‘I cannot tell you all how happy I am,’ she told them as the waiters, skilled in the impeccable French service, served each guest a slice of beef Wellington. She could not remember ever being happier. This would be the first of many dinner parties, she decided. She would be more than a great caterer of Washington, she fantasized. She would be a great hostess. After all, she had the grand house, the charm and attractiveness, and would be, or was already, one of the great practitioners of the noble art of cookery. She would surpass Julia Child, become a great world culinary authority. International celebrities would vie with one another to be invited to her table, and her books would be published throughout the world.
‘I hadn’t realized,’ the Greek ambassador said as his fork slipped into the tender beef, ‘what an extraordinary woman you are.’ He looked at her with an expression of fawning admiration. For the first time in her life she felt a sense of power. This was her conception. Her party. It vindicated her willingness to go through the fires of hell to keep this house, this ambience.
Pleased, she looked around the table at her guests -the men in black tie, the women in expensive gowns -realizing how much this house made a statement in the pantheon of Washington. It was something she had always believed, sensed, but now she saw its real value and understood the true reason for her private war. In Washington, perhaps everywhere else, a person is known by the neighborhood he keeps, the size of his house and the possessions therein. For someone like herself struggling for personal fulfillment, it meant a head start.
The idea warmed her and she felt herself softening. Perhaps some compromise could be worked out with Oliver. Now that she felt more secure, there might be more room to relax her demands. If only he would give her space. His presence crowded her. His living in the house was a constant irritant.
The Greek ambassador continued to address her. She nodded. Her mind was drifting. If only she could make Oliver understand how important this house was to her. There was, she decided, ample room for compromise. Despite what was happening now, Oliver was a practical man, a reasonable man. Compassionate, too. Her decision had cut too deeply. Both of them had overreacted. Besides, hadn’t they once loved each other?…
Benny’s bark intruded. Hearing it prompted an instantaneous reflex, a shiver of dread, the sound was
Oliver’s clarion and, for a moment, she felt the odd panic.
Alert to her nerve ends, she listened for his impending step. The bark continued, then faded. Her eyes probed the room. All three in help were busy clearing the table in preparation for serving the dessert, working in tandem with swift, efficient, professional silence.
A sense of uneasiness gripped her and she excused herself and went into the kitchen. The eclairs were laid out on their tray, waiting to be served; the chocolate sauce was warming on a burner over low heat. To the eye, nothing seemed amiss.
‘What is it, Mrs. Rose?’ one of the waiters asked, starded by her presence.
‘Why did you all leave the kitchen?’ she murmured, knowing that the question was ambiguous. The waiter, a tall, distinguished-looking black man, looked confused.
‘Never mind,’ she said quickly, surveying the kitchen once again. Turning, she went back to the table. The sight of her guests reassured her and she sat down, watching the waiters pour the dessert champagne.
‘Everything is perfect,’ the wife of the Thai ambassador whispered, filling Barbara with pride, chasing her uncertainty.
A waiter served the eclairs, and another followed with the warm chocolate sauce. Mr. White of the Post made a round sign of approval with his fingers, which completely dispelled her anxiety and she dug into the dessert. The chocolate seemed thicker than she might have wished, but the custard filling was perfect.
A tinkling of silver on glass startled her. The Greek ambassador rose. Stripped of his title and government-provided home in Sheridan Circle, he would be a very unimposing man, but standing now, well nourished with what, she was convinced, were some of the finest and best-prepared victuals in the world, well watered with rare wines, dressed in black tie and wrapped in the patina of diplomatic finesse, he made the symbol of her elegant home tangible. What did it matter if he barely knew her? He was visibly impressed. His toast was a potpourri of accented platitudes and compliments and she loved them all. She had never heard them applied to herself.
‘A hostess of rare beauty, a gourmet of the first rank, a woman of elegant taste, impeccable.’ The words rumbled outward in soothing waves. It was delicious. Others rose and echoed the Greek ambassador.
When they were finished and she had responded with a few modest words she had memorized, she led them into the library for liqueurs and coffee.
‘Would you mind if we made an appointment for an interview, Mrs. Rose?’ White asked. ‘There’s something special apparentiy at work here.’ She flushed and nodded, offering a touch of the obligatory humility.
‘I cannot tell you how embarrassed I was over our former problem,’ the Greek ambassador’s wife said in labored English.
‘I had no idea,’ the wife of the undersecretary told her, kissing her on the cheek.
A waiter passed cigars, cutting each proffered end with a flourish. The men became engrossed in political conversation. The women talked of other matters. Barbara delighted in the buzz of conversation, the sure mark of a successful party.
Then, from the corner of her eye, she saw the sudden frown, a brief wrinkling of the brow of the French military attache. She saw him whisper something to the waiter, who responded quickly, pointing to the foyer, and the man hurried off.
At that moment the wife of the Greek ambassador rose and looked curiously at Barbara, who understood instantly.
‘On the first floor,’ Barbara said quickly. She watched the woman’s gowned figure recede, but the odd, unspoken note of pleading disturbed her.
When White left the room with what seemed like uncommon speed, she began to feel the familiar tug of anxiety. With acute clarity, she heard the quick knocking on the door of the occupied hall loo. Rising, she went to the foyer and was suddenly confronted by the pale, tense face of the food editor.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Please.’ It seemed the only word he could muster.
‘Upstairs. There’s one in the master bedroom.’
She looked after him as he raced up the stairs. As she turned, the Thai ambassador was moving toward her, a pained expression on his dark face. Reality was crowding in her consciousness.
‘No. There’s someone there,’ she cried. ‘On the third floor.’
She was diverted suddenly by a woman’s voice.
‘Jacques,’ the voice cried, knocking on the closed door of the hall loo. She heard a muffled avalanche of French invective. The word merde came to her loud and clear, triggering further revelation. Turning, she saw more of her guests come toward her. They seemed to meld into one another, their voices raised in a cacophony of discordant sounds.
‘I’m sorry,’ she cried. ‘You must understand… it wasn’t me.’
The house suddenly seemed to come alive. The sound of flushing toilets, doors opening and closing, hurried footsteps. She saw the front door open and people brush past her.
‘Forgive me,’ she cried, feeling suddenly a bubbling sensation in her innards.
‘My God,’ she screamed, running to the rear of the house, through the kitchen, past the startled waiters, stripped of their uniforms how, busy cleaning up.
‘What is it, Mrs. Rose?’ one of them called after her.
She had lost any conscious sense of direction, finding herself finally in the garden. As she squatted in a clump of azaleas near the wall of the garage, she heard an unmistakably familiar sound next to her. There he was, the Greek ambassador, his bare bottom shining in the glare of the full moon. Slowly, his face turned towards her, implacable, expressionless. It seemed disembodied, like a lighted jack-o’-lantern hanging in the air.