Warren Adler - The War of the Roses

‘What is it, Mrs. Rose?’ one of the waiters asked, starded by her presence.

‘Why did you all leave the kitchen?’ she murmured, knowing that the question was ambiguous. The waiter, a tall, distinguished-looking black man, looked confused.

‘Never mind,’ she said quickly, surveying the kitchen once again. Turning, she went back to the table. The sight of her guests reassured her and she sat down, watching the waiters pour the dessert champagne.

‘Everything is perfect,’ the wife of the Thai ambassador whispered, filling Barbara with pride, chasing her uncertainty.

A waiter served the eclairs, and another followed with the warm chocolate sauce. Mr. White of the Post made a round sign of approval with his fingers, which completely dispelled her anxiety and she dug into the dessert. The chocolate seemed thicker than she might have wished, but the custard filling was perfect.

A tinkling of silver on glass startled her. The Greek ambassador rose. Stripped of his title and government-provided home in Sheridan Circle, he would be a very unimposing man, but standing now, well nourished with what, she was convinced, were some of the finest and best-prepared victuals in the world, well watered with rare wines, dressed in black tie and wrapped in the patina of diplomatic finesse, he made the symbol of her elegant home tangible. What did it matter if he barely knew her? He was visibly impressed. His toast was a potpourri of accented platitudes and compliments and she loved them all. She had never heard them applied to herself.

‘A hostess of rare beauty, a gourmet of the first rank, a woman of elegant taste, impeccable.’ The words rumbled outward in soothing waves. It was delicious. Others rose and echoed the Greek ambassador.

When they were finished and she had responded with a few modest words she had memorized, she led them into the library for liqueurs and coffee.

‘Would you mind if we made an appointment for an interview, Mrs. Rose?’ White asked. ‘There’s something special apparentiy at work here.’ She flushed and nodded, offering a touch of the obligatory humility.

‘I cannot tell you how embarrassed I was over our former problem,’ the Greek ambassador’s wife said in labored English.

‘I had no idea,’ the wife of the undersecretary told her, kissing her on the cheek.

A waiter passed cigars, cutting each proffered end with a flourish. The men became engrossed in political conversation. The women talked of other matters. Barbara delighted in the buzz of conversation, the sure mark of a successful party.

Then, from the corner of her eye, she saw the sudden frown, a brief wrinkling of the brow of the French military attache. She saw him whisper something to the waiter, who responded quickly, pointing to the foyer, and the man hurried off.

At that moment the wife of the Greek ambassador rose and looked curiously at Barbara, who understood instantly.

‘On the first floor,’ Barbara said quickly. She watched the woman’s gowned figure recede, but the odd, unspoken note of pleading disturbed her.

When White left the room with what seemed like uncommon speed, she began to feel the familiar tug of anxiety. With acute clarity, she heard the quick knocking on the door of the occupied hall loo. Rising, she went to the foyer and was suddenly confronted by the pale, tense face of the food editor.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Please.’ It seemed the only word he could muster.

‘Upstairs. There’s one in the master bedroom.’

She looked after him as he raced up the stairs. As she turned, the Thai ambassador was moving toward her, a pained expression on his dark face. Reality was crowding in her consciousness.

‘No. There’s someone there,’ she cried. ‘On the third floor.’

She was diverted suddenly by a woman’s voice.

‘Jacques,’ the voice cried, knocking on the closed door of the hall loo. She heard a muffled avalanche of French invective. The word merde came to her loud and clear, triggering further revelation. Turning, she saw more of her guests come toward her. They seemed to meld into one another, their voices raised in a cacophony of discordant sounds.

‘I’m sorry,’ she cried. ‘You must understand… it wasn’t me.’

The house suddenly seemed to come alive. The sound of flushing toilets, doors opening and closing, hurried footsteps. She saw the front door open and people brush past her.

‘Forgive me,’ she cried, feeling suddenly a bubbling sensation in her innards.

‘My God,’ she screamed, running to the rear of the house, through the kitchen, past the startled waiters, stripped of their uniforms how, busy cleaning up.

‘What is it, Mrs. Rose?’ one of them called after her.

She had lost any conscious sense of direction, finding herself finally in the garden. As she squatted in a clump of azaleas near the wall of the garage, she heard an unmistakably familiar sound next to her. There he was, the Greek ambassador, his bare bottom shining in the glare of the full moon. Slowly, his face turned towards her, implacable, expressionless. It seemed disembodied, like a lighted jack-o’-lantern hanging in the air.

‘Madame,’ the face said, offering an inexplicable smile.

‘Help me,’ she cried, looking away, hoping she would turn to stone.

She hid behind the azaleas for a long time, inert, paralyzed with mortification, watching the house. Only when she was certain that everyone had left did she find the will to move. Standing, she felt the acid of anger fill her, inflating her with its corrosive power. If he was within reach, she was certain, she would have strangled him and enjoyed the process. As her eyes roved the deserted garden, a beam of moonlight lit up the shiny cover of his Ferrari, which she could see through the window of the garage.

As if guided by some powerful force outside herself, she entered the garage by the garden door. With slow deliberation, she removed the car’s covering, then lifted off the fiberglass top, which she carefully set on its side. He had shown her how to do it. When he had first bought the Ferrari, he had let her drive it, but she took no pleasure in the process. It was a man’s toy.

In a toolbox on the shelf she found a screwdriver and unscrewed the box that held the mechanism for opening and closing the garage door. It was a simply matter to adjust the fail-safe mechanism. Once, the door had nearly crushed Mercedes, who had scurried away just in time, and Oliver had explained to her what had gone wrong with the fail-safe device. It was an extra-heavy door. The irony pleased her now, clearing her mind, enabling her to focus single-mindedly on her task.

When she had completed it, she took the remote-control gadget from its hook and tested it by opening and closing the door. Releasing the Ferrari’s emergency brake, she put the gears in neutral and pushed the light car halfway through the open garage door. It moved easily. Only thirty-two hundred pounds, he had explained. Just forty-seven inches high.

She felt her lips form a smile as she pressed the down button, watching as the heavy door descended on the defenseless car. The sound of the crunching metal was satisfying, oddly musical, as she repeatedly raised and lowered the garage door like a giant hammer. When destruction seemed complete in one spot, she moved the car and began working on another. The steering column bent, the wheel broke off, the dashboard crumbled. Each stroke of the door gave her a special shiver of joy. She had never experienced such wild exhilaration, and she abandoned herself to the sheer excitement, her fingers working the remote-control gadget with relentless deliberation.

When the novelty of the pleasure subsided, she simply pushed the car back into the garage and, closing the door, replaced the remote-control gadget on its hook.