Chris leans back in his chair, places his pen atop his notes, and looks into the camera. “Ladies and gentlemen, Cate Bartholomew, press secretary for Senator Doug Wallace. Thanks for joining us—we’ll be back in a moment, stay with us.”
Cate walks into the green room removing her earpiece and unclipping her microphone, buzzing with adrenaline. Walter follows her. As Cate hands the PA her earpiece, Walter says, “Excuse me, can you give us a minute?” Alarmed by his tone, Cate walks over to the couch to grab her purse and overcoat; the PA spins back around and out the door.
“Your first time on national television with Chris Williams and you’re going to talk down to him?”
“What? I was giving him facts, Walter.” Cate swings her bag over her shoulder, ready to leave. She checks her phone. No text message from Doug.
“What you said about the president was not a fact.”
“Check the polls if you don’t believe me. The car is waiting for me downstairs,” Cate says, holding up her phone. As she heads toward the hallway, she nearly bumps into Linda Williams, a French textbook poking out of her Louis Vuitton tote.
“Oh, excuse me,” Cate says, locking eyes with Chris Williams’s wife.
“Linda!” Walter exclaims. “Excuse our clumsy press secretary.” Cate glares at him. Walter steps in front of her.
“Walter! Good to see you!” They do a double kiss. “Is Chris still on? I’m trying to catch the end of it.…” Linda reaches for her phone in her tote.
“Linda Williams?” Cate says, interjecting herself. “I’m Cate Bartholomew.” She goes to shake her hand. “Chuck and Meredith Bartholomew’s niece—we met briefly at the Washington Club, they’re also members,” she adds, attempting to prove her place in Washington society even if only peripherally—even if only by a thread—even if Cate just went live on her husband’s show.
“Nice to see you again,” Linda says, not remembering her at all. And she doesn’t particularly like the Bartholomews—they don’t typically mingle with members of the press unless it is to their benefit.
Walter notices Cate asserting her social capital. “Great to see you, Linda, lunch at the Press Club next week?”
“Would love it, darling.”
“Lovely to see you again,” Cate says.
Linda smiles. “Take care, sweetie.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Russian ambassador’s residence is a modern glass palace, an old off-white brick building covered in tiny square windows. Sitting high on a hill at the top of Georgetown next to the embassy, the foreign property is protected by layers of black fences, cameras, barbed wire, and cigarette-smoking Russian guards: EMBASSY OF THE RUSSIAN FEDERATION is branded in gold on a concrete plaque at the “Royal” gates. Stan’s father is somewhere in Helsinki on one of his many business trips, his mother mysteriously (always) missing.
Stan glides down the freestanding winding staircase as if descending from clouds; he’s dressed in a half-unbuttoned collared silk shirt and tight dress pants. In the living room are emblems of American pop culture: Austin Powers prints, a painting of a modern American flag, Marilyn Monroe’s iconic white dress photo, big block letters spelling S-E-X-Y above the fireplace, a swinging clear chair and stripper pole his mother uses for exercise in the corner. Modern sculptures of trolls and dancing ballerinas are found in the dining room and library, near photographs of his father at the Kremlin framed in platinum.
Stan walks over to the light switch—a naked photo of Mick Jagger, the on/off switch in place of his erect penis. A security guard, whom Stan has graciously paid off in cash, monitors the cell phones of addicted teenagers being collected and put into a silver bucket upon arrival. Parents, the few who were ever concerned, know that Ambassador Stopinski has been in the news cycle recently and aren’t particularly thrilled for their children to be entering the domain of the enemy. Social media will remain closed to the invitees. Stan knows this much. The subject line of his private invite was, Baby, I got the tapes. All of them thinking it was funny, none of them knowing why.
Jermaine Dupri’s “Money Ain’t a Thang” blasts through the open space, floor-to-ceiling windows; the finest vodka, sealed in wooden cases carved with RUSSIAN EMBASSY on top (an endless supply of gifts to foreign dignitaries kept in the basement vault), is lined up on identical coffee tables. Plastic soda bottles and aluminum expired credit cards next to bags of cocaine and prerolled strawberry-flavored blunts fill the side tables. Carefully selected juniors and seniors of St. Peter’s Academy and the surrounding private schools flood in, some completely wasted from pregaming, others beelining for the vodka—girls in their tight polo sweaters, miniskirts, long locks pulled up in messy I’m-not-trying-too-hard buns, and pearl studs; dudes in their Nats hats, Capitals shirts, sagging khakis, and trending kicks (plus the occasional pair of boat shoes with no socks).
Billy and Bunny sit on a leather sofa in the corner; Billy’s kissing her neck, his hand on her knee. Mackenzie enters with Marty. Chase arrives with a young freshman, bug-eyed and drunk, smiling and nodding at everyone to prevent vomit from spilling up and out of her esophagus.
“Mackenzie, what can I get you?” Marty asks, the perfect gentleman, red plaid bow tie poking out under his argyle sweater, round spectacles, khakis, and brown loafers.
“Shot of vodka, please,” Mackenzie says, trying to fix the extension clips at the back of her head. Bunny notices this, and the diamond-studded Tank watch on her wrist.
“Ohh, starting off with shots, I likey New Girl,” Chase says.
“Shots for everyone!” Billy shouts.
“Is that the Cartier Tank?” Bunny asks Mackenzie.
“My watch? Um, yeah, my dad gave it to me for my birthday.”
“Nice,” Bunny replies. “Audrey had one, but hers was rose gold.… Did you know her?”
“No. I mean, we had religion class together, but I didn’t really know her,” Mackenzie says.
“Do you know how she died?” Bunny asks, spooking her now.
“Um, I heard in… uh…
