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Authors: Allen Drury
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and one of Washington’s most prominent hostesses knew she ought to be up and doing.
Instead, she was lying here thinking that once again events had conspired to guarantee the success of a party at Vagaries.
Things couldn’t, she reflected happily, have dovetailed more conveniently for her. When she had sent out the invitations she of course hadn’t the remotest idea that the date would fall on the day the President finally decided to appoint a successor to Howie Sheppard as Secretary of State. It was simply fate and her favoring star, therefore, that the guest list should include not only Howie, but Bob Leffingwell as well; and not only those two, but Bob Munson, Tom August, most of the Foreign Relations Committee, Orrin Knox, half the Cabinet, Lord and Lady Maudulayne, Raoul and Celestine Barre, Krishna Khaleel, and even Vasily Tashikov, to say nothing of a wide scattering of other Administration, Hill, and diplomatic people. This was the party of the spring at Vagaries—in three years’ time the society columns had become trained to the point where they automatically referred to it as “the Spring Party,” without other identification—and it was always big. This time, though, she had an idea it was going to be positively sensational. Once again in a time of crisis, Vagaries might hold the key.
This, as she had congratulated herself so often before, simply confirmed again her great wisdom in deciding to settle in Washington in the first place. She had always had a lively interest in politics and world affairs, had fortunately been blessed with the native intelligence and shrewdness to give it point, and after the divorce when she was more or less at loose ends as to what to do next the idea had suddenly shot into her mind, “Why not go to Washington?” She and John used to visit there occasionally on business trips in the past, she had always liked and been thrilled by it, and now that she was adrift at forty-three with the family millions and no particular geographic ties, there was no reason why she shouldn’t.
“I’m going to live in Washington,” she had told everybody, and everybody had exclaimed; but not half so much as they did when they subsequently learned from press, radio, television, and newsreel just how overwhelmingly successful the move had proved itself to be.
Of course, that was the thing about Washington, really; you didn’t have to be born to anything, you could just buy your way in. “Any bitch with a million bucks, a nice house, a good caterer, and the nerve of a grand larcenist can become a social success in Washington,” people said cattily, and indeed it was entirely true. Dolly was no bitch, but the principle applied. First came the house—Vagaries, gleaming whitely, secretly yet hospitably among its great green trees on ten beautifully landscaped acres in the park, just happened to go up for sale less than a month after Dolly reached Washington and Dolly bought it outright at once—and then you began the routine. You got somebody you knew to introduce you to somebody she knew, and then you gave a small tea or two, and then a small cocktail party or even a small dinner, being careful to include the society editors of the Star , the Post and the News in one or more of them, and you were on your way. Then after the word had begun to get around a little, and you perhaps had been introduced to a Senator or two, and maybe a Cabinet officer and his wife or one of the military, you could sail right into it full steam ahead, set a date, send out invitations broadside to a couple of hundred prominent people, hire yourself the best decorator and caterer you could find, and sit back to await results. Since official Washington loves nothing as much as drinking somebody else’s liquor and eating somebody else’s food, the results were all you could hope for, and after that there were no problems. The quick-leaping friendships of stylishly dressed, scented, powdered, and bejeweled women
Instead, she was lying here thinking that once again events had conspired to guarantee the success of a party at Vagaries.
Things couldn’t, she reflected happily, have dovetailed more conveniently for her. When she had sent out the invitations she of course hadn’t the remotest idea that the date would fall on the day the President finally decided to appoint a successor to Howie Sheppard as Secretary of State. It was simply fate and her favoring star, therefore, that the guest list should include not only Howie, but Bob Leffingwell as well; and not only those two, but Bob Munson, Tom August, most of the Foreign Relations Committee, Orrin Knox, half the Cabinet, Lord and Lady Maudulayne, Raoul and Celestine Barre, Krishna Khaleel, and even Vasily Tashikov, to say nothing of a wide scattering of other Administration, Hill, and diplomatic people. This was the party of the spring at Vagaries—in three years’ time the society columns had become trained to the point where they automatically referred to it as “the Spring Party,” without other identification—and it was always big. This time, though, she had an idea it was going to be positively sensational. Once again in a time of crisis, Vagaries might hold the key.
This, as she had congratulated herself so often before, simply confirmed again her great wisdom in deciding to settle in Washington in the first place. She had always had a lively interest in politics and world affairs, had fortunately been blessed with the native intelligence and shrewdness to give it point, and after the divorce when she was more or less at loose ends as to what to do next the idea had suddenly shot into her mind, “Why not go to Washington?” She and John used to visit there occasionally on business trips in the past, she had always liked and been thrilled by it, and now that she was adrift at forty-three with the family millions and no particular geographic ties, there was no reason why she shouldn’t.
“I’m going to live in Washington,” she had told everybody, and everybody had exclaimed; but not half so much as they did when they subsequently learned from press, radio, television, and newsreel just how overwhelmingly successful the move had proved itself to be.
Of course, that was the thing about Washington, really; you didn’t have to be born to anything, you could just buy your way in. “Any bitch with a million bucks, a nice house, a good caterer, and the nerve of a grand larcenist can become a social success in Washington,” people said cattily, and indeed it was entirely true. Dolly was no bitch, but the principle applied. First came the house—Vagaries, gleaming whitely, secretly yet hospitably among its great green trees on ten beautifully landscaped acres in the park, just happened to go up for sale less than a month after Dolly reached Washington and Dolly bought it outright at once—and then you began the routine. You got somebody you knew to introduce you to somebody she knew, and then you gave a small tea or two, and then a small cocktail party or even a small dinner, being careful to include the society editors of the Star , the Post and the News in one or more of them, and you were on your way. Then after the word had begun to get around a little, and you perhaps had been introduced to a Senator or two, and maybe a Cabinet officer and his wife or one of the military, you could sail right into it full steam ahead, set a date, send out invitations broadside to a couple of hundred prominent people, hire yourself the best decorator and caterer you could find, and sit back to await results. Since official Washington loves nothing as much as drinking somebody else’s liquor and eating somebody else’s food, the results were all you could hope for, and after that there were no problems. The quick-leaping friendships of stylishly dressed, scented, powdered, and bejeweled women
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