Honestly, Reagan almost hadn’t come at all. It had taken two failed shopping attempts and an emergency visit, with both children in tow, to Georgetown to secure a dress for the night. Her belly had popped, no mistaking it now, and she had crossed the line from looking like she’d possibly just stolen too many chicken fingers off her daughters’ high chairs to looking like a new baby was due any day. Her Badgley Mischka full-length empire gown had a bit more of a plunging neckline than she would’ve liked for an event with the commander in chief, but its full tulle skirt was so voluminous it might have been the only garment in existence capable of making her bump appear smaller. A winner for sure.
And she deserved to be there to watch Arnold read her words. This most coveted of speechwriting gigs had fallen into her lap just four days before the dinner. She had received a frantic text from Ted on the trail:
POTUS letting Arnold speak at nerd prom: HELP??????
She hadn’t wanted to let on how excited she was, even to her husband. But she had a feeling that if she was being asked—and SO late in the game—then Team Arnold had been pretty dissatisfied with the jokes provided by whichever ghostwriters they’d already hired. Ted had called immediately after receiving her response.
“Thanks,” he had launched in as soon as she picked up. “So Watkins was too soft—”
“And totally saved all the best material for POTUS,” she had finished his thought, knowing her former competitor firm well.
“Exactly. Arnold wants ‘edgy-ish.’ Safe edgy. Edgy lite.”
“No problem. I’ll write it at My Gym this afternoon. The girls have back-to-back classes.”
And so she had whipped up a few jokes and bits on her phone while Natasha and Daisy flung themselves around on the equipment for an hour and twenty minutes. She was so unexpectedly exhilarated to have a speechwriting gig after so long that she didn’t even notice when Natasha made a break for it, running out the gym’s front door only to be scooped up by Stacy and carried back in over her shoulder.
But the White House communications team had been pleased with her work. And all the moreso by Cady’s tip about Madison attending the festivities.
Now she just had to wait a little while longer.
Soon after a dinner that had made her nauseous (she couldn’t bear any kind of meat with this pregnancy; her baby must be a vegan), Arnold took his place at the podium. His wife, Alex, seated beside him on the dais—the slender beauty, nearly sixty, former Treasury secretary and Reagan’s favorite Georgetown professor—looked down at something in her lap just a moment, then set her eyes back on to her husband, her hands returning to the tabletop. As Arnold began with a few of Reagan’s easy jokes, earning chuckles, Reagan’s phone vibrated.
“ALEX” popped up on Reagan’s screen: never seen him so excited for a speech. thank u. fingers crossed.
glad to help, fingers dutifully crossed, she typed back. It had been nice to feel needed, in a professional capacity, again. She just hoped she had done the job well. Her ears pricked up now, listening for the part of the speech she hoped everyone would be talking about afterward: “...And Madison Goodfellow is here tonight.” Arnold, poised at the podium, paused for applause. “That’s right, definitely Hank Goodfellow’s better half. In fact, she’s here without her husband, proving that even she is sick of seeing so much of that guy.” Laughter swept the room. “Seriously, you all can stop covering him anytime now. Maybe Madison figured if all of you people were here, there’d be no one left to put Hank on every news network and in every paper.” More laughter. “But, you know, my sources tell me that Madison’s been making some news herself tonight, stirring things up. I even heard a turf war broke out over the Bloomberg table and can’t help but notice that Madison Goodfellow is now just a few feet away while the Kardashians are somewhere at the back of the room. Who’s keeping up with whom, now?” He paused again for laughter for the brand-new bit Reagan had written just before dinner. “Look, though, Madison, we’d all be happy to let you sit up here on the dais with us if you just promise that you and your husband won’t be sitting up here next year, if you know what I mean.”
The crowd roared.
Madison smiled and shrugged and said nonchalantly, in on the joke, “I’ll take that deal!”
“Madison says okay! All right, come on up, Mrs. Goodfellow!” Arnold called out. “See, I keep my campaign promises!”
And in her dazzling Versace gown, to considerable applause, she hoisted her chair above her head, walked up the steps on the side of the stage and wedged her seat between Arnold and Alex.
Reagan spotted Cady looking over at her, and winked in return.
A calm began to replace Reagan’s nerves. As she listened to the laughter in this room full of the most powerful people in media and government, she closed her eyes for a moment to take it all in. Yes. She was good at this. She could still do this; the muscle could still perform as it used to.
When she opened her eyes, she found Grant Foxhall gazing at her from the CNN table, directly in her sight line. One of those local celebrities you couldn’t help but know if you worked in politics long enough. He raised a brow at her as if to say, “Your handiwork?” She shrugged demurely as though replying, “Maybe. But you didn’t hear it from me.” Grant nodded in recognition of her good work. His hair had been darker when they had first met on that atrocious date eons ago. The surest sign she was getting older (an old 34) she now often found men with salt-and-pepper hair attractive. She hoped the lights were dim enough that he couldn’t see her blush.
* * *
The Vanity Fair afterparty was a zoo of beautiful, exotic beasts, its guest list a combination of Oscar nominees, Emmy winners and Victoria’s Secret runway-show models. Reagan ducked into room after room, all of them grand with sparkling chandeliers and lavish furnishings, weaving through the throngs of fabulous people. She had lost track of Ted early on, and Cady and Madison had only had time for quick victory high fives as they’d passed by. She finally wandered into the dimly lit Empire Salon, with its lush scarlet furniture, and leaned against the window seat, eyes set outside where the party had spilled onto the intricately landscaped grounds.
Her phone pinged, the answer to a text she’d sent Ted a long twenty minutes earlier: Heading to Politico party, bra bldg—the “Bra Building” was, of course, that charming nickname for the Institute for Peace building down on Constitution Avenue, which featured a curved overdesigned roof vaguely resembling an undergarment—Arnold wanted to make the rounds. couldn’t find you, meet there? It might’ve been helpful if he’d texted a little sooner.
Then another ping right after, this one from ALEX: you might have single-handedly resuscitated his campaign tonight and to thank you, we left you behind? they’re all idiots. so sorry, thought you had gone home, which you should. rest. you’re not missing anything here.
gladly taking your advice! Reagan texted back, dreaming of ditching her heels. She was firing up her Uber app when a familiar voice refocused her attention.
“Hey, how’d you get a Plus One to this thing?” Grant said, gesturing to her bump and greeting her with a kiss on the cheek, that TV smile, a hand on her bare bicep.
“I know people.” She shrugged.
“Apparently.” He stood beside her, shoulder against hers, and watched the room. “Word on the street is Arnold was even better than POTUS tonight.” Even with the party swirling around them, he spoke in the hushed tone of someone relaying classified information. “You might be too good.”
He smelled of cedar, some kind of expensive cologne. His jaw always looked so much more angular in person, in the way of soap opera actors.
“There are worse things to be,” she said, looking into her glass and then back at the room. She glanced at him a moment; his eyes were the palest blue, seawater that allowed you to see straight through to the bottom. “So what other scoops do you have?”
�
�A confession—security caught me looking around upstairs.”
“What were you looking for?”
“Come on, what’s the point of being here if you don’t look in all the rooms they’re trying to keep you out of?”
“You news guys, always after a story.” She shook her head.
“I have a story for you.” He took a swig of his drink, something amber. “‘Hero Speechwriter Ignites VP’s Otherwise Sluggish Campaign With Scene-stealing Nerd Prom Remarks.’”
“A little overblown, likely some factual errors there, check your reporting,” she said, wishing she could have a drink now.
“No place for modesty in this town,” he chided lightly. Music poured out from a piano in a nearby room, soft and sentimental, probably being played by a Grammy winner, and the salon began to clear, everyone flowing out toward the impromptu performance. “Seriously, if you want to be on the show anytime in the next couple days, you’ve got an open invitation.” He turned to look at her now.
“Thank you, though I wouldn’t be a very good ghost then, would I?” She smiled.
“You are tough, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know about that,” she said.
“I’d say so. I’ve been flirting with you for years,” he said, so sincerely that she almost didn’t recognize his voice. “Or maybe I’m not very good at it and you haven’t noticed.”
She hadn’t, actually. She’d just thought this was how some of these broadcaster types seemed to talk to everyone, a kind of high-octane intense charm. Before she could say a word, he turned to leave.
“Always good to see you, Reagan,” he said softly, then kissed her goodbye. This time though, he missed her cheek, his lips brushing against hers, landing there only a split second. It was all just rapid enough that, to anyone watching, it would look mostly friendly. Her glossed lips had remained perfectly still. But it didn’t matter; she still felt a charge that shouldn’t have been there.
17
I’M ON, LIKE, EVERY TEAM
STARS COME OUT FOR WHCD FESTIVITIES,
ARNOLD, HAZE AND GOODFELLOW
(THE MISSUS!) OUTSHINE PREZ
By Sky Vasquez, Staff Writer, The Queue
After a dinner full of surprises—Vice President Arnold delivering the night’s best laughs? Madison Goodfellow, the ultimate good sport?—the French ambassador’s posh residence played host to a slew of stars and a couple of presidential nominee-hopefuls. Rocky Haze sat out the dinner itself. “I’ll go when I’m seated onstage,” she quipped. But the musician did appear unannounced at the must-see afterparty, the annual Vanity Fair soiree, capping the night at the piano performing seductive, stripped-down renditions of her rally anthems (which currently occupy the top three spots on iTunes’ singles chart).
With just a month left in primary season, buzz is circulating that Vice President Arnold, enjoying a bump in the polls thanks to his Correspondents’ Dinner speech, is considering some out-of-the-box running mates. The hope: to lock up the nomination before the convention by getting one of his key competitors to drop out and join his ticket.
“Rocky Haze has been approached by the Arnold campaign as a possible VP pick,” a Haze insider told The Queue. Other possibilities include another opponent, Representative Carter Thompson...
* * *
Jay held Cady’s thick card stock engagement party invitation in his hand. He had waited to RSVP in the hopes of having Sky go with him, but Sky had now returned to the trail, to Haze’s private jet and fleet of tour buses, to his new friends in the press pool. At least Reagan would be there. He called her.
“Separation anxiety hotline,” Reagan answered, horns honking in the background.
“Hilarious,” he said flatly. “And also, help.”
“I know, sweetie,” she said. “A latte please? Sorry multitasking—poorly.”
He opened the box, closed it, opened it again. The hinge had almost busted at this point. “So I keep not doing it. I was going to before he left or after Nerd Prom, all these times. I have this stupid ring—”
“You have it with you now? At work?”
“Maybe.” He snapped it shut one last time, shoved it in his pocket.
“Jay,” she said gently. “Maybe cool it with the proposing and just enjoy the time you have when you guys are together? At least until Haze is out of the running? Whenever that is. Did you manage to have any fun when Sky was home?”
“I don’t know,” he said, grumpy. He heard police sirens blare from Reagan’s end.
“No no no no,” she said. “They just got to sleep. No! Fucking motorcade!” she yelled into the phone as the sirens and revving motorcycle engines grew louder.
“Where are you?”
“Pennsylvania Ave, of course. Made the mistake of stopping for coffee after our walk around the sculpture garden. I thought, hey, look, they’re napping, why don’t I do something crazy like stop for a coffee and sit outside.”
“You’re going to Cady’s, right?” he asked.
“Be my date?”
“Yes, please.”
* * *
Cady couldn’t help but notice that Madison Goodfellow once again arrived entirely alone, just as she had weeks earlier to the Arnold fund-raiser—either she was the most down-to-earth billionaire in the history of billionaires or she didn’t enjoy her husband’s handlers. It didn’t matter to Cady, so long as she showed up on time to the studio and the segment went well.
Cady kept waiting to hear from Madison’s people, expecting the inevitable list of topics that would be off-limits to bring up. It never came though and she sure wasn’t about to ask for it. In fact, Madison had been so oddly low-maintenance, she never forwarded Cady to any assistant or press secretary at all; everything went directly through Madison herself at that email address she’d scrawled on the back of Cady’s card. Cady didn’t want to question it, worried it would all somehow fall apart.
The show’s set designer, Francine, who also handled all the props, came into the control room, ponytail askew and eyes deadly serious. “You need to see something,” she told Cady, leading the way to the kitchen set.
“Madison is still in the green room?” Cady asked. She had arrived hair-and-makeup-ready, a dream interview subject.
“I know you said Madison would be bringing the ingredients with her for the segment even though that is highly unorthodox.”
“Right, but you know—what the talent wants, right?” Cady said, nervous.
“She gave us this.” The woman opened up Madison’s Louis Vuitton weekender bag to reveal a refrigerated pack of ready-to-bake Toll House chocolate chip cookie dough, a Wedgewood serving platter, a silk scarf, a basket and a Tupperware container filled with cookies.
“Made these this morning,” Madison said now, appearing beside them with a cup of coffee in hand. She gave Cady a hug. “Sooo excited to be on, thanks a million for having me. So, I know how you have to have some already made to taste during the segment, so there ya go!”
Cady had read that Madison had been a cheerleader before Miss Fifty States, and now she could see it. This was a side that hadn’t shown up on the campaign trail, at least publicly. “Ooookay,” Cady said, smiling. “Fantastic. Francine, make these all pretty and we’ll be ready.”
Francine looked horrified.
“I’m so happy to be on and really show the Washington area how approachable and easygoing we are as a family!” Madison bubbled over.
She was due on in five minutes. “We’re so thrilled to have you. Let’s do it,” Cady said, upbeat.
Gracie arrived, outfitted in her apron, shaking Madison’s hand as Cady slipped away.
“Scrap the ‘Home Cooking,’” she said as she burst into the control room, pointing to a graphic about to air. We’re calling the segment, ‘Kitchen Hacks with Madison Goodfellow.’ Live in five.”
“I make these all the time with my daughter, Gemma,” Madison said to Gracie, the items from her bag artfully laid out on the butcher-block table, cameras rolling.
“There’s a photo. She is just darling,” Gracie said as a picture of the smiling girl wearing aviators on what appeared to be the Goodfellow yacht filled the screen.
“Yes, we love to make these and send them to her brother, Henry, at Andover.” Another photo flashed, Henry playing lacrosse.
“Very handsome, looks just like his dad,” Gracie said.
“These are the easiest cookies you’ll ever make,” Madison promised. “First, of course we wash our hands.”
“Oh, alrighty, we’re really starting at the very beginning of the process here,” Gracie said.
Madison washed up, then held her hands in the air as though to keep them sterile. “I like to keep them up like this, pretend I’m scrubbing in to surgery,” she said.
“Isn’t that charming. Got it, doc.” Gracie followed her lead.
“Cookies are serious business,” Madison said and smiled. “People you love are depending on you. You don’t want to fuck them up.” Still peppy, “Can I say fuck on here?”
“Well, you just did, twice, in fact.” Gracie smiled uncomfortably at the camera. “So, water under the bridge. But, for future reference—no, please.”
Madison proceeded to talk her way through cutting open the package, pulling apart the ready-made dough, placing the dough on cookie sheets, consulting the packaging for baking times and then taking the cookies out of the oven. All completely unremarkable, and uproariously funny to the entire control room, reducing grown men to tears.
Jeff whispered to Cady, “Madison Goodfellow might be the best thing that ever happened to our show. You’re a genius, Cady Davenport. ‘Madison’s Hacks’ is a recurring segment starting now.”
Campaign Widows Page 13