'Could Claire take her to the shower at the Marriott Thursday night?'
'A - al!' said Claire. 'It's my very closest friends at this shower!'
'It could work,' said Ed. 'Yes, Senator, it could work. You could give her an exclusive, Claire, couldn't you? Your father's notor - I mean well-known for avoiding interviews with the press. You could give her some safe inside dope, like where you and the senator will make your home, the place you're going to buy in Georgetown. Those sorts of things.'
'Part of the political life, baby,' Santini offered.
'All right. But I'm going to want something very, very nice to make up for this, AI. I'm warning you.'
'S'all right. You get your nice little butt in gear, dear. Catch Cahill before she starts sniffing around about the party and nail her down. Quill, dolly, good work. You ever think about getting into the game, you let me know.'
'Game?' asked Quill.
'Politics, baby. Politics. It's the only game there is.'
'And that was it?' Meg exclaimed, much later, when they were sitting in Quill's room discussing her shortened lunch. 'Myles didn't say, 'Let's keep in touch,' or better yet, 'You'll always have a special place in my heart'? 'It's awkward'? 'You're beautiful'? And 'She has presence'? That was it?! And you went straight from that to loathsome AI?'
'Well, sure there was the keep-in-touch speech, and the never-forget-you speech. But I think, Meg, he was relieved. I think I'm too complicated, or too independent. Or too - I don't know.'
'You poor thing,' Meg said with deep affection. 'How do you feel?'
'Chagrined.'
'Because of all the rehearsing,' Meg said shrewdly. 'You should know by now, Quillie, never rehearse. Other than chagrined, how do you feel?'
Quill swirled the last of her wine in her glass. 'I think my heart's broken.'
Meg shook her head, jumped off the sofa, and marched to the small kitchenette where they sometimes prepared meals. She didn't have a kitchen in her rooms, which were one floor down from Quill's. The last thing Meg wanted to see at night, she'd told Quill and Doreen, was a stove or a refrigerator.
'No paper towels?'
Quill wiped her cheek with her hand. 'Cloth ones.'
'Here.' Meg tossed her a dishtowel. 'Are you sorry you broke it off with him?'
'He broke it off with me!'
'Do you want to make up?'
Quill shook her head.
Meg sat down next to her and announced, 'This is absolutely the last pat of the day,' and rubbed her back.
Quill cried, Meg patted her back, and then the room was quiet. They sat on the cream sofa in front of her French doors, feet propped on the oak chest Quill used as a coffee table. Quill drank another glass of the cabernet. Outside the French doors, the snow knocked against the window like a soft white cat trying to get in.
Quill's easel stood in the comer, half-hidden by the tea-stained drapes. A half-finished charcoal sketch - Doreen, laughing with a cup of coffee in one hand. Quill looked at it and felt the familiar clench of muscles in her right hand.
'Meg. Remember that taxi driver?' she said suddenly.
'The one that picked us up at the train station ten years ago? The day we arrived in New York? Me off to Paris, to learn to cook, you off to paint great things?' She laughed. ' 'The great thing about dis job, goils? Ya never know where it's gonna take ya.' ' She smiled. 'And he took us for a ride, all right. That was the wildest taxi ride I've ever been on before or since. To this day, I don't know why he didn't get a ticket.'
Quill sat bolt upright. 'Traffic court!'
'He didn't take us to traffic court. He took us to that cool little apartment in SoHo. Actually, it wasn't all that little...'
'I have to be in traffic court tomorrow morning. Nine o'clock. And you have to come with me.'
'Why do I have to come with you?' Meg demanded indignantly. 'I'm not the one who got a speeding ticket.'
'I didn't get a ticket. Dave Kiddermeister stopped me and told me I was going a little fast past the school. But he didn't give me a ticket.'
'How much over the limit were you?'
'I don't know. He didn't write me a ticket,' Quill said patiently. 'It's some screwup. Howie Murchison's going to represent me.'
'Howie? Over a speeding ticket you didn't get?'
'Well, there's this thing called a bench warrant or whatever.'
'Quill.' Meg's voice was ominous. 'You know exactly what a bench warrant is. You used to get them all the time.'
'I swear to God, Meg. I've reformed. No speeding. No unpaid parking tickets, Honest.'
