Regrets Only

by Sally Quinn

  That was an afterthought. She could tell. But it was a smart one. It did make her feel better if he really had worried about what she would think of the job he was doing.

  He reached over and rubbed his thumb under her eye.

  “I think you’re going to need a touch-up, sugar,” he said with a gentle smile. “You’ve got a little mascara under your eyes.”

  He loved her. There was that maddening combination of total self-absorption—total ambition on the one hand, a dependency and neediness on the other—that drove her crazy. Every time she got fed up with his lack of concern for or interest in her he would turn around and need her, for God’s sake. He needed her tonight, she suddenly knew. He needed her as much as she needed him. His coolness and calmness were just his manner. She had been so worried about herself that she hadn’t even given that any consideration.

  “Oh, wouldn’t the ladies of the press love that,” she giggled as she dabbed her nose, then under her eyes, with a Kleenex. “I can just see the story now. ‘The First Lady, her face red and puffy from crying, her eyes smudged with mascara, carried on next to her husband…’ ”

  “Sadie, don’t get worked up.”

  “My darlin’, I am already worked up. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to find my makeup lady to see if we can’t repair some of the damage.” She started out the bedroom door, then turned to face Rosey.

  “I’ll be fine. I promise. I just needed a little cry. Just think of all the actors and actresses who throw up before they go on stage and then give brilliant performances. Just watch.” She turned and sashayed out of the room.

  “That’s my girl.” Rosey laughed, and his face relaxed for the first time in days.

  Sadie was just emerging from her touch-up, everything in place, her eyes dried, when the butler informed Rosey that the Da Silveras were leaving Blair House, across the street. They would arrive at the main entrance of the White House and be escorted up the stairs to the family quarters any moment. Rosey was standing in the middle of the family sitting area, twisting a glass of Perrier in his hands, his only sign of nervousness. He looked marvelously handsome as usual in his white dinner jacket, his hair graying perfectly at the temples. “Only WASPs gray at the temples the way your husband does,” Desmond Shaw had once joked to her. He looked as if at any minute he would launch into a Fred Astaire routine and begin dancing on the ceiling.

  “Promise you’ll dance with me once this evening,” she said. She was surprised that her lips were sticking to her teeth. And her palms were still wet. She’d heard of an old trick a famous movie star used of putting Vaseline on her teeth so her lips wouldn’t stick, but the idea was so repulsive she couldn’t bear to try it. She didn’t know what to do about her hands. She’d practically gone through a box of Kleenex, wadding up the tissues one after an other in her palms. She couldn’t very well wipe her hands on her dress. That would be unseemly. She didn’t, she was embarrassed to admit, even own a proper handkerchief. Her mother would die if she knew that.

  Several members of the staff had arrived. The Da Silveras were on their way up in the elevator at that very moment. The two chiefs of protocol had gathered in the oval room along with the Da Silveras’ doctor. Always an ominous sign. Rosey was moving to greet them. She had better pull herself together.

  “Ah, Mrs. Grey,” said President Da Silvera, after greeting Rosey, “you are even more beautiful than your pictures. Americans are lucky to have such a First Lady.”

  For some reason that surprised her. She wasn’t really feeling very attractive. And even if he was a little corpulent, it made her feel better. Kiki Da Silvera was more attractive than her husband. Compared with him, she was tiny, and once past her fluttery hummingbird nature, she was rather pretty.

  “Oh, Mrs. Grey,” she said. “Tonio and I are so flattered that you would choose to have your first dinner for us. I must tell you, this is my first visit to the White House and I am so nervous. I wish I had your calm. You look like you have lived here all your life.”

  “Madame Da Silvera…” said Rosey.

  “Kiki, please,” she said.

  “Kiki, you don’t realize that you couldn’t have said a nicer thing. Sadie had been a little worried about tonight.”

  “Worried?” The President of Brazil was laughing. “Poor Kiki has been so nervous she hasn’t been able to eat for days.”

  They were both talking rapidly, in heavy accents, good but self-conscious English.

  “I didn’t know what to wear,” said Kiki. “I brought three dresses for tonight. I tried each one on four or five times, modeling them for Tonio.” She burst into a barrage of Portuguese, directed at her husband, who burst out laughing, then came over and hugged her reassuringly.

  “She is saying that she shouldn’t have worn this pink one; it is perhaps a little too bright. Mrs. Grey is so cool-looking in her pale green.”

  “I think it is too late to go back to Blair House to change, eh?” She looked at Sadie and laughed.

  “At least,” said Rosey, “we all feel the same way.”

  “We shall fortify each other,” Da Silvera said, laughing again.

  “I don’t think I will stop being amazed at what life is really like at the White House,” said Sadie. “Don’t you know that our guests who are arriving downstairs right now are feeling nervous themselves? My husband has a favorite expression: ‘It’s not what things are but what they appear to be that matters.’ It’s my impression that we all appear to be totally relaxed and at ease: therefore we are.”

  “We should think about going down,” said Rosey. “I believe I hear the band warming up to my favorite song.”

  “What is that?” asked the Brazilian President.

  “ ‘Hail to the Chief.’ ”

  * * *

  Sadie descended on Rosey’s arm into the great entrance hallway with the band playing, mobs of press jockeying for position, television cameras grinding away, and the lights so brilliant she was nearly blinded for the first few seconds. The only thing she could remember seeing clearly was Allison Sterling standing behind the ropes. Wasn’t it odd that out of all those people in that bright light her eyes had skimmed over the crowd and picked her out as if she had been the only person in the room? Just for a second Sadie felt her confidence slipping, even though by all rights she should clearly be declared the winner in this situation.

  Allison was wearing a simple gauzy black cotton dress with a tiered ankle-length skirt, tiny banded waist, straight bodice, and spaghetti straps. Her silver hair grazed her shoulders, her skin had a honeyed tone from just enough sun, and she wore only a thin gold chain around her neck and tiny gold hoop earrings. She looked elegant and sexy. Sadie felt bland and overly cool by comparison.

  The press was hemmed in by the red velvet rope that kept them at a determined distance from the President and his wife. Yet despite the considerable jostling and groaning that accompanied any “photo opportunity,” Allison, right in the middle of the crowd, looked peculiarly untouched, almost as though she were not aware of them.

  In her hand she clutched a tiny reporter’s note pad and pen, discreetly. When the Greys and their guests descended the stairs, Sadie thought that should have been one of the most exciting moments of her life. The eyes of the entire world were upon her. This was her moment. She was the queen. But Sadie knew what Allison was thinking. She knew that Allison thought she was a mindless twit.

  “She looks beautiful,” “exquisite,” “spectacular.” Sadie hadn’t even heard the breathless remarks of the reporters and photographers as she descended the stairs.

  “They’re talking about you, darlin’,” said Rosey, squeezing her hand with pride.

  She looked up with amazement to see the faces in front of her, smiling their approval.

  Rosey guided her from the hall into the East Room, where the guests were waiting, lined up to shake hands with the First Family and the guests of honor. Sadie had recovered from the cameras, from the approving reception, and r
egained her poise. Until Desmond Shaw stepped forward.

  “Mr. Shaw, Bureau Chief of The Weekly,” she heard an aide whisper to Rosey.

  “Of course,” said Rosey. “This man needs no introduction. And you know Sadie, of course.” He turned to the next guest in the receiving line.

  “Yes, sir. I do indeed.”

  * * *

  The evening was perfect. It was hot, but there was almost no humidity—a rarity in this swamp city. After the speeches and the hordes of photographers and cameramen with their hideous lights piling into the dining room—she had tried to get Jenny to persuade Rosey’s press office to knock that one off, but they wouldn’t hear of it—Sadie and Rosey stood to lead the guests out through the Red Room and down the winding steps onto the South Lawn.

  It had been arranged that the Da Silveras would slip off into the Blue Room, where the reporters could speak to them for five to ten minutes. The Greys would join them there. Jenny had gotten the reporters to agree that they would leave them alone at the table if they could see them after dinner for a few minutes.

  “I’ll believe it when I see it,” she had said, which made Sadie a little nervous. “But it’s the best deal I could cut.”

  This would be the first time Sadie had been exposed to the press since she and Rosey had moved into the White House. “Five minutes,” she whispered to Jenny as they were walking into the Blue Room. There were about six women reporters, ranging in age from twenty to seventy, and one male.

  “Mrs. Grey, that’s a lovely dress,” began one of the elderly reporters, a rather stout, short lady with white hair. “Whose is it?”

  “I made it myself,” she said.

  There was a gasp. Then, slowly, giggles.

  “No, I’m only teasing,” she said. “It was designed by Jane Frowirth in New York. She does most of the things I wear. But don’t you want to ask something of the Da Silveras?”

  “Oh, that’s perfectly all right,” said President Da Silvera.

  “Mrs. Grey, this was your first White House party. Were you nervous?” This from a rather nervous, shy young reporter whose voice shook as she asked the question.

  “I was as nervous as you would be if you were covering your first White House dinner,” she said with a sympathetic grin. Everyone smiled at the young reporter.

  “How involved were you in the guest list?” asked another—this from a very old pro, a veteran White House reporter known for her intense sucking up to First Families, regardless of political ideology.

  “Obviously, not as involved as I should have been; otherwise you would have been on it,” said Sadie.

  Jenny beamed.

  The male reporter, a rather smarmy Brit from a disreputable paper, piped up, “President Da Silvera, there was a recent sexual scandal involving a member of your government. How did you handle it, and have you advice for President Grey on how to deal with such problems in his Administration?”

  President Da Silvera’s portly face fell, and his wife looked at Sadie as though for help. Jenny looked at her watch.

  “If I needed any advice on that subject,” said Rosey smoothly, a steely smile on his face, “I need only read your newspaper.”

  It was the reporter’s turn to look dejected, and Da Silvera brightened.

  “Ah, very good, very good,” he said appreciatively to Rosey.

  “Thank you very much,” said Jenny, moving toward the Presidential party to end the brief “press availability.”

  “President Grey,” came a soft, husky voice from behind one of the taller woman reporters. Sadie had not noticed that Allison Sterling was in the room.

  “Yes, Sonny,” said Rosey.

  “There have been increasing reports of political repression, disappearances, and even torture of opposition-party members in Brazil lately. Do you intend to discuss this with President Da Silvera on this visit, and if so, do you intend to make any American commitments to that region contingent on our approval of their human-rights position?”

  Sadie was outraged. This was not the kind of question one should ask at a party; at least, she didn’t think so. She shot a look at Jenny, who was refusing to look at her. Madame Da Silvera looked down at the floor. The Brazilian President cleared his throat. There was a horrible moment of silence before Rosey answered.

  “Sonny, as you know,” he began very slowly and deliberately, “this Administration is very much concerned with the issue of human rights and committed to supporting them in every country.” The smiles were off everyone’s face now, and the reporters were scribbling.

  “This country has always been a friend of Brazil’s. It would not be fair of us to draw conclusions or give ultimatums without hearing all sides and having all of the facts. Certainly human rights is one issue which President Da Silvera and I will touch on, and I’m sure he will be able to satisfy me and the American people that we have no reason to be concerned on that issue involving his country. Thank you very much.” And with a resolute hand he took the arm of the Brazilian President’s wife and led her into the next room and down the stairs toward the garden tent.

  The reporters tried to shout a few more questions, but without much enthusiasm. It was clear the President would have no more. When they were out of earshot, Sadie turned to Jenny and muttered through clenched teeth, “What was she trying to do? Who does she think she is?”

  “I think,” said Jenny, “she thinks she’s a journalist.”

  * * *

  Sadie slipped upstairs on the elevator to the bathroom in the private quarters. When she smiled into the mirror, as she always did, she discovered a tiny piece of food caught between her teeth. And to think she had been smiling at President Da Silvera all night. How hideous. It wasn’t all that bad, hardly noticeable, but for God’s sake, what if it had been spinach? She must remember to tell the chef never to serve spinach at White House dinners. Or anything green ever again. In fact, it would be a lot safer if they had only clear consommé. What did other First Ladies do about this? About going to the bathroom? She had to have the tiniest bladder there ever was. It was a constant source of embarrassment. It was like being perpetually pregnant… all this was running through her head as she descended to join the Da Silveras in the Blue Room.

  Mrs. Da Silvera was running on about the horrible journalists and why couldn’t the Americans control them. “We have nothing like that in Brazil,” she was saying. “They would never dare behave like that in Brazil.” Sadie had tried to put Sonny’s question out of her mind and concentrate on pleasanter things, like bladder control, but it hadn’t worked. Didn’t the damn Brazilians know that they had no control over the press?

  “Don’t you know, Kiki, that we have no control over the press?”

  “You should. You should do something. This is terrible. I pity you.”

  Sadie was afraid that the whole evening might have been ruined by that one question from Allison Sterling. She could kill her. And to think of all the time and energy and planning she had put into the table arrangements, the food, the music, the guest list. All for naught. This woman was nearly hysterical.

  “Wait till you hear the entertainment,” she said with forced enthusiasm to Kiki. “I’ll bet you will be surprised,” and she led them into the Red Room, where they would descend to the tent.

  There was just the slightest breeze wafting up from the Potomac. Not a wind, really, but enough air to cause little wisps of hair to brush against her cheek.

  The night sky was perfectly clear, and the full moon shone brilliantly on the Washington Monument and the Capitol. The tent was a pale silhouette as well, placed against the midnight sky, and the gardens were redolent with the scent of spring flowers and the newly mown grass. Garlands of greenery were entwined on the columns holding up the tent, and soft white lilies bedecked the tiny cabaret tables surrounding the dance floor. Tiny votive candles flickered across the space, and the cloths were the softest green, nearly white—Sadie’s concession to Tilda’s complaint that it would look too much lik
e a wedding. Rum drinks were being offered by the waiters, and a Latin band was playing samba music.

  It was as though Sadie were seeing the White House and the grounds for the first time. For a moment she forgot that there was anyone around and she whispered to herself, “Sara Adabelle, honey, you are in tall cotton.”

  The band had paused when they arrived at the tent and had begun a Brazilian song which Da Silvera immediately pronounced his favorite. “Ah, beautiful lady,” he said, “you have thought of everything,” and he took Sadie’s hand to lead her to the dance floor as Rosey escorted his wife.

  As soon as they had been on the floor for a few minutes several of the uniformed White House aides, as instructed by Jenny, made a beeline toward the women reporters and led them to the dance floor.

  “Keep them on the dance floor. That way they can’t possibly make trouble; and make sure they are never without champagne.”

  Da Silvera was over six feet tall, with slicked-down black hair laced with gray, a mustache, large lips, small eyes, and several chins to go with his stomach. He looked like an overweight, aging Latin lover, and it was clear he coveted at least half of that image for himself.

  No sooner had they hit the dance floor than he held Sadie too close to him and breathed down on her seductively. “I only hope the President understands how lucky he is to have such a beautiful wife.”

  Sadie couldn’t believe he was pulling this on her in the middle of a White House dinner in front of the world, for God’s sake.

  His hand was pressing her waist, pulling her closer to him, and she could feel his hot breath on her neck. She couldn’t imagine what he expected to happen. Were they going to race up to the Lincoln bedroom and get laid? The whole idea of it tickled her so that she began to giggle.

  “What is amusing you, dear lady?” whispered Tonio in a forced sexy voice.

  “Oh, nothing,” she said. “I was just wondering about the sex scandals the reporter mentioned. I wasn’t aware of them. Perhaps you could tell me about them when we go sit down.” And she stopped dancing and pulled him off the dance floor toward their little cabaret table to the right. She nodded to Jenny, who had arranged for a Brazilian-American investment banker from New York and his wife to join them for a few minutes, then turned to Rosey on the dance floor; he caught her signal and eased Kiki back to the table. Jenny had lined up groups to rotate every ten minutes or so.