Mortal Friends (7 page)

But…but, but, but…nothing counts until after the but…. I have to confess I felt a tincture of glee in discovering there was a crack in Violet’s perfect life. Actually, crack doesn’t cover it. Grand Canyon is more like it. Hard as it is to admit, I got a perverse pleasure in knowing that all those times she held Grant up as a paragon among husbands, making me feel like a jerk for having tossed him away myself and tacitly proclaiming herself the smart one for grabbing him, there was something rotten beneath the surface of their marriage that she herself wasn’t aware of.

Strangely enough, this was the moment where I finally admitted to myself that I was a little jealous of Violet—not because I wished her any sorrow, but only because my own life hadn’t gone as planned.

I wondered if that made me a terrible person. Possibly. But I had to acknowledge that aspect of my feelings, because my next step was so important. Should I tell her about this or not?

I tried to put myself in Violet’s position. If I were she, would I want to know if my husband was cheating on me? You bet! I’d want to know as soon as possible so I could kick the bastard out before he kicked me out—or at least start stockpiling information for my lawyer.

But I wasn’t Violet
.

Even knowing her as well as I did, I still had no idea how she
would react to the news that her perfect marriage was a sham and that her new best friend was busy seducing her husband. And all this coming from me, her oldest friend…? If I told her, would she kill the messenger? If I
didn’t
tell her and she eventually found out that I’d known all along, would she hate me? If I didn’t tell her and she
never
found out, would it always be the big pink affair in the room between us? Would I be able to go to dinners and parties with Violet and Grant and Cynthia and simply
ignore
what I knew was going on under everyone’s nose? Would this omission constitute a betrayal of sorts?

I wondered if there was a remote possibility that Violet knew about this affair and just hadn’t told me. I doubted it, even though I knew Violet to be an extremely artful dodger when it suited her. She could look people she hated in the eye and make them feel as if they were her bosom buddies if she thought they would be useful to her charities or to the bank. We always joked about how duplicitous she could be in pursuit of a good cause. I was sure that was one of the reasons Grant had married her; he knew her ambition would always trump her honesty. It was probably why she’d become friends with Cynthia to begin with, because Cynthia was doing business with the bank. Still, bank or no bank, I was sure Violet would never condone an affair, and that she would have told me if she had any suspicion that Grant was cheating on her. That’s not something you can keep from your very best friend.

I was dying to talk to someone about it, someone who could help me figure out what I should do. If it had been anyone else’s husband, I would instantly have called Violet, sworn her to secrecy, and discussed the whole situation with her. But now I had to be very careful who I confided in. This secret was a dirty bomb. Any leakage would have dire consequences.

I knew one thing for sure: if Violet ever did find out about the affair, and the fact that I’d known about it all along without telling her, she would look back on that period of time using the psychological equivalent of a twelve-gauge pump-action shotgun—aimed directly at yours truly.

T
hat night, I dressed for dinner at the British Embassy with a heavy heart. I felt like I was going to a funeral. The inevitable Maxwell pulled up in front of my house promptly at seven. It was raining lightly. He rang the bell and stood outside, waiting for me on the stoop, a big, black umbrella in hand. I opened the door. His jowly white face gleamed out of the dusk like a pockmarked moon. He held the umbrella over my head as he escorted me to the car.

“Dismal night,” I remarked—and I wasn’t just referring to the weather. He didn’t reply. I didn’t expect him to.

Maxwell and I never said much to each other beyond hello and good night. By now, the routine was familiar: he always glanced at me in the rearview mirror, presumably to make sure I was comfortable. I always smiled at him. He always smiled back. Then he drove on. He was attentive and correct, yet careful not to intrude. The perfect chauffeur.

The green mink blanket was folded neatly on the seat. I absently stroked the fur, dreading the evening ahead. I debated whether or not to tell Bob about the situation. Here again, I had to question my motives. I asked myself if I truly wanted his opinion or if I just wanted to confide a secret to him, hoping it would act as a catalyst to somehow deepen our own relationship.

Bob and I had been seeing each other practically nonstop for over a month—which may not seem like a long time in the scheme of things, but when you’re at these older bat ages and time is precious, it’s a significant investment. We were still skimming the surface. Bob didn’t
like to talk about personal things. I kept hoping for that “watershed moment,” when we’d open up to each other and take the relationship to a whole different level. But it never seemed to come. I knew I couldn’t push it, so I just decided to relax and have fun.

Now I had something serious on my mind. Perhaps this was the time to find out if he could be of some real emotional support to me. By the time we reached his office, I’d pretty much decided to take the chance and confide in him.

Maxwell pulled up in front of the building. He spoke on the phone for a moment, and then turned back to me. “Mr. Poll apologizes, Ms. Lynch. He’s running late.”

That was actually the most I’d ever heard Maxwell utter at a clip since Bob and I started dating. I was anxious, so I started up a casual conversation to calm my nerves.

“How long have you been driving for Mr. Poll?” I asked.

“Five years,” he replied without turning around.

“This must be a wonderful car to drive.”

“Oh, yes, ma’am,” he said emphatically, patting the steering wheel. “’Course, she requires a lot of maintenance—just like all you beautiful ladies.”

I asked him if he was from Washington, and he told me he was from Seattle originally. I remarked that he was a long way from home.

“Yeah. I miss it sometimes. ’Specially this bakery I lived around the corner from. They had the best chocolate chip cookies,” he said.

“Oh, I love chocolate chip cookies. There’s a farmer’s market up in Bethesda that makes fabulous chocolate chip cookies. I’ll bring you some.”

“Thank you, ma’am! Though Lord knows I don’t need ’em.”

Maxwell reminded me of a jolly uncle.

I asked him some more about the car, just to make conversation. Of course, what I really wanted to ask him was how many of his boss’s women he’d looked at in that rearview mirror, and what he thought of them all. I wanted to ask him if Bob acted any differently with me than he did with the others. I wanted to ask him about Melody Hartford and what the real story was there—what she was like, and why she and Bob had broken up. I wanted to ask him who else Bob had dated.

If anyone knew the secrets of Bob Poll’s life, it would be his chauf
feur. There was also Felicity, of course, the incongruously named secretary who arranged his schedule with dour efficiency and who Bob referred to as his “Chief of Staff.” I actually spoke to her more than I spoke to Bob about our plans. But Felicity probably never laid eyes on most of the women she arranged dates for, including me, whereas Maxwell was on-site. He’d met us all in person. I sensed that old Maxwell was a loyal soul, however, and that I wouldn’t be able to maneuver him into a personal conversation about his boss. So we just kept talking about the car.

Bob emerged about fifteen minutes later, wearing a tuxedo, patent leather pumps, the long white silk scarf around his neck, and a gray cashmere topcoat draped over his shoulders. Maxwell ushered him to the car, holding the umbrella over his head. Bob apologized for being late, then fell ominously silent.

“The embassy, sir?” Maxwell said.

Bob nodded curtly. He always took my hand when we were in the car, but that night he didn’t. He stayed close to the window on his side with his legs crossed, the dark green mink blanket almost like a barrier between us. I knew something was wrong, and that made me even more nervous.

“Can I ask you a hypothetical question?” I said.

He paused, then turned to me, looking distracted.

“Sure. What’s up?”

“Okay, let’s say you found out that the wife of a very close friend of yours was cheating on him. What would you do?”

“Nothing.”

“You wouldn’t tell him?”

He shrugged and looked contemptuous. “God, no.”

“Why not?”

“Men don’t tell each other that kind of stuff.”

“Do women?”

“A lot more than men.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because it’s been my experience that women can’t wait to break up their friends’ relationships,” he said with a bitter chuckle. “You gals are always egging each other on to leave us guys. You’re always telling each other there’s something better out there.”

I got the feeling he had a specific case in mind.

“Is that what Melody’s friends told her about you?” The question flew out of my mouth. I regretted it the second I asked it.

“This is your hypothetical case, not mine,” he snapped.

“Okay, so you wouldn’t tell him—even if you knew his wife was making a fool of him?”

“Maybe he knows she’s having the affair. Maybe he doesn’t mind. Maybe it turns him on.”

“There’s a revealing comment,” I remarked.

“I don’t think people’s sex lives are anybody’s business but their own. The last time we made a big deal about an affair, it cost the country a billion dollars, made us the laughingstock of the world—and to what end? Anyway, you can’t prove it unless there’s a video cam in the bedroom…or DNA on the dress, of course…. So who’s your girlfriend?”

“What girlfriend?”

“The one with the unfaithful husband who you can’t decide whether or not to tell.”

“Very good.”

“You’re not subtle,” he said. He didn’t say it gently or jokingly. He said it rather cruelly. I turned away.

He reached across the blanket, took my hand, and kissed it. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I have a lot of things on my mind right now. I didn’t mean to be so dismissive. How can I help you?”

“I don’t know. I think I’ll have to figure this one out for myself.”

He cast the blanket aside and moved in close to me, putting his arm around me. “You look beautiful tonight.”

“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.

T
he 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 sorrow 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 announced 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.