Happy Endings

by Sally Quinn

  “That’s my gal,” said Des, smiling from his end of the table. “I was afraid with all this levity, it wasn’t really you inhabiting that gorgeous body.”

  “You can go fuck yourself, too, Shaw.”

  “Now, now, my children. This language is not befitting the birth of our little Lord Jesus,” said O’Grady. “Besides, it’s time for Christmas carols. So if you will all join me at the piano we’ll have a little champagne and song.”

  Allison walked over to the mantel where Des had been standing earlier. He sauntered over and put another log on the fire. The others had gathered around O’Grady, who was playing “O Holy Night.”

  It was beginning to get dark.

  “Look, it’s snowing,” said Des. Allison turned to see tiny white flakes swirling past the window making a beautiful pattern against the sunset and the silhouettes of pine trees. It was such a perfect day or should have been, with good friends, and rosy-cheeked children, and so much to look forward to. She really wanted to put her arms around Des but something about him put her off.

  “Be right back,” he said, touching her lightly on the shoulder as he went upstairs.

  She remembered the last time she had been in that bathroom. She and Des had tried to make love in the midst of one of O’Grady’s parties. Des was still married to Chessy, who was downstairs in the living room. Now he wasn’t married. Yet she had a rival she didn’t know or even know about. It was so much worse, not knowing whatever or whoever this thing or person was that was coming between them. She could fight another woman. This ghost she could not.

  Nobody had noticed Des leave. She could easily follow him. Why not?

  She slipped out of the living room and crept up the stairs. The door to the bathroom was shut. She knocked gently. He opened it. He was just zipping up his fly.

  She said nothing, just looked down at his crotch and began nervously chewing her lip.

  “Looking for a re-creation of the scene we last played here?”

  She couldn’t tell whether or not he was amused.

  “Maybe just for what we felt for each other then.”

  “It hasn’t changed for me.”

  “Prove it.”

  “Oh, Sonny. It’s just so much more complicated now.”

  “How much more complicated can you get than to have been married to Chessy?”

  “Trust me, it’s possible.”

  “I’m not sure I can trust you anymore, Des. Not when you’re hiding something from me.”

  “Jesus, Sonny,” he said. “This thing is killing me.” He turned away from her and pounded his fist against the bathroom wall.

  “It can’t hurt you more than it’s hurting me. I just ache so, Des.”

  She was pleading.

  “I want you so badly. I want you to marry me. I want to have a baby. I have to have a baby. Listen to what I’m saying. I can’t bear this anymore. I’m not even angry. Don’t you see? I’m not mad. I just need you. And you’re not here. You’ve got to help me.”

  Des let himself down on the toilet seat lid and pulled her over to him, resting his head against her stomach. She thought he was struggling for the words. Instead he said nothing. He just squeezed her as tightly as he could.

  Just as he did, she slipped on the wet floor and stepped on a rubber duck, which squealed loudly.

  As she had that night, many years before, Allison was suddenly trying not to giggle. There was something almost hilarious about this scene, the two of them in anguish in somebody else’s bathroom, Des perched on the toilet seat, she standing on the wet bath mat with rubber ducks dispersed under her feet.

  “We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” she said and cracked up.

  “You witch.” Des had leaped up when he heard the squeal and grabbed for her.

  She slipped away from his grasp and turned toward the door.

  He grabbed her arm and twisted it, pulling her back to him until she was pressing up against his chest.

  He started to kiss her but she jerked her head away and fell back from him. Her mirth had turned to an anger she hadn’t known she felt, or at least had pretended not to feel. She reached down and picked up the duck and flung it at him, hitting him in the face. He looked stunned at first, then angry. She was afraid, all of a sudden, that he might hit her. His black eyes had changed color the way they did when he got really furious. She always thought he looked like some comicstrip character whose eyes turned into kaleidoscopes when he was upset. She didn’t care. She wanted to hurt him the way he had hurt her.

  He came toward her and she flung open the door and raced down the stairs. He followed her, grabbing for her hair, her skirt, anything that would stop her. She kept on going, until she reached the landing, tripping slightly, then catching her balance and running out the front door. The guests had migrated toward the kitchen and the sun porch in back so nobody saw them leave, though that was the last thing on her mind. She was scared. She didn’t know what he would do.

  The ground was covered with snow by now and they were caught in a near blizzard of whiteness as they ran across the lawn to the bushes. She saw one of the children’s soccer balls and threw it at his feet, tripping him and causing him to fall in the snow.

  “Shit,” he said and picked himself up, now lightly dusted all over. It was dark, and he had obviously lost sight of her, but she was breathing heavily in the silence.

  “Sonny, goddammit, where are you?”

  “Don’t you goddammit me, goddamn you. Just get away from me, do you hear? Just leave me the fuck alone.”

  He came at her then, lunging through the dark. She picked up a handful of snow and pushed it into his face, temporarily blinding him.

  He swung out at her hand to knock it away and hit her in the face. The crack of his hand against her jaw stunned her. He was close enough now that even in the darkness she could see him. He was even more shocked than she was.

  The rage welled up inside her. She had never known what it was like to want to hit somebody, even kill somebody. All she knew was that she had to strike out at him, had to hurt him.

  She raised her arm and brought it down as hard as she could, striking the side of his head. The thud gave her enormous pleasure and she did it again, even harder. She was breathing heavily, letting out low guttural noises. She felt a thrill, a sensation of such satisfaction that she began pummeling him until she had worked herself up into a frenzy. Des had been caught by surprise when she hit him. He lost his balance and fell to his knees, giving her an even better vantage.

  It seemed as if she had been going at him for hours when she realized that he was not hitting back, not trying to protect himself. It was almost as if he wanted to be beaten.

  “Goddamn you, Desmond Shaw. Get up and fight like a man,” she screamed at him. She hit him again.

  “You bastard, get up off your knees, you shit. I hate your very guts.”

  No movement.

  “Okay, then I’ll get you up.” She reached down and put her hands under his arms, attempting to pull him up off his knees, but he wouldn’t let her. She tugged again but he was just too heavy for her.

  “All right then, you want to be punished,” she yelled, even more angry than before, “I’ll punish you.”

  She pushed his body as hard as she could until he fell over in the snow and then she began to kick him in the side.

  Tears were rolling down her cheeks as she continued her assault.

  “I know what you’re doing, you asshole. This is some sick Catholic penance game you’re playing here. You’re so wracked with guilt that you think you have to pay for it so you’re letting me do it for you. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” She began mocking him, chanting the penance in a singsong voice. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned! What bullshit. What utter bullshit. But now, that will make it all better. Just let Allison beat the crap out of me and then I’ll feel better. I will have paid for my sins. In fact, I can just keep on sinning. That’s the good ole Catholic way. Jesus, wha
t hypocrisy! You know what, Desmond Shaw. You are sick.”

  She was shrieking, choking on the snow as it swirled into her mouth. She kicked him again, trying to provoke some response.

  “You are desperately, hopelessly, irrevocably sick.”

  Then, suddenly, she realized what was making her so angry. It wasn’t just that Des had been so withdrawn recently. It was everything. All the humiliation of having to hide their affair when they first met because he was married to Chessy. The anger at him for caring more about his work than he did about her, more about his work than hers. The unbearable pain of breaking up, of his leaving her. The years of loneliness and self-imposed isolation after they split; and finally the agony of finding out that he was having an affair with Sadie Grey, the First Lady, her greatest rival.

  Looking at him in the snow, she thought she had never hated anyone so much in her entire life.

  “You have caused me more pain than anybody has ever caused me in my life, and I’m not going to buy into it anymore. I loathe your very guts, do you hear me. I despise you and I never want to see you again. Merry Christmas, you prick.”

  She turned and ran into the house, leaving Des like an amputated statue kneeling in the snow. She grabbed the keys to the car from his coat pocket, got her jacket, and dashed out of the house. She started his car and drove to her house. She left the keys inside under the car seat and made a mental note to call his service and leave a message to that effect.

  By the time she got inside she realized her clothes were soaked and she was chilled through. She fixed a cup of hot tea with honey, lemon, and rum and took it upstairs. She drew a steaming hot bath, put on some old blues tapes, got into the tub, and went into as close to a Zen state as she could manage.

  She didn’t even consider the consequences of her actions earlier. All she cared about was getting into bed. She put on a flannel nightgown, slid under the down comforter, and slowly dozed off to sleep. She was only distantly aware of the phone ringing and her answering machine recording several insistent voices.

  * * *

  Julian. One of the calls had been from Julian, whom she had not spoken to since she left England, whom she adored but was not in love with. Julian who wanted to marry her.

  She would return his call first.

  She would call Pat O’Grady later.

  She would call Des… maybe never. He hadn’t even identified himself. He didn’t need to. His message was simple:

  “We need to talk.”

  Fuck Des. She was all talked out. It was Julian she wanted to talk to. Julian who loved her.

  When she called him it was late afternoon his time. He was having a Boxing Day party at his father’s estate in Cornwall and the noise level in the background was high. He had already had a few toddies himself.

  “I just bloody well missed you and wondered how you were getting on. I hadn’t heard news of your marriage and thought perhaps something had got buggered up.”

  “Oh Julian, I miss you. I’ve had a terrible fight with Des. Literally. I’d get on a plane this instant but I can’t leave work. I’ve got the duty this week. I’m the junior person and everyone else has taken off.”

  “Darling, say no more. Julian of Arabia is on the next Concorde to Dulles.”

  “Oh Julian, don’t tease me.”

  “My sweet, I’m jolly well not kidding. I’ve been dying for an excuse to get out of here. There’s a ghastly New Year’s Eve party scheduled where several of my lady friends are threatening to converge on me and tear me to bits. So you see it’s a matter of life or death. I’ll see you tomorrow. Leave a key under the mat. Ciao.”

  She should have stopped him. It wasn’t fair. Just because she was hurting was no reason she should use someone else. But she was in a weakened condition. She needed Julian now. After all, he had called her. He had always had a sixth sense about her. It must have come from spending so much time in the desert with all those Arabs.

  * * *

  New Year’s Eve was cozy and undemanding with Julian trying to be brave and understanding. They had cooked at home because she hadn’t wanted to be seen with him. Everyone believed she was engaged to Des. She didn’t want the hassle of trying to explain, especially since she didn’t have a clue what to explain. Des had called and left several messages on her machine, but she had not returned his calls. So that was where they were at the moment. She didn’t feel like seeing him and certainly not making love to him. She didn’t want to make love to Julian either, for that matter. She had managed to keep him at arm’s length with body language. She knew he loved her and it made her sad. She had realized immediately that “Julian of Arabia” didn’t seem quite as romantic in Georgetown as he had in Chelsea or Cornwall. He must have realized it, too. He left the next day, pleading a meeting with his editor in London. She was relieved as well as disappointed. Relieved because she wouldn’t feel cheated at having given him up for Des, disappointed because she had nobody to turn to if things really didn’t work out with Des, which was the way things were looking.

  * * *

  Dwelling on her Christmas Day fight with Des wasn’t getting her anywhere. She went outside her glass cubicle and peered through Walt Fineman’s window to see if it was still raining. The January drizzle had stopped but it was still dreary. Still, she had no excuse to skip the exercise class since it wasn’t wet anymore. She needed it, that was for sure. She’d been drowning her sorrows in calories since their fight. She needed the energy for her battle with Sprague later in the afternoon.

  She walked back to her office and sat down at her desk, looking at the mounds of paperwork that had piled up in front of her. It seemed to her to have little to do with daily journalism and a lot to do with boring administrative duties. Other people’s expense accounts. Doing her own was torture enough. This was not her strong point.

  She should skip exercise and go down to the cafeteria, get a salad, bring it up and eat at her desk. The idea depressed her even more. She leaned back in her desk chair and stared at the newsroom through the glass. She was paralyzed with indecision and inertia.

  The phone rang. Everybody was out to lunch so she answered it herself.

  “Sonny?”

  It was Des. For some reason she hadn’t counted on that.

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve got to see you.”

  “Des, I…”

  “Please.”

  “I just can’t do it anymore.”

  “That’s not what I’m asking for.”

  “I’m not just talking about the last few months. I’m talking about ever since we met.”

  “I understand that.”

  “I’ve got a hole in my gut. Every time I see you or talk to you or make love to you or live with you or promise to marry you or break up with you or fight with you it gets bigger.”

  “I know, Sonny. I’ve got the same problem. That’s why we need to talk.”

  She didn’t say anything, she didn’t know what to say.

  “Sonny?”

  “I just feel so tired.”

  “Please.”

  “When?”

  “Now. Lunch.”

  “You bastard. I was just about to eat bean sprouts at my desk while I did expense accounts.”

  “Baby, you shouldn’t be worrying your pretty head with things like that.”

  “You’re right. Talk me out of it.”

  “The Willard Hotel dining room. In half an hour.”

  “You’re so convincing.”

  “See you there.”

  “Bye.”

  God, she was a wreck. Her hair was a mess. She had on an old gray knit suit and a white turtleneck. Drab. She had a serious case of premenstrual syndrome. Her skin was blotchy. She had worn hardly any makeup. She looked like the weather. Even twenty minutes in the ladies room wasn’t going to do it. But then so what. He was probably going to tell her he wanted out for good. It would make it easier for them both if she looked like a dog.

  She caught a taxi to Pennsyl
vania Avenue. She didn’t want to mess up the salvage job she had done on herself by walking. Why was she doing this? she wondered, as the cab rounded Lafayette Square. She could still turn back, she thought as they passed the White House. But she didn’t stop the driver. She deserved all the pain she was going to get for being so stupid. Curiosity. That’s what. Always a reporter. She couldn’t stand not knowing.

  She walked through the doors of the elegant old restored hotel and walked down Peacock Alley to the dining room. It wasn’t a place where she normally ate. It was so grand and Victorian and formal. The few times she had eaten there had been with sources.

  Des was waiting for her. He stood up when she approached the table. Not his usual style. A bad sign. She remembered the night he had broken up with her years ago after she had humiliated him on a story. He had picked her up for dinner and had been so polite. Opening doors, pulling back her chair.

  “Hi.” She sounded too bouncy.

  “Hi.” He sounded ominous.

  They both sat down.

  She was so self-conscious. She looked gratefully at the glass in front of her as a distraction.

  “Water,” she said and took a huge gulp.

  “Martini,” he said with a grin, taking a gulp out of his own glass.

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Depends on how you look at it.”

  “Spare me the suspense, Shaw. What’s the headline?”

  “Let’s get married.”

  “We’ve already run that story.”

  “Not with a double byline.”

  “Gag me with chopsticks, as the copy aides say.”

  “You started it.”

  “Are you referring to the metaphor or the relationship?”

  “I don’t know what the hell we’re talking about.”

  “Boy, this sure is romantic.”

  “Oh, shut up, you asshole.”

  “Why Desmond Shaw, you do say the—”

  Des had jumped up from his chair and was pulling her from hers.

  “Get your purse.”

  She stooped down to get her bag, still trying to wrest her arm away from him. She didn’t know whether to be angry or amused. He was practically dragging her out of the dining room and down the hall.