The Last Good Night by Emily Listfield

blackness of her hair, the extreme slightness of her waist, and the vastness of her apartment. I’ve always been fascinated by women like her, women who’d grown up plumbers’ daughters in Iowa or Indiana, who’d worked as stewardesses or panty hose models, but through sheer will, sheer determination, reinvented themselves as arbiters of society and devoured the city whole. She pushed the food about on her plate without actually putting any of it in her mouth. “We must get together for lunch,” she said. “I’d love to talk to you about co-chairing the benefit for the Cancer Institute.” She was leaning forward to me, the me ensconced in the cloak of fame.
    David was deeply enmeshed in conversation with the woman seated beside him, his hazel eyes unwavering, the hair behind his ear curling over his stiff white shirt. I watched closely and then returned reluctantly to the fourth wife and her gossip about the love lives of clothing designers I had barely heard of.
    It was during the lull between the last course and the start of the speeches that I saw Olivia Redding walking in my direction. She stopped in front of me.
    â€œI see they hijacked you, too,” I said—we are in this together, we can be in this together if we choose.
    â€œWe all love Lloyd.” She smiled. Her hair, of that particular cool shade of blond that can be found only on television, was sprayed into a perfect helmet. Her chiseled cheeks and hooded eyes somehow managed to project both sex appeal and authority, an unlikely combination that undoubtedly added many thousands to her network contract. Of course, she also had phenomenal contacts in the Pentagon, Congress, and the White House. “I just came to congratulate you personally for winning,” she said.
    â€œYou make it sound like a contest.”
    â€œWell, it was a contest, wasn’t it? There aren’t enough good slots for women for it not to be.”
    I nodded. “You were probably just too good at what you do in Washington. They knew they couldn’t replace you.”
    â€œWe’ll see. New York never really pays attention to what goes on in Washington anyway. So,” she said, “I see the overnight ratings fell a half-point. Well, I wouldn’t worry about it. They were inflated to start with. That always happens at the beginning. People tuning in out of curiosity, boredom.”
    â€œI’m not worried,” I said.
    â€œGood. I was just telling Quinn the same thing. I only wish he was as relaxed about it as you. I don’t know how you do it. In your place I’d be much more nervous. After all, you’ll get all the blame if the ratings fall.” She straightened her long black sheath dress. “By the way,” she said, “I hear Vanity Fair is doing a profile.”
    â€œHow did you know that?”
    â€œOh, they’ve been calling everyone. Alex always does her homework.”
    â€œAlex?”
    â€œAlexandra Harrison.”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œWell, I should get back to Wyatt,” she said. “We see littleenough of each other as it is. Of course, I’ve always believed that’s the secret to a successful marriage, don’t you?”
    I watched her walk back across the floor, an army general in Chanel pumps, waving to people as she went, until she came to her own table. She sat down next to her husband, Wyatt Hargrove, the columnist for the Washington Post . Together they were one of those brainy and ambitious couples whose dinner parties are comprised of the most important names in politics and media. One or both of them always seemed to turn up on the Sunday morning news shows, and there were rumors of standing tennis dates with the Vice President. It was hard to imagine them fighting over the dishes, it was hard to imagine them making love.
    They both bent their heads to talk and it was then that I noticed the third head in the huddle, Quinn. All three