Beauty Queen

mirror. "Next month I'm going to China."
    "China?" she wailed. "Can't you put it off?"
    Sidney turned to face her, with an expression of sorrowful accusation in his eyes. "Jeannie, I've dreamed of going to China for years. For years I waited for the visa. It's all set. I mean, you don't just. . .put off a trip to China."
    Jeannie stood, her mind racing. This was something of a setback. Few people knew the ins-and-outs of New York City politics like Sidney did. All over the country, he was regarded as just about the best young conservative political writer in the country. His column, "Fanfare," was widely quoted. He had actually turned down a plush offer to write on national affairs for the Washington Post because he was so "hooked on New York," as he put it. It was his lifeblood. More important, it was Sidney's political savvy that had often guided her. So far Sidney and her father together had helped her negotiate her way into being an honest politician in a city where corruption seemed to be the standard operating procedure.
    Sidney stood there, hands shoved into his pockets, with a look of impatience on his face. He was very anxious to be off to the office, so as not to incur the wrath of Bernie, who felt that everyone, even News executives, should be seated at their desks by nine sharp.
    "I know this throws a wrench in your plans," he said softly. "But I can't help it. Doubleday has approached me about doing a book about China. They're offering me a large advance. I can't afford to blow that kind of money. Especially since we've been living on just my salary for the last year."
    Jeannie sat on the edge of the bed, suddenly feeling that her crisp silk dress was already full of wrinkles and smudges.
    "No," she said. "I suppose not."
    "You do tend to take me for granted sometimes," Sidney added in an even softer voice.
    She sighed, feeling embarrassed and humiliated.
    "Look," said Sidney, picking up his suit jacket off the arm of the chair, "it's no major tragedy. Your dad is going to be around. He'll help out."
    "True," she said. "As far as I know, he's not going to China."
    When Sidney had left, she pulled herself together. No sense letting a little thing like that throw you, she told herself. Today she had a lot to do.
    She had started the day with such a blast of energy. The rough speech she'd drafted yesterday sounded good, but it needed the finishing touches of a professional. She had made the rounds of the children thoroughly yesterday, and felt she had whipped things into shape—a long lecture to Jessica on tomboyish riding and a threat to sell the pony. To Cora, a long lecture on the evils of boys and rock music. And a long lovely conversation with Steve that had made her feel better about everything.
    At least she had converted Steve, and the boy had changed his mind about what college he would attend. Instead of Harvard, he wanted to attend Brandywine Theological College in Delaware, a Baptist school supported by the American Baptist Convention. He wasn't yet thinking exactly of becoming a preacher, but he was interested in serious study of the Bible. Steve, her beautiful firstborn, her offering to the Lord. How nice that it should all work out just like the Bible commanded.
    She took a last few impatient swipes at her hair with the brush. Her hair still hadn't grown long enough to suit her. A year ago, just before her breakdown, she had had it cut in the fashionable Dorothy Hamill wedge, but afterward she understood what a wicked infidel thing she had done. Now it was six inches long, and pretty soon she could get it into a neat little coif. In a few more years, maybe she could wear it in braids across the top of her head, just like her mother had done. That was a very old-fashioned-looking kind of hairdo, of course.
    But old-fashioned hairdos were just what America needed.
    Then she seized her purse, and strode out of the apartment.
    Shortly before nine, Jeannie got out of a cab in front of her district office on Park Avenue and 33rd Street. It was the first morning in months that she had not gone directly from her apartment to her father's rooftop breakfast table.
    Her office had once been a shoe store that had gone bankrupt. She had chosen that seedy-but-reviving stretch of Park Avenue to enhance her image as a Republican people's candidate who represented all levels of society. As she pushed in the door, she noticed how dusty the bunting was in the display window, and how faded were the poster-sized