Betsy walks into this group of veteran Washington philanthropists with her head held a little higher knowing that she’s most likely going to get into the Washington Club after her interview with Mr. Yoder, and that she has sobering gossip about Linda Williams, which she knows not to reveal until absolutely necessary. There are rules to Washington gossip, and one must know how to use them. Anything related to diseases such as alcoholism, or domestic violence, or severe mental health disorders, should be used against someone only in self-defense, or discreetly, and only within the inner circle.
Wearing a red one-piece jumpsuit and earrings that look like red dining-room chandeliers, Betsy takes a seat in between Linda, who wears a red blazer with a gold leaf pin and diamond studs, and Meredith, in a Ralph Lauren blue-and-green-plaid suit and gold Cartier watch. Poor Phyllis Van Buren, in winter white, has tried lip fillers for the first time; a rookie, she didn’t have them done far enough in advance, and her upper lip, albeit slathered in the natural-looking gloss she favors, is swollen, her smile a little lopsided.
“Linda!” Betsy says, leaning over to give her a double kiss on both cheeks before she takes a seat.
“How’s my lip?” Phyllis whispers to Meredith through gritted teeth, ignoring Betsy’s entrance. A waiter in a bow tie is pouring champagne around the table.
“Fine,” Meredith lies with a smile.
Linda sits with her lips pursed. “Hi, sweetheart,” she says to Betsy, letting her know who’s in charge of the friendship; after all, it was Linda who had placed Betsy on Nourah’s fund-raising radar.
“A little more wine, please,” says Carol to the waiter when he refrains from pouring champagne into her glass. She looks around the table, completely disinterested in these women, in her gray shift from Lord & Taylor, gold cross dangling around her neck, and a military pin placed just above her heart. Hiding the shame she feels about her son’s recent overdose, which all of these women are privy to.
“Anyway, you were saying about the Christmas homes tour this year,” Meredith says to Phyllis, still ignoring Betsy. “I didn’t know this, but Genevieve Banks was supposed to be on the tour as well, so they had an open placement and gave it to a new family who just moved into one of the former churches. Should be pretty exotic.”
Phyllis raises her eyebrows, which tweaks her upper lip to the right, takes a sip of champagne.
An uneasy look crosses Meredith’s face. “Well, don’t mention it to Bunny during the tour, she’s—we’re all still shaken from it.”
“Of course, my dear,” says Phyllis. “We’ll have a wonderful afternoon of just us girls looking at splendid Washington architecture, the traditional and the avant-garde!”
“Pardon me, I don’t want to interrupt—just wanted to say hello to you fabulous ladies,” Betsy says, her hand on Meredith’s shoulder.
Meredith turns her head, gazes at Betsy’s French-manicured fingers across her plaid shoulder pad, hardly a smile. “Nice to see you. Do you know Phyllis Van Buren, one of my oldest and dearest friends?” Meredith says.
“How do you do,” Betsy says. She can’t help but notice the bruises on Phyllis’s lip, oh poor thing. Perhaps she should discreetly give her the name of her aesthetician.
Carol downs her wine as she sees Galina Stopinski and Sissy Cowan having a great laugh (heads thrown back, veneered teeth in the air, Birkins dangling from their wrists) on their way back from the powder room.
“Carol,” Meredith says, “Bunny mentioned you’ve been spending a lot of time in Middleburg—you must let me know the next time you’re going, and come over to my parents’ farm for tea.”
“That would be lovely,” Carol says to be polite. Meredith smiles; she knows better than to mention Billy’s overdose on such an occasion, a social faux pas to ask how someone’s child is when you know they’re not doing well. It somehow feels like cheating, but manners above care.
“Will Billy be attending the academy?” Linda interrupts. She takes a bite of Caesar salad that’s just been passed around. The table is suddenly silent.
“He will, just like his father,” Carol declares, sitting up straight.
“What a wonderful legacy to carry,” Linda says.
Carol smiles. “Thank you.”
“Meredith, where is Bunny looking to attend college?” Betsy asks.
“Yale,” Meredith says smoothly without any hesitation; she doesn’t even look Betsy in the eye—in fact, her outfit makes Meredith cringe. Why do they still refuse to just seat friends with friends each year? She’s contemplating whether or not she’ll decline next year’s invitation; it’s just not what it used to be. The spray-painted gold baby’s breath is just too much.
Trying not to feel intimidated—it must be nice to be a legacy admission—Betsy realizes she’d rather not go down the old college road, for surely these women all went to Ivies while she was struggling at Gettysburg. Meanwhile, she’s praying Mackenzie gets into Chapel Hill.
“Good for her,” Betsy says, sipping her champagne. She quickly changes the subject. “Phyllis, do you have children?”
“Oh yes. My boys are all grown up,” Phyllis says, covering her mouth with her napkin as she tries to take a bite of her salad. She swallows, clears her throat, and adds, “Princeton,” as if that was going to be Betsy’s question.
“Her boys are just the most wonderful. Stuart is on the tenure track at Penn, and Alex is working on sustainable energy in East Africa,” Meredith says, bragging for her old friend to let Betsy know the rank she’s trying to penetrate but will never be allowed into, no matter who her husband is on Capitol Hill.
“Besty, darling, vhere did you get those earrings!” Galina Stopinski says. “Stan gave me vhones with less shape for my birthday but doesn’t look good vhith the shape of my face.” She cups her chin with her hands, revealing her nine-carat yellow diamond, just a little bit smaller than Betsy’s.
“Buccellati—you must see the new collection.” Betsy smiles, fingering the bottom tassels below her right earlobe.
“For God’s sake,” Carol says under her breath across the round table; only Phyllis hears, and chuckles lightly.
Linda hands her salad plate to the server walking around pouring Pellegrino. “I’m finished, thank you,” she says, looking at her empty salad plate, implying that he was late to pick it up. She turns back to the table. “Doug was just on Chris’s show a few weeks ago,” she says, trying to move the conversation away from materialism and into politics. Only in the last few decades have broadcast journalists been inducted into the fold of the Washington power structure, becoming more and more accepted.
“I’m really proud of him, and Meredith’s niece has been such a wonderful support!” Betsy says, cupping her champagne glass with her fingers, letting the table know she and Meredith are connected not only professionally, but also through family.
“Chuck got her the job, of course.” Meredith smiles at the table. “I’m still a registered Democrat!” She readjusts the napkin in her lap. “Betsy, didn’t you live here in Washington before?” she asks, tilting her head, putting her on the spot.
“Oh gosh, that was such a long time ago, I was practically a child.”
“Oh, you did?” says Phyllis, leaning over Meredith toward Betsy. “And what were you doing here in Washington, dear?”
“Oh, I was just young and newly wedded and, well, looking for something to do, I suppose!” she says, trying to charm her way out of the conversation.
“So you and Doug left the city for a long time?” Phyllis asks, genuinely curious, seeing as he is getting so much attention in the press.
“My first husband,” Betsy tries to say discreetly, hoping the other women around the table will turn away and start their own conversations.
“Well, many of us have been there, I’m sure,” Phyllis says.
Betsy smiles, wondering if word has gotten around about her sordid past. She feels it around these women, clinging to Doug’s potential for a new family legacy.
> “How are all of your children holding up since the Banks family…” Linda asks. No one, not even Linda, the wife of a newscaster, can bring herself to say murders in front of these women, several of whom were friends, even if only superficially, with Genevieve Banks.
“Well”—Betsy puts her hand to her heart—“Mackenzie didn’t know her well enough, but she tells me it’s been a little frightening as an observer. Is Bunny doing okay?” she asks, putting the spotlight back on Meredith.
Meredith lets out a big sigh. Normally not one who needs to impress any of these women, she’s felt an increasing paranoia about her family, having been a leading competitor in the same field as the Banks family business. “Well I think she’s doing the best anyone can to try and handle such a horrific, horrific thing at her age.”
“Vhell, Stan was just torn up about it, but he seems to be even closer to his friends now,” Galina says.
“Oh, goodness,” Carol says. “Billy was trying to—he had mentioned it to me, but I don’t think I ever met them.”
“Meredith, you knew Genevieve quite well, didn’t you?” Linda pries. Leave it to the wife of a newsman to want to dig deeper.
Meredith raises her eyebrows, but looks down at her uneaten anchovies. “Well, you know, we led very different lifestyles and grew apart as the years went on. Bunny and Audrey had many playdates when they were younger, and our families knew each other, though were not particularly fond of one another, just given that we were competitors. But we… respected each other. And I know David was getting more politically involved and, well… who knows if that had anything to do with it,” she says, insinuating: Republican—then remembers her audience. “Anyway, our families weren’t even that different, but business could get in the way.” She sips her champagne.
Meredith looks down at her Cartier watch and up at the podium where the hostess, Nourah Al Hashem, has appeared in a gold suit. She takes the microphone out of the stand. “Ladies, I am so blessed and beyond grateful you could join me this afternoon at our annual Christmas luncheon with fifty of the most extraordinary and powerful women in Washington. I am honored to stand before you, and have the privilege to talk about one of the organizations nearest and dearest to my heart. There are over four thousand children in our beloved Washington today who are homeless and hungry, and over three thousand parents who are joined with them. We know that with the ever-shifting economy, hard times can fall on families, which is why I partner with the Lollipop Kids Foundation and this life-changing work that they do. As most of you know, at this point in the afternoon we like to do our ‘ask.’ Everyone should have received a paddle when you checked in with Laurent—and let me just say how much we love Cafe Milano and our maître d’ extraordinaire, let’s give them a round of applause.” Ladies clap in their seats, heads turned to the front. Meredith begins to unwrap the lollipop on her dessert plate, while Phyllis frantically reapplies lip gloss.
“So, ladies, let me see your paddles!” The women hold up their paddles as if raising shot glasses. “Okay, very good! Are we ready? We are going to start with a whopping ask of twenty thousand dollars, twenty thousand dollars, would anyone so generously like to give the Lollipop Foundation twenty thousand dollars…?”
Women’s heads and torsos and hair-sprayed updos twist and turn in their seats, waiting for someone to raise a paddle. Hearts start to pound; no one wants to feel the shame of not having a single person step up to the plate—when suddenly Betsy Wallace, as if departing from the gates of hell, lifts her paddle and says, “I will donate ten thousand dollars if my friend here, Meredith Bartholomew, meets me at ten thousand even, so you can get your twenty.”
Eyes in the audience grow wide; no one has ever propositioned someone on the spot—not here in Washington, maybe in places like Vegas or Los Angeles. Betsy would justify it, were anyone to ask, as taking Linda’s advice about not being so “flashy” with her wealth, not as the wife of a new politician who wants to get into the Washington Club. But truly? It is vengeance; Betsy has not forgotten Linda’s tidbit of gossip on that dreadful evening of their dinner when she mentioned that the Bartholomew family had quietly been losing money.
Phyllis’s jaw nearly drops. Meredith wants to lean over the table and swat Betsy across the face with her paddle, watch her go flying through the glass windows and out into the cobblestone streets of Georgetown, her chandelier earrings flying apart at the clasps. Instead, she musters up a smile whose subtext is: Isn’t this woman atrocious? “I’ll match with fifteen thousand dollars,” Meredith counters, unwilling to lose her dignity because of Betsy Wallace.
“Wow!” Nourah claps her hands and struts across the floor in her brown Manolos. “Twenty-five thousand dollars on the first ask! A record… I just love my friends, old and new! Okay, our second ask…”
“Oh dear.” Phyllis downs the rest of her champagne while Galina Stopinksi and Carol Montgomery make the next bids.
* * *
As the afternoon progresses, neither Meredith nor Betsy makes eye contact with the other, nor do they engage in conversation. It is only when all of the willing donors line up where they originally checked in to give their credit card information to Laurent that Betsy leaves her final mark as the new-to-town powerhouse of Washington. She hands Laurent her black American Express card and kisses him on both cheeks.
“Don’t forget that fabulous coat of yours,” Laurent says, gesturing to the coat-check room across from him.
“Ciao, darling,” Betsy says.
Meredith approaches Laurent. “A successful luncheon this year,” she says.
“Every year, Mrs. Bartholomew,” he replies.
Meredith hands him her black American Express card as Nourah comes to say good-bye: “Oh, we are so grateful, my dear friend. I’ll have my assistant set up tea at the Jefferson as a thank-you.” They kiss each other on both cheeks.
“Um, Mrs. Bartholomew, I am so very sorry—I have tried running the card several times through the machine but it keeps declining,” Laurent says in a low voice, glancing to either side, so as not to embarrass her.
“What’s going on, sweetheart?” Phyllis says in her ear.
Meredith turns to her and whispers through a smile, “My card was declined.”
Phyllis begins to dig through her purse to pull out her wallet.
“Oh, for God’s sake, put that away,” Meredith says, loud enough for Betsy to spin around from the coat check to see the two women panicking.
The woman in coat check hands Betsy her jacket; she swings it around her back, cape-like, wrapping it around her neck. “Thank you,” Betsy says, handing the woman a twenty. She walks over to Laurent at the checkout table, bypassing Meredith and Phyllis. “Here, put it on mine, there’s no limit,” she says. He swipes: approved. Betsy turns around, smiles, and struts out of the double glass doors, Meredith and Phyllis inhaling whiffs of her ninety-eight-dollar bottle of Versace Bright Crystal.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Bunny waits for Anthony to appear, her right leg compulsively bouncing up and down; she’s anxious to tell him about the money. When he appears on-screen with a gash under his left eye, her leg stops.
“Hey, oh my God,” she says, looking at the flesh wound under his eye.
“That motherfucker came at me again.” The screen goes fuzzy; Anthony’s voice cuts in and out.
“Why do they do this? Why do they call this visiting? This is fraudulent! Hello?”
Anthony sits back and listens to Bunny’s unfolding enlightenment with annoyance. “Still here,” he replies, his face edging back into visibility on the monitor.
“I don’t understand why you’re still in there if you haven’t been convicted yet,” Bunny says, getting frustrated. “Isn’t it supposed to be innocent until proven guilty?”
“I don’t got a lotta time left on my minutes this month,” Anthony says, reminding her that nothing she is saying is a surprise for anyone in her immediate vicinity other than herself.
She nods and
wipes her cold nose with the sleeve of her jacket. “So I’m not sure I’m the person who can find you a lawyer—but I can give you the money for it. A hundred thousand dollars.”
Anthony looks at her, impatient, skeptical. He swivels around in his seat again, paranoid. “Where’d someone young like you—an independent reporter—get a hundred thousand dollars? You dealing drugs?” he asks.
“You said it yourself, I’m moneyed up, or whatever.” Bunny looks down, trying to not make it a big deal, but it’s a big deal.
“All right, where’s the money from?”
“My parents, I told you.”
“Your parents gave you a hundred K?… Why?”
Bunny pauses. “That’s a question I’ve never been asked before.”
“Right, ’cause you only hang around people like yourself.”
Bunny hears this and knows it couldn’t be truer. She doesn’t have any friends who are unlike her. Marty is the only Black friend she has. From the time she can remember she’s been taught to not acknowledge it, or think about it, or ask why.
“So who are your parents?” Anthony asks.
“They’re nobody—they just came from somebody.”
“Who’d they come from?”
The tables turning, Bunny tries to keep it vague. “I guess you could say… war.”
“War…” Anthony echoes.
“Yeah. War.”
“What the fuck do you mean, war?”
“Like weapons-ish…”
“Your family makes weapons?”
“Not anymore, like a lonngggg time ago, like last century,” Bunny says quickly. “But my parents are so proud of what our ancestors accomplished, you know? There’s so much pride, and I just, I’ve been thinking about your dad, a man who made his money in an honorable way, in a way that didn’t hurt anyone, and didn’t think that it would kill him in the end… that it’s killing the whole fucking planet,” she says. “Not him, I mean, you know what I mean, the company.”
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