Happy Endings

by Sally Quinn

* * *

  Sadie and Michael had only spoken once since lunch at her house. Naturally it was she who called him. She had called to tell him that Blanche had persuaded Freddy to have the first AIDS blood test to launch their program.

  Michael seemed pleased when she called. He was also slightly distant and noncommittal, as if their intimate conversation had never happened.

  This was the way it was with him. Each time they met or talked on the phone, she had to reestablish the relationship. Then, just as they were getting warmed up, he would have to go. This time was no different. She had no sooner told him about Freddy when he had to run off to a meeting.

  It was incredibly frustrating. Every goddamned thing was a test with him. He was so judgmental. It was trial by fire just to have lunch, have a telephone call, accept an invitation. Would she be able to measure up? Would she bridge the gap? Would she clear the hurdle? And then when she succeeded, when she knew absolutely that she had met his approval, he would put forth another set of tasks, obstacles, evaluations, appraisals. He made her feel so unworthy. Guilty until proven innocent. And proven and proven and proven. It was exhausting. Especially when all she wanted to do was to love him.

  12

  “Great buns. World-class buns.” Allison smacked Des’s behind appreciatively.

  “You think so?”

  He was lying on his stomach, his head resting on his arms.

  It was Sunday afternoon in February. They had been to a brunch, had a few bloodys and had come home to her house on Olive Street, where they were now more-or-less living, to finish the papers and take a nap. The nap had turned into something more interesting.

  “Not only do I think so, every woman I know thinks so. It’s a big topic of conversation, your ass.”

  “Really?” He lifted his head and looked around to see if she was kidding. He grinned skeptically.

  “Really.”

  “Well,” he chortled, quite pleased with himself now that he was convinced she was sincere, “can’t drive a spike with a tackhammer.”

  “Speaking of spikes…”

  “The girls talk about that, too?”

  He had put his head back down on his arms. She was sitting next to him cross-legged, nude, tousled, stroking his back with her left hand as she talked.

  “What would they know about yours, my darling husband?”

  “I mean anybody’s.”

  “I don’t care about anybody’s. Let’s talk about yours. Or rather ours. Why don’t you turn over so I can get a better grip.”

  With that she tried reaching under him, but he pushed her away, then grabbed her wrists.

  “Oh, you great big strong brute, you.”

  He had turned over by now and he pulled her down on top of him and kissed her, still holding her wrists away from him.

  She pulled back and kissed her way down his stomach, finally taking his erection in her hands.

  “Desi, my best friend,” she said, giggling. “Even in the bleakest of times, when Des and I were apart, I always knew you cared about me.”

  “Don’t belittle my cock,” he said from above her head.

  “That would be impossible under the circumstances. But we’re awfully proprietary, aren’t we? I thought once we were married I could take liberties.”

  “You’re on thin ice, sweetheart.”

  She leaned over and kissed the tip of him gently.

  “Don’t go away Desi, dear, you gorgeous thing. I’ll be right back as soon as I soothe Papa’s ruffled feelings.”

  She kissed her way back up to his mouth.

  “Now where were we?” she asked, between kisses.

  “We were talking about my awesome equipment.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, sitting up, suddenly distracted. “I referred to you as my husband. My husband. ‘I’d like you to meet my husband, Desmond Shaw.’ ‘I happen to be the wife of Desmond Shaw.’ You have no idea how that feels for me. You’ve been married before, I never have. You’ve had a wife. You’ve been a husband. You want to hear something really silly? I’ve been sitting in my office writing ‘Mrs. Desmond Shaw’ on yellow pads over and over again. Even ‘Allison Shaw.’ I’ll never be called Allison Shaw, but I still wrote it. Just like I did in fifth grade when I was in love with Jamie Laurents. ‘Mrs. Jamie Laurents. Allison Laurents.’ ‘Sonny Shaw.’ Actually that sounds quite good. A great fifties housewife name. Oh, God. Can you believe it? Me? The iron woman? What has become of me? You can see how our society has conditioned us into believing that the worst thing that could happen would be to end up an old maid. Even though that word has gone out of style the concept is still alive. It’s really sick. Why does it matter? Why should I care? Yet I did. I do. I think it’s all bullshit and yet I do. Do you realize how many times I’ve been asked in the last few years why I never married. Never married for Christ’s sake! I wasn’t even forty. It was as if I were dead. And now that I’m married I feel like a totally different person. A legitimate person in the eyes of society. It’s disgusting, but it’s true. I hate to say it. I had no idea it would feel so different. It’s kind of like what it might feel like if you were white all your life and suddenly one day you were black. You had always known there was racism out there but you never knew how awful it was until you were black. I called the car dealer to get my car serviced and announced myself very officiously as ‘Mrs. Shaw.’ Those bastards were so courteous and so polite as opposed to their usual hostile behavior. You’d think I’d told them I was the queen of fucking England. And you know what? That’s what I felt like. I like being Mrs. Desmond Shaw. It’s really pathetic. If you ever tell a living soul I said that I will call you a liar. I like saying ‘my husband.’ I like being a wife. In fact, there are a couple of other nouns I wouldn’t mind the sound of either.”

  “I’ll bite.”

  “Mother. Daughter. Son.”

  “How about Mother. Son.”

  “You pig! After what I’ve just said. How can you even think like that? What’s wrong with a daughter?”

  “Nothing,” he said carefully. “It’s just that I don’t seem to be a very good father to girls.”

  “How do you know that your alleged lack of talent as a father is limited to girls? You’ve never had a son.”

  He didn’t say anything for a moment and she was surprised by the odd expression on his face. She couldn’t decide if she had hurt his feelings, but she knew she had said something wrong.

  “Every man would like to have a son,” he said quietly.

  “You do know, don’t you, that it’s the male who determines the sex of the child?”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “Well, I’d like to have a girl. A beautiful little girl who I can play with on weekends. If I have a boy he’ll end up watching sports with you and I’ll still be lonely…. But really, I don’t care. All I want is a normal, healthy baby.”

  “Me, too. Why don’t we make one. Now.”

  * * *

  “Allison, it’s Jenny.”

  There was a pause.

  “Jenny Stern.”

  “I haven’t forgotten your name. It’s just been a while, that’s all. I’m surprised to hear from you.”

  “I know,” Jenny said nervously. “Too long really. I’ve missed you.”

  Allison didn’t quite know what to say. She said nothing.

  “Well, you must wonder why I’m calling.”

  “Actually, I do.”

  She knew she sounded cold, but that was all right. She felt cold. She could tell Jenny was nervous. That was all right, too. She deserved to be nervous. Jenny had been her best friend since they had started out at the Daily years ago. They had been reporters together. They had spent holidays together. Jenny had been through Des with her. Jenny had been like family to her since she had no mother or father. Then Jenny went to work at the White House as Sadie Grey’s press secretary and virtually dropped Allison. Soon afterward she began dating Des. Allison was confident that Des could never be in love with Jenny.
She also knew that Jenny had always been secretly in love with him. She thought it an act of betrayal to go out with him knowing how devastated Allison was after the breakup. It was later, when she learned that Des had been having an affair with Sadie and that Jenny was acting as the beard, that she realized the extent of that betrayal. She had vowed never to have anything to do with Jenny again. Jenny had to feel guilty. She sounded guilty. Allison was not about to put her out of her misery.

  “I thought we might… I mean… I’d like to take you to lunch.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, uh, I just thought, urn, it seemed like we hadn’t seen each other in a long time and I thought it might be nice to get together.”

  Another silence.

  “Would you have lunch with me? I’d like to pick your brain about something.”

  “Fine. You name the date and time.”

  “How about next week? Thursday? Mo and Joe’s at noon. I know you have to get back at two-thirty for story conference.”

  “Fine. See you then.”

  “Bye.”

  Allison had already hung up.

  * * *

  Allison arrived a few minutes late. Jenny was waiting in the dimly lit underground restaurant at a corner banquette. Allison glanced absentmindedly at the autographed pictures and book jacket covers of various writers and journalists about town that adorned the walls of the foyer. She walked down the stairs past the bar, lined with the all-male regulars, to her table.

  “Look at this place,” she said to Jenny without apologizing for being late. “It hasn’t changed a bit. They are still ninety-five percent men in here. We’re the only table of women lunching alone without male companions. So much for the advancement of women on the power-lunch circuit.”

  “I don’t think it’s that,” said Jenny. “It’s just that the food is so terrible that women won’t eat here. It’s jock food. They’re not big on spa cuisine. In fact, I’m not sure why I suggested we come here.”

  She seemed anxious. Allison did nothing to put her at ease.

  “So,” said Jenny, after they had both ordered sparkling water, “how do you like being king of the hill, or should I say queen of the hill? I have to admit I never expected them to name a woman national editor. You deserve a lot of credit for overcoming the prejudices of some of those male chauvinist pigs in that newsroom. Most of them are really uncomfortable with women, particularly with women in roles of authority.”

  “They still are. Especially the women.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “They think I’m tougher on them than the men are.”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes. But I’m not tougher on them than I am on the men. I treat them equally. They don’t like that. The men are so afraid of women. They don’t understand feminism. They’re terrified that if they tell a woman that she looks great she’ll sue them for sexual harassment. They don’t know how to act. They’re afraid that if they ask a pregnant woman to do something they’ll be perceived as insensitive. So what they do is worse. They’re patronizing and paternalistic and lenient. They just opt out because it’s easier. I know that most of the women have gone to Walt and complained about me. Of course the men see that as whining. I had an argument last week with a woman editor from the Living section about a story they were doing that overlapped a story one of my reporters—female, by the way—was doing. Alan Warburg asked Walt if we had resolved the issue and Walt said, ‘No, it’s still at the level of women screaming at each other.’ I went totally ballistic. If it had been two men it would have been a serious dispute. The point is, I treat everybody the same. The women on my staff are used to maumauing the male editors. Unfortunately for them, it doesn’t work with me.”

  “You sound very tough. It must be hard to make friends.”

  “I have to be tough, Jenny. About everything. Besides, I haven’t had much luck with friendship.”

  Just then the waiter appeared with his notebook. They both ordered salads without looking at the menu.

  Jenny looked down, took a sip of her drink, and swizzled the lime around.

  “How’s Des?”

  “Cut to the chase, Jenny. Why are we here?”

  Jenny looked taken aback. It took her a moment to get her bearings.

  “We’re here because I wanted to apologize. I wanted to tell you I’m sorry.”

  Allison said nothing.

  “I’m sorry for abandoning you as a friend, particularly when you were in such pain. I didn’t mean to do it. I just got caught up in a situation and I didn’t know how to get out of it. By the time I had gotten involved it was too late.”

  “Why did you take that stupid job in the first place, Jenny? Being the First Lady’s press secretary is not honest work for a serious journalist, and besides, you knew I wasn’t crazy about Sadie Grey. You were supposed to be my best friend.” There was a pleading note to her voice that she had not anticipated. The hurt was still raw.

  “I took it because Walt Fineman, your close and dear friend, told me I should look for work, that I had no future at the Daily.”

  “You’re kidding.” Allison was clearly surprised.

  “I wish I were. I was desperate. I got this offer from Sadie about the same time and it seemed like an exciting challenge and a way out. If only I had had any idea what kind of challenge.”

  “You’re talking about Des’s affair with Sadie?”

  Jenny looked startled. The waiter appeared with their lunch. They both stopped talking until he walked away.

  “Of course I know about it. I guessed long before Des told me. Sadie had sent him a message in Jerusalem several years ago and I saw it, unbeknownst to him. That’s when we almost got back together and then broke up for good. That’s what propelled me to go to London. I had to get out of town. I had lost my best friend, then the man I loved. It was too much.”

  “Oh Sonny, I’m just so sorry. Sadie had started the affair with Des after you broke up the first time. I didn’t know about it until she asked for my help with the logistics. She told me if I didn’t help her she’d just have to fend for herself. She was obsessed with Des. Without me they would have been caught and I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t. It would have been awful for the President and the country. Especially after Roger Kimball had to step down. Everybody was already shaky.”

  “Why couldn’t you still be my friend?”

  “Number one because you’re too good a reporter and you know me too well. You would have figured it out eventually. Especially since I had to start going out with Des in case his being around the White House or the E.O.B. caused suspicion. Number two, not necessarily in order of importance, I felt I was betraying you and I hated myself for it. I missed you terribly and I had nobody to talk to. I’ve never been so miserable in my life. You were the one person I couldn’t go to. That’s why I wanted to see you today. I’ve wanted for so long to apologize and explain. But I felt I had to wait until you and Des were married. I didn’t know whether or not you knew so I had to sort of feel you out about it. I didn’t want to betray Des if he hadn’t told you.”

  Sonny began to soften. She knew Jenny was telling the truth, and for the first time she felt sorry for her. She could understand what a horrible position she’d been put in and she couldn’t be sure she would have acted any differently herself.

  “It was a very difficult time for me, very stressful, Sonny. I resented Sadie and Des a lot for putting me in that position and I told them so. But they really did love each other.”

  She saw Allison’s face tighten.

  “Or at least she really loved him. I’m not so sure he wasn’t just infatuated with the idea of fucking the First Lady.”

  Allison relaxed, taking comfort in Jenny’s last comment, though she wasn’t sure she believed her. She wanted to. She hadn’t realized how much she had missed her until now. She wanted to be her friend again. She didn’t see why it wasn’t possible.

  “All of that kind of upstaged the job it
self,” Jenny was saying. “It was okay, but the truth is I always felt a little like I was selling out. I figured afterward I could write another White House book, then maybe do lots of lectures and get some sort of lucrative consulting job.”

  “And?”

  “It’s not what I really want to do.”

  “What do you really want to do?”

  “I think I’d like to try editing.”

  So that was it. Jenny wanted a job. All this time she thought Jenny wanted to be her friend and now it turned out she just wanted a job. It made her feel so used. And betrayed again. How could she have been so wrong about Jenny twice? Well, it wouldn’t happen again. She was not that dumb.

  “I don’t think you’d really like editing,” Allison said tightly. “I’m having a very hard time adjusting, especially from being a foreign correspondent. I worked more hours as a reporter but they were my hours. This is like being a prisoner, like having a ball and chain around your ankle sitting at that desk. Your time is never your own. Everybody has claims on it. If you’re not within the line of sight, if you go to the ladies room, they put out an A.P.B. The worst part is the temptation to rewrite. You know you’re a better writer than the person you’re editing but you have to try not to. That’s really the most painful part.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I think I would like it.”

  The silence this time was especially awkward.

  “You don’t… I mean, you don’t think there might be something on the desk at the Daily for me, do you? It doesn’t have to be national, although that’s what I know best. It could be the Living section or the federal page or even metro, I don’t know. Health? Could there be something there? It’s just that I really miss the paper and—”

  “Forget it, Jenny. It isn’t going to work. I would have said no even if you hadn’t told me about your conversation with Walt. Unfortunately, I think he’s right. There really is no future for you at the Daily, especially after having been in the White House. You’ve priced yourself out of a job at the Daily. Besides, you really can’t go home again.”