As Doug heads down the corridor for the front staircase, Mackenzie appears in the doorway of her bedroom. Finally changed for dinner, she wears a tight black miniskirt, maroon Doc Martens, and a peach spandex tank top from Reformation. Her hair is teased in the back to hide her bald spots. Doug can’t help but notice, in this passing moment between them, her enormous breasts spilling over the brim of her top like bobbleheads. It stops him in his tracks.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Huh?” Doug, tongue-tied, is suddenly reminded that his daughter is only a few years younger than Cate. As if coming out of a trance, he snaps, “Christ, Mackenzie, go put a sweater on. We have guests.”
Mackenzie backs up into her bedroom and slams the door.
The doorbell rings. It’s one of those cheesy singsong tunes. Tony, the photographer from Washington Life Magazine, steps into the foyer. Trendy Warby Parker glasses, bronze skin, he wears skinny jeans and a button-up. Chic. He carries a camera case and appears more Hollywood than Washington. Tony photographs the Who’s Who of the political and financial power players—mostly the wives—and he’s always at the most exclusive social events: book parties, embassy parties, election parties, charity balls, luncheons, and funerals.
Betsy greets him in the hallway with a wide smile and open arms as though she’s known him for years despite not knowing him at all. “Tony, darling!” She kisses him on the cheek.
“You look stunning,” Tony says, grabbing her forearms. He knows the game. “And where is that brilliant husband of yours?” He shakes his head a little.
Doug comes up behind them and pinches Betsy’s ass. She lets out a high-pitched squeal, hops around, and places her French-manicured hand on his cheek.
“There you are!”
Doug leans in to shake Tony’s hand. “Doug, pleasure.”
They walk toward the living room where Haley has set up her music stand; her cello rests beside her, ready to be played. Guests mingle by the piano overlooking the tennis courts, while others sit on the floral sofas eating Brie and carrot sticks. The wives cluster together in their layers of gold necklaces and diamond pins—a firefly, a horse, a cross—while the men stand, some in red bow ties, others in white polos and sports jackets, silk handkerchiefs peeking through the tops of pockets. Except for the tech entrepreneur, who’s in jeans and a black long-sleeved shirt—he doesn’t need to impress these people; he just needs Doug to ensure the tech world remains free of regulation and maintains net neutrality, as God and Mark Zuckerberg intended.
Mackenzie appears in a conservative dress holding her violin and bow. She pulls a chair over next to her sister’s, making a screeching noise across the wood floor and smiling with her mouth closed.
To the donors and constituents, the night is seemingly smooth. Betsy stands holding her flute glass, smiling at her daughters as they strum their instrument strings with fevered passion. Doug comes around to place his arm around Betsy’s waist. Tony snaps candid photographs from each corner of the living room before the final still as guests are in awe—of the parenting, the couple themselves, and the political agenda. They’re all so charming in that initial meeting kind of way, in the way that you can only see from afar: in an article, a Facebook profile picture, a family Christmas card—or a photograph in Washington Life Magazine.
CHAPTER THREE
Elizabeth (Bunny) Bartholomew gazes through a large window. The glass is ancient, the kind that makes the world look wobbly. Her reflection: pale face, freckles, strawberry blond hair, distorted and staring back at her. The sunset behind the glass is colorless; the white Adirondack chairs are scattered at equal distance under an enormous oak tree, its bare limbs poking every which way; the scene: traditional yet uninviting. Almost every single staff member at the Washington Club—server, bartender, valet driver, bathroom attendant—is Black, and every single club member being served in the dining hall is white.
This is fucked up, Bunny thinks.
The Washington Club was one of the first country clubs in the United States, originally known for its fox hunting pursued by cabinet secretaries and generals and various top government officials. Over time it became a haven away from city life for the white Protestant families in the district, and Bartholomews have been members since the founding.
Bunny wears a pleated skirt and baby-blue cashmere sweater because jeans aren’t allowed (club rules!) and sits between her parents, Meredith and Chuck Bartholomew. She turns back to the main dining room and sees that every single father wears a white or pastel polo shirt and every single mother wears a silk scarf around her neck with diamond studs because pearl earrings are for the teenagers.
“I’m in a horror film,” Bunny says.
“What’s that, dear?” Meredith asks, placing a roll of bread for Chuck on his side plate like we’ve time-traveled to the 1950s. Meredith’s hair is short and white around her forehead line. It’s angled toward her chin, giving her a regal edge, sharpening her jawline.
One might think Bunny, at only seventeen, is emotionally intelligent, but it isn’t that at all; she is simply becoming awake to the way things are in her inner circle—her pedigree—her whiteness. She isn’t special; she is just paying attention. Her mother is a Democrat, for God’s sake! And her father, an “old-school” Republican, is, as they say, “fiscally conservative.” Meredith still has an Obama bumper sticker on the back of her 1998 Volvo station wagon, which she refuses to give up for sentimental as well as practical reasons. They just couldn’t be racist! Though the Bartholomews belong to the most exclusive clubs in town, they most certainly are not considered greedy or flashy by any means, but rather understated, classy—old money, if you
