Ambition (34 page)

She lay under the thick covers in the warm flat, frozen from head to toe. She felt as if she were lying in her own grave. This, for him, was the final twisted kick: to use her as gun and target
both, to play Russian roulette with the girl he loved – and she knew now that he really did – which made it much more exciting, a game played for much higher stakes than if she had been
some faceless pro.

She couldn’t believe it. She couldn’t do it. But to have come all this way . . . done all those things . . . to have lost David . . . dear God, why had she ever trusted this man? He
was
evil; at last she understood the meaning of the word.

But too late.

A single, solitary tear ran down her face.

Tobias Pope stopped laughing. He leaned towards her with the rapture of a scientist discovering DNA and said, ‘My God.’ His voice was the voice of a man in the heat of the act of
worship as he said, ‘My God. You’re
crying
, Susan. You’re really
crying
.’

She began to bawl, loudly and unbeautifully. He watched her, mesmerized. Through the fluid fog she saw him fumble with the belt of his dressing-gown and pull at his pyjamas. And then she felt
him climb on to the bed.

‘I’ve broken you.
I’ve broken you
!’ he cried in a voice full of reverence, regret and agonizing excitement. ‘I’VE BROKEN YOU!’

She felt how hard he was; how hard, big and rich he was. He was all American, all man and all men, and that made her suddenly and maddeningly aware of how soft she was – how soft, European
and powerless. It wasn’t fair, and it stirred something inside her; some swampy instinct of aggression and survival.

His face was already red with excitement, and as he fumbled at her opening she said, ‘Your money. The tax. They’re going to take the tax.
They’re going to take your
money
.’

He stared at her, stopping. Then he clutched her by the shoulders and yelled into her face, as though she were an old trusted family physician who had just told him he had an incurable disease
and six months to live, ‘IS THIS TRUE, GODDAMNIT?’

‘Yes!’ she screamed.

With that the will left him. And he gasped, stiffened and was still.

She pushed him off, got out of bed and looked at herself in the mirror. And she said, ‘My name is Susan Street, and I am the youngest-ever female newspaper editor in the world.’

The man on the bed jerked one more time, as if in agreement.

And then, for good measure, he jerked again. Because the late Tobias X. Pope had always done everything to excess.

The police came.

In the morning, when she woke up, she realized that she actually probably wasn’t the youngest-ever female newspaper editor in the world at all.

Her mixed blessing of a benefactor was dead, his son and heir hated her and Pope Communications was due to go up in moral and fiscal flames the minute the IRS lighted the touch paper.

And her career with it. And as everyone knew, there were no second acts in modern careers.

From that moment she became immobilized by grief, lying in bed neither sleeping nor really awake. Occasionally she would go to the bathroom and pass or drink some water. When Matthew spoke to
her, she just looked at him.

He started to sleep on the sofa.

On the sixth day she want into the office at lunchtime to clear out her desk and give in her notice. But as she passed David Weiss’s office on the way to hers,
automatically looking in, she saw that his door was open and he was at his desk. She stood there, looking at his head bent over some papers.

He looked up and stood up. ‘Oh. It’s you. I was wondering when you’d have the nerve to show your face. You’d better come in.’

‘OK,’ she said dully. She looked lousy, in an old raincoat and with nothing on her face but twenty-seven years of thwarted ambition. She didn’t care. She went in and shut the
door behind her.

He stood looking out of the window, his back to her. ‘Susan.’

‘Yes, David.’ She sat down.

‘Susan, you may be aware that my father is dead.’

‘Yes, David. I know, David.’

‘Of a heart attack. Killed in the throes of what is fancifully known as love-making with a young English slut and alleged employee.’

‘It wasn’t the throes,’ she muttered.

‘What?’

‘I said IT WASN’T THE THROES. He never even got it in. And I mean
never
.’

‘So you keep saying. Anyway, while you and my father were so industriously engaged working yourselves to death, I’ve been busy doing humdrum things like saving Pope Communications
from the tender mercies of the Supreme Court. Just in case you were interested.’

‘WHAT?’

‘I did what I said I’d do. It’s business as usual. Well, almost as usual.’

‘But HOW?’

‘Not without a good deal of crawling, capital and courage, I can tell you. It hasn’t been cheap, in any sense. But we won’t be hearing from the fab four again.’

‘How did you do it?’

He came around and sat on the desk. ‘For a start, some time late next year will see the launch of Pope Communications’ mass-market Sunday paper, to be called – don’t
retch – the
Sunday Sauce.
Don’t make that face. And to be edited by Bryan O’Brien, who can run sex scandals and serial-murder centre-spreads to his heart’s content.
The
Sauce
will effectively look after the downmarket end of sales, leaving the
Best
free to pursue its original ideals. The wedding will also take place next year of Bryan
O’Brien and Lady Caroline Malaise; the happy couple will honeymoon at the Sunny von Bulow Clinic, where Lady C and her monkey will attempt a surgical separation.’

‘And Joe Moorsom?’

‘Ah. When not evangelizing on the healing power of nudity, the
Sunday Sauce
will be editorializing on the healing power of unity that only a Labour government can bring to this
great nation of yours. Mr Moorsom will also have his own weekly column, from which not one word may be expurgated.’

‘A left-wing
Sun
? But that’s blackmail!’

He shrugged. ‘A good majority of the British press has been in the pocket of the Conservatives ever since its inception. Just think of this as redressing the balance a little.’

‘And Ingrid?’

‘Here’s the bit you’re not going to like. It’s now almost certain that we’ll get our cable franchise. Miss Ingrid Irving will join Pope Communications as Controller
of PTV. A post she specifically asked for. Because, and I quote, “Everyone knows newspapers are finished now – it’s cable that counts.” ’ He shuddered. ‘I only
hope her judgement as Controller will prove a little more sound than her judgement
per se
.’

‘She’s getting the cable?’ Susan was horrified.

‘She’s not the only one. As a sweetener to the Honourable Mr Moorsom, PTV will be a little different from the wall-to-wall, round-the-clock, patriotic nude female mudwrestling my
father had in mind. It will have a heavy news and current affairs bias.’ He walked to a video machine in the corner of the room and switched it on. ‘With one exception. Miss
Irving’s first signing.’

The screen flickered for an instant before a silky fringe and sulky pout materialized. Then she was staring at the face of Rupert Grey; which was standing up very well, considering the number of
times it had been sat on.

‘His screen test,’ said David with a smile.

‘Good evening. Rupert Grey reporting. I am pleased to preview my forthcoming new show for PTV,
Repent with Rupee
.’

Susan turned to David with a look of disbelief; he nodded, grimly.

‘
Repent With Rupee
will combine the best of the talk show with the religious broadcasting currently so popular in the USA. Each week I will be talking to a celebrity who had the
good fortune to find God and renounce their wicked ways; sins as diverse as drug abuse, embezzlement and—’ Here a barely audible sigh escaped Rupert’s raspberry lips.
‘—oral sex. Nevertheless,
Repent With Rupee
will sidestep tacky voyeurism by virtue of its immaculate presentation, and will stand as a tasteful, poignant yet positive document
of our time. God bless you. Byeee!’ The screen went blank.

‘This is a joke, right?’ she pleaded.

David shook his head. ‘Joe Moorsom moves in mysterious ways, his pound of flesh to get.’

‘Is there any more?’

‘One more thing. Pope Communications will take immediate steps to withdraw from South Africa. All in all, we are about to embark on a major revamp and revitalization programme which will
make certain that we take a leading role in the new caring capitalism crusade of the Nineties.’

‘What’s black and white and Green all over,’ she muttered.

‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ she said sullenly. ‘Well. Aren’t you clever? You won’t be needing me now.’

‘That’s right.’ He went back to the window. ‘I suppose I don’t need to tell you how shamefully unprofessional your conduct has been ever since Charles Anstey died.
And before, if office gossip and the coroner’s office are to be believed.’

‘Yes, David.’ The crunch had come and she was feeling faint. She put her head between her knees in order to revive herself.

He turned around. ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing, Susan?’

‘Trying to revive myself.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were attempting autolingus. You realize that you are now widely and indelibly regarded as a complete nymphomaniac, I hope?’

‘Indelibly.’

‘So I’m giving you ten minutes to clear out your desk.’

She gaped at him stupidly. Tears came to her eyes – this was becoming a habit. ‘Yes, David.’ She got wearily to her feet.

‘And another ten minutes to transfer the contents – G-Spot vibrator, Chinese love balls and piña colada-flavoured condoms and all – into the editor’s
desk.’

‘DAVID!’

‘I’ll call for you at home – sorry, at your
house
; it hasn’t been a home for a long time – at nine sharp tonight. I’d prefer it if you were packed
and ready.’

‘But Matthew . . .’

‘You left Matthew years ago. Quite frankly – and I don’t mean this in a negative way – he’ll be glad to see the back of you at last.’

‘He will not!’

‘He will so. I know it for fact. The night you were making an old man’s last minutes happy, I called Matthew on impulse and we had dinner. I wanted to get to the bottom of you
– I thought it would help me get you out of my system. Well, we got juiced and talked about pretty well everything. And Matthew took it pretty easy. He’s got a girl, you know, a nurse;
very pretty girl, blonde, a little overweight but she wears it well. He’s very proud of her – showed me a photograph. Told me he carries it everywhere. If you cared about him,
you’d have found it. He said that. He’s a smart guy.’

‘Why, that two-faced—’

‘Susan!’

She laughed, feeling light-headed – feeling all-conquering, and therefore all-forgiving. Then she looked at him thoughtfully. ‘But your father . . . aren’t you angry with
me?’

He crossed the room and stood in front of her ‘Look at me, Susan. Look at me for once without thinking about who my father was. What do I look like?’

She looked at his waving black hair, his dark eyes, his brown skin. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘What race do you think I belong to?’ he asked, impatiently, imploringly.

‘You’re Jewish. Well, half. Your mother . . .’

He laughed. ‘Susan, to a WASP everyone the wrong side of beige looks the same. Yes, I am Jewish, half. But the half that isn’t isn’t white. Because my father was black. Well,
half. Susan, Tobias X. Pope wasn’t my father. And it was the worry while she was pregnant that drove my mother crazy.’

‘But your father – Pope—’

‘Pope was such a crazed egotist that he never even noticed; like you, he thought Jews were coloured – marry one and your son and heir’s bound to come out with a touch of the
tar brush. Or maybe he did know – maybe that’s why he treated her the way he did. But anyway, my
real
father is a light-skinned mulatto who was a servant at our place in
Connecticut. I’ve known for the past ten years, and I’ve been doing all I can to support him. He’s a wonderful man – everything Pope wasn’t, including poor. Now I can
really do something for him. And my mother – who knows? Now at last maybe she’ll have the nerve to come out of that place.’ He looked down at her. ‘Stand up.’

She did so, and he put his hands on her shoulders.

‘Susan, I have no illusions about you. You are the most amoral and unprincipled human being I have ever had the misfortune to tangle with, and that includes the late Tobias X. But you are
also the most sexually desirable and the most singular, and maybe these two sides of you are not unconnected. Anyway, you’ve made me see the light: that lust is just love with the gloves off,
and that I don’t want some pure ideal any more. By way of a fringe benefit you’ve also killed a man I’ve hated all my life, thereby making my poor demented mother as happy as
she’ll ever be. You’ve given me an empire. The least I can do is give you a job.’ He put his arms around her.

She looked searchingly into his face; his beautiful, familiar, strange face. Something in her stare made him pull back and narrow his eyes. ‘But I warn you, I have a heart of US
Steel!’

She hugged him tight, laughing.

How she loved him!

And he had an empire . . .

And she’d be an editor!

And they’d be married . . .

Loving him with all her heart, she couldn’t help but wonder what proportion of healthy young men died on their honeymoons from coronary collapse.

And when they kissed, his eyes were closed. But hers were open, staring out through the window and up at the sky – the bright blue Big Top under which so many opportunities just lay,
waiting to be taken.

Staring onwards and upwards; staring up, up and away.