Alexandra Waring (24 page)

Sitting at the dinner table that night, gazing down at Belinda at the other end of the table, noticing how pretty she looked, how happy she seemed, talking and laughing with her friends, Langley for the one hundredth time wondered if it wasn’t
him
that drove Belinda crazy. She seemed absolutely fine now.

The rest of the evening was uneventful. They danced outside on terrace—Belinda loved to dance—and people had a very nice, relaxing time, or so they said. The party did not break up until after two. Belinda was so tired, suddenly, she barely made it to bed before falling asleep—so soundly, in fact, that Langley actually sat down on the edge of the bed and watched her a moment to make sure she was breathing okay. She was.

When Langley came downstairs the next morning Belinda was outside having coffee with Jackson. Rather, Jackson was sitting in a lawn chair, reading a paper and sipping coffee, and Belinda was sitting on the ground, in her robe, hugging her knees, leaning back against Jackson’s leg, eyes closed to the morning sun.

She looked every bit the five-year-old she had been when she first started sitting with Jackson this way. They had a photograph of it somewhere.

“Langley,” Belinda said, opening her eyes, “Jackie thinks that instead of going to Europe I should pay Daddy and Cordelia a visit.”

Langley leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “You want me to go with you? For a couple days?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. And then she got up, brushed off her robe, looked at him and said, “I want you to go back to New York.”

Langley looked at her.

“I do, Langley. I want you to go back to New York,” she said. “Excuse me.” And she went back into the house.

Flying back to New York, Langley was playing around with some DBS News numbers when he looked up and found Jackson staring at him. “What’s the matter, Jack?”

Jackson tossed the newspaper in his hand into the seat next to him. “The DBS financing is really a mess, isn’t it?”

“Yep,” Langley said.

“What if I told you I decided to clean it up? Myself?”

Langley laughed.

“I’m serious, Lang,” Jackson said. He paused and then added, “Cordie’s petitioning the board to audit us.”

Langley’s stomach quietly dropped a couple thousand feet. Right now there was no way DBS could pass a corporate audit, no matter how many sets of books he had.

“So what I’ve decided to do,” Jackson said, “is to ask Cordelia to postpone the audit until July, and then when it comes time, I’ll come clean with the board. About everything. I’ve decided to tell them the truth about what I’ve done and why—and I’m going to leave you out of it.”

“You?” Langley finally said. “The truth? To the board?”

“Yeah, why not?” Jackson said, sitting back. “They can either let their money ride and make money down the road, or they can take an immediate fifty-million-dollar loss.” He smiled. “Which do you think they’ll choose?”

He had a point. Little El and the twins would never write off that kind of money. No, Jack was right, they would give him some time to turn things around and get them a return on their money. “But what about Beau?” Langley said. “You got into this mess to protect him.”

“Beau and I have a whole other agenda with the board. It’s got nothing to do with you and I’d just as soon you stayed out of it.”

“Fine with me,” Langley said, meaning it, though doubting this would be the case. “And what about Old Hardhead? What are they going to do when they find out—”

“They can buy him out if they want,” Jackson said. “But I have a feeling they won’t. Actually, they might vote to sell him the whole miniseries.

Well that’s one way of getting rid of Gordon Strenn,
Langley thought
. Only you don’t know that he’s already got Alexandra, that they’re engaged.

“But the one thing I do worry about, Lang, is that we’ve got to make the numbers on DBS News look like something. I don’t want the board to get any bright ideas about shutting it down.”

“I hate to be a party pooper,” Langley said, “but after starting-up costs, doubling the budget and cost overruns, we’ll be lucky to see the black in five or six years as it is. And that’s assuming it gets off the ground.”

Jackson suddenly threw himself forward, holding his face in his hands, murmuring, “I know, I know.” After a long minute he sighed, throwing his hands down. “I’m as sick of this as you are, you know. I’m tired of playing funny money between companies.”

This was something new. Jack usually didn’t care about anything except getting his own way.

“So here’s my idea,” Jackson continued. “Let’s make Mrs. Cochran Jessica’s executive producer as well as Alexandra’s and consolidate production of both programs under her. Give her some more money and a title like ‘President of News and Information’ or something.”

Langley instantly knew it was a good idea. Unlike the news, “The Jessica Wright Show” had virtually no overhead. Her staff was small, the only on-air talent salaries she had were her own, the show was very simple to produce, and yet Jessica was the easiest show to sell to sponsors. Her show was virtually a cash cow and, by merging her production budget with DBS News, she would do nothing but eat debt for them.

“But Alexandra will never go for it,” Langley said. “She’ll never share Cassy.”

“You leave Alexandra to me,” Jackson said.

Langley rolled his eyes.

“As for Mrs. Cochran,” Jackson said, “if you trust her so much, why don’t you tell her the truth and blame it all on me? If you tell her the fate of DBS News rests on her shoulders, she’ll take over Jessica’s show so fast it’ll make your head spin. Besides, we haven’t given her enough to do. I told you, she’s over managing.”

Langley threw his hands up in the air. “Oh, right, Jack, we haven’t given Cassy enough to do. We’re only making her build half the stupid network by herself. She’s still bringing in more affiliates than Deeter is, you know.”

“I know,” Jackson said.

“And what about Alexandra’s contract? We can’t do any of this until—”

“I told you,” Jackson said, “leave Alexandra to me. I’ll handle it.”

“I love how you say that, Langley said. “I wish you could have heard her last—”

“Alexandra won’t be your problem for much longer,” Jackson said.

“What?” Langley said.

“Five months, tops,” Jackson said. “Just until I get things straightened out with the board.”

“Why?” Langley said. “What happens to her then?”

“What happens to you, you mean,” Jackson said, smiling. “I’m going to give you Darenbrook Electronics back. I’ve been thinking about it, and I don’t think it’s fair to stick you with DBS, not with everything you’ve done for me already and not”—he paused, sighing slightly—”on top of everything with Belinda.”

Langley was stunned. To run Darenbrook Electronics again was exactly what he wanted, but Jackson had said he couldn’t have it until he had the television network running smoothly and profitably, not for years down the road. “But what about DBS?” Langley asked him. “Who’ll run it?”

“Well, who do you think?” Jackson said.

“You?”

“What? Lang, I swear, you are losin’ it fast, boy,” Jackson said. “Mrs. Cochran will run it. End of the summer we’ll make her president of DBS and let her over manage things to her heart’s content. Heck, if we’re makin’ her build the network, we might as well give it to her, don’t you think?”

Langley nodded, murmuring that it sounded like a good plan. But to himself he wondered why, after resenting being stuck with DBS for all these months, he suddenly felt upset at the prospect of having to leave it.

15
Alexandra and the Marilyn Monroe
of TV News

At seven-thirty on Friday morning, dressed in navy-blue sweats and white running shoes, Alexandra said good morning to the doorman and walked out of The Roehampton onto Central Park West. Crossing over to the park at 85th Street, she pulled her hair back into a pony tail, secured it with a coated rubber band and, when she reached the footpath leading in, lowered her arms to break into a slow jog.

It was an overcast spring morning, neither warm nor cold, and the trees and shrubs over the rises and dales were still brown-black from winter, green just beginning to shoot. The grass was still trampled-looking, brownish, with occasional bursts of new green, and brown leaves from the fall had settled in the thickets—the thickets where the birds had also settled this morning, chirping.

Alexandra jogged along the path for a while, crossed West Drive, and veered off through the trees, over a hilltop, and then went down, coming through a baseball field into the north end of the Great Lawn. She turned south and headed straight down the Lawn: joggers and bicyclers were out around the ring; dogs were being run and walked everywhere; young men were kicking a soccer ball around; a man and a boy were trying to get a kite in the air; a golden retriever was playing Frisbee-catch with its mistress; and three guys—two with Villanova T-shirts and one with Boston College—were throwing football passes.

Alexandra paused at one point, running in place, slowly turning, viewing the acres and acres of Lawn surrounding her and the acres and acres of trees that surrounded the Lawn and the acres and acres of residential architecture that surrounded the trees and the acres and acres of teaming cosmopolitan city that surrounded the residential architecture and too, finally, the endless acres of sky that surrounded them all. Alexandra smiled at all of it. And then, facing south again, she continued down the Lawn, picking up her pace.

She headed southwest, passing the Delacorte Theater, jogging around Belvedere Lake, slowing a little past the Castle and then heading south again, crossing Transverse Road, cutting through some trees and catching the path down the west side of the lake. She passed Strawberry Fields, crossed the 72nd Street road and picked up her pace again across the bowling greens and Sheep Meadow. She crossed West Drive, ran down along the south side of Tavern on the Green and exited the park at 66th Street and Central Park West.

Her jogging turned more playful from here on in, a kind of romp-dodge-skip affair as she zigzagged through people and neatly traversed standstill cars, making her way west on 66th Street, crossing Central Park West and passing ABC News. A stage door swung open and out popped the head of a security guard. “Hi ya, Alexandra,” he said, “how’s it going over there?”

“Great, thanks,” she said, stopping to jog in place, wiping her forehead with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “So what’s the word?”

“Three,” he said, grinning, “Jennings, Walters, Koppel. Glad you won’t be going up against any of them.”

Alexandra laughed. “Me too. Take care.”

She cut down Broadway for a block, heading west on 65th, passed by Lincoln Center, crossed Amsterdam, and crossed the four lanes of West End Avenue to reach the guardhouse outside the parking lot of the ABC radio studios. “Hi, John,” she called, jogging in place.

“Hey Alexandra,” the guard said, “how ya doing, girl?”

“Terrific,” she said. “So tell me, what’s the word around here?”

“Talk radio, baby,” John said. “Right-wing city. Things are gettin’ so hot over here, they’re thinking about moving us out of the neighborhood.” He rolled his eyes and she laughed, jogging on.

Alexandra continued north a block and a half and turned into the West End gate. “Good morning,” the guard in the guardhouse said. “Good morning, George,” she said, stopping to jog in place again. “So what’s the word?” He winked. “Things are going so well, they say they might expand the DBS News staff by a third,” he said. Alexandra laughed, eyes sparkling, and wiped some perspiration off her forehead with the back of her hand. “Gosh,” she said, “things sound so good I think I might just want to work here.” “That’s what the guy from the
Post
said yesterday when I told him that,” George said.

She jogged up the driveway and then down the ramp to the carport, saying good morning to everyone she passed, slowed to a walk to enter the building—good morning, good morning, good morning—and went straight to her dressing room. Closing the door, she did a number of stretching exercises, her breath gradually slowing. She stripped off her damp clothing, took a shower and washed her hair, blew it dry, covered herself with moisturizer, put on some deodorant, selected a skirt and blouse from the wardrobe, got dressed-stockings, bracelets, earrings—and then sat down in front of the mirror circled in lights to put on a little makeup.

Humming, she practically skipped down the hall to the newsroom—good morning, good morning, good morning—took twenty minutes to find out what was doing, and then went up to the second floor of Darenbrook III. Good morning, good morning, good morning; she stopped outside Cassy’s office to pour herself a cup of coffee, pulled a yogurt and a bag of mixed nuts and raisins out of the refrigerator, and took them into her office with her.

She turned on the lights, walked over to the couch and sat down, picking up the remote control from the coffee table and turning on the TV in the wall. She pushed a series of buttons, activating the VCR decks as well, and there was a series of whirls and clicks as they rewound their cassettes.

Click. Click. Click. A tape locked in and Alexandra turned up the sound as a station promo ended and a close-up of a dazzling young anchorwoman appeared. “In the news this morning, a threatened air strike in the Persian Gulf; President Reagan cuts his vacation short—”

“Morning, Alexandra,” Kate said, poking her head inside the door.

“Good morning,” she said, saluting her with her spoon.

“I got the—oh, brother,” Kate said, disappearing when the phone starting ringing, “who the heck is calling this early?”

Alexandra looked back at the TV. “…takeovers on Wall Street,” the woman was saying. “I’m Deborah Norville and this is ‘NBC News at Sunrise.’ “The screen filled with a colorful computer art graphic of the Statue of Liberty as the John Williams score that was the NBC News theme came on. Alexandra settled back against the couch, eating her yogurt, fast-forwarding the tape in places and then freeze-framing the tape when Kate came back in. “Are we set with the food for the crew tonight?”

“All set,” Kate said, looking at the clipboard in her hand, making some kind of notation. “Five-thirty in Studio B.”

“And you cleared it with Cassy’s office?”

“Yep,” Kate said, still writing. “Beer, wine, Perrier and Coke, okay?”

“Fine,” Alexandra said. “And did Kelly drop off a manual for me? For the—”

“I’ve got it outside.”

“And what about the interview schedule from Derek?”

“We got it yesterday,” Kate said. “It’s all written in on your schedule.”

“When’s the first one, do you remember?”

“Um, Tuesday, I think.
USA Today
.”

“Did we find an office for Mr. Graham?”

“I think so. On the first floor. I asked Denny Ladler since there’s no one else to ask and he said fine so I guess it is.”

“He’s coming in today, isn’t he?”

“I think so. I left a message for him, but I haven’t heard back. Oh,” Kate said, flipping through the pages of her clipboard, “before I forget, Will says he thinks your idea of a tour is brilliant.”

Alexandra laughed. “Is that a quote?”

“Yep. He’s at WCO in Chicago today and says he’s going to start accumulating evidence to support your case immediately.”

“Great.”

Kate looked up. “What idea of a tour is this?”

“Only a half-formed one at the moment,” Alexandra said. “Did you get those slides from Phil?”

“Yep. I gave them to Kyle.”

“And how about the Copeland tracks from—”

“They’re downstairs.”

“And did you get the—” Alexandra stopped herself and smiled, shaking her head. She leaned forward to put the empty yogurt container on the coffee table and sat back again. “Kate?”

She looked up from whatever she was writing.

“Sit down,” Alexandra said gently.

“What?”

“Sit down,” Alexandra repeated, while she herself stood up. She gestured to a chair. “Please, sit down,” she said, walking out of the office.

Kate just stood there, looking around, appearing a little confused.

Alexandra came back with a mug in her hand. “Come on, sit,” she said, pushing Kate down into the chair and handing her the cup. “I’d at least like to know that I gave you a cup of coffee and asked you how you were before I worked you to death.”

Kate stared at her as Alexandra walked back over to the couch and sat down again.

“So how are you?” Alexandra asked her.

Kate looked rather startled. “Um, I’m fine,” she said, resting the mug on the clipboard.

Alexandra looked at her, expression hopeful. When Kate didn’t say anything more, she smiled, gently, and said, “Would you ever tell me if you weren’t?”

Kate lowered her eyes, smiling, shy. “Yes, I think so.”

Alexandra nodded, smiling still. “Good.” She looked at her watch. “Why don’t you spend the next twenty minutes with me, drinking your coffee and seeing how people opened this morning?” Without waiting for an answer she picked up the remote control and resumed the tape.

After a minute or two, while Alexandra was fast-forwarding through commercials, Kate said, “Isn’t this the newscast Connie Chung launched?”

“Uh-huh,” Alexandra said, switching the remote control to her left hand and eating nuts with her right, eyes on the screen.

“Wasn’t it originally offered to Jessica Savitch?” Kate said.

“Uh-huh,” Alexandra said, eyes on the screen.

After a moment, “What do you think of her?”

Alexandra glanced over. “Of Savitch?”

“Of Connie Chung.”

“I think she’s fabulous,” Alexandra said, swallowing and fiddling with the remote control. “Now let’s see how CBS led off this morning,” she said, pushing a series of buttons—the screen flickered—and then the opening graphic of “CBS Morning News” came on, followed by an establishing shot of Faith Daniels and Charles Osgood on the set.

“Alexandra?”

“Yes?” Her eyes were on the screen.

“What did you think of Jessica Savitch?”

Eyes still on the screen. “I take it you’ve been reading the galleys they sent me of that book.”

“Yes.”

Alexandra freeze-framed the tape and turned to look at Kate. “What did you think?”

“I think I’m shocked,” Kate said.

“About what?” Alexandra said.

Kate looked around the room and then shrugged. “Everything.” When Alexandra didn’t say anything, Kate said, “Well, weren’t you shocked?”

Alexandra reached for her cup of coffee, sat back against the couch and took a sip. Lowering the cup to her lap, “Shocked about the extent of her addictions and for how many years they had been going on? Yes. About her mental and physical deterioration being so horrible that people who didn’t even work with her were planning an intervention because management was just sitting back, trying to figure out the easiest way to demote her? Yes, I was shocked then and I’m shocked now.” She paused, finishing her coffee, and lowered the cup again. “As for her behavior, no, I’m not shocked at all—not by any of it. It’s pretty much textbook behavior for anyone with that kind of chemical history.”

“They’re calling her the Marilyn Monroe of TV news,” Kate said.

“Oh, right,” Alexandra said, irritated, leaning forward to bang her coffee cup down on the coffee table, “and Anna Karenina’s the Marilyn Monroe of Victorian literature. Honestly.” She sat back against the couch, recrossing her legs.

“Kate, please,” she added a moment later, “can’t at least you and I focus on what’s
right
with the women in TV news for a change? I mean, let’s just deviate wildly from the norm and at least pretend that what’s
really
important is that Connie Chung is making a major contribution at NBC in the healthiest way imaginable—that now Deborah Norville is coming up to bat in her own extremely healthy way, that Jane Pauley is still and always completely wonderful and that Andrea Mitchell is as brilliant as ever and that Maria Shriver is finding her way and that maybe NBC and every network and every
one
has learned a lot from Jessica Savitch. God!” she added with a violent shake of her head. “The Marilyn Monroe of TV news. I can’t even talk about it,” she said, pushing the remote control. “We’re watching the news, Kate.”

And they did—for about fifteen seconds, before Alexandra pointed to the screen and said, “Look, Kate. Look at CBS, look at Faith Daniels up there—how long do you think it will take people to get past the Marilyn Monroe of TV news to see all that’s really right-Faith, Leslie Stahl, Diane Sawyer, Susan Spencer? The system stinks and everybody knows it, but you have to look at the individuals and see what each woman is doing, because each is different and is going about it a little differently—and every accomplishment every woman makes in this industry changes the system a little for the better.” She stopped suddenly and cocked her head. “How old are you? Twenty—?”