“Thank you. Can I ask you a personal question?”
“You can ask. I may not answer,” he said sweetly.
“Were you ever unfaithful to your wife?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Okay. You don’t have to answer.”
“I don’t mind answering. I just want to know why you want to know?”
“Because…I guess I’m trying to understand what drives two people apart.”
He spoke as if he were talking to himself. “It’s much more interesting to try and understand what binds two people together. Why we stay with each other is much more of a mystery than why we don’t.”
“So why do people stay together?”
“I guess it’s different in every case. The only thing I know is that it’s hard to stay married. You gotta work at it. Marriage is work, work, work. People just get sick of the job.”
“Did you get divorced because there was someone else?”
He thought for a moment. “No…no one in particular, that is. Just kind of everyone in general. I got to a point where I figured I’d done the best I could for my kids, and I wasn’t getting any younger. To be honest—I wanted to be a kid myself for a while.”
“How did your wife feel about that?”
“Angry. Hurt. Resentful. But she got over it.”
“How?”
“Partially through the biggest divorce settlement the District had ever seen up to that time. I remember she said to me, ‘Suing well is the best revenge.’”
“So are you sick of marriage?”
Once again, I could have kicked myself the minute I said this, because what I was really asking him was whether our relationship was going to wind up at a dead end, or whether he was thinking in permanent terms.
He hugged me closer. “You know what you’re really asking, don’t you? If I’m serious about you…about us. And I want to tell you right now, honestly, truthfully, to the best of my knowledge…I believe I am.”
“You believe you are?”
“I wish I could give you assurances. And I think I’ll be able to in time. Haven’t we been having fun together?”
“Yes.” I shut up. The conversation was veering into emotional quicksand. I glanced at the rearview mirror, where Maxwell’s beveled eyes were fastened on us. He looked away.
“Relax,” Bob said.
I nestled into the small of his arm as we drove in silence. I stared out the window. The buildings shone like wraiths in the misty night. Between my dilemma with Violet and the gaffe with Bob, all my insecurities were kicking in. I knew I had to pull myself together for the evening ahead.
Chapter 12
The British Embassy is the crown jewel of Embassy Row. Designed by the great architect Edwin Lutyens, its vast Queen Anne country house pretensions are reminiscent of the glory days of Empire. As we drove up to the right front gate, Maxwell rolled down the window and announced to the guard checking off names on a list, “Mr. Robert Poll and guest.”
“Sorry, sir. I don't see his name on the list," the guard said. Maxwell had him check again, to no avail.
Finally Bob rolled down his window and said to the guard, “Is there a problem here?”
“Terribly sorry, sir, I don't see your name on the list. Have you some identification?”
Bob didn't like being asked for identification. He considered himself enough of a wheel in Washington that people should know who he was without proof. And he certainly wasn't used to being omitted from the entrance list. I saw he was getting agitated, and he’d hardly been in the best of moods to start with.
“Look, I’m Bob Poll. I’ve been here many, many times.”
“Yes, sir. I'm terribly sorry for the inconvenience but I'll just have to check.”
Bob pulled out his wallet, took out his driver’s license, and handed it to the guard.
“A moment please, sir,” the guard said, walking off to confer with a second security guard nearby.
Bob sat silently with clenched teeth, staring straight ahead. He was seething.
“I’m surprised you even carry a license, since you never drive yourself,” I said to try and break the tension. He didn’t laugh.
The guard finally came over, handed Bob back his license with apologies, and waved us on. Bob jammed the card back in his wallet and rearranged his neck like his collar was too tight.
“Obviously a new man,” he said irritably.
Maxwell drove the car up the driveway and turned left into the stone porte cochere. Bob and I got out. I checked my coat in the ladies' cloakroom, freshened up, and met Bob outside the vestibule. Together we climbed the wide stone steps of the double-sided staircase under the painted gazes of George III and Queen Charlotte imprisoned in their huge gold frames—a little tweak at the Colonies. We reached the landing, where we walked down the wide hallway, picked up our seating cards from Araminta Upton, the embassy’s fresh-faced, fun-loving, very “county” social secretary, and joined the reception line. Marge Horner was in front of us. Marge was the widow of Henry Horner, a big campaign contributor and former ambassador to Luxembourg. I wasn’t surprised to see her there. I’d heard Marge had already latched on to Constance Morely, the new British ambassador’s wife, barraging her with invitations and notes, as was her custom.
Marge Horner had made a career of courting the wives of important new ambassadors the minute they arrived in town, while they were too green to know who was who and what was what. Her favorite ploy was to give a tea party for the ambassador’s wife. Marge would then be invited to the embassy to meet the ambassador, the real object of the hunt. Violet called her “Spiderwoman” because once Marge snagged the unsuspecting couple in her sticky web, she never let them go.
Marge was a largish woman with silvery blond hair. Tonight she was wearing a voluminous white evening gown that made her look either like a galleon in full sail or a duvet cover, depending on the angle. She certainly never had much use for me, who she considered to be “just” an antiques dealer and therefore not powerful in the spheres to which she aspired. We were not each other’s cup of tea, but since we occasionally found ourselves brewing in the same pot, we were usually coolly cordial to one another.
Tonight, however, she gave me a warm hello and a kiss on both cheeks, which was odd, considering she was a great friend of Melody Hartford, Bob’s ex-girlfriend. It was well known that Marge had done everything in her power to help Melody land Bob. I was sure that it irked her to see him with me, and that to cover it up she was giving me an overly saccharine reception. Aside from that, there was always the possibility that I might land Bob. It was so like Marge to hedge her bets. I saw through her, and what’s more, she knew I saw through her, but we both pretended otherwise. She moved on, accosting Bob with air kisses and chatter.
When she thought I wasn’t paying attention, she whispered to him, “Melody’s here,” thinking I wouldn’t hear her. But I did. I watched Bob’s face very closely, on the lookout for any telltale change of expression. He nodded without much interest, I was pleased to see. Marge chirped a parting remark to both of us and moved on in the line. I sidled up to Bob and whispered, “I heard that.”
“What?”
“What Marge said…that Melody’s here. Did you know she was going to be here?”
He seemed slightly nonplussed by the question. Once again, I felt like kicking myself. I didn’t want to sound clinging, but I was sure I did. This whole thing with Grant’s affair had thrown me off my game. I felt off-balance and anxious.
“Mel’s a big girl,” he said. “She can go where she wants.”
His response, coupled with his initially foul mood in the car, raised my suspicions. I felt a knot forming in the pit of my stomach.
The line inched along, and we finally reached Sir James and Lady Morely at the head of the small reception line. With her luminous, fair complexion and bobbed brown hair, Lady Morely, a slender woman in her forties, had the classical look of a cameo. However, a soft sheen of so
rrow undercut her cheerful party demeanor. No matter how much she smiled and laughed and talked, her large blue eyes seemed silted with sadness. The source of her sorrow was well known: years earlier, she had lost her only child to a rare disease.
Sir James, a thin, gray-haired man with owlish looks, seemed a little uncomfortable in this social situation. People said he was an exceptionally talented diplomat who was more at ease at the negotiating table than the dinner table. He was older than his wife, and he looked at her almost like a proud parent, even though it was she who seemed more at ease in their grand surroundings.
Bob held up the line as he lingered for a chat with Sir James. I wondered if this was an attempt to make up for us being detained at the entrance. I went on ahead and waded into the sea of guests in the library. Melody Hartford was practically the first person I saw—mainly because you couldn’t miss her. She stood out in the largely drab crowd in a too-low-cut black dress and too-high spike heels. She looked like an elegant slut. Her plump, bright red lips seemed to throb like a juicy heart. She stood, wineglass in hand, holding forth to a small group that included Marge Horner and two men I didn’t recognize but who looked like a pair of salivating hounds. I saw Marge nudge Melody surreptitiously when I came in. They both pretended not to notice me, just as I pretended not to notice them.
I breezed passed them, dying for a friendly face. I spotted Violet across the room, waving at me to join her. Under normal circumstances, I would have been relieved to see her. I would have rushed right over to dish about Marge and Melody. But tonight, when I saw her standing there between Grant and Cynthia, I froze. I literally couldn’t move. Fortunately, a waiter passed by, and I grabbed a glass of wine from his tray. I drank about half of it before marching onward toward the menacing triumvirate.
Violet looked like a pretty pastry in a dress of tiered ecru lace. Cynthia, on the other hand, was sleek in a stunning purple satin number and her Rock of Gibraltar earrings. Grant was his usual totem-pole self—wooden, expressionless, with his arms crossed like a barricade in front of him, watching others dance around him. I couldn’t erase the image of Grant and Cynthia going at it on the floor.
“Well, if it isn’t Dream Girl!” Cynthia cried out as I joined the group. I was so fucking sick of that joke.
Grant was palpably more ill at ease than usual that night. I could barely look at him, much less say hello. He immediately excused himself to get us drinks—a ridiculous ploy, since we all had drinks in our hands. Cynthia was obviously uncomfortable too. When Violet started talking about the Beltway Basher, Cynthia’s eyes wandered, and she dashed off to talk to some bigwig. Violet stared after her.
“You’d think she’d be more interested in that case, since her house is right across the street from Montrose Park,” Violet said. I knew from her demeanor that she didn’t have a clue what was going on between Cynthia and Grant. “Any news from your detective?” she asked.
“Not a peep.”
Violet shrugged. “The case has probably gone cold…. You saw who’s here, right? Melody Hartford. You see those big tits hanging out of her dress? Men don’t like that…much,” Violet said with a sarcastic little laugh.
It was a joke, but I couldn’t even smile. Violet studied me for a second. “What’s the matter? You look pale,” she said.
“Nothing, I just, uh…Bob was in a foul mood when he picked me up. That’s all.”
“So how are things going with you guys?”
“Fine.”
“Have you had your ‘watershed moment’ yet?”
“No. We’re still kind of skimming the surface…. How was Acapulco?”
“That’s right; I haven’t really talked to you since we got back. That was an amazing conference. Cynthia was fabulous. You should have seen her. What a star! And I love what she’s doing.”
“Which is what exactly?”
“Making all these famous, self-important people understand that they are nothing compared to the world’s ills and that we all have to start taking responsibility for the planet. Philanthropy is the new pink!”
I didn’t laugh. Violet took a step back and stared at me. “What’s with you tonight? You feeling okay?”
“Actually, I have a headache.”
“Want an aspirin? I always carry them for Grant.”
“No, thanks. I took something right before I left…. So you and Grant are okay?”
Violet cocked her head to one side. “What a strange question.”
“Well, it’s just that with all that traveling and stuff. I just thought you might be tired or something…you know.”
“I was exhausted. But I’ve recovered. And Grant is like the Energizer Bunny. He went out to the club today and played golf. Then he had meetings all afternoon. He never stops.” If she only knew.
Violet paused and assessed me again. “Look at me,” she ordered.
“What?”
“Look at me.”
It was hard to look her in the eye, but I managed. She pointed her index finger at my chest. “Revennnnn…you’re hiding something from me, and I know what it is,” she said in a singsong voice.
“What?” I held my breath.
“I bet your detective has told you something you swore not to tell anyone, right?”
Relief surged over me.
“No, I told you. I haven’t seen him in ages.”
Violet looked concerned. “Then what’s with you, Rev? I know you’re upset about something.”
I certainly wasn’t going to tell her what was really on my mind—at least, not there, not then. I was fumbling around for an excuse when I noticed Melody flounce over to Bob and say a flirtatious hello. She batted her eyes at him and stuck out her breasts until they were practically sitting on his chest.
“I’m worried about that!” I said, nodding toward Bob and Melody.
Percolating with forced gaiety, Melody was a little too vivacious, like a woman desperately pretending not to care. The more she pretended not to, the more it was clear she did care—very much. The question was, did Bob? He didn’t appear enthralled, nor did he seem eager to get away from his old flame.
“I see your point,” Violet said. “Or rather, I see her points.”
We laughed grimly. For the moment, at least, I was able to transfer some of my anxiety onto Bob. This got me off the hook with Violet, except that now I had yet another thing to worry about.
“If I were you, I’d go over there and stake your claim,” Violet said.
“He’ll think I’m jealous.”
“You are, aren’t you?”
“Men don’t like possessive women.”
“Come on, I’ll go with you.” She grabbed my arm.
We walked across the room together like we used to do at school mixers when we saw a cute boy in the stag line and Violet was too embarrassed to approach him all by herself. Only then it was me guiding her. Violet never had the courage to approach a boy on her own. Unfortunately, the boy always wound up falling for me, not her. It was sad. But she never held it against me. It was just the way things were.
The second we approached, Bob reached out, grabbed my hand, and said, “Mel, you know Reven Lynch, don’t you? And Violet Bolton?”
We all exchanged constipated hellos. Bob then put his arm around my waist and tugged me in close, clearly declaring his allegiance to me. But the move was so jerky and awkward that the drink in his other hand spilled on the rug, giving rise to a round of edgy laughter, then an abysmal silence.
I’m not good with silence. It makes me much too nervous.
I glanced around the wood-paneled library with its shabby genteel décor, and said in a fluttery voice, “Well, the Empire certainly isn’t the only thing the sun has set on. God, how I’d love to get my hands on this room!”
“Really? We were just talking about NATO expansion,” Melody countered in a condescending tone.
“I’ll bet,” Violet muttered under her breath.
To our collective relief, dinner was announ
ced and we all joined the slow migration toward the ballroom. Just before entering, I was pulled aside by Araminta Upton. Jolly, convivial Araminta really ran the show, especially when the embassy was transitioning from one ambo to another. She’d always been very kind to me and often invited me to large dinners when they needed an extra woman.
“You’ve been requested,” she said, with a knowing little smile, then quickly walked off before I could inquire by whom.
Bob and I were at separate tables. His was way off to the side of the room. Just before Bob took his seat, he walked over to me and whispered, “I’m in Siberia.” I didn’t really care where I was seated, but placement obviously meant a lot to Bob, who didn’t appreciate any diminishment of his own self-importance and who was very aware of Washington pecking orders. I watched him as he went to find his seat three tables away from mine. His eyes were focused on the ambassador’s table, where Melody was heading. When she stopped at the head table, Bob winced. I couldn’t tell if he was still interested in her, or if it was merely the fact she was seated better than he was.
I looked around to see where Violet, Grant, and Cynthia were sitting. Cynthia was seated at Lady Morely’s table, along with Grant, but not beside him. Violet was at a good table nearby. I was standing there in a kind of stupor, wondering how many people in that room were hiding secrets or pretending to be something they were not, when who should come and offer to pull out my chair for me but Senator Grider. I’d forgotten all about Araminta’s comment that someone had requested me, but the minute I laid eyes on his dour farmer’s face, I knew it was he.
“No Congress tonight?” I said as we sat down.
“All work and no play makes Zack a dull boy. Get it?” he said with a hopeful little smile.
“I got it. Zack, that’s you, right?”
“That is correct.”
He was so corny it was kind of disarming in its own blunt way.
“What’s new in the Senate?” I asked.
“Do you care?”
“Uh, no. Not really.”
“Then why’d you ask?”
Mortal Friends Page 9