The Washingtonienne Read Online Free PDF Page A

one. It’s up to you.”
    “So you know that I’m married?”
    “Well,
duh.
”
    Fred laughed, retrieving his wedding ring from his trouser pocket. He put it back on his finger and smiled at me.
    “So, tell me, what kind of girl has sex with a married man?” he asked.
    “What kind of man cheats on his wife?” I retorted, smiling at him.
    “Let me borrow your phone.”
    “You’re not calling your wife, are you?” I asked suspiciously.
    “Just give me your phone, please.”
    I watched as he dialed a number and hit the
Send
button. Then I heard a second phone ringing from somewhere inside the car. Obviously, Fred had just called himself from my phone.
    “There,” he said. “Now we have each other’s number.”
    These older guys knew all the moves, didn’t they? But I didn’t expect to hear from Fred ever again. He would surely go home, think about what he had done, and realize that it was wrong.
    HE CALLED THE NEXT MORNING .
    I answered, hungover and squinting in the daylight.
    “Let’s get together for lunch sometime this week,” he said in that rushed tone people use when they’re at work. “How about Thursday, at one thirty? I’ll meet you at your place.”
    I had sort of counted on this being a one-night thing, but now it looked like it might turn into an
affair.
    An affair with a married Washington bureaucrat—hilarious!
    I climbed out of the sofa bed and looked around the apartment for April. It was apparent that she hadn’t come home last night. Maybe that venture capitalist she met had whisked her away to his mansion.
    I remembered that my internship interview was at noon. It was already ten thirty. I needed to put myself together for my debut on the Hill.
    My skin was dried out from too much drinking the night before, and my hair was knotted up from too much fucking. I had major work to do.
    I put my hair in jumbo Velcro rollers and chose the perfect job interview outfit: a gray stretch wool skirt and matching three-quarter-sleeve top, black silk stockings (no naked legs on a job interview), black crocodile Manolos from last year’s sample sale, and my graduation pearls.
    No makeup—too trampy. But must do brows. Brunettes should use a
blond
pencil. (I learned that from a
Harper’s Bazaar
interview with Cindy Crawford.) I needed blusher, especially when I had a hangover. “Orgasm” by NARS was the best. And I could not leave the house without Lancôme’s Définicils mascara. Must comb my eyelashes while I was at it, to get rid of any unsightly clumps.
    But that was it.
No makeup.
    My nails were trimmed short, neatly filed, with a single coat of clear nail polish. Manicures weren’t required here, as they were in New York, and neither were spray-on tans or chemically straightened hair. Now that I lived in Washington, I could finally let myself go.
    I took my rollers out. Total pageant hair, unless I parted it to the side just so, for a more professional look.
    Professional.
    I didn’t know the meaning of the word.
    AS I WALKED OVER TO the Senate office buildings, I imagined the new life that lay ahead of me. Every morning, I would stroll past the Capitol, just as I was doing now. But I was no tourist—I
lived
in this beautiful city full of pretty shit that our tax dollars paid for: pretty marble buildings, pretty statues, pretty monuments to what a great nation this is.
    I could see myself in my little gray suit, running around under the Capitol Dome. Doing
what
exactly, I didn’t know. April never told me much about the
work
that people did on the Hill. Listening to her, you would think that it was all Happy Hours and staff romances, like an episode of
Ally McBeal
or something. And the impression I got from watching C-SPAN was that everybody got paid to put on a suit and watch each other give speeches all day.
I could do that,
I thought.
    I wanted a fluffy government job that I could start taking for granted as soon as possible. I must have looked so
hopeful
in my Marc Jacobs peacoat,