by Sally Quinn
As they were finishing their dinner, and he was asking her politely if she would like coffee or dessert, a couple walked past them and out the door. It was a well-known man- and a well-known woman-about-town.
Allison was surprised.
“What’s Frank Northrup doing with Lizzie?” she asked.
“He left his wife last week.”
“I thought they had a great marriage.”
“So did everyone, but obviously they didn’t.”
“I wonder what the problem was.”
“From what I can gather,” said Des, “they just weren’t on the same team.”
Before she could answer, he had signaled the waiter for the check and they were leaving.
He was quiet on the short drive back to Georgetown, and she couldn’t think of anything to say. Dread had begun to engulf her. She wiped the perspiration off her brow without even realizing she had begun to sweat. All she could think of was that she would be glad when they were in bed together. She had not dared talk about the story or her feelings about it at dinner, though she had wanted to. In bed, she could hold him and kiss him and tell him how afraid she had been, how conflicted she was, how difficult it had been for her. She could make him understand. She would tell him she loved him and how sorry she was. They could make love.
Was she sorry, though? She didn’t know yet. She wasn’t sure. Nothing had happened to make her sorry.
When he pulled up to her door, she saw a parking place several spaces down and pointed it out to him. “Aren’t we lucky?” she said. “I hate walking half a mile to get home at this hour.” She could hear the nervousness in her voice.
“I won’t be spending the night,” he said simply.
She started to ask, then didn’t. She knew, and she didn’t want him to tell her. For a minute she thought she would faint. Then, when she got her breath, she answered in barely a whisper, “Oh, okay. Fine.” She was trying not to let him see how upset she was.
“Well, thank you for a lovely dinner,” she said, very formally.
“You’re very welcome,” he replied.
Then, before she could reply, he had leaned over and kissed her softly on the cheek. “Goodbye, babe,” he said. He waited for her to get out of the car. She jumped out and ran to her door. As she turned, she saw him waiting for her to get safely inside. He wasn’t smiling. As she unlocked the door he saluted her quickly and drove off.
It was only after he was gone that she realized he had said “Goodbye.”
CHAPTER 10
Dear Des:
God, this is a hard letter to write. I’ve been thinking about it for the last few weeks, wondering whether I should write, deciding that I had to even if I never sent it. I had to try to think out what happened to us. I don’t mean that I had to assign blame. What is it they say—half the blame lies with each partner? Okay, I can account for my half. I’m not writing this on deadline, so I’ve had time to think, but I didn’t exactly have page A 1 in mind either, so it’s not for publication. You are seeing raw copy, unedited Sterling. So bear with me.
Oh, Des, I hurt so. I can’t remember such pain, except, I guess, when Sam died. This isn’t all that different. It is death in a way. Somehow it’s almost worse. I didn’t feel diminished when Sam died because I knew he loved me more than anything in the world. When you died… see, look at me… I mean when you left, I had to bear the pain of losing you with the pain of rejection.
I want to tell you that I always believed, deep down, that you were not able to handle my independence. I always believed that when you said “your liberation is my liberation” you were lying through your teeth. You may have thought you wanted that from a woman, but in the end your ego demanded that you be the star, the hero, the strong, powerful one in the relationship.
I think you loved me. But I also see now that once I had embarrassed you publicly, or you thought I had, there was no way you could stay with me.
I wish I could talk to you, but that never really worked with us, did it? We couldn’t ever talk. It was always a fight. It was always me trying to tell you how I felt and you telling me I was wrong, that I was an asshole. Maybe I don’t wish you were here. This way I can write and not have to get that scared feeling in the pit of my stomach that you would get furious with me, put me down, or worse, that you’d tell me to get off your back and walk away.
I’m sorry to say this too, Des, but I do believe that you were jealous that I could be as successful at what I did professionally and that I was the nurturer, that I provided the home, the food, the friends—I’m not talking about money now. Of course you did more than your share… I’m talking about the actual thought and work that go with keeping a home, having friends over… I’m talking about making sure there are fucking cloth napkins cleaned and pressed and candles, for Christ’s sake—and soda. Goddammit, you never saw to it that there was enough soda and you were supposed to be responsible for the bar.
I always got the sense that you resented my competence. That you knew perfectly well if we had gotten married (Ah, now I dare mention the word. What a relief) and if I had had children (another blasphemy I can get out of my system now) that I would have been able to do that one too and you knew you couldn’t and that pissed you off.
Do you know what, Desmond Shaw? You don’t like me. You love me, but you don’t like me one goddamn bit. You don’t like me because I don’t defer to you. And somehow you got it into your thick Irish skull that if you ever gave in to me, married me, that you would lose your power.
Couldn’t you see I didn’t want to take your power away, to diminish you in any way? I loved you for the power you had and also for your weaknesses that you were so ashamed of.
If you had been in my position you would have done exactly what I did. And furthermore, you would have expected me to feel proud of you for it. And if you had been me you never would have expected me to break off the relationship for a stupid story. I suppose the feminists would say I should feel great about myself because I didn’t let a man stand in the way of my career. But I don’t feel great. I feel like shit. That story wasn’t all that important to me. You were. And yet the only thing I really have for sure in my life that I can count on is me—and my work. Nobody can take that away from me, and that won’t walk away or die, either. The irony is that now that I still have my precious fame, my precious independence, my success, job, career, reputation, whatever you want to call it, it has given me no consolation. Zero. Sometimes I think that I would gladly give up everything if I could have you back, to live with you and take care of you. That is all I have wanted, these last weeks. Or at least all I have thought I wanted.
Oh, Des, I did love you. You will never know how much I loved you. I was always too afraid to show it. Too afraid I would lose you like I’ve lost everybody I’ve ever loved. I loved you more than I have ever loved anyone except my father, my beloved Sam. I will never love anyone as much as I loved, no, love—it hasn’t gone away yet—you. I’ve lost you. I’ve driven you away. Deliberately. I knew what I was doing. I understood the consequences. Now all I have to decide is, was it worth it?
Allison
* * *
“Mo and Joe’s. It’s not going to do my reputation any harm to be seen with Desmond Shaw at Mo and Joe’s. But aren’t you afraid of the gossip? We’ll be linked in the columns by the time lunch is over.”
“I can’t think of anything I’d like better,” he said, smiling, as he put his arm around her and gave her a good squeeze.
Jenny Stern had spent hours getting ready for that lunch, carefully putting on makeup, doing her nails, despairing over her sallow complexion, cursing her unmanageable hair, sucking in her stomach. The finished product, she thought, was less than satisfactory.
Jenny was on the national staff of The Daily and was well respected in Washington. She wasn’t flashy or controversial. There were no spins on her copy, and she wasn’t out for impact the way Allison Sterling was. Nor was she nearly as attractive. In fact, Jenn
y Stern was plain, though she had a rather comfortable, almost zaftig quality which made people want to confide in her. She was the perfect best friend. There were many close to Jenny who couldn’t understand why Jenny was never jealous or envious of Allison, who seemed, to the public eye, to have it all.
It wasn’t that she expected anything. A man like Desmond Shaw would never be interested in her romantically. Jenny protected herself by not hoping he might. Desmond Shaw was meant for beautiful, successful women like Allison.
“How about a drink?”
“Actually, I think I’ll have a martini.”
“Hey. My kind of gal. Why didn’t we ever get together before?”
Jenny wished he wouldn’t tease her. She knew he was trying to be affectionate, but men like Shaw never understood how patronizing their little jokes could sound. She looked closely at him. He was swaggering a little too much, laughing a little too hard. His voice had taken on a slightly manic quality. He had waved at practically everybody who came down the main staircase at Mo and Joe’s, laughing, quipping. But he seemed strained. The twinkle was gone; the attractive cockiness had disappeared.
He drank his first martini and ordered another. She waved the waiter away when Des offered her another.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?” she asked, and then wanted to kick herself. She had perpetuated his little joke. She knew why she was there.
“So,” she said. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this lunch?”
“You know.”
“Yes, I guess I do. How are you, Des? I hear you’ve been out on the town every night. You’re the most sought-after extra man in Washington these days.”
“I just have to handle it that way. I don’t like being alone. If I go out it keeps my mind off of it—her.”
“Sooner or later you’re going to have to deal with it.”
“You’re not telling me anything I don’t know. Anyway, I’m beside the point. I need some advice. I’m worried about Allison. I’ve hesitated to ask you, but I don’t see any other way. I need somebody to talk to, Jenny. I know you’re Allison’s closest friend. I know she values your advice and trusts your discretion. I will just have to trust you. I brought something.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a dog-eared letter. Part of it had been crushed up and then flattened out. The ink was smeared by a glass stain.
“Forgive the condition. It’s been read a number of times.”
While Jenny read Allison’s letter Des ordered a third drink and mumbled something to the waiter about the chicken salad.
The letter was so painful, so personal. Jenny felt she was intruding. “Oh, my God, Des. I never knew she was so vulnerable.”
“How the fuck do you think I feel?” His voice was heavy from the martinis. “It tore me apart, that letter. And you know what really wiped me out, Jen? She’s right about me. I’m a prick. She’s goddamn well right. I just couldn’t hack it. But shit, you know, she’s being unfair to me too. I mean, I’m not going to take all the blame for this one. How was I supposed to know? What drives me crazy about women is that they aren’t honest. We cut a deal. We cut a fucking deal and the deal was that we wanted to live together. She was the one who didn’t want marriage, who scoffed at the idea of children, who was contemptuous of women who were slaves to their houses, their husbands, their children. Even working women who had children she felt were not as good as their unmarried colleagues. But I mean she talked about it all the time. What am I, some kind of genius that I’m supposed to read her mind and know that it was all a bunch of horseshit? She cut a deal with me and then she changed the deal in the middle of the relationship and she doesn’t tell me and then she starts seething and I have to pay.
“How the hell am I supposed to figure that out? I didn’t even know what was wrong. I loved her, Jenny. I really, really loved that dame. What the hell. I love her now. But it’s too late.”
His voice was husky when he spoke, and his eyes were damp. She couldn’t bear to see him that way, especially in the middle of Mo and Joe’s.
“Hey, Shaw, you old sum-bitch,” yelled a voice from the stairway. “No wonder you don’t have time for lunch. Now I see why you’re so booked up.”
Des looked up and smiled, waved a hearty wave, and said, “Yeah, yeah. Maybe next year, old buddy.”
The man laughed.
“Des, I’m so sorry. I know how terrible this whole thing is for you both.”
“Have you talked to her?”
“She won’t talk to anybody. She’s been holed up for weeks. She only comes out to work and then she hardly speaks to anyone. I’ve told her that I’m there anytime she wants to talk. But she just says she needs to be left alone for a while. She looks like bloody hell. Her eyes look like little black holes.”
“Oh, Christ, I’m really thinking of packing it in. Going off somewhere and live on a desert island. I’ve got enough money to last for a couple of years. Maybe write a novel or something. I guess this is what they call a mid-life crisis. It just seems like everything in my life has gone sour, Jen. I’m too old for this shit. I’m too old to play the game. Journalism is not honorable work for grown-ups. I can’t stand chasing any more stories. After a while they all look alike, and you’re doing the same story over and over. I can’t get it up for a story the way I used to, but I don’t know what to do. Maybe I could write books, I don’t know; maybe I could go out to pasture, teach journalism at some college… shit, I don’t know. All I know is that I’ve had it. I just can’t hack it anymore. What the hell.”
He ordered another martini. Jenny tried to smile and act casual as she ordered coffee for herself.
“That’s ridiculous. Every man in this town envies your success—both in journalism and with women. And there are a lot of women in this town who find you very attractive.”
“Oh, yeah? Name one.”
“Present company excluded?”
“Right.”
“Well, Adabelle Grey, for one.”
“The Vice President’s wife?”
“How many Adabelle Greys do you know?”
“Oh, yeah… well, she—we, I mean—well, she… Jesus Christ, Jenny, she’s married, never mind to whom.”
“Don’t play dumb. I’ve seen her look at you and I’ve seen you look at her. So has Allison, for that matter.”
“Are you crazy?” He hoped he sounded convincing.
“Des, is it really all over with Allison? Isn’t there any way you could see her again, that you two could patch it up?”
“I can’t, Jen. I just can’t. She cut my fucking nuts off in front of the whole goddamn world. I can’t live with that. I can’t live with her with that. It’s over.”
* * *
“Okay,” said Jenny, her arms crossed, her face creased in a reproachful frown. “You look like hell. Are we not supposed to notice? Or are we not supposed to say anything?”
She was standing over Allison’s computer terminal as Allison sat crouched in her seat, staring at the luminous green letters on the screen. She had been staring at the screen for several hours. Her hair was pulled up in a knot. She wore no makeup, and there were circles under her eyes. She had on beige corduroy jeans, boots, a beige cashmere turtleneck, and a heavy beige wool sweater. The monotone made her look washed out.
Jenny snapped her fingers. “Hey, Sonny, snap out of it.”
“Huh?”
“Listen, kid, we’ve got to talk.”
“Oh, Jenny, not now. I’m on deadline.”
“Is that why you haven’t written a word in two solid hours? Don’t think everybody in the newsroom hasn’t been watching you, Sonny. And besides, I’ve seen the budget. Your story’s not running tomorrow. What is your story, anyway? Do you know?”
“Jenny, I’m not in the mood for jokes—okay? I just need to think.”
“Allison, I don’t like to see you like this. Neither does anybody else. People are worried about you.”
“That is bullshit. People have been
waiting for a long time to see Sterling get it. Well, it was worth waiting for.”
“Uh-oh, here comes our revered editor, Wiley Turnbull, on his evening rounds. I think we’re about to be blessed with a visit.”
“I think I have to go to the ladies’ room.”
“It’s too late.”
“Well, well, well, I see you gals are having a little coffee klatch over here. How’s it going?”
Wiley Turnbull’s paunch was pushing against his vest, over which his watch fob jostled insistently. His tie and collar pin pushed his red jowls up. He wore wing-tipped shoes and a gold family-crest ring on his little finger which he liked to show off by pressing all ten of his fingers together and bending his knuckles in and out as he talked. The grin was wide, the chuckle mirthless.
“Fine,” said Allison and Jenny in unison.
“That’s good, that’s good,” he said. He paused, then cleared his throat. They weren’t helping out any. “So what are you two working on? Allison, you certainly seem to be hard at work here. You look as if you haven’t eaten in weeks. I’ll have to speak to Warburg about that. We can’t browbeat the troops. In fact, Allison, I haven’t seen you at any of the fancy gatherings lately. You must be working on something important. Should I know?”
The newsroom had stopped. It was six thirty and the national desk would normally be pandemonium, with stories being finished and editors rushing back and forth with last-minute queries to reporters, but Turnbull’s inquisition had created a sudden lull.
“It’s nothing really important,” said Allison. “Just a sort of roundup story on the White House Congressional liaison office and how effective they have been pushing through their pet items.”