The List (30 page)

I ran past the closed church, wishing it were open, rounded the corner, and headed
down P Street toward the circle. Couples holding hands stepped to the side for me;
young women just getting out of work pretended not to notice my red puffy face and
I tried to keep myself from turning into a pathetic puddle of tears.

I slipped into the Kramerbooks store on the edge of the circle and sat down at a bar
stool in the adjacent restaurant. I motioned to the bartender for a cup of coffee
and let the steaming liquid burn every inch of the inside of my mouth. I didn’t deserve
to have the lingering taste of Sandro’s tongue on my palate. He had tasted incredible.
Like mint gum and espresso. But I wasn’t allowed to have that. I wasn’t allowed to
have him. And if I kept up my acts of idiocy, I probably wouldn’t have a story, either,
because Olivia would cremate me with a Bic lighter.

I picked up my phone and called Elsa. She answered quickly, sounding out of breath.

“Elsa, please don’t analyze the question I’m about to ask you. Would you say that
I’m of sound mind? I mean, I haven’t done too many stupid things in my life, have
I?”

“Sure you have,” Elsa said, huffing and puffing. She explained that she was on a treadmill
at the Ritz-Carlton gym.

“I’ve never been arrested, committed tax fraud, or slept with a married man,” I said.
But I had kissed one. I had just kissed a
married man. He was partially to blame, but still. I was a worthless individual.

“Well, let’s think back on your history of colorful mistakes,” said Elsa while her
feet smacked the rubber treadmill track. “You nearly drowned while skinny-dipping,
you called your mother and said you were going to die the first time you took ecstasy,
you lost Wellesley student council president to a girl with green hair, and you jumped
off your barn roof with nothing but a pillowcase as a parachute because Payton told
you to. And . . . oh! You slept with that frat guy just to make him stop talking.”

Elsa was right. I was not of sound mind. I was a true idiot. No wonder I had just
thrown myself at Sandro. An entire life history of poor decisions had led me to his
perfectly shaped mouth.

When Elsa asked if I needed her to come pick me up, because I sounded “a touch upset,”
I said no. I was afraid I’d crumble under the soothing hand of friendship and tell
her everything, and I still couldn’t confide in anyone who lived in the Northern Hemisphere.

I stayed in Kramerbooks for two more hours, drinking so much coffee that I went from
petrified and repentant to paranoid, shaky, petrified, and repentant.

When I got home, I showered, brushed my teeth three times, and got ready to not sleep
a wink because of the caffeine. I did not pull up the video of Sandro, but when my
phone rang and I saw that it was James, not Sandro or his enraged wife, I answered.

James was a perfectly charming thirty-three-year-old man who had set new standards
for chivalry every time we were together. I should have thrown myself at him. He would
love me despite my clear shortcomings, and he wouldn’t have to cheat on his wife to
do so. But I wasn’t there. I was completely torn up with stupid schoolgirl emotions
for Sandro.

So when James asked me if he could see me again soon, told me that he hadn’t stopped
thinking about that night in the car, I had no choice but to say no.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said honestly.

“You don’t?” he said, taken aback. “Do you feel strange about what happened? Because
that doesn’t have to happen again.”

Really? The man would forgo sex and still hang out with me? He was a saint. A young
Republican saint.

“Of course
I
would like it to happen again,” he clarified. “It was amazing. A little rushed, I
admit, but that was my fault.”

I assured him that our backseat copulating had been delightful.

“But if you’re not ready, not comfortable, we don’t have to. We can wait. I just like
you. I miss you and want to see you again, but I’m beginning to think you don’t agree.”

“It’s not that,” I said. “That was great. You are great.”

“Okay,” he said, hesitating. “I’m great, but you don’t want to go out with me again.”

“I think I’m in love with someone else,” I said flatly.

The gushing stopped right there.

“James?” I asked after a long, awkward silence.

“You slept with me while debating whether you’re in love with someone else? That’s
pretty despicable.”

It certainly was. My voice quivered, and his rose in anger. Finally he promised not
to bother me anymore and hung up the phone.

I went to the bathroom and washed my face, desperately trying to soap away tears and
humiliation. I looked at myself in the mirror. I had no idea how I had allowed just
eight months at a Washington job to transform me into a terrible person.

O
ne thing the bigwigs at the
Capitolist
loved to do was talk about how awesome the
Capitolist
was. They sent out staff-wide emails that were grammatically correct love letters
to themselves and saluted each other like they were all saving the world one very
quickly written article at a time. But they were just warm-ups for the
Capitolist
’s fourth anniversary celebration. Forget the Fourth of July—the real red, white,
and blue came out for the
List
’s oh so cleverly named “Read, White, and Blue” party held in the middle of June.

Celebrities of print and screen came, and wonks said wonky things. Upton and Cushing
gave speeches about the
List
’s dominance over stodgy, tired old media, and the employees got mildly trashed and
poked around on their BlackBerrys the entire time.

It was my first
List
anniversary party, but Isabelle, Julia, Libby, and Alison had spent our bathroom
break yesterday giving me a minute-to-minute timeline of last year’s.

“Rochelle Mitzner danced like she was in a Michael Bolton video. Hands up to the sky
and everything. It looked like she was being reborn,” said Alison, laughing.

“And Upton had us all raise our glasses and salute ourselves,” said Isabelle. “It
was so awkward. I saw more humility at the Olympic Games.”

“Everyone wears navy. Or black. The occasional dash of olive green. They dress like
Goths, but without the flair,” said Libby, examining her bright J. McLaughlin skirt
in the bathroom mirror.

“And all these people who would never be caught dead wasting their breath on us in
the newsroom babble endlessly to us in the cocktail lines, as if they respect our
intellects. But they’re really just drunk,” said Julia. “They still think we’re idiots.
Don’t be fooled.”

“I went to Stanford,” Alison chimed in, reapplying her lip gloss.

“But you wear Chanel lip gloss,” said Julia, “so they don’t care.”

“Well, that all sounds like a real good time,” I said, Purelling my hands.

The good news about the real good time was that it was always held in the Freer and
Sackler Galleries, one of the most beautiful buildings in Washington. I loved the
courtyard. I loved the ethereal green Thomas Dewing paintings that hung from the walls
and Whistler’s famous Peacock Room. So what if the building was going to be bursting
at the seams with egos? Good art, free booze. I would just chain myself to Julia,
Isabelle, Libby, and Alison. I needed a little legitimized frivolity after my smooching
idiocy of ten days ago.

Julia assured me that no one brought their spouses to the
List
’s parties because it “humanized” them in the eyes of Upton and Cushing, so I wasn’t
concerned about seeing Sandro—but I was petrified to see Olivia.

Luckily, it was a big museum and there was an outdoor area so if I paid attention,
I could stay out of her way. I was going to have to see her at some point, and it
might as well be in a building that I knew better than she did. If she tried to decapitate
me
with a Chinese butterfly knife, I’d know which way to run. I had to be prepared for
anything.

An hour into the evening, I hadn’t laid eyes on Olivia. The party, full of
Capitolist
employees and the sources and power players we were courting, spilled over from the
inside of the museum onto the stone courtyard, which was covered in heavy black iron
tables. Tiny white lights were strung in the trees, and with the right amount of booze,
you could almost forget where you were. Until Upton had the mic.

“Hey, team!” His voice bounced off the century-old outer walls. “Four years in,
Capitolist
fever has taken over the city, the nation, and the world!”

With that statement Tucker Cliff actually started to jump up and down in his gray
dress shirt as if he had just OD’d on laughing gas.

“
Capitolist
originals, old-timers, and newbies, let’s give ourselves a round of applause! Unless
you’re on deadline, that is, in which case keep typing and stop drinking.” The courtyard
erupted with laughter and clapping.

When Upton’s ode to narcissism was finished, Isabelle and I went inside to look at
a collection of Whistler paintings.

We stopped in front of an image of a girl in a periwinkle and pink dress sitting on
a bed, reading a book. Isabelle leaned in and read the title:
Pink Note: The Novelette
.

“I remember when I had time to read,” she said, looking longingly at the framed image.

“When was that?” I asked.

“Before I decided to become a journalist.”

“But you were an Olympian,” I pointed out. “Didn’t you have to stay in constant motion?
Run and jump and lift things every hour of the day?”

Isabelle laughed out loud and covered her mouth out of habit because she was in a
museum.

“It’s a party,” I reminded her. “
The
party. It’s okay to laugh.”

“Right,” she said, laughing again. “I really used to read all the time. I’m a James
Joyce addict. I’ve read every word he ever published. Him and Graham Greene. But now,
I never have time to pick up a book. Do you?”

Did I? The last non-work-related things I had read were a health warning on the back
of a bottle of Campari and
Photography for Dummies.

“Sadly, no,” I replied.

“It’s too bad this job makes you so one-dimensional. If I had time for anything else
but work, I might actually like my job,” said Isabelle, smiling at me. “I’m glad you
came to the paper,” she added. “It’s nice with you here.”

Before I could thank her, she clinked her empty glass against my half-full one and
headed outside to the wine bar.

Without Isabelle by my side, I felt very alone in the formal gallery room. I smoothed
down my purple dress, the brocade fabric still starched and tight, and tried to look
busy. It didn’t work. I headed out of the room and into the next, larger gallery room,
where the martini bar was located, hoping to find another Style section girl. The
room had a few dozen guests walking stiffly around, but none of my preferred colleagues.
I pulled my phone out of my clutch and texted Alison. “Where are you?” I asked. “Don’t
want to be seen drinking a blue martini alone.”

“Stay where you are. I’m with Libby. We’ll come to you,” she texted back, explaining
that she had to fetch a source a glass of white wine fermented prior to 1996 before
she could join me.

The room with the martini bar was quickly filling up. People were getting drunker
and, paradoxically, seeking out stronger
booze. Two of those people coming in search of martinis in
Capitolist
colors were Olivia Campo and Emily Baumgarten.

It had to happen at some point, I told myself. Even if Olivia knew I kissed her perfect
husband, I still had the upper hand. I had photographic evidence of her unthinkable
acts. I could ruin her. I had to act cheerful and confident and not start crying.
I kept my face locked on the woman in the watercolor across from me.

I imagined Olivia coming over and slashing both the watercolor and my face with a
pizza cutter. But I stood tall, just like Madame Beaujolais used to scream in ballet
class. “The plight of the tall girl is that she wants to bend over like a candy cane.
Don’t be a candy cane!” she used to trill as she pushed my shoulders back with the
strength of a wrestler.

Tonight, I would not be a candy cane. Olivia was a tiny girl. Maybe I could beat her
down by virtue of my height when she lunged at me with death in her eyes.

She and Emily walked over to a painting next to the one I was in front of. I slid
my eyes over at them. They were looking at
Harmony in Green and Rose: The Music Room,
a far more famous painting.

“That little girl looks like you,” said Emily, staring at a young girl in the center
of the painting. She was all in white, except for shiny black shoes, seated on a couch,
reading a book. “Her hair, it’s red like yours,” she said, pointing out the obvious.
I wanted to remind her that Olivia was not eight years old, but Emily was too engaged
in Olivia worship to pay attention to me.

“It’s a beautiful painting,” said Olivia dryly, barely looking at it. “Claustrophobic
and flat, but beautiful.”

“I spent my childhood with my face in a book, just like that,” chirped Emily. “I was
always reading. That’s why I skipped the fourth and fifth grades. You must have read
all the time, too, you do everything so fast.”

“When I was a kid, no, not so much,” replied Olivia, coolly. “I read a lot later in
life.”

She expressed her boredom by turning and smiling at me. I was still standing tall
as a string, staring like a possessed art student at the watercolor.

“You,” said Olivia as flatly as the painting she resembled. I prepared for the worst.

“I haven’t seen you in a while. I figured you got fired.”

She thought that I got fired! I wanted to pull her hair out strand by strand.

“You’re Adrienne Brown,” said Emily, looking at me with an expression that could only
be described as a frown. “Isn’t your mother Caroline Cleves Brown? That heartless
gossip columnist?”