Alexandra Waring (23 page)

It was just what the doctor ordered. Everyone’s eyes lit up at the idea of a full-scale production. Mock or not, right format or wrong, it was to put on a newscast that all had come to do at West End, and for many it had been months since they had a “normal” day’s work of news gathering—Alexandra most of all. After the meeting was over, she bounded over to Cassy, whispered something in her ear and then bounded out, Kyle on her heels.

Cassy saw that Langley had been watching; she smiled and came over to him. “I am a tolerant, fair and splendid creature,” she said, winking, “or so I have just been told.”

It was a good thing that the news group morale had been boosted, because the following morning, on Tuesday, Cassy had to hold another meeting—with Langley, Jessica Wright, Denny Ladler, Alexandra, Kyle, Rookie Haskell and Deeter Page, the executive in charge of the affiliate relations—to announce that, despite everything they had gone through, despite all their excitement about Jessica’s interview with the prize-winning novelist Richard Barnes, the affiliates did not want it as a special. (As Cassy had told Langley earlier, the station manager of their Philadelphia affiliate had said, “You expect me to pull ‘First One Wins’ for an interview with this guy? Forget it! The only Pulitzer our audience cares about is the one with the trumpet.”)

And so, Cassy explained the situation, only nine of their sixty-one affiliate stations would agree to carry the special. Her fervent recommendation, as a result, was that, since it was the first programming DBS was offering, they shelve it until “The Jessica Wright Show” was established, and then simply run it in lieu of her regular studio program.

After her announcement the conference room was very quiet. Jessica, down at the end of the table near Denny, looked devastated. She mumbled something about she couldn’t believe the interview wasn’t good enough to fly on its own, which prompted Alexandra to lean forward over the table to look at her. “Jessica?”

Looking miserable, Jessica brought her eyes up from the table.

“The interview is absolutely first rate,” Alexandra said gently. “It’s Barnes that’s the problem—he’s been out of the public eye for decades, he’s missed a generation and,” she sighed, “sad fact is, people don’t read like they used to—or they can’t read, period.”

Jessica shrugged and looked back at the table. (In the few short days she had been at West End, it was readily apparent to all that their talk show hostess had two basic off-camera moods: euphoria and depression.)

Suddenly Alexandra said, “Sell it to me, Jessica.”

Jessica raised her head to look at her.

“They don’t know what to do with it,” Alexandra said, nodding in Langley’s direction, “but I do. Sell me the interview and you’ll never regret it. I know how to get it on the air. I know how to find an audience for it.”

“What?” Langley said, turning to Cassy. “What is she talking about? Sell it to her?”

“I’m saying I’d like to buy Jessica’s interview,” Alexandra said.

“Forget it!” Langley said.

“Why?” Alexandra said. “What are you going to do with it?”

“What?” Langley nearly shrieked.

“You mean sell it to DBS News?” Cassy said.

“DBS News or me, it makes no difference,” Alexandra said.

“You really want to buy it?” Jessica said, starting to brighten.

“Forget it!” Langley said, banging the table. “And it’s not hers to sell—Jessica was on DBS time down there.”

Denny leaned over and was whispering furiously into Jessica’s ear.

“Well, you are DBS,” Alexandra said to Langley, “so tell Jessica how you’re going to use that interview effectively or promise her that you’ll let DBS News buy it. It >would be foolish to waste such a good piece of work.”

“What!” Langley said again.

“What’s your idea, Alexandra?” Cassy said quietly.

“I’m not saying a word until Langley promises he’ll sell it to us,” Alexandra said. She looked at him. “We’ll pay a fair royalty.”

“Royalty?” Langley said, looking to Cassy again.

“Oh, come on, Mr. Mitchell,” Jessica said from the end of the table, suddenly looking and sounding more enthusiastic about life. “Denny and I think we oughta take a flier and let Alexandra Eyes have it.”

“Mr. Mitchell?” Cassy said.

“Oh, don’t ask!” Langley said.

“She thinks he looks like Dennis the Menace’s father,” Kyle whispered to Cassy, starting to crack up.

“Cassy will do the deal and so you know we won’t cheat you,” Alexandra said to Langley.

Langley looked at Kyle, who now had his face buried in his arms on the table in an effort to stop laughing. Langley’s frown deepened and he looked back at Cassy. “What kind of deal?”

“I don’t know, but it sounds like fun,” Cassy said, smiling. “And I don’t know about you, but I could use some.”

“Say yes, Langley,” Alexandra said. “Please. Trust me.”

“Trust you?” Langley said.

“Come on, Mr. Mitchell,” Jessica said. “I’m dying to know what Alexandra Eyes wants to do with it, aren’t you?”

Langley looked at how happy Jessica looked and sighed, dropping his hands on the table. “Oh, all right,” he said. “We’ll sell the interview to DBS News. Now what, Alexandra, is it you propose to do with it?”

“Syndicate it domestically,” she said.

“You can’t, you’re part of a network,” Langley said. “Networks can’t syndicate entertainment programming.”

“The FCC’s definition of a network,” Alexandra said, “calls for fifteen hours of programming a week to twenty-five or more stations. We have sixty-one stations, but even when ‘NAT’ and Jessica’s show go on the air, we’re still only going to have ten, maybe twelve hours. So, we’re not a network yet and we can sell domestic syndication.” She turned to look at Jessica. “So we’ll sell it station by station—to whoever wants it—one of our affiliates, another network’s affiliate-market by market. Or we might decide to do a deal with PBS—they’d love this and it would be a wonderful validation of your work.”

“Ya-hoo!” Jessica said, holding on to the table with one hand and reeling back in her chair as though she were riding a bucking bronco. “Me on PBS—back into the family will!”

The following morning, on Wednesday, Langley and Jackson flew down to Palm Beach on the Gulfstream jet to see Belinda and make good on their promise to attend a dinner party of hers. Belinda didn’t often demand Langley’s presence at her social engagements, but she did insist on the first and last dinners of any given season, and this would be her last before closing the Palm Beach house, taking a holiday in Europe and then opening the house in Connecticut for the summer. As for Jackson, he would usually go to anything Langley agreed to go to.

And so, while sitting across from each other on opposite sides of the cabin, Langley told Jackson about Alexandra’s sudden objections to the “NAT” format and about how Cassy had chosen to handle it, and then about the stunt Alexandra had pulled to buy Jessica’s interview with Richard Barnes.

“Well, good,” was Jackson’s response, “it’s about time Alexandra declared a little independence. Your Mrs. Cochran’s been riding roughshod over her long enough—”

“Cassy’s been doing what?” Langley said. “Are you kidding, Jack? Cassy’s been bending over backward to accommodate Alexandra’s ego while trying to make her succeed.”

“She’s been riding Alexandra’s back,” Jackson said, “and she’s been riding over everybody else—including you. Sorry, Lang, but your Mrs. Cochran’s over managing the place and you know it.”

“She’s not over managing—”

“If she’s not over managing, then why does Alexandra feel compelled to fight her?” Jackson said. “Alexandra’s her biggest fan.”

“Well, she’s no fan of mine,” Langley said.

“Because she knows you’re no fan of hers,” Jackson said. “So she’s doing what she thinks is best, Lang, and from the sound of it, Alexandra does know better about what to do with Jessica’s interview, so let her have it.”

“Forget I ever said anything,” Langley sighed, giving up. Talking to Jackson about Alexandra was hopeless. No matter what she did, according to Jackson, it was right.

When they got to the house, Belinda was in one of her cool, calm and collected states (i.e., “Please don’t bother me while I’m trying to get things ready, Langley. Honey, don’t, I’m sorry, I’m just too tense to be touched right now and you know what Dr. Balakudian says”) and she instructed Jackson to take Langley outside and run him around the tennis court.

Playing tennis with Jackson was something else. Every time he mishit the ball he stopped the game to retrieve the offending ball and slam it a country mile over the fence. His game was really off today and so they had to raid Belinda’s tennis ball cannon for enough balls to finish two sets, by which time the neighbors had called Belinda to inquire why their afternoon tea was being pummeled by tennis balls.

They went down to mess around at the marina for a while, looking at boats, where Langley talked Jackson out of inviting a girl he picked up to Belinda’s party. And then they went back home, where Belinda had just arrived from the hairdresser, looking wonderful but sounding a little spacey. “You boys are so sweet to come to my party,” she whispered, kissing each of them on the cheek in the front hall. “And I do so appreciate it.” And then she floated up the stairs, leaving them there.

“She all right?” Jackson asked Langley.

“Yeah, I think so,” Langley said, shrugging, digging his hands into his tennis short pockets. “She’s been doing better lately.”

“Langley,” Belinda called from upstairs. “Langley darling, come here, will you?”

Jackson punched him playfully in the shoulder. “Go on, Langley darling. I’m gonna go for a swim.”

Langley went upstairs to their bedroom and found Belinda in her dressing room off it, sitting at her dresser, looking at herself in the mirror. “Langley darling,” she said, reaching behind for him, “come look.” And he stood there, behind Belinda, looking at her face with her in the mirror. “Am I still beautiful?” she asked him, smoothing the skin around her eyes with her fingers.

“Very,” he said, meaning it in the physical sense, but not meaning it totally. Not too many years ago, Belinda’s eyes—so like Jackson’s, that same cornflower blue—had been the source of a very real beauty, with their spirit, their energy, their spark. But now
…
now Belinda’s eyes seemed deadened somehow, dull. Even the whites of her eyes seemed vaguely gray now, translucent. And as he stood here, it was as if Belinda saw her own eyes through his, because she leaned closer to the mirror to look at them, but then screwed them shut—as if she could not bear the sight—and let her head fall forward.

Langley slid his hands around her shoulders, massaging them gently.

“Why can’t I have a baby, Langley?” she whispered.

“Oh, Belinda,” he sighed, bending over to hold her. She had been saying the same thing for over sixteen years now. And he didn’t know why, and the doctors didn’t know why, and, as it had turned out in recent years, it was probably for the best, considering her state of mind.

“Careful of my hair,” she said, her voice sounding altogether different. And then suddenly she pushed him away, stood up and walked briskly back into the bedroom. “I know you have things to do, so why don’t you go and do them.”

Oh, boy. She was having one of her mood swings.

“I’d like to be alone, please,” she said, turning to look at him.

“Okay,” he said, walking out. “I’ll be out back.”

“No, Langley, wait,” she called as he was going down the stairs. “Come back, Langley. I don’t want you to leave me.”

And so Langley went back into the bedroom.

“Let’s make love, honey,” she said, slamming the door behind him and dropping to her knees, unfastening his shorts.

“Belinda—” Langley said. Oh, christ, he never knew what to do when this started. He knew what he usually did—and that was to simply go along with it—but despite any immediate pleasure, he always felt lousy afterward for some reason. Belinda knew how to make quick work out of him and was well on her way already and so he stepped out of his shorts and took her over to the bed and they started to make love, only for Belinda to suddenly change her mind again, pushing him off her, saying, “I can’t do this, Langley, I told you. My nerves can’t take it and Dr. Balakudian says you shouldn’t force me.”

And then she got up and went into the bathroom, leaving Langley, naked and with an erection, lying on his back, about to scream in frustration. He calmed himself down, promising himself—as he had with increasing frequency over the last five years—that he would get himself a mistress so as to spare himself this insanity that appeared to be getting contagious. And so he got up, put on his robe and went down the hall to take a shower in another bathroom.

So there he was, taking a shower—yes, a cold one—when Belinda came into the bathroom, naked, opened the shower stall, grabbed his arm and pulled him out. “Come on, Langley,” she said, opening the bathroom door, “I want to make love with you, honey.”

“Belinda,” he said, standing there, feeling like an idiot, the shower still running behind him.

“Well, come on!” she said, skipping out into the hall.

“Honey, shhh,” he said, grabbing a towel. “Jackson—”

“Good idea. I’ll tell Jackie you won’t make love to me and then—”

Oh, great—she was yelling this down the hall.

Langley dashed down the hall, grabbed her arm at the top of the stairs—it took three tries (he couldn’t see so well without his glasses)—pulled her into their bedroom, closed the door, locked it, threw his towel off and said, “Okay, Belinda, let’s do it.”

“Yeah!” she cried, delighted, jumping onto the bed and then jumping up and down on it.

“Jesus, Belinda, what is with you?” he whispered, going over.

“I’m happy, Langley! I’m having fun, darling!” And then she jumped up again and landed, booof, in a sitting position, holding her arms out to him. And so they actually did make love this time, and Belinda carried on outrageously—leaving no doubt in Langley’s mind that the entire household, the entire
neighborhood
could hear her. (But this was infinitely better than having her threaten to kill herself, which from experience he knew would have been the next stage had he asked her to lower her voice a little.)