by Sally Quinn
“My, my, Des,” said Lorraine, “you were a hit with the ladies tonight.”
He smiled.
“So what else is new?” said Chessy as she grabbed her husband for support, and the two went somewhat unsteadily out the door. It wasn’t until the house was empty that Lorraine realized that Archie had disappeared upstairs halfway through the evening.
* * *
Lorraine’s line was busy the next morning.
She was in a state of total bliss. Flowers, hand-delivered notes, and phone calls had been coming in since 10 A.M.—all accolades; all received with great grace. She lay in bed on her Pratesi sheets, her breakfast tray at her side, not even glancing at the paper. It was her day off.
“You did it again,” said Allison, when she finally got her. She had decided to flatter her rather than apologize for leaving early. “If you keep this up you’ll be on the cover of The Weekly.”
“You looked wonderful, Sonny,” Lorraine told her. “But you did seem a bit distracted. Was something worrying you?”
“Actually, you guessed it. I’m having a serious decorating problem and I need your help. I just couldn’t get it out of my head last night.”
“Okay, Sonny.” Lorraine was not amused. “By the way, how did you like Chessy?”
“How did I like Chessy? I think I would like Chessy a lot better in New York. In fact, I think Chessy would like New York a lot better than Washington.”
“Is this an announcement?”
“Nothing of the kind. I’m trying to be compassionate.”
“I’ll be sure and pass that along. She’s coming for a family dinner tonight. Des is working late on his cover story.”
“Really? On what?”
“Sonny darling.” She sounded exasperated.
Allison laughed. “Okay. Truce.”
“I’m going to ask Sadie Grey too. The Vice President is busy as well.”
Allison was taken aback. She didn’t know why it irritated her. She wasn’t going to let herself think about it. She would just be casual. There was no reason not to be casual anyway.
“Tell me,” she said. “Tell me about Sadie Grey.”
* * *
Sadie called a little later, and Lorraine wasted no time in inviting her for that evening. “Archie told me the Vice President has a working dinner tonight and you would be alone.” Sadie accepted immediately.
She had had such a wonderful time the night before. The party was great fun. Rosey had had a good time too, and had confessed to her that Washington parties weren’t so bad after all. The house was marvelous. Lorraine would have to take her in hand, give her advice on redecorating the Vice President’s residence. Edwina was smashing and such a character. Edwina must be quite a pistol. It was nice to meet writers. She had had such interesting conversations. And Allen Warburg and Worth Elgin had been so cordial to her, had made her feel so at ease. She had enjoyed seeing Harry Saks; he had been so good to her during the campaign. The pasta was extraordinary. How long would it take her to get up the courage to have a party herself? There were so many interesting people in Washington.
“How did you like Allison Sterling?” Lorraine asked carefully, aware of the glaring omission.
“We had met before,” Sadie answered. Then, casually: “Tell me about Desmond Shaw.”
CHAPTER 2
When Allison arrived at The Daily late Saturday morning, things were heating up. President-elect Kimball’s Denver office had announced that the first Cabinet officers would be named on Monday. Allen Warburg was in a fever to get them into Sunday’s paper. Several of his reporters had been with some New York World reporters the night before. They had implied that the World had the names in the bag.
Allison was the obvious one to turn to. Not an unusual situation for her. She had learned how to make herself indispensable long before her godfather was elected President, and she had long since gotten used to the idea that she was one of the most valuable reporters on the paper.
Despite her misgivings that morning about Des and their relationship, the minute she walked through the doors of The Daily she regained her self-confidence, her composure. She was a consummate professional; cool, fast, thorough, tough. There wasn’t a man in the newsroom who could touch her—personally or professionally. She was the best. She knew it. So did everyone else.
Warburg saw her walking toward her desk and came charging over. “Jesus,” he said, “am I glad to see you! We’ve got to get the Cabinet appointments; otherwise we’ll get our asses beaten by the World”
Walt Fineman, the national editor, was standing nearby. She glanced at him for support, noticing the trace of a smile on his lips. Walt was one of her closest friends. She knew she could count on him. It was Warburg who was making the case that Allison should be pulled from the White House beat after the inauguration. Nobody could disagree ethically.
“Allen,” Allison began, then noticed that a number of her colleagues on the national staff had stopped typing or telephoning. “Allen, could I speak to you in your office?”
Warburg nodded and escorted her into his glass office on the editors’ row. Everybody followed with their eyes. They were waiting for her and the editors to do the right thing, and everybody had a different idea of what the right thing was, from having her quit the paper to having her assigned permanently to the President-elect as Court reporter.
Once he had closed the door, Warburg went behind his desk and sat down, motioning to Allison. She preferred to stand. If you were a woman, and if you wanted to make a point to your superior, you stood.
“So why are we behind closed doors?”
“Allen,” she said, “I believe it was you who decided I should have nothing to do with the President-elect, that I should be taken off the beat. Now you want me to find out who’s going to be in the Cabinet, just like that. They have an embargo on the story.”
She hadn’t realized how angry she was until she started talking, and she had to strain to get the sarcastic tone out of her voice midway through. She didn’t particularly like Warburg, but she didn’t want him to know it. She suspected he would be editor if they dumped Wiley Turnbull, and that was inevitable.
And she respected Warburg. He was a brilliant journalist and a brilliant editor. He was also arrogant and full of himself. He was short, wiry, black hair, black eyes, bushy black eyebrows, a five-o’clock shadow. His smile was more a ruthless grin. He did not like to be bested, but he did enjoy intelligent people. He respected Allison and he didn’t much like her either. He thought she was full of herself, and he resented her sexually. He was attracted to her, and that pissed him off. He hated to be confused. Allison knew she had this effect on him. She knew it and she took advantage of it. He knew she knew it. That irritated him.
Now Warburg was confused. Allison was right. He was mad. She could see that. She sat down and smiled at him.
“Okay,” he conceded. “I have to admit we’ve got a more complicated problem here than we thought.”
“Allen, that’s been my whole point all along. This is not an easy problem. In fact, Walt and I had planned to have lunch today and talk about it. I guess that’s out. We don’t have time with the Cabinet story. But look, Kimball is family to me. I am a reporter; he will be President. I have been covering the White House. I know that story. The Daily is a competitive newspaper. We want to win out. I have the sources to do that. So we have a problem. We’ve known about this since New Hampshire. We’ve all agreed I should not stay on the White House beat. The role I can play is on some sort of overview beat I can carve out for myself and still stay available for the inside stories. I am also going to have to have a talk with the Kimballs. There hasn’t really been any time since he was nominated. Besides, nobody thought he would win.”
Warburg knew Allison was making some sense. He also knew that she would end up being one of the most valuable reporters on the staff. If she wasn’t already.
“I think when Kimball comes here next week I should go have a long talk with him and mayb
e Manolas too, if he stays press secretary. I will ask him not to tell me anything that will compromise me if I can’t use it or at least pass it on as background, and I’ll tell him that I hope we can do this without compromising the integrity of either one of us or the people we work for. The most important thing to me here is that I cannot, nor will I, jeopardize either my integrity or my relationship with this man. I’d quit journalism first.”
“Sounds good to me.” Warburg laughed. “We should have that in writing.” He paused. “Now will you find out who he’s appointing to the Cabinet?”
“You prick,” she said.
They both got up and walked out of the office smiling. The rest of the reporters turned back to their typewriters.
Allison and Fineman went down to the cafeteria to get a sandwich, where he advised her to call the President-elect. “Explain the situation to him,” he said. “Tell him you need to talk to him when he gets here about the ground rules and ask him if he could give you any guidance on the Cabinet. Talk to the reporters who are working the story and get their long shots. Tell Kimball those are what we are going with unless we’re wrong. So how goes it with Shaw?” he asked, changing the subject abruptly. Allison had told him about Des even though she knew Walt was one of the few journalists in town who had never really liked Des. Des was too brash and tough-talking for him. He respected Shaw, he just didn’t like him. Allison also suspected that Walt was a little jealous of him. For one thing, he had grown jealous of Des’s new relationship with Allison. For another, Des had a reputation as a ladies’ man, and Walt had never had much luck in that department.
“Well,” sighed Allison, “who knows? He’s got Chessy down here for the weekend. He’s supposed to tell her. I just don’t know whether he’s going to get up the courage. I’m trying not to think about it or it will drive me crazy. I’ve given him an ultimatum.”
“Isn’t that a little risky? I mean, what if the timing just isn’t right? He’s got a big cover story. You know that that’s pretty rough after twenty-three years. I went through it. I ought to know. You just don’t walk in and say ‘Sorry, toots.’ ”
“Oh, Walt. You sound just like Jerry. You don’t even like Des.”
“I never said I didn’t like him. What makes you think I don’t like him?”
“Walt, it’s me, Allison. You know you can’t hide anything from me. I can just watch your skin go sallow when I mention his name.”
She loved Walt. He was tall and lanky, with dark brown hair and the kindliest face she had ever seen. He reminded her a little bit of Abraham Lincoln. He always seemed so wise and so good. He had been going through a painful separation for the last year and a half, and it had left him with a permanently sad expression. He was a devoted father to his children and spent a good deal of time worrying about his wife. In the agreement, he had given her practically everything.
“That’s bullshit,” he said, offended. “I admire and respect him as a journalist.”
“Exactly. That’s just what I said. You don’t like him.”
He looked at her for a long time, then lit a cigarette. He started to say something.
“You’re right,” he said finally. “I don’t like the son-of-a-bitch.”
“That’s better. Don’t you feel good now, having gotten it out?”
“No, I feel worse.”
“Why are we talking about this?” she said suddenly. “I don’t want to talk about him. I was perfectly happy agonizing over my godfather problem and you have to bring up that bastard.” Her eyes seemed to wander off for a moment. At last she said, “It’s kind of like that old Japanese hospital treatment for pain. They brand you with hot irons so you’ll forget the pain you’re feeling from your sickness. I’m worried about how to deal with Uncle Rog so you bring up Des to take my mind off my other pain.”
Walt looked at her quizzically. “What are you talking about?” he asked.
“Never mind. Let’s get back upstairs. I have to make a call.”
The conversation with Roger Kimball went more easily than she had expected. He understood her problem. He did say he would make sure the staff was accessible to her. But he wouldn’t play all the way.
“I’m announcing it on Monday, Allison,” he told her. “But I will tell you which ones are wrong.”
This information pleased everyone. The Daily decided to go on Sunday with the names Uncle Rog had not denied.
Walt and Allen decided that she should not get a byline. “Let’s not tip everybody off right away that you’re a conduit,” joked Allen. She stiffened before she saw him smiling.
It was agreed that her name would be put in an italic box at the bottom of the story along with those of several other reporters who had contributed to the article.
By the time she was finished it was nearly six thirty, and she called Jerry at The Weekly to see if he was ready to leave for the Boston Express party. She didn’t ask whether Des was going to be there, though she knew he hung out with a lot of the Express types.
“There’s good news and bad news,” said Jerry.
“Lay it on me,” she said.
“The bad news is that Shaw’s coming to O’Grady’s tonight. The good news is that he’s not coming until late because he’s still working on his story. I think I’m about ready to leave. I just have to give my number to the desk. Can you pick me up?”
As Allison went out into the fall twilight she pulled her jacket around her closely. It wasn’t cold enough for her teeth to be chattering the way they were.
* * *
“Maybe he won’t come at all,” said Jerry as she was driving him back to Olive Street to change. “Chessy is having dinner with Lorraine and Archie. I can’t imagine that she would want to go to a party with Des’s drinking buddies. She also doesn’t like him running around without her. I bet they won’t come.”
“Did you tell Des we were going?” She hoped Jerry didn’t hear the nervousness in her voice.
“Well, yeah. I just asked him casually if he was going. I thought you might want to know.”
“Now that he knows we’re going he’s bound to show up, and he’ll bring her. I know him. He’ll want to show me he’s not afraid of me.”
“Gimme a break, Sonny. He is scared shitless.”
“Not me. I’m totally under control.” She laughed. “Nothing like work to take your mind off your problems.”
“Oh, yeah. Work go well today?” He said it a little too casually. “What are you working on?”
“Nice try, fella,” she said, laughing. “If you think I’m going to tell you so you can call the office the minute I’ve disappeared into the bathroom, you’re crazy.”
“But Sonny,” he said in mock innocence. “We’re all partners in crime.”
“Fine. Then you can tell me what Des’s big story is about so I can call it in and The Daily can beat The Weekly by a day.”
“Well, you can’t blame me for trying. Besides, you have better sources.”
He was still joking, but she was suddenly angry.
“Not fair, Jerry.”
“Look, Sonny, I’m sorry, but it is fair. If you think for a minute this isn’t going to give you access to privileged information, or if you even think everybody else doesn’t think so, you’re crazy. I can’t believe you’ve been around this town as long as you have without understanding that. Christ, I do, and I don’t even live here.”
“Oh, I know. I’m sorry, Jerry. The irony is that we’re not all that close. Yes, we saw each other in the summers with my father. God, Jerry, you know how I tried to stay away from him during the campaign.”
She found a parking space in front of the house. She turned to look at him. Then, in an uncharacteristic gesture, she put her hand on his.
“I’m sorry that I’ve put you through this weekend. I know I’m being a pain in the ass. So if I’m a little edgy, it doesn’t mean that I don’t appreciate you a lot. Okay?”
He was moved. He knew how hard it was for her. His voice
, when he spoke, surprised him, it was so husky.
“Okay, Sonny,” he said. “Listen. Don’t worry about it.” They were both embarrassed. He put his hand on her head and rubbed the back of her neck. Then they both opened the car doors and stepped out into the brisk November twilight.
* * *
O’Grady’s party was relaxed and intimate, a typical Saturday-night gathering of Washington journalists. Allison hadn’t even bothered to change. Saturday night in Washington was the night off. People worked political receptions, cocktail parties, and dinner parties during the week. On the weekends, Congress left town, usually to go home. The President often went to Camp David or to his own hometown, and the rest of the city collapsed to rest up. Nobody with any sense scheduled an important social event on Saturday night.
The O’Gradys lived in a small house just inside the District line near Chevy Chase Circle in a relatively suburban neighborhood. It was comfortable, if a bit drab—sofas and unmatched chairs, an old rug, lamps that seemed to have nothing to do with each other. Two small children and a large dog would occasionally interject themselves.
There were about a dozen people there. A couple from The Express, a guy from the L.A. paper and the woman he lived with, a British journalist, a network reporter and his wife, another network reporter and the man she lived with, an editor at The Democratic Review. All the women worked except Patricia O’Grady, who always seemed to apologize for her existence.
Allison was not particularly sensitive to women who didn’t work. She thought them boring, the ones who stayed home and watched babies all day. They were unlike the wives of older journalists, the women of another generation who had some money, who dressed and entertained well and knew how to gossip. These women hung in the background, never had anything interesting to say, and hurried back and forth to the kitchen fixing dinners as if they were servants.
Allison liked O’Grady. He was the wittiest man in Washington. He knew everybody, and everybody knew him. He was the quintessential boy if you wanted to be one of the boys, and Allison did. You picked up a lot of good stuff that way, passing information, trading it. If you were doing a story on the head of the Federal Reserve all you had to do was mention it at O’Grady’s and you’d go home with five anecdotes and a list of whom to call. People were always working on each other’s stories, climbing all over each other, and once somebody had filed, they were more than happy to share the information they had gathered, knowing the favor would be returned.