Chapter 3
SCHMOOZING BY THE FIRE
Rory and I had hosted so many of these functions, from lunches, high teas, barbecues, cocktail parties, and dinners, that they began to run together. Maybe Rory had turned me into a windup doll too. Point me in a direction and let me do my thing.
Tonight felt different, though. The wheels had come loose on my car, and I was becoming a liability.
As far as my being a car, I wish I could say I was a Ferrari, but the station wagon that was Margot Simpson was about to screech across the highway on its axles, doing seventy.
In my rearview mirror, I could already see the wheels breaking away from the axle and rolling off onto the shoulder.
What could I have done to tighten those lug bolts?
Why wasn’t my plan working like it should have?
The guests were due to arrive at six. My team and I had every last bit of food finished by five-thirty.
Rory, on the other hand, never felt prepared.
But once that first knock came at the door, he knew he had to be ready.
On this particular evening, he ran around frantically looking for his phone.
Did I mention that, earlier, I’d thrown it under the couch in his office?
Naughty, naughty Margot! Every time I heard him spit a curse word into the air, I enjoyed a tiny flush of pleasure.
I couldn’t believe he didn’t grab my phone and call his number so its ring would let him know where his phone was, but I suppose he was so frustrated that he didn’t even think to do that.
Even if he had, it wouldn’t have helped.
Naughty Margot had turned off the ringer!
Eventually, he gave up looking, with a final string of curses that scared Philippe so much that our poor dog cowered and escaped upstairs.
Rory’s team arrived a few minutes before the guests.
My best friend and I often joked and called his team the harem.
The Dream Killer’s harem. We might have called them his hens, but we know by now that Rory hated chickens.
Each of the concubines of his harem came off as terribly nice, “terribly” being the operative word here.
In this business of politics, even in the lower level of the mayor’s world, everyone had an agenda.
They might shake my hand and kiss my cheek and smile with apparent sincerity—even compliment my dress, my home, or my food—but I had to remember each of them had an agenda.
I knew if I ever forgot that fact, they wouldn’t hesitate to eat me alive.
Robert, the only man on the Dream Killer’s team, arrived first. He and his wife stepped inside our foyer, and Robert dutifully commented on the brilliant Christmas decorations.
His wife eagerly agreed with an aggressive nod.
My husband and I dove into our first small talk of the night.
Rory did what he did best and cracked the awkward silence with a slightly jarring joke about getting old.
To my delight, red blotching had appeared on Rory’s neck.
Was my concoction working? Amidst the laughter following Rory’s joke, the four of us broke apart, and I welcomed another member of his team.
If the harem had a leader, it was Kim. She didn’t lead from a business role perspective, because she was too low on the totem pole.
She ran social media and other technology-driven tasks that were best left to a younger generation.
No, her crowning glory stemmed from her youth and annoying good looks.
She had a face that made most men, including the married ones, stop and turn.
I didn’t think it was fair that women could look as good as she looked.
She honestly didn’t even look real, more like a character a programmer with dirty dreams had created for a video game.
As I met her eyes though, I did feel a twinge of pity.
It surely couldn’t be so great to look like her all the time.
I could only imagine the stares and comments she unintentionally elicited.
Kim’s husband fit her well. He was the male version of perfection.
I felt zero attraction to him, though. I liked my men rough around the edges, nothing too perfect.
I know what you might be thinking—why was I complaining about Rory if I wanted a man who was less than perfect?
Well, he’d slipped a hair too low on the spectrum, if you know what I mean.
Naturally, Kim was the one who made me jealous.
It’s not that I thought Rory would cheat.
To repeat my earlier point, his only mistress was his political pursuit.
He wasn’t the cheating type, but he was a flirt, and that came with the territory of being a politician.
He always knew what to say at the right time.
If you plan to stay married to a politician, you’d better learn to cope with a certain amount of jealousy.
As we all kissed cheeks, Kim giggled at Rory’s silly comment about the weather, and it drove me crazy how he interacted with her.
Nothing overstepping bounds, but when she spoke, he gave her his full attention.
Even though I looked as good as ever, Kim looked so much better than I did.
I’d learned for certain that there was one thing I couldn’t change.
I could lose weight, and I could cut my hair, and I could be extra sweet, and I could nearly turn into a slave giving my spouse everything I have, but the one thing I could not do is reverse the aging process.
On a side note, as you’ll learn later, my best friend had tried to reverse the aging process, and I’m not sure it was working.
Anyway, was I too old to be sexy anymore?
Is your forties the decade when you stop having sex? That possibility saddened me.
The other three women in the Dream Killer’s harem arrived before go-time.
Rory’s secretary Nadine was the last one in.
She and I had always hit it off, and I liked her very much.
One of the few genuine smiles I offered that night was when she entered with her husband.
Nadine wasn’t as striking as Kim, but she had these giant breasts that fought to jump off her chest. Every harem needs one, right?
Or needs two? (Ha!) Thankfully, she wasn’t one to flaunt her goods.
Heck, I think even showing cleavage with those two monstrosities would have been too much of a statement for any political fundraiser.
She always dressed conservatively, and that made me feel comfortable around her.
If Rory ever did look at her boobs, how could I get upset?
Shoot, I even looked at her boobs from time to time.
Jealousy wasn’t as much of a factor for me when it came to Nadine, so she and I had become friends.
It wasn’t like we hung out all the time after she finished work or on the weekends.
She was too young for that. But she and I typically gravitated toward each other at cocktail parties and found comfort in our banter.
She didn’t enjoy political chatter either, so we were able to have real conversations.
She shared my love for cooking, and she loved talking about the latest movies on the Hallmark Channel, which had been a very guilty pleasure of mine since I was a child.
As her husband fell into a hockey conversation with Rory, Nadine raised a green-and-red gift bag toward me. “We brought a little something for you.”
“Thank you very much!” I said, accepting the gift. “You’re the only one who brings me things.”
“You’re always hosting, it’s the least I can do. Please open it.”
I pulled the bow and reached inside. There’s no mistaking the heavy glass of a wine bottle.
Pulling it out by the neck, I examined the label and read out loud, “Fidélitas. Red Mountain Merlot.” I didn’t recognize the producer and had never heard of Red Mountain, but oh, my goodness, did I love merlot! And Nadine knew it.
“You’re so sweet,” I said, and meant it. “If you don’t mind, this one is not getting opened tonight. I’ll save it for a special occasion.” I put my finger to my chin and asked, “Now where is Red Mountain?”
Nadine beamed. “Washington State. I didn’t know about Red Mountain myself, but I stopped at that little place in town, near the Starbucks, and the owner said you might enjoy it.”
“He knows my taste.” Slipping the bottle back into the bag, I confessed, “I didn’t even know they made wine in Washington.”
“That’s what I said! The owner said everybody in the know drinks Washington State wine, and he said this place, Red Mountain, is extra special. He said they grow some of the best merlot in the country.”
I smiled. “Thank you. I look forward to trying it.”
Those genuine moments during these get-togethers saved me sometimes. Every time I felt too bitter at having to politicize once again, I had an encounter that reminded me that not all people in the political arena were bad. Only a few bad apples—or grapes—often made it feel that way.
These fundraisers weren’t like other social gatherings.
You don’t show up fashionably late. You arrive on time so you can take advantage of every minute shaking hands and making connections.
Only a few minutes after seven, as the music of Mannheim Steamroller led us into the Christmas mood, our house filled with well-dressed men and women warming up from the cold, munching on my food, telling stories, laughing, and making their way into their desired circles.
Lawyers sought new clients. Young enthusiastic men and women fished for future votes.
The seasoned politicians drummed up more love.
Golfers looked for partners for their first spring rounds.
Socialites recruited new members for their respective book, bridge, or tennis clubs.