The Golden Age by Gore Vidal

Saint-Cloud-le-Duc. All overseas lines were busy. “Isn’t there someone we could radio?” She sat at her desk.
    Blaise prowled the room, unusually red of face, while the once blond hair was now the color of ashes. He was definitely stout, no longer the handsome youth that both sexes had once found desirable.
    “But you got through to London.”
    Blaise nodded; sat down again. “We have—or had—a special line. There was a proper row in the House of Commons. Chamberlain tried to hang on. But it wasn’t his own party that did him in, it was Labour. Labour wants Churchill to form a coalition government.”
    “How pleased he must be.” Caroline had never cared for the half-American British politician who, when it seemed opportune, had no conscience about changing parties. It seemed in character that as he was currently a Conservative, he would be Labour’s first choice for prime minister. She could imagine the confusion at Westminster: the old Tories had wanted the Earl of Halifax, the new—plus Labour—wantedthe colorful Winston, who had only recently been recalled from political limbo by Chamberlain to be First Lord of the Admiralty, a post that when he had held it in the World War had provided him with a wide margin—if not indeed a whole page—on which to commit all sorts of gaudy military errors. Now he had been catapulted to an even higher place. Caroline shuddered at the thought.
    “Two journalists,” she announced, grimly.
    “Two journalists—what?”
    “Churchill and Mussolini are both professional journalists. They think in headlines. Startling phrases. Exaggerations.”
    Blaise frowned. “Has neither ever worked for a living?”
    Caroline was amused. “I think that what we do is very hard work. But, no. Neither has ever had a profession. Only drum-beating in the press. And politics. Much the same thing.”
    “Winston’s long-winded. But he has wit. I never dealt with Mussolini. Did you, before I came aboard?”
    Caroline nodded. “We picked up several of his pieces when he was editing that socialist paper in Milan. I’m afraid he has no jokes. But he did send me a novel he had written. Something about a cardinal with a mistress. Could I help him find an American publisher? He longed to be another Rafael Sabatini. Now, of course, he’s Julius Caesar.”
    “By such small threads …” Blaise went to the long table beneath the window, where a tentative mockup of the next day’s front page was laid out. Churchill was the feature story. Three right-hand columns beneath a large constantly changing head. At the moment only the name floated in a sea of white.
    “What about ‘Winston is Back’?” was Blaise’s contribution.
    Caroline said, “Winston who? Back from what? Assume no one knows anything. The English keep track of their public figures. We don’t. You know, he’s been making money lately by writing film scripts.”
    “I thought he just wrote books. Very long books. But then he’s always broke. Wonder if we can get him to …”
    “Too busy. At last. But he’s doing … or was doing … something for the Korda brothers. Two Hungarians. In Hollywood. About LordNelson. And Lady Hamilton. The English girl who’s in
Gone With the Wind
.”
    “Instead of Liz Whitney. Harold Griffiths keeps me informed of movie trivia whether I like it or not. What about something simple? ‘Churchill Prime Minister,’ subhead ‘Chamberlain gives way to coalition government.’ ” Blaise turned back into the room. “Have you seen the Roosevelts?”
    “Not since I moved out. They are marvelously kind, in their absentminded way. People keep accumulating at the White House until the beds are all full, then Eleanor drops a hint or two and the beds empty out.”
    “What’s the Wardman Park like?”
    “Gloomy. I’m in the annex. The Vandenbergs are down the corridor. We meet over the kitchen fence, you might say. She is surprisingly shrewd. He’s having an affair with a Canadian woman