He observed Princess Di closely as she entered the glittering, stately ballroom. Her entourage included a financier rumored to be her next husband, the Brazilian ambassador and his wife, and several celebrities from the chic American fashion world. Ironically, two of the models in the group appeared to suffer from anorexia nervosa—the flip side of bulimia, the nervous disorder that had plagued Diana for the previous dozen years.
Jack moved a few steps closer to Princess Di. He was intrigued, and had serious questions about the quality of her security arrangement. He watched the Secret Service boys make a discreet sweep, then remain on duty nearby, earphones at the ready.
A formal toastmaster had been brought all the way from England to properly salute the queen—the council’s president—and host Walter Annenberg. The ambassador spoke briefly, then a lavish, though overcooked and underspiced, dinner followed: baby lamb with sauce Niçoise and haricots verts.
When the princess finally rose to speak during dessert, an orange almond tart with orange sauce and Marsala cream, Jack was less than thirty feet away from her. She wore an expensive gold sheath of taffeta with sequins, but he found her somewhat gawky, at least to his taste. Her large feet made him think of the cartoon character Daisy Duck. Princess Daisy, that was his moniker for Di.
Diana’s speech at the gala was very personal, if familiar, to those who had followed her life closely. A troubled childhood and adolescence, a debilitating search for perfection, feelings of self-revulsion and low personal esteem. All this had led to what she spoke of as her “shameful friend,” bulimia.
Jack found the speech strangely off-putting and cloying. He wasn’t at all touched by Diana’s self-pity, or the near hysteria that seemed to reside just below the surface of her performance—perhaps her entire life.
The audience clearly had a different reaction, even the usually cool-as-ice Secret Service guards seemed to react emotionally to the popular Di. The applause when she had finished speaking was thunderous and seemed heartfelt and sincere.
Then the entire room stood up, Jack included, and continued the warm, noisy tribute. He could almost have reached out and touched Di. Here’s to bulimia, he wanted to call out. Here’s to worthwhile causes of all kinds.
It was time for him to move into action again. It was time for number two in the Jack and Jill story. Time for a lot of things to begin.
It was also his turn to be the star tonight—to solo, as it were. He had been watching another well-known personality that evening at the party. He had watched her, studied her habits and mannerisms on a few other occasions as well.
Natalie Sheehan was physically striking, much more so than Di, actually. The much-admired TV newswoman was blond, about five eight in heels. She wore a simple, classic, black silk dress. She oozed charm, but especially class. First class. Natalie Sheehan had been aptly described as “American royalty,” “an American princess.”
Jack started to move at a little past nine-thirty. Guests were already dancing to an eight-piece band. The breezy chitchat was flowing freely: Marion Gingrich’s business dealings, trade problems with China, John Major’s problems du jour, planned ski trips to Aspen, Whistler, or Alta.
Natalie Sheehan had downed three margaritas—straight up, with salt around the rim. He had watched her. She didn’t show it, but she had to be feeling something, had to be a little high.
She’s an extremely good actor, Jack was thinking as he came up beside her at one of the complimentary bars. She’s a master of the one-night stand and the one-weekend affair. Jill had researched the hell out of her. I know everything about you, Natalie.
He took two sidelong steps, and suddenly they were face-to-face. They nearly collided, actually. He could smell her perfume. Flowers and spices. Very nice. He even knew the delightful fragrance’s name—ESCADA acte 2. He’d read that it was Natalie’s favorite.
“I’m sorry. Excuse me,” he said, feeling his cheeks redden.
“No, no. I wasn’t looking where I was going. Clumsy me,” Natalie said and smiled. It was her killer TV close-up smile. Really something to experience firsthand.
Jack smiled back, and suddenly his eyes communicated recognition. He knew her. “You never forgot a name, or a face, not in eleven years of broadcasting,” he said to Natalie Sheehan. “That’s an accurate quote, I believe.”
Natalie didn’t miss a beat, “You’re Scott Cookson. We met at the Meridian. It was in early September. You’re a lawyer with… a prestigious D.C. law firm. Of course.”
She laughed at her small joke. Nice laugh. Beautiful lips and perfectly capped teeth. The Natalie Sheehan. His target for the evening.
“We did meet at the Meridian?” she said, checking her facts like the good reporter she was. “You are Scott Cookson?”
“We did, and I am. You had another affair to attend after that, at the British embassy.”
“You seem never to forget a face or factoid, either,” she said. The smile remained fixed. Perfect, glowing, almost effervescent. The TV star in real life, if this was real life.
Jack shrugged, and acted shy, which wasn’t so hard to do with Natalie. “Some faces, some factoids,” he said.
She was classically beautiful, extremely attractive at any rate, he couldn’t help thinking. The warm heartland smile was her trademark, and it worked very well for her. He had studied it for hours before tonight. He wasn’t completely immune to her charms—not even under the circumstances.
“Well,” Natalie said to him. “I don’t have another party after this one. Actually, I’m cutting back on parties. Believe it or not. This is a good cause, though.”
“I agree. I believe in good causes.”
“Oh, and what’s your favorite cause, Scott?”
“Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals,” he said. “That’s my pet cause.”
He tried to look pleasantly surprised that she would remain talking with him. He could play parlor games as well as anyone—when he had to, when he wanted to.