I’M ON, LIKE, EVERY TEAM
STARS COME OUT FOR WHCD FESTIVITIES,
ARNOLD, HAZE AND GOODFELLOW
(THE MISSUS!) OUTSHINE PREZ
By Sky Vasquez, Staff Writer, The Queue
After a dinner full of surprises—Vice President Arnold delivering the night’s best laughs? Madison Goodfellow, the ultimate good sport?—the French ambassador’s posh residence played host to a slew of stars and a couple of presidential nominee-hopefuls. Rocky Haze sat out the dinner itself. “I’ll go when I’m seated onstage,” she quipped. But the musician did appear unannounced at the must-see afterparty, the annual Vanity Fair soiree, capping the night at the piano performing seductive, stripped-down renditions of her rally anthems (which currently occupy the top three spots on iTunes’ singles chart).
With just a month left in primary season, buzz is circulating that Vice President Arnold, enjoying a bump in the polls thanks to his Correspondents’ Dinner speech, is considering some out-of-the-box running mates. The hope: to lock up the nomination before the convention by getting one of his key competitors to drop out and join his ticket.
“Rocky Haze has been approached by the Arnold campaign as a possible VP pick,” a Haze insider told The Queue. Other possibilities include another opponent, Representative Carter Thompson…
* * *
Jay held Cady’s thick card stock engagement party invitation in his hand. He had waited to RSVP in the hopes of having Sky go with him, but Sky had now returned to the trail, to Haze’s private jet and fleet of tour buses, to his new friends in the press pool. At least Reagan would be there. He called her.
“Separation anxiety hotline,” Reagan answered, horns honking in the background.
“Hilarious,” he said flatly. “And also, help.”
“I know, sweetie,” she said. “A latte please? Sorry multitasking—poorly.”
He opened the box, closed it, opened it again. The hinge had almost busted at this point. “So I keep not doing it. I was going to before he left or after Nerd Prom, all these times. I have this stupid ring—”
“You have it with you now? At work?”
“Maybe.” He snapped it shut one last time, shoved it in his pocket.
“Jay,” she said gently. “Maybe cool it with the proposing and just enjoy the time you have when you guys are together? At least until Haze is out of the running? Whenever that is. Did you manage to have any fun when Sky was home?”
“I don’t know,” he said, grumpy. He heard police sirens blare from Reagan’s end.
“No no no no,” she said. “They just got to sleep. No! Fucking motorcade!” she yelled into the phone as the sirens and revving motorcycle engines grew louder.
“Where are you?”
“Pennsylvania Ave, of course. Made the mistake of stopping for coffee after our walk around the sculpture garden. I thought, hey, look, they’re napping, why don’t I do something crazy like stop for a coffee and sit outside.”
“You’re going to Cady’s, right?” he asked.
“Be my date?”
“Yes, please.”
* * *
Cady couldn’t help but notice that Madison Goodfellow once again arrived entirely alone, just as she had weeks earlier to the Arnold fund-raiser—either she was the most down-to-earth billionaire in the history of billionaires or she didn’t enjoy her husband’s handlers. It didn’t matter to Cady, so long as she showed up on time to the studio and the segment went well.
Cady kept waiting to hear from Madison’s people, expecting the inevitable list of topics that would be off-limits to bring up. It never came though and she sure wasn’t about to ask for it. In fact, Madison had been so oddly low-maintenance, she never forwarded Cady to any assistant or press secretary at all; everything went directly through Madison herself at that email address she’d scrawled on the back of Cady’s card. Cady didn’t want to question it, worried it would all somehow fall apart.
The show’s set designer, Francine, who also handled all the props, came into the control room, ponytail askew and eyes deadly serious. “You need to see something,” she told Cady, leading the way to the kitchen set.
“Madison is still in the green room?” Cady asked. She had arrived hair-and-makeup-ready, a dream interview subject.
“I know you said Madison would be bringing the ingredients with her for the segment even though that is highly unorthodox.”
“Right, but you know—what the talent wants, right?” Cady said, nervous.
“She gave us this.” The woman opened up Madison’s Louis Vuitton weekender bag to reveal a refrigerated pack of ready-to-bake Toll House chocolate chip cookie dough, a Wedgewood serving platter, a silk scarf, a basket and a Tupperware container filled with cookies.
“Made these this morning,” Madison said now, appearing beside them with a cup of coffee in hand. She gave Cady a hug. “Sooo excited to be on, thanks a million for having me. So, I know how you have to have some already made to taste during the segment, so there ya go!”
Cady had read that Madison had been a cheerleader before Miss Fifty States, and now she could see it. This was a side that hadn’t shown up on the campaign trail, at least publicly. “Ooookay,” Cady said, smiling. “Fantastic. Francine, make these all pretty and we’ll be ready.”
Francine looked horrified.
“I’m so happy to be on and really show the Washington area how approachable and easygoing we are as a family!” Madison bubbled over.
She was due on in five minutes. “We’re so thrilled to have you. Let’s do it,” Cady said, upbeat.
Gracie arrived, outfitted in her apron, shaking Madison’s hand as Cady slipped away.
“Scrap the ‘Home Cooking,’” she said as she burst into the control room, pointing to a graphic about to air. We’re calling the segment, ‘Kitchen Hacks with Madison Goodfellow.’ Live in five.”
“I make these all the time with my daughter, Gemma,” Madison said to Gracie, the items from her bag artfully laid out on the butcher-block table, cameras rolling.
“There’s a photo. She is just darling,” Gracie said as a picture of the smiling girl wearing aviators on what appeared to be the Goodfellow yacht filled the screen.
“Yes, we love to make these and send them to her brother, Henry, at Andover.” Another photo flashed, Henry playing lacrosse.
“Very handsome, looks just like his dad,” Gracie said.
“These are the easiest cookies you’ll ever make,” Madison promised. “First, of course we wash our hands.”
“Oh, alrighty, we’re really starting at the very beginning of the process here,” Gracie said.
Madison washed up, then held her hands in the air as though to keep them sterile. “I like to keep them up like this, pretend I’m scrubbing in to surgery,” she said.
“Isn’t that charming. Got it, doc.” Gracie followed her lead.
“Cookies are serious business,” Madison said and smiled. “People you love are depending on you. You don’t want to fuck them up.” Still peppy, “Can I say fuck on here?”
“Well, you just did, twice, in fact.” Gracie smiled uncomfortably at the camera. “So, water under the bridge. But, for future reference—no, please.”
Madison proceeded to talk her way through cutting open the package, pulling apart the ready-made dough, placing the dough on cookie sheets, consulting the packaging for baking times and then taking the cookies out of the oven. All completely unremarkable, and uproariously funny to the entire control room, reducing grown men to tears.
Jeff whispered to Cady, “Madison Goodfellow might be the best thing that ever happened to our show. You’re a genius, Cady Davenport. ‘Madison’s Hacks’ is a recurring segment starting now.”
“I’ll get on it, stat,” Cady said, holding up her arms, just like Madison.
“Now, this is the best part,” Madison was finishing up. “Arrange them on the most expensive china you have, or maybe wrap ’em in a Hermes scarf and throw ’em in a basket. You get the idea. No one will ever know they’re not entirely homemade.” She flipped her bodacious fiery mane and smiled into the camera, holding out the platter in one hand and the scarf-adorned basket in the other.
Cady couldn’t help but smile in the control room. She had no idea why she had gotten so lucky, but she had stumbled into gold at that fund-raiser.
* * *
By the time Madison hopped into the black sedan and headed from the studio back to the apartment at the Ritz, she was thoroughly unsurprised to find five missed calls from Mike and this testy voice mail: “You have got to stop sneaking off like this, Madison. No more going rogue, please. Especially before the convention. It’s a very sensitive time. And we really could use—” She didn’t even bother listening to the whole message. She had a feeling her leash would soon be shortened. She was going to have to start getting creative.
But as the car crawled along Roosevelt Bridge into DC, she discovered this encouraging note in her inbox: “The organization is set up. Our intern registered with the FEC today, kept your name off it. I sense your donors are enjoying your antics, so keep it up, makes them feel they’re getting an early return on investment.”
That was all the hope she needed to go on.
* * *
Jackson was working late again and since Cady had an interview at the Folger Shakespeare Library, she figured she’d say hi on the way home. They barely saw each other these days, it seemed—he traveled weekly now with Carter—and when he was in town, he was locked away working till midnight on the Hill. Some nights, if she was shooting a story in the neighborhood, they would meet at Preamble for a drink or a bite and then she would walk Jackson back to the office. Now that spring had set in, brightening the evening sky and lifting spirits after a harsh winter, Preamble enjoyed constant crowds. The flood of early press certainly hadn’t hurt.
Parker manned the bar, sliding drinks left and right, greeting his suit-clad patrons by name. He looked so perfectly at home, she couldn’t help but smile at the sight. She was happy for him.
He glanced up and made eye contact, and before she knew it, he was calling out over the chatter and blaring TVs set to the Nationals game, “There she is, patron saint of Preamble!” He pointed and grinned. His arm had healed since she’d last seen him.
A group with loosened ties and rolled sleeves toasted in her direction, “To whoever you are!” She waved, suddenly shy.
He came around the bar to greet her. “Hi there.”
“You don’t have to do that every time I come in here,” she said, laughing.
He grinned. “Jackson’s in the back. What’re ya drinking tonight?”
He had remained true to his word; she had yet to pay for a single drink on all her visits there. Parker even had named a couple of cocktails after her and Jackson: The Jackson and Coke, and The Sour Suffragette, which Cady had taken mild offense to.
“Um, if alliteration is the goal, there’s always The Sassy Suffragette or The Sophisticated Suffragette?” Cady had gotten carried away.
“Kind of missing the point here,” Parker had said. “It’s basically a glorified whisky sour, get it? Hence the ‘sour.’”
“Hence,” she had repeated, unconvinced.
“Good luck, man,” he had joked to Jackson, who was on his phone at the time. “You’ve got a lifetime of this.”
Cady had smacked Parker on the arm.
Tonight Jackson’s Thompson pals scattered with quiet hello-goodbyes when she arrived at the table, averting eye contact as though they were thirteen-year-old girls and had all just been talking about her. She felt a wave of paranoia wash over her and tried to ignore it.
“They didn’t have to go,” she said, though she wasn’t disappointed to have them gone.
“Yeah, no, they’re going back to the office, you know,” Jackson said, thumbs typing, typing, typing on his phone.
“Everything okay? Long day, huh?” she asked, leaning across the booth to kiss him.
Jackson made no motion to get up but kissed her back, quickly. He had a nearly empty beer glass in front of him. After a final flurry of typing, he set down his phone and looked at her. “Sorry, hi. How was the interview?”
“Oh, totally fine, just ran late because, you know, parting is such sweet sorrow,” she said, shimmying off her sweater.
He looked confused.
“Shakespeare Library? A little Shakespeare humor?”
“Oh! Right!”
“Never mind.” She waved it off; they had more pressing matters to discuss: their engagement party was now two weeks away. “So! I heard from the DJ today confirming, which I was superimpressed by, because, you know, I always feel like DJs are just kind of fly-by-the-seat-of-their-pants or whatever, but he sounds on top of it.”
“Right, got him a song list and everything,” Jackson said. Securing the music had been one of his two party-planning tasks.
“So, we’re set with that and I’m good with the florist, the venue, furniture rentals, linens. So then just—”
“Are you checking up on me?” he said, the slightest bristling, before she could ask.
“Nooo, who, me? What?” she said cheerily, looking innocent.
“I told you I’d do it and I’m doing it.”
“So we’re all set on Occasions then.” She made sure to say it as a statement and not a question. Occasions was their caterer, which Jackson had reluctantly offered to handle, but she had yet to see any emails or contracts or menus from them.
“Yeah, it’s fine.”
“Cheers, then,” she said as a waiter brought her Sour Suffragette and set down another beer for him. She took a hearty gulp.
“Or maybe Madison Goodfellow would like to cater,” he said. “Saw your cooking clip, on the New York Times. That one blogger is all over you guys. But I guess I see it’s kind of a big deal.”
“That we’re the only ones who’ve gotten an interview with Madison Goodfellow in months? Not that I’m pumping us up here or whatever, but, pump pump, you know?” She laughed, proud. What was good for her, for the show, was also good for him, and vice versa. Wasn’t their relationship at its strongest when they were both succeeding? He seemed engrossed in the condensation on his beer glass, so she just continued talking. “Can you believe her? She’s a total trip! I still don’t totally know what to make of her at all, she is so not what I expected when—”
“Listen,” he cut her off, surprising her. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he began. “But I’m starting to feel like you’re on the other team.”
“What is the right way to take that?” she asked, laughing. “I mean, I’m in TV, I’m on, like, every team. Arnold and Carter and Arnold’s wife and Carter’s girlfriends—plural—all have open invitations to be on the show. No one has even returned so much as an email to reject our offers.”
“We’re very busy with real—” He caught himself, stopped.
“Ohhhh, okay,” she said, hands up. “Got it.”
“No, I just meant…”
“I know what you meant.”
“Look—”
“I get that you don’t think I’m doing anything all that special. But you know what? I actually like this show, and I like the people I’ve met and I’m grateful to them because they’re a lot less self-righteous than you are these days.” She tossed back the rest of her drink. “I’m kind of wondering if you’re on my team.” Didn’t he want her to do well? Just as she always took pride in his accomplishments? But she was too unsure of the answer to ask the question.
“I’ve just got a lot to do.”
“I know, I know, congratulations,” she said, annoyed. “I’ll see you at home.”
As she expected, the clip of Madison and her cookies made it onto every late-night talk show. Cady watched alone, flipping back and forth between them as she texted with Reagan.