I countered by saying that now everybody knows
I didn’t tell him that Dickie had also been having a little drinking problem of late (kind of drowning his middle-aged sorrows).
Anyway, I pressed on with my mission to persuade him to appear. And, after a little more flattery, he at last smiled okay.
He even complimented me on my negotiating powers. And said he’d give me a job anytime.
A little while later, he walked me to the White House gate, where a cab was waiting to take me to the airport.
I grinned from ear to ear all the way back to Boston. I, Andrew Eliot, had achieved a diplomatic coup with one of the world’s great diplomats.
When he returned to his office, George Keller had an unexpected visitor — his wife.
She was seated on the couch, clutching a sheaf of long printed paper.
“What a pleasant surprise.”
She waited to reply until he had closed the door. “You bloody traitorous bastard!”
“What’s the matter?” he asked calmly.
“Why the hell did you collaborate with that mudslinger. Tom Leighton?”
“Catherine, I don’t know what’s got into you. The man’s an important journalist for
“Come off it, Keller. A friend of mine from Newsweek just sent me these excerpts they’re printing from his book, The guy’s really vicious. And it’s obvious to me that the ‘source close to Kissinger’ he keeps quoting could only have been you.”
“Cathy, I swear —”
“George, I can’t take any more of your lies. You know I never had much love for Henry, but he was like a second father to you. And that book is an absolute defamation. Don’t you have
“Catherine, you’re jumping to conclusions based on no evidence whatsoever. Can’t we discuss this at home?”
“No, George, I won’t be there. I’m leaving you.”
“Just because you think I talked to some ambitious reporter?”
“No, George. Because this proves to me bow stupid I was to ever think I could change you. You’re a selfish bastard who can’t give love and isn’t even trusting enough to take it. Now, have I given you sufficient reasons?”
“Please, Cathy, may I have a chance to explain my side of this?”
“On one condition,”
“Name it.”
“You can have sixty minutes to present your case. But if I’m not convinced, you’ll sign papers for a Mexican divorce.”
“You mean you’ve already seen a lawyer?”
“No, my sweet,” she replied. “You’re so involved with yourself you forget I
ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY
December 2, 1982
I’m getting married again.
It’s not a decision I’ve taken lightly. But after seventeen years of miserable bachelorhood I’ve come to understand why Noah’s Ark was not a singles’ cruise.
I’ve been fighting the prospect ever since my initial marital catastrophe. The only trouble is, I get lonely — especially around Christmastime. So I’ve finally resolved to get remarried. And by the time The Class gathers in June, I want to be able to trumpet the great news.
Now all I have to do is find a wife.
The possibilities are rich and various.
First, there’s Laura Hartley, whom I saw a lot of in New York. Of course, she’s probably too high-powered for me, being managing editor of a famous women’s magazine. I admire career girls and Laura sure is dynamic. It’s probably why, at thirty-nine, she hasn’t gotten married yet. I mean, she’s so dedicated to her job that sometimes when we’re in bed she leaps out to write down an idea for a column or a feature. And this can sometimes spoil the mood.
There are also a couple of other small problems.
First, she doesn’t eat.
Not that she’s overweight. On the contrary, Laura’s like a toothpick in boots. She’s on a perpetual diet of coffee and sugarless chewing gum. I don’t know how she survives, but it’s kind of rough on me since I have to gobble a sandwich when she isn’t looking.
The second difficulty is that she smokes. Not just occasionally, but an endless chain of unfiltered cigarettes that pretty well fog up her apartment. And with her near-emaciation and the low visibility, it is sometimes hard to know if she’s actually there.
Still I thought she was a definite candidate until I moved up to Boston.
This city is a real mecca for nubilities. To begin with, Beacon Hill is populated with clones of Faith — newer, turbo-charged models, you might say. Yet, I seem to have a Pavlovian aversion to female preppies. So I keep my distance from the deb set. Especially since there are so many other possibilities.
Like Cora Avery. She’s probably one of the most glowing examples of young womanhood in the whole United States. I met her while jogging along the Charles one afternoon. It was clear even despite her floppy sweatsuit that she had an absolutely amazing figure. I was able to keep up with her just long enough to get her phone number. And we started going out.
On our first date I learned that she was a gym teacher at Brookline High. And a marathon runner. And a skier. And a long-distance swimmer. For relaxation she did aerobic dancing.
Naturally she wanted to recruit me for all these invigorating activities, and initially I went along. The fact that every muscle in my body ached was compensated by the fact that she could give a really great massage.
For a while there I thought We really had something going. But when I started staying overnight at her place I began to get cold feet. Literally. She’d shake me at 5:00 A.M., make me down a cocktail of megavitamins, and drag me out to jog. None of Boston’s notoriously inclement weather could deter her. Like a mailman, neither snow nor rain nor sleet nor gloom of night could keep her from her appointed rounds. We’d get back at around seven, and instead of letting me tumble into a bath or back to bed, we had to spend another half-hour lifting weights. By the time I got to the office I was a wreck.
But she was a great kid and liked me a lot. She’d often call and suggest we spend a lunch hour together. Unfortunately, this was always at the Harvard pool. Where, after quickly downing a can of Nutrament, she would entice me into the water and I would wearily paddle while she churned her daily mile.
