“My daughter is new at your daughter’s school.”
“Oh yes, hi, good to see you.”
“My daughter, Haley, had wanted me to ask you about having a playdate with Becca,” she says, snowballing, “she was just too shy to ask, so I said that the next time I saw you in the carpool line I would ask.…”
The invitation has unexpectedly touched Linda in a place that often feels guarded. She and her husband have been “famous” for Washington for quite some time, yet her daughter is perpetually bullied at school. Known for being the “horse girl,” she’s painfully shy.
“I’m late, but here, take my number down. Becca would love to have a playdate.”
Betsy eagerly pulls out her cell phone. Linda holds out her palm, gesturing that it will be easier for her to enter the information herself.
“Oh, here.” Betsy hands her the phone.
As Linda focuses on typing her information, she asks, “Did you hear the tragic news today about the St. Peter’s student? The Banks family?”
“I don’t believe so, no,” Betsy says, feigning concern.
“Well, they’re in the Green Book,” Linda whispers, suddenly feeling very open with Betsy, given their exchange about her daughter.
Green Book, Betsy notes in her head; it sounds familiar, but alas, she does not know it, feeling left out once again. “No, what happened?” she asks.
“It’s horrific, just horrific, the couple and their only daughter, a senior at St. Peter’s, were brutally murdered last night in their home. They’re not far from us.”
“Oh my God, you know, I did read about it this morning, but I had no idea they were a St. Peter’s family.…” Betsy places her manicured hand to her chest.
“It’s devastating.”
“I read about that too,” the receptionist interrupts, “so scary and awful.”
“Is there a suspect yet?” Betsy asks.
“They think they have a suspect.” Linda looks around the waiting area, leans into Betsy’s ear, and whispers, “An African American kid.”
“Oh, that’s such a shame,” Betsy replies.
“I know. The whole thing is just horrendous. The funeral is next week at the cathedral. They were very active in the community and very wealthy and it’s just such a tragedy.…” Linda notices the ticking grandfather clock. “Oh dear, I am so late, I have to run to my class! We’ll get the girls together.”
As she begins to leave, the receptionist pipes up, “Mrs. Wallace, if you’d like, you’re more than welcome to audit the class Mrs. Williams is in, there is actually one more space available.”
“Oh?” Betsy glances at Linda, who shrugs her shoulders, indifferent. “Well, I don’t have to pick up the girls from their after-school activities for another two hours.…”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Cate stares at her reflection in the mirror as the makeup artist wipes globs of concealer under her eyes and sticky gloss across her lips; she is a budding star beneath the bright lights illuminating the high cheekbones she inherited from her father’s side of the family—the Bartholomews—the side she wants to get closer to and farther away from all at the same time. Tissues are tucked into a smock snapped around her neck like a ruffled Victorian collar.
“Eyes up,” the makeup artist says, holding a mascara wand as Cate tries to review notes on the White House domestic violence probe, refreshing the breaking news from the Post, Politico, Fox, updated photos appearing on her phone of the White House chief of staff’s wife with a swollen black eye and bloody lip. Cate lifts her eyes and thinks about her parents. Flashes of her father running toward her mother: she remembers sitting frozen at the kitchen table, preparing for the possible blow to her mother’s left eye socket; but instead of her father hitting her mother, he stepped backward, laughing, Did you think I was going to hit you? And she remembers how he never believed Cate would make it in Washington; he didn’t think she could make it anywhere at all.
“You good?” the makeup artist asks.
“I’m great,” she replies, her A game asserting itself, shoving any nerves to the side. Cate isn’t conscious of the fact that what drives her to succeed is an intense need for vengeance against the men in her life even as she simultaneously romanticizes them, holding on to each one even after he falls off the pedestal where she had placed him—where she likes them. A complex dichotomy living deep inside of her that she’s still too young to understand.
The makeup artist hands her a Kleenex. “Blot,” she says. Cate folds the Kleenex and clamps her lips over its crease. She looks at her face in the mirror, beautiful but not beautiful enough, she thinks. The makeup artist unsnaps the smock, whipping it off like she’s the magician and Cate is the prize.
“I like the suit,” the makeup artist says, “you look powerful.” Cate wears a red Veronica Beard blazer and straight-leg slacks she found on The RealReal for half of this month’s paycheck.
“Powerful.” Cate lets out a nervous laugh. But it is these moments of validation that she lives for, the kind that make her love being in Washington—what she loves about Washington: secrets only few are privy to, the intelligence, the security details and political motorcades, men in uniform holding AK-47s, black town cars like the one that picked her up. And the details—the driver clad in his black suit opening the back passenger-side door for her; being encompassed by black leather seats and wood paneling; a New York Times Magazine stuffed in the back pocket because people are smart in Washington, unopened boxes of tissues and mini water bottles in cup holders—they make her feel important, the kind of treatment she has always longed for, a far cry from night shifts at the local Starbucks after school. Today she got a private taste of it, and she only wants more.
Walter comes barreling into the makeup room holding a manila envelope. “Jesus,
