“You look — wow — great!” he said, smiling.
She returned the compliment. “So do you.”
Both of them avoided the word pretty—a sore point with P.J. His good looks had stuck him with too many nicknames like “Pretty Boy”—Megan had called him that more than once herself, when she got mad at him.
Tonight, though, he looked like a teen idol who had escaped from some holodrama or other. His tuxedo fit perfectly and was obviously not a rental job.
Megan had gone to considerable trouble, too. Her brown hair, usually on the wild side, had been cut and curled into something resembling stylishness. She really liked her gown, even though it was more classic style than cutting edge. This year’s cutting edge had sliced a lot off the top of feminine formal wear, to the point where one of her friends had actually fallen out of her dress at an embarrassing moment during the most recent dance. Megan’s gown, which had a close-fitting strapless midnight blue silk bodice that swirled into a deliciously romantic long velvet skirt, showed off just enough of her figure to keep men interested without risking arrest for indecent exposure. Best of all, a little bolero-style jacket made sure she wouldn’t freeze her assets off.
P.J. was a good sport, ignoring comments from Megan’s brothers and even posing as her dad took way too many pictures. Anything to replace that portrait of her trying to hide her fury while standing beside Andy Moore in his tacky tux. She still wasn’t sure he hadn’t rented the awful thing on purpose, just to embarrass her.
Instead of a coat, Megan had a fine wool cape her mom had produced from somewhere. She arranged it around her shoulders, holding it together with a silver pin. Then, giving one arm to P.J. and waving with the other, she stepped out the door, heading for P.J.’s waiting limo.
Catching their reflection in the car’s window, she had to grin. “We really do clean up well, don’t we?”
P.J. gallantly handed her into the car. “Remind me to get a copy of one of those shots from your father,” he said. “I want Leif to eat his heart out.”
“As if,” Megan grumbled, settling onto the backseat. Eager to change the subject, she reached out as P.J. sat beside her. “I think your tie is a little off to the — oh!”
Her attempt to adjust the black bow untied it instead, leaving P.J. with two lank strips of silk dangling across the lace front of his shirt.
He glanced at the door that had just shut behind them. “Well, at least you waited until we got out of your parents’ sight before you started undressing me,” he said.
Megan shot a horrified hand to her mouth. Then giggles began infiltrating their way from behind its cover. “I–I thought it was one of those one-piece things,” she gasped.
P.J. shook his head. “A gentleman is supposed to know how to fix his own tie.”
“Do you?” Megan asked. “I mean, did someone else—?”
“My mommy stopped helping me get into my clothes some years ago,” P.J. interrupted, straightening out the ends of the tie. Then, trying to use his window as a mirror, he began trying to reconstruct the knot.
When his third attempt failed, Megan timidly said, “You’re going to get that all crumpled. May I—?”
P.J. shook his head, leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes, and began working all over again, by feel.
Megan stared in disbelief. “You got it! All you have to do—”
“No!” P.J. said, bringing up both palms to block Megan’s helping hands. Then, a bit more gallantly, “If you don’t mind, I’ll adjust it myself.”
Arriving at an old-line hotel in downtown Washington, they walked under the canopy on an actual red carpet and took the elevator to the ballroom floor. They checked their coats, P.J. gave in their tickets, and Megan stood in the doorway, staring at the crowd. It was amazing — horrifyingly dowdy dresses decked out with drop-dead jewelry, doubtless family heirlooms dragged out once in a great while from safe-deposit vaults. Some of the men had tuxes that made that rag Andy Moore had worn look like high fashion.
And then there were the young women in the kind of outfits that Megan had only seen in magazines and HoloNews fashion coverage. Her fingers picked at the hem of her jacket. All of a sudden, her gown didn’t seem as great as it had back home.
What am I doing here? a panicky voice demanded in the back of her brain. This is just like the Leets looking down their noses at me in school — only multiplied by about fifty years and a thousand percent snobbishness!
P.J. appeared beside her, taking Megan’s arm. “I heard that gasp. Pretty awful, isn’t it?” he commented in a low voice. “It could be worse. At least most of the money here is old and a bit reserved. Back home we have the good ol’ boys in the gold lamé western-cut dinner jackets, and lots of women with big hair and rhinestones. Or was that even what you were gasping at? Maybe you were just reacting to what the band is doing to that song?”
Megan finally focused on the twelve-piece combo at the front of the room. They were playing away, the sound getting muddled with the noise of a thousand conversations. Even listening carefully, it took her a moment to decipher the music. It had been a hot tune a couple of months ago. Everybody had been downloading it. As for this version, however…well, she’d heard better in cheap elevators.
Shaking his head, P.J. began walking in. “And this is probably the best thing we’re going to hear tonight,” he warned.
Megan found herself laughing. What did she have to fear from people with such awful taste in music? Bring the snobs on!
Even so, she had to hand it to P.J. As he began introducing her to people in the crowd, he slowly worked his way up the social ladder. In between dances and breaks for what the Junior League thought of as refreshments, he brought Megan to congressional aides and some lobbyists. Next she met social and political friends of P.J.’s father. Then came members of Congress, and finally some of Senator Farris’s colleagues.
At last they joined one of the crowds swirling around the celebrity guests. Even the rich and socially prominent liked to suck up to famous people, Megan discovered — at least, the younger generation did. P.J. steered her expertly to the eye of the storm.
For all intents and purposes, it was a reception line. Nikki Callivant, doing her best to be gracious in a gown that only brilliant engineering design could have kept in place, was shaking hands and chatting with a pair of women in equally modish costumes. Beside her, a tallish, pleasant-faced man with gray hair pressed the flesh with the women’s husbands. Behind them was a burly, balding red-faced man who looked as if he couldn’t wait for this hoedown to be over.
P.J. aimed first for the tall man. “Senator,” he said, shaking hands.
“As in once and future,” the man replied with a laugh.
“I remember my father introducing me to you on the Senate floor,” P.J. went on. “I’m P.J. Farris.”
“Trav Farris’s son?” The man’s interest now matched his geniality. “Well, you’ve certainly grown.” He rolled his eyes. “To state the obvious. And who is this delightful young lady?”
“Megan O’Malley.”
“Walter G. Callivant. A pleasure to meet you.” The older man took Megan’s hand in a warm clasp. It took her a moment to match the smiling face before her with the rather harassed figure in HoloNews clips that had provided so much material for the comedians.
Well, he didn’t spill a drink on me, or spit when he talked, Megan thought.
“Some people get depressed when they discover that colleagues’ children have grown up behind their backs,” Callivant said. “I like to think of it as a glimpse into the future.” He shook his head. “I also hope that wasn’t something from an old campaign speech. Let me introduce you to someone more your own age. Nicola!”