No More Lonely Nights (51 page)

Dominique raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Mrs. Filmore?” The woman was one of the most refined and pleasant people Dominique had ever met.

Felice expelled a whispered giggle. “Of course not! She’s an angel! But she only comes in about once a week.” She pushed open the door and leaned against it so Dominique could pass through. “You know, for important presentations, that sort of thing.” She paused and cast a secretive glance down the hall. “Sylvia Brussels pretty much runs the show.” She lowered her voice even more, and spoke in a manner both urgent and conspiratorial. “You should report to her right away.”

Felice let the door fall closed behind Dominique, then hurried to the reception desk. It was an antique Regency writing table of a quality rarely found in offices. Dominique looked around at the rest of the furniture. All of it was fine, the sort one might expect to see in an embassy. But the muted cream and peach color scheme, and the pastoral landscapes on the walls, softened the elitist effect. Though it transmitted an aura of distinct success, the reception area was welcoming.

Dominique had never before visited the office. Mrs. Filmore had instead invited her to lunch—“to give us a chance to get acquainted in a more relaxed setting”—treating her more like a social acquaintance than a prospective employee. “Your résumé is impressive and, of course, I hold Bruce’s opinion in the highest regard. You’re probably just what the firm needs. We have some very competent people, but I’ve been looking for someone with your social background. Someone who understands protocol and dinner service à la Russe, if you see what I mean.” Dominique saw. She told Mrs. Filmore about some of her recent projects. In the end, Mrs. Filmore said uncertainly, “You seem overqualified for the opening we have, but we could certainly use you.” Then she had smiled reassuringly. “And we reward good work with promotions.”

Dominique had leapt at the offer, and Mrs. Filmore had visibly relaxed. “Enough business! You’re from New Orleans? You must know Loulou de la Houssaye. Really? Her place in Cap-Ferrat? August 1970? Why, we must have missed each other by just days!”

In that glow of acceptance, Dominique would have felt boorish to press for details of her employment. The salary mentioned was adequate and her title would be that of project assistant. Only once had Grace Filmore uttered the name of Sylvia Brussels. “It’s a shame she’s out of town. She runs the office on a day-to-day basis and you’ll be reporting to her, for the most part. Don’t worry about it, though. I’m sure she’ll be delighted I’ve found someone of your background. Phone me when you’ve settled in your new house and I’ll let the staff know you’re to join us.”

Now Dominique wished that Mrs. Filmore was available to introduce her to Sylvia Brussels. It would have been so much more comfortable than simply presenting herself to the unknown woman. Nervously, she asked Felice, “You’re sure Mrs. Filmore isn’t going to be in today?”

Felice gave her a sympathetic look. “She’s in New York until Wednesday.”

Dominique sighed and lifted the hand holding her purse. “If you could just point the way to my office, I’ll put this down before I go to see Miss Brussels.”

Felice stood up and came around her desk, shaking her head from side to side. “Miss Brussels will assign you an office.” She put a hand on Dominique’s arm in a gesture of camaraderie. “I wouldn’t keep her waiting, if I were you.”

Dominique tried to stifle her sense of disquiet. She took one last look around the reception area. Its gracious ambiance was reassuring. Then she turned back to the receptionist. Felice looked no older than her mid-twenties. Maybe this was her first job; it would explain her apparent fear of Sylvia Brussels.

“How long have you been working here?” Dominique asked.

“A year. I worked in a law office before, but was that ever boring!” Felice grimaced.

Dominique laughed. “You certainly don’t look like the law office type,” she said in a way that made it sound complimentary.

Felice smiled in acknowledgment. Then her expression turned serious. “Anyway, Mrs. Filmore is a sweetie. But” —she glanced at her wristwatch—“I’m keeping you from Miss Brussels. You’d better go on,” she said gently. She looked up at Dominique with an expression of encouragement. “Last door on the left. I’ll let her know you’re here.” She pointed down the hall.

Dominique lifted her chin and, with what she hoped was a relaxed gait, headed in the direction Felice had indicated. The hall was as carefully decorated as the reception area, Dominique noted, with fine prints and recessed lighting. The very atmosphere was soothing.

At the end of the hall, she stopped outside a closed door that announced, in brass letters, “Sylvia Brussels.” Before Dominique knocked, she glanced down at her suit to ensure that every seam was in place. The understated Halston of navy silk was several years old, but a classic. Dominique was relieved that she could fit into it again, for she never could have afforded it now. Knowing that it had been tailored for her gave her confidence; she felt polished and professional-looking.

Dominique put a smile on her face and rapped on the door.

Silence. A few seconds ticked by. She raised her hand hesitantly. Should she knock again?

“Come in,” said an impatient voice.

Dominique opened the door and stepped into a starkly modern space of chrome, black, and white.

Sylvia Brussels glared at Dominique over the top of her glasses. They were thick, black-framed affairs perched halfway down her pointed nose and contrasting harshly with her frosted blond hair. The glasses, though, matched the rest of her outfit: a flawlessly cut black silk dress, black sheer stockings, and black pumps. Sylvia had the ghostly complexion of a person who rarely saw the sun, the only touches of color provided by her crimson lipstick and matching nails. Everything about her was hard-edged and cold.

Determined to charm her into acceptance, Dominique took a step forward. “How do you do? I’m Dominique Parker.”

“Right. The new girl.”

Dominique tried not to flinch at the condescending phrase.

Sylvia sat back in her chair and gave Dominique a suspicious look. “You have some connection with Mrs. Filmore?”

“We have a mutual friend,” Dominique said calmly. “I didn’t meet Mrs. Filmore until the interview.”

Sylvia shuffled some papers on her desk. “Right. In July. I was in Hong Kong.” Her tone seemed to imply that Dominique had contrived an interview at precisely the moment when Sylvia was out of town. She plucked a piece of paper from her desk and ran her eyes over it with deliberation. Then she gave Dominique a piercing look. “It says here that you’re from New Orleans. What’s that accent?”

“French,” Dominique replied, meeting her gaze steadily. “But I’m completely bilingual. I speak Italian and a little Arabic, too.” She paused before continuing in a matter-of-fact tone. “Mrs. Filmore says that you do some work with embassies. I hope my languages will prove useful.”

Sylvia sniffed and went back to studying Dominique’s résumé.

Dominique shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. It was unforgivable that this woman should leave her standing. “May I sit down?” she asked pleasantly.

Sylvia looked up, removed her glasses, and gave Dominique the fish eye. For a second, Dominique had the horrified feeling that her request would be turned down, and she was tempted to turn on her heel and walk out of the office. But she
had
to make Sylvia like her. Her job depended on it. Dominique forced an agreeable smile.

With a flip of her wrist, Sylvia finally said, “This won’t take long, but go ahead.”

Dominique realized she’d been holding her breath. She exhaled and sat, stiff and straight-backed, on one of the black leather and chrome chairs in front of Sylvia’s desk.

Sylvia cleared her throat and folded her hands in front of her like a judge ready to administer a sentence. “I hope Mrs. Filmore warned you that this isn’t a nine-to-five job. We work weekends and evenings and we don’t get much time off.”

Dominique said with composure, “I remember what it was like. I look forward to the challenge.”

Sylvia’s expression was cynical. “How long since you had a paying job?”

You know the answer, Dominique thought angrily, my résumé is right in front of you. Aloud, she said, “A number of years, but payment really has nothing to do with the effort I put forward. When I worked on Senator Patout’s campaign or the Heart Fund ball, I tried to do as well as I did for Orman’s.”

Sylvia pursed her lips and began to lecture, “This is
not
the same—” But the ringing of the telephone interrupted her.

Felice’s voice came over the intercom. “Mrs. Hamilton, line one.”

“I have to take this,” Sylvia snapped. She gave Dominique a dismissive wave of her hand. “Your office is all the way down the hall on the left.”

Mrs. Filmore’s unobtrusive black sedan stopped in front of the high iron gates that so elegantly barricaded the entrance to the French embassy. Her driver lowered the window and announced his passengers, then the gates swung back and the car moved up the long, curving drive.

Dominique’s pulse raced with anticipation as they drew near the main structure. The embassy looked like the country chateau of foreign nobility, its architecture distinctly European: light cornerstones on dark brick, leaded windows, and arched doorways. Set in a tree-dappled preserve in the exclusive Kalorama section of downtown Washington, the impressive acreage tumbled down a hill to Rock Creek Park, lending an air of splendid isolation to the property.

Mrs. Filmore turned to Dominique and smiled. “I’ve told them that you speak French and Italian. They’re most eager to work with you.” She looked past Dominique and fixed her gaze on Sylvia. Sylvia regarded her with an expression of attentive respect. When Mrs. Filmore was present, even Sylvia was subdued. “I think we can let Dominique play a leading role in this presentation. After all, it’s the French ambassador’s wife who organized the others. She’ll appreciate the fact that we have a native French speaker on our staff,” said Mrs. Filmore.

If Sylvia wanted to argue, she didn’t show it, but Dominique suspected that it would kill her to remain in the background while Mrs. Filmore thrust Dominique into the limelight. Dominique regarded Mrs. Filmore with a look of trusting affection. She was the very picture of a Washington socialite, with her immovable gray pageboy swept straight back from her forehead, her aristocratic features (beautifully maintained with plastic surgery), and her discreet, almost stodgy, designer clothes. It was a look only slightly more contemporary than the Queen of England’s, but it was instantly recognizable as “Washington elite.”

Dominique was sorry that she saw so little of Mrs. Filmore. The office was more welcoming when she was present. But, despite her frequent absences, Mrs. Filmore seemed to have kept careful track of Dominique’s progress in the firm. She had praised Dominique’s work on her first assignment, the wedding of Senator McAllister’s daughter. And she had called her assistance in the grand opening of the new Smithsonian exhibit “crucial.”

“Kudos, dear. I don’t know how we ever got along without you.”

Now, after only three months with Capital Events, Dominique was being handed a leading role in a contract proposal to thirteen of Washington’s most important embassies.

“It’s not as though you’re a novice,” Mrs. Filmore told her. “The only reason you weren’t made a project manager immediately was because we wanted to give you a chance to catch up on things,” she explained cryptically.

Dominique knew that, in Mrs. Filmore’s polite language, that meant she had been put through a trial period—and had apparently passed. If she handled this assignment well, she had no doubt she would be awarded the title of project manager. Then, who knew? Maybe account executive.

The embassies were to fund a gala in honor of the new members of Congress who would be elected in the coming week. The party would be held four months later, in February, 1973, after Congress reconvened. Each embassy possessed the staff necessary to host a gala on its own, but foreseeing turf wars, the group had decided to hire an outside contractor for the event. The contractor would do everything: conceive a theme, compile an invitation list, obtain a prominent member of Congress to serve as guest of honor, and, of course, work with caterers, printers, and all the others who provided services for such an event.

Dominique had handled large events before, but never one of this magnitude and complexity. There would be pitfalls, she knew, in reporting to a committee of thirteen.

The car rolled smoothly to a stop. Mrs. Filmore made no move to get out until the driver held open her door. Dominique followed her as Sylvia got out on the other side.

Mrs. Filmore turned to wait for the blond woman to catch up to them, giving Dominique a chance to gather her composure. It helped that the late October day was so lovely, with just a hint of autumn crispness in the air. She watched as squirrels, startled by the humans in their midst, scuttled away through the golden leaves.

Dominique felt Mrs. Filmore tap her arm lightly, and they turned toward the front door. As they walked, Dominique nervously touched the Hermès scarf she had draped, with continental flair, over her black silk suit.

A butler opened the door, and the women stepped into a soaring hall that rose endlessly past the balustraded galleries of a spiral staircase. The dark, paneled walls were almost hidden by exquisite tapestries depicting medieval scenes. In the center of the floor was a round table of inlaid wood. Though it was as large as a dining table, it appeared small in the vast space. Upon it rested a four-foot-tall arrangement of fresh flowers that looked like something out of a rococo painting.

Dominique suddenly realized that she hadn’t been in such an interior since her youth in Egypt. Here was a richness that could only be acquired through centuries of collection. Though the building itself was not, of course, so venerable, it was furnished with treasures of the French empire.

Sylvia gave the butler their names. Then the women were led into a long salon containing several groupings of delicate antique furniture. A petite fiftyish brunette with an ultra stylish short haircut came toward them. She was wearing a bright red suit that was unmistakably Chanel.