“At home,” Mary said confidentially, “I never drank wine.” She lifted her glass and took a swallow. “In fact, I never drank anything.” Her words were beginning to slur. “That doesn’ ‘clude water, of course.”
Olaf Peterson was studying her, smiling.
At the center table, Romanian Ambassador Corbescue rose to his feet. “Ladies and gentlemen—distinguished guests—I would like to propose a toast.”
The ritual began. There were toasts to Alexandros Ionescu, the President of Romania. There were toasts to Madam Alexandros Ionescu. There were toasts to the President of the United States, and to the Vice-President, to the Romanian flag and to the American flag. It seemed to Mary that there were thousands of toasts. She drank to every one of them. I’m a ‘bassador, she reminded herself. ‘S my duty.
In the middle of the toasts, the Romanian ambassador said, “I am sure we would all like to hear a few words from the United States’ charming new ambassador to Romania.”
Mary raised her glass and started to drink a toast, when she suddenly realized she was being called upon. She sat there for a moment, then managed to get to her feet. She stood up, holding on to the table for support. She looked out at the throng of people and waved. “Hi, everybody. Having a good time?”
She had never felt happier in her life. Everyone in the room was so friendly. They were all smiling at her. Some were even laughing. She looked over at James Stickley and grinned.
“It’s a great party,” Mary said. “I’m delighted you could all come.” She sat down heavily and turned to Olaf Peterson. “They put somethin’ in my wine.”
He pressed her hand. “I think what you need is a little fresh air. It is very stuffy in here.”
“Yeah. Stuffy. To tell you the truth, I’m feelin’ a li’l dizzy.”
“Let me take you outside.”
He helped Mary to her feet, and to her surprise, she found it difficult to walk. James Stickley was engaged in an earnest conversation with his dinner partner and did not see Mary leave. Mary and Olaf Peterson passed Mike Slade’s table, and he was watching her with a frown of disapproval.
He’s jealous, Mary thought. They didn’ ask him t’ make a speech.
She said to Peterson, “You know his problem, don’ you? He wan’sa be ambassador. He can’t stand it that I got the job.”
“Who are you talking about?” Olaf Peterson asked.
“‘S not importan’. He’s not importan’.”
They were outside in the cold night air. Mary was grateful for the support of Peterson’s arm. Everything seemed blurred.
“I have a limousine here somewhere,” Mary said.
“Let’s send it away,” Olaf Peterson suggested. “We’ll go up to my place for a little nightcap.”
“No more wine.”
“No, no. Just a little brandy to settle your stomach.”
Brandy. In books, all the sophisticated people drank brandy. Brandy and soda. It was a Cary Grant kind of drink.
“With soda?”
“Of course.”
Olaf Peterson helped Mary into a taxi and gave the driver an address. When they stopped in front of a large apartment building, Mary looked at Peterson, puzzled. “Where are we?”
“We’re home,” Olaf Peterson said. He supported Mary as she stepped out of the taxi, holding on to her as she started to fall.
“‘M I drunk?” Mary asked.
“Of course not,” he said soothingly.
“I feel funny.”
Peterson led her into the lobby of the building and rang for the elevator. “A little brandy will fix you up.”
They stepped into the elevator and he pressed a button.
“Did you know I’m a toeteetler? I mean—teetotler?”
“No. I did not know that.”
“‘S’s a fact.”
Peterson was stroking her bare arm.
The elevator door opened, and Peterson helped Mary out of the elevator.
“Did anyone ever tell you your floor’s uneven?”
“I’ll have it taken care of,” Olaf promised.
He held her up with one hand while he fumbled for the key to his apartment and unlocked the door. They stepped inside. The apartment was dimly lit.
“‘S dark in here,” Mary said.
Olaf Peterson took her in his arms. “I like the dark, don’t you?”
Did she? She was not sure.