Authors: Karin Tanabe
I watched my colleagues, transformed into night owls. Through the tiny viewfinder,
I watched Olivia nod and frown, obviously talking in her barking, masculine way despite
her softened appearance.
After a few minutes of spying, a tall, lithe man with dark hair walked over to the
group. He was gorgeous. He was familiar, too. I zoomed in on his face, telling myself
there was absolutely no way, he couldn’t be. But he was! He was the guy from the museum
ice-skating rink. The dreamboat with the enchanting whistle and Canadian friends!
He was here. Delivered to me by a higher power! And as luck would have it, I was wearing
John Galliano. I could have seen this guy when I looked my worst, but the great powers
that be had decided for us to meet at a black-tie event. It was fate.
He immediately started speaking to Isabelle, which made sense. Why shouldn’t this
Adonis talk to the Olympian. Maybe that’s who he was, one of Isabelle’s Olympic Village
buddies or her latest sports world conquest. He said he didn’t skate, but he was tall
and lean, maybe a skier? The only men Isabelle cared about were adrenaline junkies.
I carefully looked at his face to see if I recognized him not just from the Smithsonian
skating rink, but also from the podium.
Olivia barked at the other two
Capitolist
girls in their polyester gowns while Isabelle spoke quietly to the gorgeous man—my
gorgeous man—with perfect skin the color of hazelnut mousse.
Not blinded by lust like I was, Isabelle turned away from him to greet someone else.
He moved aside and looked around the room until his eyes fell on me. This was one
of those moments,
I could feel it. This was the story we would tell our photogenic children during Christmas
dinner every year.
I dropped the camera down to my side, shut it off, and walked over to the group. I
waited for him to rush toward me and to start casually caressing my face and nibbling
my ears, but speedy Isabelle got to me first.
“Hi, Adrienne. Wow! I love your dress,” she said sweetly as she approached me. She
made me turn around so she could see it from all angles. It really was movable art.
My gorgeous man just stood there politely while I fought every impulse to start slow
dancing with him, and when Isabelle had stopped swirling in her navy gown, and me
in my gold, she remembered her manners and looked at my Latin He-man apologetically.
“Oh! I’m sorry,” she said, swinging her head around. “I’m so rude. Adrienne,” she
said, motioning to me, “this is Sandro Pena, Olivia’s husband.”
The coy smile of recognition I had been rehearsing froze, half assembled on my face.
All the air seemed to leave the room and I was left choking on reality. The man I
wanted, the man I had been lusting after was married.
To Olivia.
I was positive that I was about to faint directly into the potted plant next to me.
My head was light, and my stomach was doing triple axels. I felt just the way I did
after Virginia Mill-bank kicked a fluorescent yellow soccer ball directly into my
gut in the tenth grade. But somehow, I managed to stay upright, rearranging my dry
mouth into a fake pageant queen smile as I took in Isabelle’s words.
I heard Isabelle laugh and say my name, but it sounded so muffled and distant. I finally
noticed that Olivia’s husband was holding his hand out, waiting for me to shake it.
I apologized and put my hand in his.
As soon as our skin touched, I felt my body relax. I could have left my hand in his
forever. Up and down our hands went, clasped together, once, twice, before he released
mine from his perfect grasp.
And just like that, everything had changed.
“Shall we be going.” Olivia’s commanding voice pierced through the heavy hush of my
love at second sight. She gave me a disapproving look, one she must have learned in
executioner training, put her hand on her husband’s broad shoulder, just like he had
put his on mine, and turned away, leaving me with Isabelle and our two colleagues.
“Cute, isn’t he,” said Isabelle when we broke away. “I didn’t know she was married.
She’s so mean, I always figured she was single. I guess some men just like bitchy
women.” She laughed and waved to a friend from MSNBC.
“I think most of them do,” I said in a whisper. He didn’t even look like he remembered
me. I was probably just one of hundreds of blond girls who hit on him at skating rinks.
The only gorgeous guy in Washington, the only one I’d been excited about in ages was
married. To her! To that horrible red-haired cheater!
I excused myself awkwardly, saying I was still on the celeb hunt, and ran up the escalator
steps, or tried to run up the steps, which security had just opened. I started looking
everywhere for Julia, who was soon heading into the ballroom to cover the president’s
remarks. I scuttled around for ten minutes, starting to feel very hot and teary, but
finally found her finishing an interview with David Axelrod. She held her palm up
as she finished typing on her BlackBerry and then gave me a hug.
“I don’t feel great, Julia,” I said as she wiped my sweaty brow with her bare hand.
“Are you okay?” she asked. She was wearing a red silk dress,
magically free of sweat stains, and had her hair back in a chic black chignon. Her
dark eyes squinted at me with concern.
What was I supposed to say to that? Should I tell her that Olivia Campo did in fact
have a husband, and that I had fallen for him at an ice-skating rink last month, but
that God had hand-delivered him to me, and that now, after one handshake, I was desperately
in love with him? Or should I just confess everything about Olivia and the senator
and ask Julia to casually slip the news and my phone number to Olivia’s husband?
“I think I’m just tired,” I said instead as she started moving the curled blond strands
of my hair back into place.
“I know. This is such a horrible week. Curt Blye from Warrington Communications came
up to me before I talked to Axelrod and bit my ear. He actually bit it, like Mike
Tyson. He said, ‘Your face kind of looks like a baby’s butt. But in a cute way,’ and
then bit my ear. People here are so fucked up,” said Julia, touching the dimple in
her chin cautiously.
“Who is Curt Blye?” I asked.
“You know him. He’s that short guy who always wears green plaid. Like he’s just poised
and ready in case Santa Claus needs an understudy. He works for War Com.”
I looked at Julia blankly.
“They represent very rich criminals with a loud message and a lot of money. Basically,
if Lucky Luciano lived today and was looking for a reputation makeover, he would give
them a call.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, looking at her face. “You really don’t look like a butt. You’re
very pretty.”
Julia hugged me again and adjusted the straps of my dress.
“Rob Lowe. Mr. Rob Lowe. Announcing Rob Lowe,” a PR girl from the Bloomberg party
said mechanically as she passed us.
“Crap! Come on!” said Julia, grabbing my hand and running us directly into the pre-party
with a nod of her well-known head.
“I’m going to ask him about the orgy in ’88. Do you think he’ll hit me with a shoe
or something?” I asked her.
“No, you definitely should. Even if he doesn’t comment, you can spin it into him avoiding
orgy questions.” Julia registered my lack of speed and frowned. “Can’t you move any
faster? I’m about to shove you on a beverage cart and wheel you around.”
That sounded awesome. “Go ahead of me,” I told her. “I’ll catch up.”
Julia sprinted ahead to catch Mr. Brat Pack, and I shuffled along at my porcupine
pace, trying to keep her in my line of sight. I looked around the tented patio area.
Lots of people. Most of them old, all of them chatting animatedly. Everyone looked
important, in that Washington way, and all of them loved looking important in that
Washington way.
And then, because of one panoramic look around the room, I lost Julia. Her red dress
had been just ahead of me, but the crowd absorbed her. I wasn’t in the mood to chase
after her. I wasn’t in the mood to do anything but think about Olivia and her gorgeous
husband and the fact that they were married and that the senator, whom she was sleeping
with, had to be nearby.
I didn’t chase after Rob Lowe, and I didn’t look for Simon and his video camera. I
knew we had more than enough footage for a good video, and I had enough reporting
for three stories. We had stopped the live blog of the red carpet arrivals, and seating
for dinner had not yet begun.
Instead, like a Civil War soldier marching directly into the line of fire, I went
off to find Olivia and her husband.
The Washington Hilton was a mess of rooms and floors and, of course, men all wearing
the exact same outfit. Tuxedos swarmed everywhere. I was certain I saw Mr. Olivia
Campo on
the ground floor near a bank of escalators, but the man in question turned out to
be too pale. Olivia’s husband had dark skin and wavy black hair. He looked Central
American or South American. Sandro Pena. I said it a few times softly, just to hear
the vowels roll off my glossed lips. It sounded like a name from somewhere well below
the Rio Grande. I thought back to our shared moment on the Mall. I should have confessed
my love to him then. I could have played dumb; I didn’t know he was married. He was
wearing brown leather gloves when we met at the rink. What was I supposed to do, rip
them off to confirm his married status?
It was on the second floor of the hotel, where smaller pre-parties were being held
in a row of conference rooms, that I finally saw Sandro. He was holding a glass of
red wine, standing in a crowd near the Reuters party. His hand was on the small of
his wife’s back, and they were both turned away from me. A few feet ahead of him were
George Stephanopoulos and his blond actress wife.
I kept walking. Ten feet away, then five, and then suddenly they were right in front
of me. Keeping as quiet as I could, I leaned toward Sandro’s back, almost letting
the tuxedo cloth touch my face. He smelled like musky cologne and maleness and alcohol
and every other mineral that existed on earth. That was it: he smelled like the earth.
I could picture him meeting me at the church altar, whisking me away to honeymoon
in Madagascar and fathering my children.
His deep voice broke my reverie. “Let’s get out of here, go to the dinner,” he said
to his wife. “I’d like to just sit down next to you and get away from this crowd.
I haven’t seen you in so long.” He ran his hand up and down her lower back as he talked,
touching her with the intimate affection of a married man. She gazed up at him lovingly,
smiled, and put her arms around his neck. He laughed and kissed her on the top of
her head.
I backed away, now terrified that they would see me, and took
the escalator downstairs, clutching the rubber handrail until my fingernails left
marks.
I was having a lot of trouble thinking about my job. I was supposed to be hog-tying
celebrities and coercing snappy quotes out of them, but all I could think about was
Sandro’s face and the fact that he was with Olivia. How could she cheat on him? He
was gorgeous and clearly crazy in love with her. Why would she ever get close to Stanton,
risking her marriage in the process—when her husband looked and acted like the ideal
man? I wanted someone to kiss me on the head in public and beg to spend alone time
with me. Didn’t every woman deserve a man who smelled amazing and liked hockey and
wore a tux better than James Bond? Olivia had all that and was willing to ruin it
all so she could have sex with an old man! She was soulless.
I stood outside the closed doors leading into the main ballroom and gripped the doorknob.
I was an idiot who had given up her glitzy New York job, moved to a barn in Middleburg,
and gotten mixed up in something messy. And it had just gotten even messier.
The dinner started and finished in a blur. Julia and Isabelle were writing the main
story about the dinner remarks and I was tasked with feeding them color from the dining
room. In a daze I emailed, “Sen. Prescott ate four dinner rolls, Michelle Kwan said
dress was given to her by Vera Wang, Melania Trump said her husband’s legs are his
best feature. Called them ‘beautiful.’ ” People laughed, people drank, and I just
kept working, stuck in a state between shock, anger, and puppy love. And then half
an hour before the crowd filed out, it was time for me to get myself together and
beat them to the after-parties so I could cover their glamorous arrivals.
I
had filed six stories from the dinner at the Hilton and made seven videos with Simon.
I was now allergic to famous people and standing upright. I wanted to crawl into my
car, take off all my clothes, and fall asleep in the peaceful company of Olivia Campo’s
husband. But I couldn’t. I still had to cover the
Vanity Fair
after party at the French ambassador’s sprawling stone residence, the most exclusive
soirée of the night.
I jumped out of a cab and got as close as I could to the red carpet set up in the
foyer. I was ready to attack. As soon as the overpaid celebrities made it the ten
blocks from the hotel to the party, I would start screaming questions about the president.
My scream was more like a hoarse whisper.
After two hours of collecting celebrity quotes while stuck behind a velvet rope, I
was exhausted, my feet felt fractured in eight places, and I was still far from calling
it a night. I needed some air.
Behind the French ambassador’s residence was a huge patio extending into a dark, forested
yard. I walked out onto the terrace and looked at my watch: 2
A.M.
I had to drive back to Middleburg and file my nightly wrap-up piece, but I wanted
three minutes to take in the atmosphere without having to interview anyone. I was
at a French manor in a Galliano dress and fate had
thrown me into the same room as the man who took my breath away. There were a handful
of pesky details that turned the fairy tale into a horror movie, but I was choosing
to temporarily ignore them.