Regrets Only

by Sally Quinn

  “You two don’t waste any time, do you?”

  “Jenny has this shrink who always used to tell her, You get what you want. The trick is to know what it is that you do want. I know. That’s why I’m not wasting any time. Oh, by the way, you’re not going to be interviewing me anymore.”

  “No? I got the idea you kind of liked to be interviewed by me.”

  “I loved being interviewed by you, and I’m going to love even more being edited by you.”

  “Edited?”

  “Yes, on a longtime basis. You see, I’m writing a novel. And this novel is going to take at least two years to finish. I foresee burning a lot of midnight oil.”

  “Well, I think it sounds like a great idea. I would be honored to be your editor, but I must warn you… I have a relentless pencil.”

  * * *

  “I feel like a schoolgirl sneaking out after curfew.”

  Sadie was dressed in beige slacks and a beige string sweater set. Jenny was still in her office clothes. Sadie had a notebook and a tape measure. They might need some more furniture or some other things from the warehouse.

  “What on earth have you got in that bag?” said Jenny, looking at Sadie’s large leather satchel. “We’re only going next door.”

  “It’s a surprise. You’ll see. But we’d better go. It’s late enough, don’t you think?”

  “It’s after nine. I’m sure most everybody will have left their offices by now. For one thing, the President’s not here, so the suck-ups don’t have that much reason to stay late.”

  “It’s almost like walking through a plan to escape from a prison camp. In fact, that’s pretty much what it is.”

  “Just always be aware that the minute we step off that elevator on the ground floor the monitor in the ushers’ office is going to pick up Lagoon, and they’ll know where you are every second.”

  “What a way to live. Why would anyone in their right mind choose to live this way?”

  Jenny sighed.

  The elevator door opened and they were on the ground floor facing the diplomatic entrance. Portraits of former First Ladies were hung up and down the red-carpeted hall.

  “One day,” said Sadie, “my portrait will hang here with the rest of them… or will it? Maybe I will go down in infamy, scratched from the history books.”

  “Don’t talk like that,” said Jenny. “This is going to remain a secret even if I have to start having an affair with Des to cover up.”

  “Forget it.”

  “Actually, that’s not such a bad idea.”

  They both laughed.

  They turned right and walked down the corridor.

  “We’ll have to get the ushers to pull these red linen screens out so that we can walk behind them,” mused Jenny. “We’ll just call down before we come.”

  They followed the corridor down the stairs and past the Oval Office, down by the Xerox machines, past the door to the press office, through the colonnade, by the west garden room, down some more stairs to the Lower West Hall office, past the White House mess, and out the door and across the parking lot to the Executive Office Building.

  “There must be a tunnel or something to the EOB so that I don’t have to go outside in front of everyone in the cold and rain,” said Sadie. “I can’t believe there isn’t.”

  “I’ve asked the Secret Service and they swear there isn’t,” said Jenny. “The fact is that there is no way you can get over to the EOB without having everybody in the White House, including the entire press corps, know it. So you better think that one over. God, you’ve practically got to walk through the bloody pressroom to get over here.”

  Sadie started to say something, but Jenny stopped her.

  “Please, no suggestions about wigs and dark glasses. I can just see the front page of The Daily now… ‘First Lady dashes to clandestine rendezvous’… Forget it. In fact, I’m going to have a little briefing on your activities and tell them that you are taking a small office in the EOB for your own personal writing. I’ll tell them you have been writing poetry and short stories ever since you left The Gotham after you got married and that you have decided to do so for your own pleasure and relaxation.”

  “What if they ask if I’m going to publish anything?”

  “Just say no, at least not while your husband is President. That’s the truth, isn’t it? Always tell the truth, even if you have to commit a few sins of omission. The fuckers will find out anyway and then you really will be in trouble. Besides, this is no big deal. It will probably play well anyway, the idea that the First Lady actually has a life of her own outside her official duties. It will appeal to women, and it won’t threaten men the way it might if you were into, say, bodybuilding.”

  “Don’t give me any ideas.”

  They were walking across the driveway between the EOB and the White House, but it was dark enough so that the few people who were getting into their cars didn’t notice them. They hurried in the darkness to the freight entrance and went inside to the basement of the EOB and turned right to the elevator. There was nobody in sight as they got off the elevator on the second floor and turned right again. Immediately there was a large door which Jenny quickly opened. They were standing in a small, high-ceilinged room with a desk and a chair and a large window almost to the floor. The room had beautiful moldings and was painted a pale yellow. Sadie looked slightly disappointed.

  “This isn’t it,” said Jenny. “This is the outer office. This is my office. This is where the watchdog sits. The inner sanctum is here.” She pulled out a key and unlocked the adjoining door and flung it open almost as though she were showing a young bride her new home.

  Sadie gasped. It was a fabulous room. On the left-hand wall, facing the White House, there were two large windows and a pair of French doors which gave onto a small balcony. The room was painted a soft beige, with off-white heavy linen curtains that matched the beautiful woodwork and moldings. Underneath one of the windows was a huge sofa in a soft beige linen with large pillows in various shades of off-white, cream, and beige. A large mocha rug carpeted the floor, and there were armchairs and antique end tables with small lamps around the room.

  Facing the windows and the sofa was a large oak desk with a swing armchair behind it and a standing lamp over the typewriter table to the side. To the right of the desk was an imposing fireplace with moldings to match the crown moldings and chair rails. Around the room were paintings of historic American scenes in muted colors and one Gilbert Stuart portrait. It couldn’t have been better if she had done it herself. It clearly hadn’t been used for quite a while, yet one had almost the feeling that someone had just gotten up and walked away. It didn’t look decorated. The neutral colors gave it a soft, cozy feeling. It was a room you could take your shoes off in. Or your clothes….

  “Oh, God, Jenny, it’s perfect. I love it. Are you sure it’s okay, that I can really have it?”

  “I’m sure. Rosey requested it. He is, after all, the President. You haven’t finished yet. There’s another room through that door next to the fireplace.”

  Sadie walked over to the door and pulled it open. It was a tiny room with a love seat, two end tables with lamps, and next to it a small bathroom.

  Sadie looked at the sofa, and Jenny, seeing the look on her face, said, “It’s a sofa bed.”

  Sadie blushed.

  “Come back in here,” Jenny said quickly. “You didn’t notice this console. It’s a TV set. And there’s a small bar with a refrigerator and sink in that closet on the other side of the fireplace.”

  “Maybe I’ll just move in here,” said Sadie. “It’s got everything I want. Oh, Jenny”—and with that she reached over and embraced her friend, squeezing her so tightly that Jenny finally gave a little cough of embarrassment and pulled away.

  “I think we should talk about logistics. You do realize that every time Canyon comes there will be people who will notice. That means that you absolutely cannot meet more than once a week, and even that’s a bit heavy. I
would suggest once every two weeks.”

  She saw Sadie’s face fall.

  “Sadie, sit down.” She waited until Sadie was seated. “Now listen. You know I am not happy about this whole thing. As far as I’m concerned this is a suicide mission. There is no way, in my opinion, that you and Des are not going to be found out eventually. You’re caught up in the moment, so you’re not thinking clearly. I’m not going to try to change your mind. But you have got to start thinking realistically about this. You will be found out. I repeat that. There is no such thing anymore as a First Lady or a President being able to keep a secret about their activities. So you have got to decide how you are going to handle it. Because I am way out of my league on this one. Way out. It is simply beyond me even to contemplate the statement we will have to make when the shit hits the fan. And believe me, as sure as your name is Sara Adabelle McDougald Grey, it will.”

  Sadie looked thoughtful for a moment, then reached into her large bag and pulled out a bottle of Roederer Cristal champagne. She uncorked it and poured two glasses. She held one aloft. “Cheers,” she said.

  * * *

  Jenny sounded strangely distant on the phone.

  “Jen, I’m depressed. I need a friend.”

  “Oh? What’s the problem?” She sounded rushed.

  “Nothing specific. Just ‘it.’ You’re the smartest person I know. I need to talk to you. I need to figure some things out. Not on the phone,” she added quickly. “I was thinking we could have dinner.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Oh, jeez, I promised…” She paused. “I don’t know. This is a killer week. The Greys are having a big dinner for the new Supreme Court Justice before the Court goes into session and Sadie’s parents and brother are coming up and I’ve got so much shit to do.”

  “How about this weekend sometime?”

  “Well, I don’t know. I’ve got a dinner date Saturday night.” She laughed a little nervously. “Saturday, it seems, is my only night off these days. Nobody told me the truth about this job. It’s like taking the vows.”

  Allison knew she was being put off, but she couldn’t figure out why, and she felt so hurt by Jenny’s tone that she almost said goodbye. Normally so perceptive, she didn’t catch the pain in Jenny’s voice.

  “I don’t envy you,” she said instead. “Well, don’t worry about it. Maybe we could get together next week sometime.”

  “Next week would be great, terrific,” said Jenny, relieved. “I should be out from under by then.”

  “Jen?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Who’re you going out with Saturday night? You got some hot new flame you’re not telling me about?”

  “Not really—it’s just that I, uh…”

  “Jenny, it’s me—Allison,” she teased. “Crack reporter. You might as well tell me. You know I’m going to find out anyway.”

  “I know.” Jenny wasn’t laughing.

  “So who is it?”

  “It’s Des.”

  * * *

  “Do be careful, darling.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lorraine.” Sadie was munching on a piece of wheat toast without butter, a soft-boiled egg with no salt, half a pink grapefruit with no sugar, and tea with no skim milk or honey. She felt noble and deprived, but she had a renewed sense of purpose about her thighs since the affair with Des had begun.

  She settled back against her Porthault pillows and shifted a bit uncomfortably. She knew Lorraine would lecture her before she unloaded any dirt, and she would have to listen. But she had already worked out what she wanted to say. She was innocent.

  “Yes, you do. Desmond Shaw is a very attractive man. And, I might add, he’s on the loose. And let’s be honest. You weren’t exactly ignoring him at that party for the Brazilians.”

  “First of all, Lorraine, you’re projecting. In case you don’t understand that, it’s shrink talk for accusing me of something you’re thinking of. I think Des is quite marvelous. I also think he is bad news. I think any woman who would get involved with him should have her head examined.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about. Everyone is talking about that cover story he did on you in The Weekly. A valentine if I ever saw one. He’s trying to soften you up. And from the tone of your voice, he did a pretty good job.”

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. That piece couldn’t have been more helpful to me—or to Rosey, for that matter. I can use Des too. It works both ways.”

  “Don’t ever deceive yourself about that. Listen, Sadie, I’ve told you this before and I’m going to tell it to you again. Des doesn’t trust anyone and you shouldn’t trust him. He is a reporter. He needs you. You are a source. First, last, and always. He may find you attractive. He most certainly does. But that means nothing. I have lived in this town for a long time and I want you to listen to me because I am right. Never, never trust a reporter. Everyone who does gets burned. You are no exception. Desmond Shaw would just as soon burn you as look at you if it meant a good story. And it seems to me that what happened between him and Allison is a good lesson for all of us. She would destroy the only decent relationship she’s ever had, she would give up the love of her life, humiliate the man she adored—for what?—for a story. And as they like to say themselves, they will wrap the fish in it tomorrow. I’m not going to tell you this again. Do not trust the press, and particularly do not trust Desmond Shaw. Do, and you’ll be sorry.”

  * * *

  “Look, Sadie, your parents are one thing. Your brother is another.”

  Rosey was furious. He didn’t turn red when he got mad the way most people did; he turned white. “A white rage” was what he called it when he was really angry. There were very few things that sent him into a white rage. One of them was Sadie’s brother, Outland McDougald.

  Rosey was standing in their bedroom next to the sofa by the fireplace. He had just taken a shower, and he was wearing his navy cashmere robe with the maroon monogram and the monogrammed needlepoint slippers Sadie had made for him several Christmases ago. He was glaring at her in a way he rarely did.

  Sadie had just gotten ready for bed herself. She was still perspiring from her long soak in the tub, and she had put on a heavy terry-cloth obe over her damp skin. Her hair was brushed away from her face, and she had already creamed under her eyes.

  “Oh, Rosey, what am I supposed to do? I’ve already invited him. Besides, it’s not like it’s a state dinner or anything. It’s just a dinner for a new Supreme Court Justice whom Outland even approves of. Raleigh Foster is Southern and fairly conservative. Outland will behave himself. I know he will. He wouldn’t do anything to embarrass me. Or you, for that matter. He gets along with G and Miz G. The kids will be here. I just thought it would be a good time to work the whole family in and get it over with in October so we won’t have to worry about the holidays. I can’t think of a better opportunity.”

  “Please don’t ‘Oh, Rosey’ me. Your brother has caused me more embarrassment already than any of those fools ever caused Roger Kimball. He has done nothing but blast me and my policies since I’ve been in the White House. If he weren’t your bloody brother nobody would give a damn what he wrote in his column for that worthless college-town paper…. I’m sorry. It’s not acceptable.”

  He had alarmed her at first, he was so angry, and she had pleaded with him. Now she was mad.

  “Oh, come off it, Rosey. You are enough of a politician to see the advantages in all of this, and don’t think I’m so stupid I don’t. There is a large faction in the Democratic Party that thinks you’re too conservative. This is the best ammunition you could have. A right-wing brother-in-law who rails against you for being too liberal. And not only that, but every man in the country with a brother-in-law will sympathize with you. And especially that you would be gracious enough to welcome him into your home after what he has written and said about you. It makes you look bigger than all that pettiness.”

  “Sara Adabelle, I h
ave had my say. As far as I’m concerned the subject is closed. Now will you kindly not discuss it any more. I have some briefs to go over for the NATO Economic Ministers’ meetings and I don’t need any more distractions.”

  It was Sadie who went white this time. She stood perfectly still as Rosey walked over to the king-size bed, carefully took off his robe and spread it over the side chair, placed his slippers beside his bed, climbed in between the sheets in his pajamas, put on his reading glasses, and calmly began going over his papers.

  After a few minutes standing there without being taken notice of, she walked over to her side of the bed and perched on the edge of it, leaning slightly toward her husband.

  “Don’t you ever dismiss me like that again,” she said evenly in a murderous tone. “Do you hear me?”

  Rosey looked up, startled.

  “Huh?”

  “You heard what I said.”

  He started to respond.

  “I am not finished yet… Mr. President. I have one more thing to say to you. I did not want to be the First Lady of the United States, and I particularly do not want to campaign for the job. However, out of loyalty to you and nothing more, I have been planning to do everything I can to get you reelected so that I can spend another four years in boredom, fear, and misery. I have already sacrificed one year of my life and I have got five more to look forward to. There is nothing in it for me. Nothing but confinement. I loathe every minute of it. That is a lot to ask of another person. When one asks something like that of another person, then one must expect to give something in return. I do not ask you for much. The few things I do ask you for I expect to get. I asked you for an office and I got it. I asked you for a private telephone line and I got it. Each one of those favors required a phone call from your chief of staff. I am now asking for my brother to be invited to the White House for the first time in a year. I can understand your reluctance. But he is my brother and I love him very much. It means a lot to me. This is, as I understand it, our house, not your house. Therefore I will feel free to invite him or anyone else I wish to this house anytime I wish. If you try to stop me I will refuse to campaign for you, or fulfill any of the expected duties of the First Lady. That is only the most minor of my threats.