Alexandra Waring (65 page)

Cassy looked at her for a long moment. “You and I have to talk.” She paused. “There’s something I have to tell you before we talk any further.” She dropped her eyes to the table. “Something I have to discuss with you.”

Alexandra put her fork down and patted her mouth with her napkin. “Go ahead,” she said quietly.

“It may be that it will be
…
” Cassy began, stopping and frowning at how it sounded.

“It may be that it will be,” Alexandra said, smiling, encouraging her to continue.

Cassy sighed and plunged ahead. “That it would be best if I leave DBS. Maybe at the end of the year.”

Alexandra looked at her.

Cassy glanced down at the table. “I
…
” She looked up. “Just tell me how that would affect you. My not working with you anymore. You brought me to DBS, Alexandra—to look after your interests. And I have to know what it would do to you if I left.”

Alexandra thought a moment, looking out the window. “Well,” she said, turning back to Cassy, “it’s not as if you and I will be working very closely anymore anyway—not with you being network president.” She paused, looking at her. “But it’s not a matter of me needing you anymore—it’s a matter of everyone and everything at DBS needing you. And so my feeling is, whatever it is that makes you think you want to leave”—she swallowed—”I think is something that could somehow be worked out.”

Cassy nodded, biting her lip and looking out the window.

Alexandra was watching her. “I can’t believe you could work anywhere else. I can’t believe you’d give up DBS.”

Cassy shrugged, still looking out the window. “Dexter Halloway wants me to come back. He wants me to buy some more stations for Rogers, Dale—build a chain.” She looked at Alexandra. “While prices are down.”

When Alexandra didn’t say anything, Cassy looked down at her water glass, pushing it around, and continued, “With so many takeovers of the consumer goods companies, as you know, the first thing to get slashed is their ad budgets. In ‘86, stations were going for fifteen times their cash flow. Now,” she shrugged, “some are lucky if they can get ten. And it’s going to be worse next year—and it’ll be a good time to buy.”

Alexandra looked at her for a moment and then said, “Forget it!” making Cassy jump. “Just forget it, Cassy,” she said, batting the idea out of the air with her hand. “No way. Whatever it is that you’re afraid of—don’t be. You’re staying at DBS and that’s it. We’ll work it out.”

“But it’s not that simple,” Cassy told her. “Because it’s for personal reasons. And I think you might feel entirely different when I tell you what they are.”

Alexandra looked at her, face turning a little red.

Cassy dropped her eyes. “And everything’s at sixes and sevens right now. It’s not the best time to be trying to make decisions. Not for any of us.”

Alexandra was smiling slightly now. After a moment she said, gently, “Maybe you should just tell me what your personal reasons are, Cassy.”

Cassy looked out the window. “I didn’t realize how difficult this would be.”

“It’s just me, Cassy,” Alexandra said softly. “You can tell me anything. We can work out anything. I know we can. But you have to tell me first.” She paused. “I need for you to tell me.”

Cassy hesitated and then took a sip of water. Finally she looked back at Alexandra. “I’ve fallen in love with Jackson.”

Alexandra’s expression did not change.

“I know,” Cassy said, dropping her eyes. “I’m not the type to be sleeping around the office, but…” She smiled, shaking her head to herself. “I don’t know.” She looked up. “It all started the night of the boat party.”

The color was draining from Alexandra’s face.

“Actually, it started before,” Cassy said, picking up her fork and playing with it on her plate. “And then we—we slept together.” She dropped her fork, her face blushing scarlet, her eyes down on her plate. “I know it seems ridiculous at my age—to carry on the way I have been—with Michael scarcely out of the house—but…” She swallowed, timidly looking up at Alexandra. “I don’t know. I think he really might be in love with me too.”

“Of course he is,” Alexandra said, voice faint.

“I’m sorry, what?” Cassy said, leaning forward, anxious.

Alexandra cleared her throat. “I said, he is. I’m sure he’s very much in love with you. He’d be a fool not to be. So don’t worry about that, Cassy.” She reached over the table to touch Cassy’s hand. “I’m very happy for you,” she said. “You so badly deserve someone wonderful—a very wonderful man. And you’ve found him.” Her voice faltered and she cleared her throat again. “There are few people I love more, respect more, than Jackson. He’s right for you.” She looked down, adding, “Perfect for you.”

Cassy’s eyes were full of tears. “Oh, thank you for saying that,” she said, taking her hand in both of hers. “Sweetheart, thank you. I’ve been so scared about what you would think—about whether I’m some sort of fool in a middle-age crisis.”

Alexandra withdrew her hand, shaking her head. “You’re no fool,” she said. “And Jackson’s certainly no fool.”

They left the restaurant soon after that, Alexandra pleading a headache and a need to rest before going to the studio. A cab was hailed for and Cassy dropped Alexandra off at the Ritz. Alexandra hugged her, assured her one more time that Jackson was the right person and how Cassy should not worry about things, how it would all work out, and then she went into the hotel, picked up messages and her key, and went up to her suite.

She dropped her things on the table in the living room and went into the bedroom, turning on a light. Then she turned the light off and just stood there awhile, in the doorway, the light from the living room coming in from behind her. She slipped off her shoes. She walked over to stand by the dresser and look out the window. Then she turned around, walked toward the bed, but then stopped a few feet away, simply standing there, looking at it. And then, very slowly, she brought her hands up to cover her face. There was a high-pitched sound from inside her throat and then she took a step forward, leaning over, blindly reaching for the bed. She found the edge of it and sank to her knees beside it, putting her arm on it and burying her face in her arm.

“Oh, God,” Alexandra whispered, crying, “oh, God—help me, please. I cannot bear this—I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”

The studios of the British International News Service—a subsidiary of Hargrave World Communications, Ltd.—were located right there in the West End of London on the corner of Great Titchfield and Riding House streets. The ITN studios (Independent Television News) were right around the corner on Wells Street, and ABC (the American Broadcasting Company)—which had a “friendly news liaison” with ITN—had offices just up on Carburton Street. CNN (the Cable News Network), who had a “cable—friendly news liaison” with ITN, had an outpost in the neighborhood too, just a bit east on Newman Street.

Alexandra arrived at the BINS studio promptly at eleven. Will was there with a crew waiting for her. Cassy arrived shortly thereafter and went off with the production executive while Alexandra and the crew ran studio tests with West End.

After the tests were finished, Alexandra went into the newsroom, where she talked on the phone first with Kyle and then with Dan, the news editor, and then with Dick Gross, the director. Then she sat down at a computer terminal, which one of the BINS news assistants called in to a tie line with the West End computer, and within moments she was scrolling through the working newscast script. She got Kyle on the phone and he, on the computer too at his end, watched as she flagged and queried some places in the copy. In about forty minutes they were through and then Alexandra wrote her opening, including the headlines of the day, a midway intro, and a closing, and sent it off to West End. Dan’s and Kyle’s approval flashed back minutes later, and then seconds later the news assistant was catching the final script as it came out of the printer.

It was 1:15
AM
. Alexandra went into makeup where a nice man named Luddy went to work on her. She emerged at one thirty-four, was handed her script by Will as she came into the studio and took her seat behind the desk on the BINS set. Her mike was clipped on, her earpiece connected. They had mini-rehearsal with West End. Alexandra told the TelePrompTer operator he was good.

At 9:00:15, after the opening, Alexandra appeared on television across America with the greeting, “Hello and good evening from London, England, where I am currently on special assignment…” She proceeded to offer the day’s headlines and then turned the newscast over to Chester Hanacker and John Knox Norwood at West End as coanchors. (Her being in London prompted an ad-lib remark or two from some of her colleagues, i.e., “The dollar fell against the pound today,” Paul Levitz said in the finance segment, “and we’ve been assured that Alexandra had nothing to do with it.”) Alexandra appeared briefly to do a lead into the second half hour, and then at the end of the newscast Chester led back to her in London for the close.

At DBS, some said they got goose bumps watching the close, seeing Alexandra sitting so very far away—blue eyes blazing, smile so familiar—saying, “From the West End of London to the West End of New York, to the western end of the world in Hawaii—this has been the DBS television news network, wishing you a very good night and an even better tomorrow.”

They called it a wrap, congratulated each other and struck the set. Cassy took a cab to her hotel and Alexandra and Will shared one back to the Ritz. Alexandra gave him a kiss on the cheek good night in the hall and went into her suite. She sat down in the living room, pulled out her address book and placed a long-distance call to New York. It was 3:46
AM
, 10:46
PM
in New York.

“Hello, John? It’s Alexandra calling. I’m sorry to call so late, but I think you’ll understand why I thought it worth while to risk waking you.” She smiled, nodding. “Thank you. Anyway, John, I’d like you to call Lord Hargrave tomorrow. He’s made me a separate offer—” She nodded. “Separate from DBS. To launch his global newscast. From London. He’ll attach an offer to Gordon as well.” She listened. “Right. I just want you to listen to what he has to say and then call me back and tell me what you think.”

She talked with him for another fifteen minutes, hung up the phone, and then sat there for a moment, looking at it. Then she sighed—running a hand through her hair—and got up and walked into the bedroom.

And then she cried again.

50
Langley Has It Out with Belinda

It was over. Whatever it was that had been holding him back from “telling” on Belinda—shame, guilt, protectiveness—it was gone now. It was over.

At least that’s what Langley hoped as he watched Alexandra open “DBS News America Tonight” from London. He was sitting in the den of his apartment with Cordelia, who was doing some kind of needlepoint, and with Big El, who was eating a dish of vanilla ice cream. (Big El, five days away from Hilleanderville and his sneak drinking with Lucille, was spending less and less time in his wheelchair. His favorite activity had come to be walking to the kitchen after dinner to bother pretty little Carmen for things to eat, and to say things like, “I’m sure this ice cream could not be sweeter than you, Miss Carmen.”)

The knowledge that it was time for him do something about Belinda’s pill taking made Langley’s chest feel a little tight. He was scared. Christ, he had been scared for years already, hadn’t he? Only then he had thought it was hopeless. He had thought Belinda was just going crazy and there was nothing he could do about it.

Strange how much scarier it was to think that there might be something that could be done.

Strange.

Strange.

But then, it was very strange to find that all of Belinda’s drugs were coming from doctors, extremely expensive doctors who were supposed to be the best in their fields, and that, of the four doctors he had talked to, all of them were violently appalled at the suggestion that they might have prescribed something for Mrs. Peterson that she didn’t need. When Langley explained that Belinda apparently had other prescriptions from other doctors, that what this doctor was prescribing for her was also being prescribed for her by another, it was explained to him that it was not that doctor’s business what another doctor did, any more than it was his job to do anything more than treat Mrs. Peterson for the ailment for which she had come to see him. Three of the doctors were treating Belinda for anxiety, stress and sleeplessness, and one was treating her for an aching back.

They weren’t being unkind, Langley realized. Behind their indignation he imagined they were scared too. The implication of maintaining a drug habit for Belinda Darenbrook Peterson was scandalous, but the idea of confronting Belinda Darenbrook Peterson with the possibility that she might have a drug problem was impossible. If she took it the wrong way, a woman like Belinda Darenbrook Peterson could damage their practices severely with a single word to her friends. The problem, if she were indeed abusing prescriptions, the doctors said, lay with her. And they strongly recommended psychiatric help.

Yeah, right.

The real problem, in terms of the doctors, Langley knew, was with Dr. Balakudian. Belinda’s dependence on him over the years was not just emotional but clearly and without question tied to drugs too. Balakudian’s response to Langley’s visit, telling Balakudian what he had learned thus far, pleading with him to help, was to assure Langley that he would. That he was shocked and troubled to hear that Belinda was acquiring tranquilizers from other doctors, in addition to those he was prescribing for her himself—for anxiety, stress, depression and sleeplessness—and that he would take care of things, not to worry. But

Langley was also to understand that Balakudian was the only person whom Belinda truly trusted, and he had to be careful not to panic her into fleeing his care.

Langley and Belinda had a hell of a fight after she talked to Balakudian, and she insisted (and actually made a very convincing argument) that any pills she took were absolutely necessary. But as she continued to talk, Langley realized that Balakudian had not told her everything that he had told Balakudian—that Belinda thought Langley had only gone to see Balakudian about the drugs
he
was prescribing for her, and that she didn’t even know Langley knew there were other doctors and other prescriptions.

In any case, what Belinda did know made her angry enough to tell Langley he could go to hell and that, if he had a problem about her, then fine, he should divorce her, “But everybody knows you won’t,” she said, “because everybody knows you married Darenbrook Communications till death do you part and, as long as you want it, you have to be married to me!” And then she had fled to Greenwich, not to return until the family reunion, at which time she seemed to be fine—which gave Langley this weird sensation that he might have made the whole thing up in his head. Could it be that Belinda was right, that it was the pills that prevented her from going crazy? But if that were true, why did she have so many secret prescriptions and why were there stashes of pills all over their bedroom and her dressing room?

In the meantime, between Belinda’s trip to Greenwich and her return for the reunion, Langley had discovered that Dr. Balakudian had no intention of returning his phone calls or of seeing him. As some woman said who finally did return his call, “Dr. Balakudian is Mrs. Peterson’s doctor and must honor the trust between doctor and patient.”

Son of a bitch!
was all Langley could think, feeling betrayed and abandoned. Balakudian with his degrees and smoothie European accent and two hundred dollars an hour fees—how the hell had Langley let Belinda fall in so deep with this guy? Six years this had been going on! And Langley knew—he
knew
—that Belinda’s problems, periodically “going off,” had started right around the time she had started seeing Balakudian, when she had started staying in the New York apartment more and more, and returning to Richmond less and less, after Barbara died.

Sunday night, after the board fired Jackson and voted Langley in as chairman, Belinda had fled to Greenwich and Langley had let her go. He asked Cordelia and Big El to stay on for a few days, to help sort things out in the wake of Jackson’s dismissal, but the truth was, he wanted Cordelia to stay because he wanted to tell Cordelia everything and ask her what she thought he should do. Or maybe he was hoping Cordelia would take matters into her own hands. He didn’t know. It wasn’t as if he didn’t want to do something himself, it was that there wasn’t anything definable and clear about what it was he was supposed to do. If there were, he would do it. But there wasn’t, and there was this mess at Darenbrook Communications, and if Belinda refused to even acknowledge that she had a problem, what was he supposed to do? He had talked to her doctors, discussed the problem with her psychiatrist, talked to Belinda about it—what more could he do when his wife had sixty—three million dollars and was quite free to go anywhere she wanted and go to as many doctors as she wanted and, hell, could buy a whole goddam drug company if she wanted?

And then Belinda had come swaggering in tonight while they were eating dinner, parading around the dining—room table, growling at Langley that she could have died out there in Greenwich and he wouldn’t have cared—that he cared more about brown-nosing Cordie and her father because he was the big shot of the whole shooting match now, wasn’t he? Then she had disappeared into their bedroom, slamming and locking the door.

And so Langley was sitting in the den watching the news with Cordelia and Big El, pulling his thoughts together in preparation for telling Cordelia what was going on.

Gary Plains, the weatherman, was now on the television screen, saying, “Well, folks, we know Alexandra will be home in America as soon as she can be—particularly since the biggest rain clouds in the western hemisphere are moving toward London as we speak.”

“This guy’s sort of a jerk, don’t you think?” Big El said to Cordelia. “Reminds me of ol’ Murky Dirk Bablachek, who used to run the Triple H Five and Dime—always goin’ on and on about the weather.”

“I believe that’s his job, Daddy,” Cordelia said, looking up and winking at Langley.

Big El grunted. In a moment he turned to Langley. “I don’t want us spendin’ an arm and a leg on this,” he said.

“No, we won’t,” Langley assured him. “Cassy’s pretty sure Alexandra’s demands will be reasonable.”

“I like Cassy,” Cordelia said. After a moment she added, “And Alexandra still doesn’t seem the type to me who would go in for blackmail.” She broke a piece of thread with her teeth and then sighed, shaking her head. “Jackie just uses anybody to get his way. I suppose we should count ourselves lucky that Alexandra has any say in it all. Jackie’d just pull the whole place apart in a tantrum otherwise.”

“I don’t think so,” Langley said.

Cordelia sighed again. “And these stories in the press are terrible. Make us all sound like lunatics.” She looked up. “Did you see that piece in
USA Today
this morning?”

“Yeah,” Langley said.

Cordelia clucked her tongue, resuming her needlepoint. “You’d think we were the ones who tried to shoot the girl.”

“Good for ratings,” Big El said. “Isn’t that right, Lang?”

“Sad but true,” Langley said.

“Well,” Cordelia said, “I for one would like to get out of vaudeville and back into news.” She paused and then added, “Course, Jessica’s doing nicely and she’s not part of the news division. And she seems very grateful to be with Darenbrook Communications, Jackie or no Jackie.”

Langley started to say, “Well, she doesn’t have any choice,” but refrained from doing so.

“I don’t know why,” Cordelia said, holding her work closer to the light for a moment and then bringing it back into her lap, “but I like that girl. She can be positively blasphemous, but she has a good heart.” Pause. “She did tell me she had some Sunday school as a girl.”

“Whatcheeyall doin’, talkin’ about bizness?” Belinda said, waltzing into the den in a very revealing negligee. She twirled, drawing a piece of the negligee nearly under Cordelia’s nose with her hand. “Still trying to seduce my husband with power and prestige, Cordelia?”

Cordelia frowned at what her sister was wearing. “Go put on a robe, Belinda,” she said, returning her attention to her needlepoint.

“But Langley likes it,” Belinda said, moving toward him. “Don’t you, Langley?”

“You heard your sister,” Big El said, eyes on the TV. “Put on a robe or go to bed.”

Langley was feeling the icy fear creeping down his neck that he always felt when he sensed Belinda was about to go off. It didn’t matter that he didn’t think she was crazy anymore. It didn’t matter if he thought it was pills. It still made him feel sick and scared inside, panicked.

“What do you say, Langley?” Belinda asked him, standing in front of him, bringing her hands up to hold her breasts. Her eyes looked terrible, glassy. And there was this unpleasant sound in her mouth as she spoke, as if she were terribly thirsty and her tongue was sticking to the roof of her mouth. Belinda smiled a ghastly smile and dropped her breasts, turning to her sister. “Langley has a big dick, you know,” she said.

“Belinda!” Cordelia gasped.

Big El lurched around in his chair. “I don’t care if you are crazier than a bedbug, Belinda Cecile, I’m going to wash your mouth out with soap.”

Belinda only laughed, weaving out into the hall. Langley jumped up to follow her, just in time to see her back into a table, knocking over a vase of silk flowers. He caught the vase before it rolled off. “Come on, Belinda,” he said, grabbing her arm and pulling her down the hall. She was laughing; she fell down. He bent over to pick her up, she grabbed at his crotch; he slapped her hand away and pulled her up; she tried to unzip his pants.

“You know you want me,” she said, throwing herself against him.

“Belinda,
stop it
,” he said, pushing her away, and yet holding her enough to guide her down the hall.

Cordelia and Big El looked at each other in the den when they heard Belinda start to scream. Cordelia got up and went down the hall—and was soon back. “I’m going to call Jackie Andy,” she said, dialing the phone with a shaky hand.

“What’s happening?” Big El said.

“I don’t know, Daddy,” Cordelia said, bringing the phone to her ear and holding herself with the other. “Langley’s saying something about pills.” She closed her eyes. “I just don’t know, Daddy.” Her eyes opened. “Mr. Jackson Darenbrook’s suite, please.”

In their bedroom, Langley was sitting on the side of the bed, holding Belinda’s wrists, making her sit up against the pillows. Belinda was screaming obscenities at him and he was yelling back at her that it was over, this couldn’t go on, they were going to do something about the pills or the marriage was over—did she hear him? Did she hear him?

“I hate you!” she screamed, her head falling forward then as she started to sob.

By the time Jackson arrived Cordelia was crying and Langley was crying and Belinda was crying and nobody was making any sense. They were in the bedroom, and when Belinda tried to get up to go to the bathroom Langley practically got hysterical, yelling that they couldn’t let her go in there by herself because she would take more pills. “We can’t leave her alone—she’ll do it!” he said as Belinda got one of her arms free and was hitting him, trying to get away.

And then Jackson yelled as loud as he possibly could, “Shut up! Everybody shut up!”

Silence.

They were all looking at him, stunned, with their tear-stained faces: Cordelia on the bed, Belinda and Langley at the door to the bathroom, and now Big El in the doorway of the hall.