Betsy takes a deep breath of relief. Despite the city’s gentrification, which Betsy is so pleased about, she still thinks of the inner city as the murder capital of the United States as it was in the nineties. She thinks Georgetown is dangerous. McLean, where they live, is home to the Cheneys, the Saudi princes, and the CIA, a wealthy enclave on the edge of the Potomac River with winding wooded roads and expanding cliffside mansions.
Betsy clicks open a new tab and googles “The Washington Country Club,” then clicks on the link and waits for the page to load. A clever slogan appears first in white letters: We Are the King of Clubs, before the rest—line by line—(history stands still…):
Rules: At all times—No jeans, collarless shirts, swimwear, bare feet, bare midriffs, or hats. Jackets and collared dress shirts and trousers for men and the equivalent for ladies. As for the Tap and Card Rooms: Country Club Casual (CCC) golf and tennis attire permitted. Please note: Public Display of Affection (PDA) is forbidden.
For a moment, Betsy can’t remember which religion she should check on the application. Do they want Catholic or Episcopalian? Should she buy a bigger diamond cross, or more Ralph Lauren? Should she confirm with the reverend at the National Cathedral for a meeting if, in fact, Episcopalian is what they want, or the priest at Holy Trinity? Lord knows she must be the right religion. Back in North Carolina, Doug and Betsy attended the local Catholic church, filling their insides with the blood, body, and soul of Christ at each Holy Communion, cross your heart, hope to die.… Betsy knows only a fool would think that just because private institutions legally can’t discriminate on the basis of race or religion, that stops the unconscious attitudes of committee members from making discriminatory decisions.
Most don’t know that Betsy was twenty years old the first time she flew in an airplane, that she attended public school and Georgetown University rejected her, forcing her to settle for Gettysburg College. Years of her life have been spent crafting a family identity in order to protect her; and because Doug is now a senator—especially because Doug is now a senator—they only have half of the pedigree needed to be accepted into the elite country clubs. All the rest will come by word of mouth and nominations, or else the damning fate of Washington rejection awaits.
Betsy looks up at her Cartier art deco rock-crystal-platinum-with-white-enamel-diamond table clock, then opens her new Instagram account to post the first digital photograph of the family that Tony has sent her via text message. She captions it, “About last night… , .” She posts the photo, then presses the refresh button several times so that she can see the notification of “likes” pop up in her feed. She had a social media tutorial with an American University student last week after Mackenzie refused to help her. Betsy types “Washington Country Club” under the hashtag search in the application. Once the page pops up, Betsy scrolls through and looks for the most elegant bridal photo she can find in order to locate the church where they were married. And what do you know: a photograph of a groom dipping his beautiful bride outside the flying buttresses of the National Cathedral is the second photo in the second row. Bingo. Episcopalian. Check. Betsy picks up the phone and schedules an appointment with the reverend. Calculated. Surely in a few weeks time, he’ll make a great reference for the family.
Betsy clicks back into Instagram, returning to the photograph of the groom dipping his beautiful bride, then taps, very carefully, on the 237 “likes” so that a list of the names of those “likes” pops up. She taps on the round profile picture of a blond woman she finds strikingly beautiful; seeing a photograph of what looks like a castle, she taps the photograph and reads the detailed caption: “We flew into Munich last week.… A few days ago… we drove miles in the Range Rover and each morning I would see a glimpse of the most enchanting Bavarian countryside, Alps with a little sugar coating of snow, spring flowers and grass, fields upon fields of yellow daisies and charming chalet villages, immaculate—it is simply the best!” Betsy taps into her 1,349 “likes” and sees another beautiful blond woman; she clicks into her page, sees a photograph of a long, regal-looking dining table with three hanging crystal chandeliers, sun striking the credenza against the wall, caption: “The brick floor! To die for! Color scheme obsession! Magic hour! Adore these ochre walls, I need these chandeliers and my winter guest list under them for dinner! ” Betsy clicks on her 1,899 “likes”; the fifth photograph down is another little circular head shot of a glamorous-looking woman: red hair blown out perfectly with trendy dangling earrings that look like three giant green balls hanging loosely from her earlobes, familiar.… Betsy taps on the image, which takes her to the one and only Linda Williams: “Mother, wife of the wonderful Fox’s Chris Williams, Washingtonian, French student.”
Betsy’s neurological reward circuits light up as if she’s had an orgasm. She scrolls through Linda’s page the way an FBI agent scrolls through suspects. Parties at embassies: Italy, France, England! Photographs of her back garden: hydrangeas in the summertime, a stone swan, intimate candlelit dinner tabletops, décor—Dorothy Draper/Architectural Digest-esque, her summer home in the Hamptons. And last but not least, a recently posted video of Linda learning French at the Alliance Française located around the corner from the embassy in the heart of Kalorama. Betsy stays on the page of the posted video so it repeats itself over… and over… and over. A broken record: “Je voudrais un croissant, s’il vous plaît,” a montage of Linda, over… and over… and over, “Je voudrais un croissant, s’il vous plaît,” “Je voudrais un croissant, s’il vous plaît.” Linda’s
