Regrets Only Read online

  Unlike Allison, Sadie Grey didn’t know anything about Washington. Lorraine could teach her. She decided to cultivate Sadie Grey.

  * * *

  Sadie was having trouble with her hair. And she really wanted to look good tonight. It would be her first real Washington party. Not one of those official things. This one was going to be fun and glamorous. There were going to be all sorts of fascinating and exotic people. Lorraine Hadley was one of the great hostesses of Washington. Lorraine had been in Washington for only eight years, Sadie knew, but already she was constantly in the fashion magazines and dailies for her parties and her style. After all those stifling years in Richmond, now suddenly Sadie was reprieved. She was the wife of the Vice President-elect and she was going to make the most of it.

  She brushed her auburn hair forward, then back. Finally it looked the way she wanted it, full and sexy. Rosey was beginning to get impatient. He wanted to go downstairs, look around, have a drink with their hosts. Vice President and Mrs. Hall—George and Audrey—had been gracious to let them stay with them for the weekend. They were in the guest room of the Vice President’s House this time, but it wouldn’t be long before it was their home.

  Rosey had been appalled at the idea of coming up to Washington for a party two weeks after he had been elected. But Sadie had begged him and he had relented, mainly because he had work to do in Washington. He wasn’t crazy about Lorraine Hadley, either. He thought she was a gossip and an opportunist, the kind of person Washington inspired, encouraged, bred. She represented everything he did not want to be a part of. And it was, he feared, everything that would appeal to Sadie.

  Sadie was about to make her debut. And she feared she might have to carry them both. It was not exactly Rosey’s crowd. She would soon learn that the Vice President didn’t have to do anything but just be there. In Richmond, Rosey knew everybody and felt comfortable with his country-club friends. And as a member of a First Family of Virginia, he was always socially desirable. So Sadie, though an outsider, was acceptable too, barely.

  Washington, she knew, was a very different scene. She had heard that the fast social track was dominated by the press and by the liberals, though that had begun to change with the last Administration. They were the glamorous ones, they were the ones she read about. They were the ones she wanted to get on with. And that was the one crowd, she was afraid, that would not so readily accept her husband, who was a Southern conservative, a bit serious.

  When Lorraine had called her in Richmond last week to invite them to the party, she had gone over the guest list with her.

  “Darling, this is not one of those dreary official parties I’m sure you’ve been to when you’ve come up from Richmond,” Lorraine had announced in her grand and slightly British accent. “This one is just for fun. It’s for Lawrence Devon—you know, the author. He’s adorable, absolutely divine, and I’m having a lot of the younger crowd tonight, journalists and writers. Archie calls them the troublemakers.”

  “Is it seated?” Sadie had asked, with some trepidation. She was unnerved at the idea of a buffet where she didn’t know anyone.

  “Heavens, no!” cried Lorraine. “One would have to be certifiable to even contemplate a seated dinner with these people. They’re much too undependable. And I’m talking about Senators, too. You’ll learn, my dear. They’re always at the Capitol until midnight voting and one is constantly stuck with their dreary little wives all evening. Archie hates buffets, but there’s nothing I can do about that. It’s the world we live in now. Do wear something comfortable. You may end up on the floor.”

  Sadie liked the casual way Lorraine talked to her. There was something cozy and female about Lorraine. She felt she could be friends with her.

  “I have to tell you I’m a little nervous about this,” said Sadie. “I don’t really know a soul in Washington very well. I just don’t want to make the wrong friends, if you know what I mean.”

  “I know better than anyone. I’ve seen it happen too many times. Particularly to ambassadors who don’t bother to weed out their predecessors’ lists. One can end up with guests who went out four administrations ago. All it takes is a little patience, a little research, a little study.”

  “I’ve, uh, I’ve had some problems with the press too,” said Sadie.

  “Darling girl. It’s trial by fire. You’ve had the worst of it. It can only get better. Besides, you’re a celebrity now, an object of interest and fascination. In Washington one couldn’t wish for anything more. As long as it doesn’t hurt your husband.”

  “Well, it’s just that I didn’t have that much exposure to the press because I was sick during so much of the campaign. And in Richmond nobody ever socialized with reporters. They just weren’t in the same circles.”

  “The whole point of entertaining is that politicians and the press mingle, they use each other,” assured Lorraine. “It’s part of the game. You’ll enjoy it once you get the hang of it.”

  “I don’t know whether I’m clever enough for them,” she said.

  “You’ll be just fine. The Vice President can go anywhere, and if he has a beautiful, bright, amusing wife then it’s beyond anyone’s expectations. Rosey and Sadie Grey are going to be the toast of Washington. Trust me.”

  Sadie had found her best friend in Washington. And just knowing that Lorraine was there and that Lorraine was giving the party made her feel more secure.

  * * *

  She had thought carefully about what to wear. She didn’t want to be overdressed. Finally she had chosen a turquoise silk-and-wool dress with a boat neck to show off her turquoise eyes and long, slim white neck. It was a ravishing color, the perfect frame for her auburn hair and pale skin. The knit waist showed off her figure, and the skirt was full and ankle length. That would be comfortable for sitting on the floor, and she could still look dignified. She would wear turquoise earrings and no other jewelry.

  She really did look good. And Rosey (she was going to have a hard time getting used to calling him “William” in public) was being very sweet. He walked into the room, saw her standing in front of the mirror, and whistled. He knew how nervous she was. What he didn’t know was how concerned she was about him and how people would react to him. She looked at him with affection and despair. He was so handsome in his tailored English suit, tiepin, dark tie, and clean haircut, yet he did look so proper. Well, he was her husband. There was nothing she could do about it. She kept looking at him in amazement thinking that he was soon going to be Vice President of the United States.

  “Sugar,” she said. Her normal Southern accent was a bit husky. “You ready, darlin’?” He came over to her, smelling of lemon aftershave, leaned over, and, ever careful not to mess up her makeup, gave her a gentle kiss, touching her lightly on the shoulders.

  “You look ravishing, as always,” he told her. She smiled up at him, putting her hand on his.

  Rosey was so polite. In the early days she had had fantasies that he would come bounding into the bedroom just as they were getting ready to go out to a party, throw her down on the bed, rip off her clothes, and take her.

  Right now she was reluctant to give up the old fantasy. She was hoping that the new job, the new city, the new power would rekindle what they’d once had. She had been so in love with him once.

  Beneath that stiff, mannered F.F.V. demeanor there was a good ol’ University of Virginia boy. She had seen glimpses at his St. Anthony Hall reunions, at the goose hunts on the Eastern Shore, at the parties after football games where the boys told stories of past conquests, wanton women, lost weekends.

  It was this side of Rosey that had drawn her to him. Most of the time, even in the old days, he was contained, reserved, always perfectly mannered; a true reflection of the somber family portraits that hung in the hallway of his parents’ Richmond manor house.

  They reminded her of Rosey, those ancestors in their gray Civil War uniforms, the wild Southern boys trying to break out of their country-gentleman upbringing, only to be reined in
by their obligations to their families and to their heritage.

  And as Rosey became more and more involved in politics he suppressed his other side and buried himself in his tradition.

  It had been hard for Sadie to watch the man she had fallen in love with emerge as William Rosewell Grey III, eminently respectable citizen, husband, father, politician. It made her sad.

  She had felt bored and trapped in Richmond, and now, even though the children were older and away at school, she would be even more trapped. To be the Vice President’s wife dashed any thought she might have had of going back to her writing.

  But this was not the time to give up. If there was ever a chance to revitalize her marriage, this was it. Besides, what choice did she have?

  “I think I ought to tell you now,” said Rosey, “that I have no intention of spending my time in Washington going out to parties designed to give hostesses like Lorraine Hadley something to do and build up the egos of pompous politicians and journalists. It’s not why we’re here.”

  Sadie’s first reaction was to get angry, as it usually was when Rosey made one of his pronouncements. But she was not going to fall into their old pattern this time. She was going to change the rules on him and force him to change as well.

  She wanted the old Rosey back, and for her own salvation she was going to get him.

  “That, my darling husband,” she said, “is exactly what we are here for. That may not be written in the job description for Vice President, but you tell me of a better way you could help and support your President than massaging egos.” He looked surprised for a moment, taken aback. He had never thought about it that way.

  “And you tell me who better to do it than you, the most devastatingly charming man in the South.”

  She could see him smile reluctantly. He straightened his tie and lifted his shoulders.

  She walked over to him, put her arms around his neck, and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

  “You are, you know,” she said softly.

  He smiled again, flushed with pleasure.

  “Okay,” he said, patting her behind gently, “let’s get this show on the road.”

  She took one last look in the mirror after he left the room. She suddenly felt good about herself and about how she would do tonight. She had the feeling that something important in her life was about to happen.

  As she walked out the bedroom door and down the stairs to the hallway, she looked around at the dreary colors, the tacky furniture. She couldn’t wait to get at this house. That would be her first project. She would get Lorraine to help.

  The limousine was waiting, the driver standing at the door.

  Sadie sank back into the plush seat and shivered from the cold as well as from excitement. She could see Rosey’s distinguished profile in the darkness.

  She rested her hand on his thigh and stroked it.

  She could see him soften. “I’m so pleased to be able to show you off tonight at this party. Wait till the ladies get an eyeful of you! They’ll be scratching and clawing their eyes out… you ol’ handsome devil.”

  Rosey beamed.

  It would be all right. At least for now.

  * * *

  “Claire and Worth Elgin,” Miriam said for the second time with a touch of irritation. “We don’t have much time.”

  Lorraine loathed Claire Elgin. If there was anyone in Washington who was a bigger phony and climber, she would like to know. But Worth was editor of The Daily’s Sunday “View” section and wrote a controversial column. Claire featured herself a singer and held musicales at her house. Worth was a power. Claire was an embarrassment. They were one of the most sought-after couples in Washington.

  “What were the outstanding pieces this week in View?” asked Miriam. “Can you guess which editorials Worth wrote? Don’t be specific unless you’re sure it’s his. Just compliment the page.”

  “There was an amusing column Sunday about the differences between Grey and Roger Kimball, a play on ‘Everything’s Comin’ Up Roses,’ ” said Lorraine. “Probably Worth’s. A salute to his wife’s musical talents. That’s in her repertory. And The Daily comes out against Kimball’s rumored choice for Defense as too dovish—rather surprising for The Daily.”

  “A-plus,” said Miriam. “That will be a big topic tonight. Especially because of our next guest on the list…”

  “Who?”

  “Bud Corwin.”

  “Chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee, less dovish than Kimball’s man, and he wants to be Secretary of Defense.” “Bingo. Why are they being invited to a literary party for Lawrence Devon?”

  “Corwin’s wife, Helene, is Washington correspondent for Fashion magazine and she has just done a spread on Devon.” Corwin was possibly the sexiest man in Washington. Never mind that he knew it. Bud Courtin’ was his sobriquet. Poor Helene.

  “Okay, let’s go down the list fast to make sure you’ve got the wives and escorts. Who’s June Levitas?”

  “All right, you’ve got me. Who in the name of Heaven is June Levitas? Are you sure she’s invited?”

  “June Levitas”—Miriam beamed—“lives with your guest of honor on weekends. She is a free-lance writer in New York. She had a piece in Moment last month on the backlash against the women’s movement.”

  Lorraine sighed. June Levitas was probably another one of those little sharp-tongued snippets from New York who had an opinion on everything and didn’t mind saying so. One of those loathsome feminists. Thank the good Lord they were becoming passé. One didn’t have to have at least one feminist at a party anymore. They terrified her and she always said the wrong thing around them. The worst problem with them when they were writers was that everything they saw or heard was fair game. Lorraine liked to be in control of her publicity.

  “Michael Addison.”

  “Divine book reviewer, The Daily.” Even more so since he had given Lawrence a good review. She shuddered to consider what she would have done if he had panned the book.

  “Rufus Turner.”

  “Novelist friend of Lawrence’s, Southern novels.” He drank too much. Hadn’t written in several years. Told good stories. Had a wife named Sue Ellen or Ellen Sue.

  “Harry Saks.”

  Kimball’s campaign manager was the hottest pol in America. Wry and mean as hell. His wife, J.J., was a lawyer with no sense of humor.

  “What job will he get?” Miriam asked. This was a trick question.

  Lorraine was ready. She hadn’t seen anything about it in the papers, but Allison had hinted that Harry Saks would not ask for the expected post of media coordinator or White House adviser. Nor Chairman of the Democratic National Committee. Saks wanted London, and that was going to create an enormous stink, especially among Kimball’s rich contributors—not to speak of State. A lot of people wanted London, and Harry Saks’ was hardly the name that came to mind. Too Chicago. His wife had the social graces of a porcupine. Nobody denied they were smart, hardworking, loyal, and there was nobody to whom Roger Kimball owed more than Harry Saks. Personally Lorraine thought it the most appalling idea.

  It annoyed her that Miriam knew about it somehow. But it would annoy Miriam that she knew. So they were even.

  “Craig Marsden.”

  “Outgoing Republican White House domestic adviser. Will write a syndicated column.” He had a fairly attractive wife, Buff, who was interested in the arts.

  “Warburgs.”

  “Allen and Amy. National Editor of The Daily, rumored to be the next Editor.” Allen Warburg was in a power play with the managing editor for the top job about to be vacated by Wiley Turnbull, the long-shot out-of-towner who was a disaster.

  It was one of the toughest problems the Washington party-givers had faced in years. The meek of heart simply decided not to invite either of them and just wait for the shakedown. But Lorraine Hadley was an old roulette player. She had placed her chips on Allen Warburg.

  Allen was tough, a brilliant political infighter, shrewd, calculatin
g, ruthless. Amy was exactly the opposite.

  Lorraine loved having Amy. She could always count on Amy to take care of the number l’s, the spouses who came with their star husbands or wives. Allen lent an atmosphere of power, of competitiveness, of energy. Amy mopped up the leftovers, the dead weights. They really were the perfect couple to have at a dinner.

  “T. R. Travis.”

  “Feature writer for The Daily.” Travis was a mere child of twenty-five, acerbic and a bit sophomoric; interviews and bitchy reviews. He had profiled Lawrence, not entirely flatteringly. Travis might or might not show up, depending on his mood, and he might be wearing blue jeans, short shorts, or possibly a kilt if he felt like it. She would not dream of inviting Travis to a seated dinner, but she did like having him to buffets because he livened things up. He usually insulted someone, but he knew how far to go, and deep down he was a social climber. The iconoclasm was just to establish his independence. His wife was the giveaway, a mouse who never left his side. He knew she held him back. Lorraine felt sorry for her.

  There was a knock on the door and Archie poked his head in. “Are you girls still at it?” he chuckled. Archie never had understood. He was patronizing about her parties, as she was patronizing about everything he did.

  “Archie,” said Lorraine, ignoring his tone. “I’ve had Irma lay out your clothes. You’re to wear your navy blazer. I wish for once you wouldn’t wear a tie, especially a bow tie—just one of those Turnbull and Asser silk shirts with the collar open. It would look so much more casual, especially with this group. I’ve told the men no ties.”