politician, an infighter, somebody mean enough to face down all those idiots. A killer.”
“Just who is this lovely person?” asked Allison.
“Ah, and lovely, too. I forgot about that. She’s sitting right in front of me.”
“Moi? Alan, you flatter me. But now you’re being ridiculous. I haven’t even started work yet. I don’t even know what I’m doing. Besides, I think I would get too angry, sitting on that board.”
“That’s precisely what you’re supposed to do. I get bored and contemptuous and it’s hurting the paper. Besides, you’ve already been at the job two days. You’ve got them hopping over there on the national desk. That’s what we need. Just a word of warning, Allison.”
“What’s that, Alan?”
“Don’t let those boys bully you into making coffee every morning.”
* * *
“Lunch,” said Malkin, wolfing down another roll. “Lunch is the key.”
“What do you mean, lunch?” asked Allison, picking at her salmon.
“You’ve got fifty egos sitting out there on the national staff. Every one of them feels neglected, even the biggest stars. But particularly those who are doing yeoman’s work, covering the agencies, unsexy beats they think nobody gives a shit about. They’re right, but the fact remains, somebody’s got to do it. It’s our job to keep them relatively happy doing it. They all have gripes and insecurities. They need handholding and baby-sitting. They need lunch. Get my drift?”
They were eating at the McPherson Grill, a popular lunchtime spot a block from the White House, all mauve and gray bleached wood and ferns.
“I’ve gained five pounds just today. I thought when I took this job I was making the easy choice between my career and my private life. Now I see it’s more serious. I’m choosing between my career and my figure. I’m not sure this isn’t too large a price to pay.”
“No problem. Just join a fitness center. They’re terrific at lunchtime and on weekends. Every great single piece of ass, male and female, I hasten to add, shows up to check out the action. Thirty minutes on the stairway to hell, as we lovingly call it, and you’re into maintenance.”
“What is going on with all you yuppies in this city? I haven’t been gone that long, but all anybody talks about is running and cholesterol and fitness. It’s so uncivilized. That’s one of the things I loved about the English. They just don’t bloody well bother.”
“Get real, Sonny. This is the ninetie
s. It’s also called middle age.”
“Gee, I’m glad I came back. Every hour of my day so far has been chockablock with good news and upbeat conversation. Moving right along, since you asked me to get real: Why did Brainard really quit? Was he using me as an excuse to leave and write his book, or was it more personal?”
“I think it was a combination of things,” said Malkin. “He did want to write a book. And he did want national editor. But I think the guy’s just vintage male chauvinist pig. He didn’t want to work for a woman. He didn’t dare say so but it was pretty clear to me.”
“How do you feel about it?”
“If you’re good, fine. If you’re not, I’m outta here.”
“That’s fair. Are you going to help me or are you going to stand around and watch me fall on my face?”
“I hadn’t really decided that—until now.”
“So put me out of my misery.”
“I like your way of being straightforward. I’ll do everything I can to make it work for you. For us. For the paper. I only ask one thing in return.”
“And what is that, Malkin?”
“Lunch.”
* * *
Malkin did the 2:30 story conference. Allison sat on the banquette against the side wall as he pitched the stories to Fineman. Warburg sat at the other end of the conference table and quietly raised an eyebrow now and then but never said a word. Warburg was not a nuts-and-bolts guy. He would only interject when there was a need for “vision.”
Allison had been to a lot of story conferences but she’d never pitched a story. Malkin was good. He had a solid understanding not only of the stories but of the reporters covering them and the implications.
He was also subtle. To the outside observer, story conferences looked very casual, fast-paced, matter-of-fact. It was like anything else that required a lot of work and expertise. It looked easy the way juggling or tap dancing looked easy. In fact, story conferences required some of the same skills.
She pretended to take notes, working from the mimeographed schedule of potential stories that was distributed as everyone came in. She wasn’t studying content. She was studying style. Men’s style. Not that she wanted to be like them. She had never played dress-for-success-anything-they-can-do-I-can-do-better. She just wanted to know how they operated. She didn’t want to be one of the boys but neither did she want to be “the girl.” She knew what they thought and said about aggressive, outspoken women, even the men who paid lip service to feminism. As she established herself she couldn’t allow herself to break their rules. At least not at first. If they didn’t take her seriously she would never be effective. She’d have to be circumspect, watch and listen. Then, when she had her own confidence and the confidence of her staff, she could tell them all to shove it.