YOU’RE MY KIND OF GIRL
So far the only good thing that had come of Hank running for president—besides Madison getting to meet so many truly nice people, who continued to send her cards and bring her flowers—was the condo Hank had bought at the Ritz. Tucked in a neighborhood called the West End, it was near Georgetown but quieter and had a lovely gym (with an instructor who taught her parkour, which she liked so much better than yoga or pilates) and a delicious restaurant on the ground floor that used to be their friend Eric Ripert’s but was still quite good. Hank knew she loved it there, so she felt confident he wouldn’t be suspicious when she said she’d be spending a long weekend there. “I just need a break from the campaigning. It doesn’t come as naturally to me as it does to you.” She knew the Machine would be glad not to have to babysit her during their visit to Pennsylvania.
Over the past few months, Birdie Brandywine had invited her to three bipartisan events but not this John Arnold fund-raiser—obviously—which was why it made the most sense to Madison that this would actually be the one to attend. A switch had flipped in her after Super Tuesday, and she wondered what she might be able to get away with. She couldn’t avoid hearing the campaign press and had the feeling that people liked her.
So she poured herself into her most vivacious dress—it had to be the sparkly green, always the green, if that one could talk, the stories it would tell!—and took a car to someplace on Capitol Hill that looked a little rough around the edges for such a function, but what did she know. Her goal: to be noticed. But if she met a donor or two, with the right open-mindedness, that could also be enormously useful to her.
She breezed in the door, red-lipped smile plastered on her face, ready to charm.
* * *
Cady launched into Cheerful Crisis Mode. She flagged down Abbie at the door—“Hey! Wanna grab Birdie?”—then made use of the seconds before Birdie’s arrival.
“Cady Davenport. I’m a producer with the fastest-growing local show in DC,” she said, figuring it could possibly be true. “We’d love to have you on, hear about your unique perspective on the campaign trail. I reached out to Mike—” She pulled out her business card.
“You know what,” Madison cut her off. “I’ll give you this back.” She took the card and plucked a monogrammed gold pen from her tiny gold envelope purse. “This is my email address,” she said, scribbling on the back of the card: MissAlabamaForTheWin@madisonfoundation.com. “My regular account was hacked.” She shook her head.
Cady nodded, sensing there was a story there.
In seconds, Birdie appeared. “Darling! What a totally delightful surprise. And I do mean surprise!” Birdie looked as though she were trying to control the deer-in-the-headlights reflex sweeping her face. “Birdie Brandywine,” she introduced herself. “Thrilled to meet at last.”
The women shook hands, traded air-kisses, looked as though they might be sisters: same tall, lean figures, long legs, aura of glamour.
“Maddy Goodfellow,” she said.
“I had no idea you were—”
“Hope you don’t mind. I was in town with nothing to do.”
“You do realize you’re at a fund-raiser for Vice President Arnold,” Birdie said through her smile, barely moving her lips.
Madison laughed. “Oh, yes, details, details.”
Birdie seemed concerned, perplexed. “Did you pay the $20K entry, or are you merely crashing?”
“I’m on a fact-finding mission?” Madison said it as a question, as though she was unsure of the terminology.
“Sure, okay, what facts are you finding?” Birdie asked.
“On the record or off?” Madison laughed.
“I think you’re my kind of girl!” Birdie threw her arm around Madison.
As Cady slunk away, Birdie gave her a look of appreciation. She had caught an enormous fish and graciously turned it over to someone more skilled at reeling it in.
* * *
After trying, unsuccessfully, to find Reagan and getting no answer on her cell, Cady yanked Parker away from a conversation with a group of young, hot female donors.
“I need to talk to you!” she blurted, grabbing his arm.
“Ow! Other arm, at least, okay?”
“Sorry!” She glanced at the group he had just left. “Ohhh! Really sorry. Rebound prospects?”
“Not anymore,” he said.
“You’ll thank me—look who’s about to put your bar on the map?” she said into his ear, pointing so he could follow her line of vision.
“No fucking way,” he said. “Shouldn’t she be in like Pennsylvania or something right now?”
“Go! Talk to her!” she said, giving him a shove.
He started nodding uncontrollably, looking nervous.
“I’ll send the photographer over,” she said, with another shove. “Go! GO!”
* * *
Reagan was already in bed asleep by the time Ted got home.
He curled up beside her and placed his hand softly on her swollen belly, whispering, “Please tell me we’re due after the election.”
“November 19,” she said groggily, appreciating the “we.”
“Cutting it close, but when have we ever been early?”
* * *
Cole hung around even after everyone had left, offering to drive Birdie home. She gave him a kiss on the cheek and said it had been such a long night, they would have to catch up another time, and he was too polite to push. She’d considered going home with him—anyone would, he was young and beautiful—but tonight she would be returning alone, to her own house. Besides, she had too much else on her mind: she still hadn’t fully processed what she had heard tonight. It wasn’t often that someone could completely surprise her. She had thought she’d seen it all. But Madison Goodfellow, Birdie had sensed she had a spark, and she had been right.
Birdie hadn’t been able to resist asking, feeling that she may not get another chance. She’d thought she’d read something in Madison’s eyes, that it hadn’t been a mistake that she had chosen this event of Birdie’s to attend.
“Madison, I hope you won’t find this rude, but I’m sincerely curious—do you want Hank to win the nomination? The election?” She had asked when they’d had relative privacy.
Birdie watched as a prism of possible responses filtered through Madison’s eyes, and then she settled on one that seemed to be the truth. A smile blooming, a secret freed. “How did I know you would understand?”
Birdie nodded. “I think I can help.”
* * *
By the time Cady hopped in a cab home, she was pretty pleased with herself. She had had a good night. After all the obligatory photos and enough time sequestered in one of the VIP rooms to meet with donors, Birdie had facilitated a quote from Madison.
“Madison Goodfellow, what brings you to an Arnold fund-raiser tonight?” Cady asked as Max recorded.
“Well, I came to see a new friend—” she gestured to Birdie “—but didn’t realize the purpose of the event. Oops.” She smiled winningly. “But I’m so glad I’m here because I need to start learning all these Washington hot spots if we’re going to be living here come January.” She winked into the camera.
It was enough of a coup that Cady had managed to forget all about that awful conversation with Jackson. But it came rushing back now as the taxi wound its way past the White House, lit up and gleaming in the night. She couldn’t gauge who was right and who was wrong on this, and wondered if she was just being terribly blockheaded. Had it really been a criminal offense to go to this event?
As she passed Lafayette Park and then the Hay-Adams Hotel, guilt smacked her in the face. Jackson had taken her there to celebrate her job offer in December. At her second interview, she had accepted on the spot, then called Jackson on her way out of the station’s headquarters. By the time she’d made it back to the apartment, he had already planned their evening. A drink at Off The Record, the Hay-Adams’s famous underground lounge with its sumptuous red décor, and then dinner at the hotel’s pricey and indulgent restaurant, The Lafayette, with those stunning views of the White House.
After dinner—where they polished off a bottle of wine—they had snuck up to the hotel’s private top-floor event space with access to the roof terrace, crashing a law firm’s holiday party. It was crowded enough—and they were dressed well-enough—that they could slink around, holding hands, without anyone questioning whether they belonged there. They’d slipped out to that glorious rooftop, gazed upon the city that would now be not just his but theirs, and he had wrapped his arms around her in the brisk December air, nestling his face into her neck. As if it wasn’t enough, while they were there, he had gotten a call that a room had become available. They had nothing with them, but stayed anyway, which made it all the more romantic and extravagant.
She had known then, of course, that every day wouldn’t be that way. That wasn’t real life, it was fantasy. But she had expected something…more, now that they were finally in the same city.
When Cady arrived home after midnight, she found Jackson asleep on the couch, a few empty beer bottles on the floor, TV still on.
* * *
Cady’s interview with Madison ran the following day and scored hundreds of thousands of YouTube hits.
Parker sent her an email first thing the next morning, a link to a blog post on the New York Times’ political portal. His subject line: “rebound material?” and the body of the message: Think this’ll make Hank Goodfellow jealous? Seriously though, how awesome was last night?
The post entitled “Girl About Town” opened with a photo of a smiling Madison Goodfellow beside a slightly dazed-looking Parker. She was at her most glamorous, poised and posed, clearly reveling in the attention, while he seemed like he had inadvertently wandered into her shot. Cady had to laugh. It probably wouldn’t spark any romance rumors.