Regrets Only

by Sally Quinn

  Wiley Turnbull had a suspicious frown as he glanced around the room searching out Allen Warburg.

  “Hummm,” he said finally. “I’d like to see it when you’re finished. Well, let’s see that pretty face out on the party circuit more, do you hear?” And he pressed his fingers together and moved down the row of computers, scanning the faces to decide whom he would seek out next.

  “Asshole,” Allison said in a voice loud enough for half the newsroom to hear. Turnbull seemed not to notice.

  Before he was across the room, Allen Warburg and Walt Fineman were at Allison’s desk.

  “What the hell was that all about?” asked Walt.

  The deadline din had resumed as reporters went back to their work.

  “I think the newsroom is not big enough for both of us,” said Allison. “That sexist bastard should not be allowed out alone.”

  “Don’t let him get to you, Allison,” said Allen in one of his rare moments of sympathy. “He won’t be around that much longer.”

  “Hey, kid, are you okay?” asked Walt.

  “I’m perfectly fine, goddammit,” said Allison in a fierce low voice. “And I wish to hell everybody would leave me alone. I’m not a bloody invalid. And I do have this piece to finish.”

  “Well, I’ll leave you people to sort this one out,” said Warburg as he shifted uncomfortably, then ambled off toward his office.

  “Jesus, that bilious green on this screen is killing my eyes,” said Allison. “I feel as if my head is going to burst wide open. I’d love to meet the S.O.B. who designed these machines. He’s probably blind by now.”

  “Listen, Sonny,” said Walt. “This story isn’t going tomorrow anyway. We decided in story conference to hold it. We’ve got too much breaking news and we wanted to be able to play it well and let it run the length of what you’ve written. We could even hold it a couple of days more. Why don’t you call it a day? In fact, Jenny, why don’t you take Sonny out and get some dinner? My sources tell me you haven’t been out of your house in weeks. It will do you good. What do you say, Jen?”

  “I say I’m starving and I’m not in the mood to go home and eat Lean Cuisine.”

  “Oh, shit, now you’re going to try to make me feel guilty if I don’t have dinner with Jenny.”

  “You got it,” said Walt, and laughed, patting her on the top of the head. “Suckered again.”

  He could see that though Allison pretended to be miffed, she looked relieved and more enthusiastic than she had in weeks.

  “Okay. Let’s just play it as a Save Jenny operation. I’ll take poor Jenny out and cheer her up. How’s that?”

  “That sounds great,” said Walt.

  “Then,” said Allison, standing up and grabbing her fur-lined parka, “let’s get the hell out of this chicken-shit outfit.”

  “Oh, and Sonny,” said Walt, “put it on the expense account, huh?”

  “You bet I will.”

  * * *

  Sushi-Ko was a tiny Japanese restaurant across the street from Germaine’s. It had only a few tables and a sushi bar. It was not a fancy restaurant by any means—blue jeans were the standard dress—but it served great sushi, and whenever Allison was feeling particularly depressed she would head for it. It was like a Southerner heading for barbecue or a Texan going for Mexican food. It soothed her, reassured her, made her feel secure to eat Japanese food. It reminded her of Chisuko, her nurse and surrogate mother, and her three happy years in Japan with Sam when she was a girl.

  Sushi-Ko was a restaurant where women could go alone and feel comfortable. That mattered to Allison.

  It was a slow night, so they didn’t have to stand outside in the cold and wait for a table. The owner ushered them in immediately and greeted Allison in Japanese, and as she responded in Japanese, he took them to Allison’s favorite table and brought them a jug of hot sake.

  After a long silence Jenny spoke. “You’re really hurting, aren’t you, kid?”

  Allison looked down at her hands, pressed her lips together, and took some deep breaths.

  Jenny couldn’t get over how she looked. She was so accustomed to seeing Allison as the invincible golden girl. It spooked her.

  Jenny put her hand on Allison’s arm. “Talk, Sonny.”

  The tears welled, and she tried to get control while Jenny studied the menu and lit one cigarette after another.

  “I need a cigarette,” she said finally. “Maybe then I can stop this stupid crying,” and she held out her hand to take it as Jenny offered her one, then lit it for her.

  “I feel… I feel so frustrated, so angry, so confused,” she said at last. “I feel like a third-degree patient in a burn unit. I can’t move or blink or speak or even breathe without terrible pain. I’m beyond depression. I can’t control my emotions. I’m crying all the time. I don’t have any confidence, I don’t have any optimism. I’m not comfortable with myself anymore. I feel like shit all the time, and I’m so afraid it’s all my fault. That I brought it all on myself.”

  But even through her tears Allison saw the look of genuine sympathy in Jenny’s eyes and she wondered how this woman could always have been so generous and so loyal to her under the circumstances.

  Allison had never had many women friends. Women were intimidated by her. Not Jenny. Plain Jenny, with her ordinary job and no man in her life, was always proud of Allison. Jenny was Allison’s surrogate mother now. Always supportive. When they were together, it was Allison people approached, Allison they praised and complimented, Allison they admired, feared, sought after. Jenny would beam, full of pleasure and pride. Allison had often thought she would die of jealousy if the situation were the other way around. And yet Jenny had qualities that Allison was coming to appreciate more and more. She was a womanly woman, with a large bosom, a wonderful warm smile, a great sense of humor, and a maternal air that appealed to everyone. She had hundreds of friends, her house was never empty, her icebox always full.

  She always had time for other people’s problems, always had good advice, always had a spare bed for an out-of-towner. Deadlines and stories took a backseat to her friends if they needed her. Her table at Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter was packed with strays and singles. Winter weekends her hearth was crowded with friends for brunch, and in summer it was her garden people flocked to on Sundays. Somehow she seemed to come to grips with the fact that she was middle-aged, unmarried, and childless and had managed to put together a pretty good life. Everybody loved Jenny. And it occurred to Allison as she sat at the table that nobody loved her at all. Or everyone who had was gone.

  “I don’t know, Jenny,” Allison said finally. “I just don’t know whether or not I did the right thing. I wonder if maybe what I wanted from Des was marriage, even children, and I couldn’t allow myself to say it for fear of seeming too vulnerable to him. I felt I had to be tough because that’s what he liked about me. Now I think maybe what he wanted was some sign of needing him. But I bent over backwards to show him how tough I was and went too far. At least, this way I have my pride. For what it’s worth. Ha.”

  “Sonny, a long time ago I was very much in love with a man. It turned out when we finally got to the point of intimacy that he was impotent, always had been. I persuaded him to have a thorough physical exam and he found out that nothing was wrong with him. The doctor recommended a psychiatrist. I lived with him for years while he underwent therapy, living without real sex. But we had a wonderful relationship and we were truly in love. He went five days a week for nearly four years and finally he began to show signs of sexual ability and arousal. Then I discovered that he had been seeing other women, that he was successful with them. When I confronted him, he wept and told me that he was going to leave me. He said I reminded him that he needed someone who saw him only as what he had become, a whole man. He left and married and has several children now. I was devastated. I never got over it. And I have been afraid of getting involved ever since.”

  “God, Jenny.”

  “After this happened I
didn’t care whether I lived or died. Finally a friend of mine talked me into going to see a psychiatrist, which I fought for a long time but finally did, and he saved my life. He also made me see where I had gone wrong, what part I had played in what was a sick relationship. I’m not exactly what you would call the perfect picture of mental health right now. And it’s too late for me to have children. But I hope, if I keep up my therapy, that one day I’ll be able to love somebody again, maybe in a healthy way.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Jenny, I couldn’t go to a shrink. If you go to a shrink in Washington everybody thinks you’re crazy, and there’s no way you can go without everybody finding out.”

  “So how come you didn’t know I was going? I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’m not famous and nobody cares if I go to a shrink, but people would be very interested if you went. You’re right about that, but I think you could keep it a secret if you wanted to.”

  “I didn’t mean that, you know, but I’ve always thought of going to a shrink as a sign of weakness. I think I should be able to solve my own problems. I can’t stand all the trendy crap about shrinks. Besides, I’m not crazy.”

  “You are if you don’t go to one. That’s all I can say. If ever I saw a candidate, it’s you. Look at it this way. Pretend you’re in a pitch-black room full of furniture and you keep bumping into things. You hit your knee and bump your shin, and trip and cut your lip and bruise your ribs. You’re not doing that because you’re weak. You’re doing it because you can’t see. Going to a shrink is like turning on a light. Suddenly you can see where all the furniture is and you can walk through the room without hurting yourself. Your problem is that you can’t see what your problems are. All a therapist will do is turn on the light for you. If you were physically sick you’d go to a doctor. You’re very much a can-do, fix-it kind of person. Give yourself a break. Don’t cheat yourself out of the real happiness you deserve.”

  “But I do know what I want.” Her voice was tentative.

  “Dammit, Sonny, you just said five minutes ago that you didn’t. Okay, so tell me. Because once you’ve decided, it will be even harder. Then you’ll have to admit it, and once you’ve admitted it, you’ll have to do something about it.”

  “Well, I want to be a successful journalist and have a successful relationship.”

  “What the hell does that mean? Does that mean marriage? Does that mean children? You don’t know. You’re too scared to even think about it. But you’re at the point now where people are going to stop admiring you and start feeling sorry for you, and you don’t have all the time in the world left. You better get your act together.”

  “You’ve seen Des, haven’t you?”

  “What made you ask that?”

  “Don’t evade, Jenny. I’m a crack journalist, remember? Just tell me.

  “Yes, I have talked to Des.”

  “You know about the letter I wrote him?”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “I won’t ask you to betray his trust. I gather by what you just said that he feels sorry for me. Should I go to him? Should I apologize?”

  “I don’t think anything will do any good now, Sonny.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s in real pain. As much pain as you are.”

  “So maybe we could help each other.”

  “You’re the last person who could help him. He can’t do it, Sonny. Any more than you can. You’re both about as impotent as my lost love. And the only way you’re going to become whole again is to find somebody who can help you.”

  “I’m going to ask you a question, and I want you to tell me the truth. Okay, Jenny?”

  “Okay.”

  “Is there somebody else?”

  “No.”

  “Jenny?”

  “What?”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I don’t know.”

  * * *

  Allison had reached for the phone a hundred times, had even dialed the number and hung up when she heard the soft voice on the other end.

  “Hello? Hello? Who’s there, please?”

  The last few times, Rachel Solomon had sounded irritated.

  It wasn’t that Allison didn’t want to talk to her. It was just that every time she tried to speak she felt herself falling apart. She simply couldn’t get the words out of her mouth. The first time she called it was from the office, and she was horrified by her reaction. The next time, she tried from home. She was embarrassed. It was so uncharacteristic. She had always been under control until this thing with Des. Now she was emotionally incontinent. But she couldn’t go on like this. Jenny was right. She was a fix-it person. She would get help, get herself straightened out, solve her problems, and get on with it, goddammit.

  This time she would call Rachel Solomon and she would not break down on the phone. It was a Saturday afternoon. She didn’t know whether it was okay to call on the weekend, but she was at the point where she didn’t think she would make it through until Monday if she didn’t get help. She had tried to work most Saturdays, but this morning she had finished her story early and Walt had sent her home. There really wasn’t anything for her to do. Her house seemed small and confining. It reminded her of Sam.

  It was about four when she practically ran over to the phone and dialed the number, hoping Rachel wouldn’t answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, is this Rachel Solomon?”

  She said it in her most forthright voice.

  “Yes.”

  “This is, this is, uh, Allison Sterling.” Why was she stuttering? “I’m, uh, I, uh, Jenny Stern suggested I call you.”

  “Yes, she mentioned you might call.”

  “Oh, good, then she told you what the problem is.”

  “No. She just said she had a friend who might call.”

  “Oh. Well…” She was losing her breath again. “I, uh, it’s really no emergency or anything. I don’t know why I’m bothering you on a Saturday. I mean it’s nothing that can’t wait, it’s just that I, um, I, um…Oh, God, Rachel, I need help!” she said, choking back the sobs. But once she had let go she couldn’t stop. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to do this…” She tried to talk, but she couldn’t. She was only able to hear the barely audible yet supportive voice on the other end saying, “Yes,” “Yes,” “I know” while she held on to the receiver as though it were an oxygen mask.

  “Actually, I have a couple of hours right now. Would you like to come over?”

  “I’d like that very much. I’ll be right over.”

  She decided to drive over, even though it was a sunny day, the kind of crisp late-autumn day she normally would have chosen to walk. She threw on a tweed jacket and splashed some cold water over her face and started to race down the stairs. Then she remembered the letter. She would take a copy and spare herself the painful process of reliving that whole thing. She sat down at her desk and wrote down a number of items to discuss. It would be important to be organized in this session, to keep things in control. She didn’t want to waste any time, since she would be seeing Rachel only once, just to help sort things out.

  Driving over to Dupont Circle, she reviewed the circumstances.

  First of all she would have to look at her recent obsession with her mother. Since she and Des had split up she had been haunted by her. Odd that it was now, when she was practically middle-aged, that Allison missed her mother more than she ever had. She needed her. She was talking to her often, the way she had talked to Sam after he was dead. She had always been fascinated by her mother, or rather her mother’s image.

  It was just that now it was a grown woman who craved a close relationship with another woman, rather than the star-struck young girl who had nothing but pictures of a movie-star creature on her walls. Katherine Kingsley might well have been a subject for coloring books. She had been a special person, talented, strong, courageous, beautiful. As a child Allison had covered her bedroom walls with pictures of her moth
er interviewing famous people. She had scrapbooks of all her mother’s clippings and stories about her as well. She kept her mother’s awards in her room enshrined in a little glass case, as her mother was on the walls, in the scrapbooks, and in Allison’s memory. In Allison’s mind her mother was a goddess, a perfect woman, the person she aspired to be. From the time she could talk she had wanted to be a journalist. Everyone who came to their house would be grilled by this inquiring young reporter…. Had they known Katherine? What was she like? Had they read her stories? She could never get enough. And yet Katherine Kingsley was never real to her.

  Only now could she look back on her father’s stories about her mother and think that beyond the fantasy of these two beautiful people there really was a woman who had thought and felt and loved and who had had problems and disappointments.

  Her parents had met in France during World War II. It was love at first sight. Sam was an intelligence officer in the Army, Katherine a war correspondent for UR Katherine had become celebrated when she was captured by the Germans.

  Allison was born less than a year after they met. Shortly after the war ended.

  Two years later, on her first assignment after Allison was born, Katherine had been killed in an automobile accident in France. She’d been assigned to do a story on the final weeks of the war from a woman’s point of view. She never wrote the story.

  Allison often wondered how her mother had done it—being a journalist forty years ago when sexism was still the rule. If it was bad now, how must it have been then?

  Questions were all she had. And the crucial question was, Had her mother had it all? She’d had a fabulous career, she’d had a wonderful marriage, a great husband, and she’d been a terrific mother. And she had died trying to have it all. Did that mean that it was impossible, that one shouldn’t try? Was it because she had wanted to have it all that she’d lost everything?

  The deaths of her mother and father had obviously affected her relationships, with both men and women. It was always she who had ended every relationship, either directly or forcing the other person to do it.