Mortal Friends by Jane Stanton Hitchcock Page B

time. I remember she said to me, ‘Suing well is the best revenge.’”
    “So are you sick of marriage?”
    Once again, I could have kicked myself the minute I said this, because what I was really asking him was whether our relationship was going to wind up at a dead end, or whether he was thinking in permanent terms.
    He hugged me closer. “You know what you’re really asking, don’t you? If I’m serious about you…about us. And I want to tell you right now, honestly, truthfully, to the best of my knowledge…I believe I am.”
    “You believe you are?”
    “I wish I could give you assurances. And I think I’ll be able to in time. Haven’t we been having fun together?”
    “Yes.” I shut up. The conversation was veering into emotional quicksand. I glanced at the rearview mirror, where Maxwell’s beveled eyes were fastened on us. He looked away.
    “Relax,” Bob said.
    I nestled into the small of his arm as we drove in silence. I stared out the window. The buildings shone like wraiths in the misty night. Between my dilemma with Violet and the gaffe with Bob, all my insecurities were kicking in. I knew I had to pull myself together for the evening ahead.

Chapter 12
    T he British Embassy is the crown jewel of Embassy Row. Designed by the great architect Edwin Lutyens, its vast Queen Anne country house pretensions are reminiscent of the glory days of Empire. As we drove up to the right front gate, Maxwell rolled down the window and announced to the guard checking off names on a list, “Mr. Robert Poll and guest.”
    “Sorry, sir. I don't see his name on the list," the guard said. Maxwell had him check again, to no avail.
    Finally Bob rolled down his window and said to the guard, “Is there a problem here?”
    “Terribly sorry, sir, I don't see your name on the list. Have you some identification?”
    Bob didn't like being asked for identification. He considered himself enough of a wheel in Washington that people should know who he was without proof. And he certainly wasn't used to being omitted from the entrance list. I saw he was getting agitated, and he’d hardly been in the best of moods to start with.
    “Look, I’m Bob Poll. I’ve been here many, many times.”
    “Yes, sir. I'm terribly sorry for the inconvenience but I'll just have to check.”
    Bob pulled out his wallet, took out his driver’s license, and handed it to the guard.
    “A moment please, sir,” the guard said, walking off to confer with a second security guard nearby.
    Bob sat silently with clenched teeth, staring straight ahead. He was seething.
    “I’m surprised you even carry a license, since you never drive yourself,” I said to try and break the tension. He didn’t laugh.
    The guard finally came over, handed Bob back his license with apologies, and waved us on. Bob jammed the card back in his wallet and rearranged his neck like his collar was too tight.
    “Obviously a new man,” he said irritably.
    Maxwell drove the car up the driveway and turned left into the stone porte cochere. Bob and I got out. I checked my coat in the ladies' cloakroom, freshened up, and met Bob outside the vestibule. Together we climbed the wide stone steps of the double-sided staircase under the painted gazes of George III and Queen Charlotte imprisoned in their huge gold frames—a little tweak at the Colonies. We reached the landing, where we walked down the wide hallway, picked up our seating cards from Araminta Upton, the embassy’s fresh-faced, fun-loving, very “county” social secretary, and joined the reception line. Marge Horner was in front of us. Marge was the widow of Henry Horner, a big campaign contributor and former ambassador to Luxembourg. I wasn’t surprised to see her there. I’d heard Marge had already latched on to Constance Morely, the new British ambassador’s wife, barraging her with invitations and notes, as was her custom.
    Marge Horner had made a career of courting the wives of important new ambassadors the minute