Falling Star (47 page)

One steep final turn and they arrived at the
crest of the hill. At a small gated overlook off Mulholland Drive,
not far from Runyan Canyon, he pulled off-road to park the Jag.
"I'll come round to help you get out," he assured her, but first he
extracted from the trunk two plastic champagne flutes and a bottle
of chilled Veuve Clicquot, setting them on a rock outcropping. Only
after everything was set up did he help Natalie from the car and
lead her to a prime viewing spot. Swiftly he uncorked and poured
the champagne, putting a full flute in her hand, the bandanna still
shielding her eyes.

He was excited. It was fun doing this for
this woman. She'd worked so long and so hard for this moment. No
one knew that better than him. And he'd see her joy firsthand.

But as he removed the bandanna she looked
more puzzled than happy.

"No, don't look at me. Look out there." He
pointed with flute in hand at the magnificent vista that lay below
them. Los Angeles, in all of its far-flung splendor, on this day
its brilliant blues and whites unmarred by smog. "The city is at
your feet. You got it back, though I never really thought you lost
it." He touched his flute to hers and grinned. "I'm incredibly
delighted to tell you that you have received a second anchor offer.
From KNBC Los Angeles."

Her eyes flew open and her lips parted in a
silent shriek. Geoff threw back his head and laughed. "Do you want
details?"

"Yes!"

Those didn't take long to relay, and Natalie
seemed to savor every word.
These are the moments that make
being an agent worthwhile
, Geoff thought, watching Natalie jump
up and down, spilling her champagne everywhere,
this helping
make somebody's dreams come true
. Trite as that sounded.
Finally, he was able to help her, in a real way, after having
caused her so much grief. It made him believe that, after
everything, they'd still be friends.

He looked into Natalie's big blue eyes, which
by now were moist with tears, and when she threw her arms about his
neck and hugged him, jumping up and down so excitedly he could
barely keep ahold of her, something in his heart leaped. Something
wonderful. And profoundly satisfying.

*

Hours later, Natalie sat down at the anchor
desk for
The KXLA Primetime News
, in what she still
considered "her" spot across from Camera One. She had dreamed of
this moment so much, had ricocheted so often between certainty that
it would happen and despair that it would not, that the reality was
surreal. The studio felt hot, supercharged, more starkly lit than
she remembered; the crew noisy and rambunctious. Yet everything was
oddly unchanged, too, as if the last painful months had never
happened: her charcoal-gray swivel chair was calibrated perfectly
into position, the monitors were angled to her liking, her earpiece
volume was clear and strong, and a Styrofoam cup of her preferred
throat-soothing lukewarm water was at her elbow.

As she stared at the cup, her eyes misted.
There was one reason and one reason only that everything she needed
for a perfect broadcast was in place, despite her months of
absence: the crew. They'd remembered every last detail, the
director and floor manager and audio technician, and wordlessly
provided it. They could not have given her a more deeply felt
welcome.

Adding to the evening's luster were the four
dozen long-stemmed yellow roses that had arrived at the station a
few hours before airtime and now held pride of place on the file
cabinet next to her Emmys. It was Maxine who had carried the
crystal-cut vase to her office. Natalie had turned her back on
Maxine's curious eyes before ripping open the tiny white envelope
to reveal a card crammed with Geoff s neat lawyerlike script, the
only thing lawyerlike about him:

Congratulations! Your triumphant return to
the anchor desk may be just enough to convince this cynical Aussie
that truth and justice, not to mention never-say-die women, do in
the end prevail.

With endless admiration, Geoff

She'd read and reread the card before stowing
it in her pencil drawer for safekeeping.
With endless
admiration
. Staring at the inscription, to which Geoff had
clearly given some thought, she'd found herself caught between
pride and frustration.
Endless admiration
. Certainly that
was a wonderful emotion to inspire, but it was also a cold emotion,
an arm's-length emotion, one that reverberated more in the mind
than in the heart.

She was drawn back to the present by the
floor manager noisily banging his headset against Camera One.
Suddenly she realized that all around her was a mob of techies and
writers and producers and desk assistants and reporters and
cameramen, who'd sidled in quietly through the half-open studio
doors. The floor manager, who on most nights did his best to vanish
beneath the bill of his Dodgers cap, cleared his throat, then met
her eyes. "Natalie," he declared, his voice booming, "for everybody
here, let me just say that we are so damn glad to have you
back!"

The applause that followed was massive and
exuberant and raucous. Actually, Natalie thought, struggling to
keep the composure she was within a hairsbreadth of losing,
"applause" was far too weak a word for the thunderous ovation that
filled the studio. There by the massive studio doors stood Ruth,
her bright blue eyes looking shockingly close to teary, flanked by
the last of the real newsies, Natalie thought, the people who made
it all worthwhile, the people who, like her, were the true
believers. She gazed about her and did her best to memorize the
scene, never to forget the faces, as if it were the last time,
though of course that couldn't be.

Eventually she rose to her feet and applauded
her colleagues right back, the din reaching a point where it
bordered on deafening. Then she stopped clapping and bent her head.
After a few whistles and bravos, the studio again grew hushed.

"You are the people who make this crazy
business worth it," she said into the silence. "I thank you, and I
will never, ever forget you." As she felt her composure again begin
to slip, the communal strength of these people who had never once
doubted her reached out to buoy and carry her through. Again she
gazed around the studio she'd loved for years, the arena in which
once she'd fallen but had survived to return triumphant. "Now let's
put the news on the air."

Tuesday, October 1, 12:18 PM

"You're on to me." Tony did his best to smile
at BD over the Nachos Grande that rose like a greaseball mountain
on Las Casita's little red table. "You've taken over my favorite
place to treat people to lunch."

He wanted to make nice because BD was still
mad at him over that fake story he'd told her way back when about
Princess. She was too much of a powerhouse to have as an enemy, but
making nice was damn hard to do when BD was in the wackiest mood
this side of menopause.

"You got that right, Scoppio." BD cracked him
another cuckoo smile. "I am on to you. Another chip?" She plucked
one out from the mound of melted cheddar and ground beef and sour
cream and held it out to him. He didn't know what the hell he saw
on her face.

"Uh, no, thanks," he told her, then looked
down fast at his Coke. Did BD want to sleep with him? He got
worried. Did he have to sleep with her to stop her being mad at
him? No way, Jose. He'd never cheated on Anna-Maria and he sure as
heck wasn't gonna start with BD.

"So, Tony, I want to ask your advice," she
said.

He felt a rush of relief. "About what?"

"I've got a problem with a talent. She's
getting a little big for her breeches. I want to cut her down to
size."

He nodded. "I know the feeling."

"Just so happens I've got something on her."
BD stirred her iced tea. "Something she wouldn't want spread
around. You get my drift?"

Did he ever. "Isn't it pretty obvious what
you do?"

BD met his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"Well—" He shrugged. He wasn't usually this
forthright but he did want to get back on BD's good side. "So tell
a few people."

"You mean ... like news directors?"

"You're worried she's gonna try to up the
ante at contract time, right? So make that harder for her." And who
would be better at this than BD? She could spread gossip quicker
than Farmer John could lay manure.

"It's funny you should say that." BD laughed
so loud people at other tables looked over.

Tony didn't usually get embarrassed, but he
did this time.

"Because," she went on, "I jotted down a list
of people to talk to." She pulled a piece of paper out of her
monster of a purse and handed it to him.

More weirdness. "These are all the news
directors in town. Minus me." He looked up at her. "Why'd you write
up this list? You know these names like the back of your hand."

"You know what else I got in my purse,
Scoppio?" Now her eyes were all shiny, as if she had a secret he'd
never guess but would really like to know. Was BD on something,
maybe?

"No," he said warily. "I don't."

This time she pulled out a tape and held it
up. He took one look at the label and thought he was gonna
barf.

"That's right," she chirped. Man, did she
sound happy. "It's Kelly Devlin, starting a gun battle that got a
little kid killed." She put the tape back in her purse. "Just FYI,
I sent dubs to my favorite sources at the LAPD and Child Protective
Services."

Tony felt his Burrito Grande begin a return
trip up his gullet. So much for the agreement with Princess and
Ruth to keep the tape on the QT. One of them had double-crossed
him. And he hadn't even fired Kelly yet because Elaine hadn't
finished the goddamn paperwork. But now everybody would know.
Absolutely everybody.

Including a certain station owner in Phoenix,
Arizona.

"Did you say, 'sent dubs?' " he croaked.
"Past tense?"

"Oh"—BD waved her hand airily—"those tapes
are long gone." She rose from her chair and leaned toward him over
the table, a big fat grin plastered all over her face. "Because
nobody spreads gossip faster than I do, Tony, now do they?"

*

Natalie sat at the glitzy Italian table in
Dewey, Climer's glass-walled penthouse conference room, hot midday
sunshine doing its best to combat the air-conditioning, and ran her
damp palms down the skirt of her most formal suit, a gray
pinstripe. So far her preair relaxation exercises weren't working:
her heart was pounding, her stomach roiling, her throat dry. She
was suspended in that tense expectant state when time gyrates
between dragging and speeding forward, the seconds inexorably
leading to a scene she both dreaded and heartily wished to be
over.

"How you holding up?" Berta didn't bother to
raise her eyes from a manila folder labeled DANIELS, NATALIE.

"I'm fine." Natalie glanced to her right and
eyed her attorney appreciatively. Other clients might find Berta
Powers's no-nonsense manner off-putting, but not her. She didn't
need a new best friend; she needed a fearless attorney. Especially
this afternoon. "Don't worry about me. I always perform under
pressure."

Berta looked up and grinned. "And you're not
even a New Yorker. Do you want to go over the drill one more
time?"

"No need."

"Good." Both women's eyes were suddenly drawn
to a flurry of activity in Dewey, Climer's reception area, just
outside the conference room's glass walls. "They're here." Berta's
gaze didn't stray from the duo striding toward them. "Now remember,
let them be the hotheads, no matter what they try to pull. Even if
Miles has figured out you lifted the
Forget Maui
contract or
the plagiarized script."

Natalie nodded as Miles and Johnny Bangs
swaggered into the conference room. Both were so obviously pumped
up they might have been boxers entering a ring. Although, as
Natalie's practiced eye quickly noted, her soon-to-be ex-husband
wasn't quite as cocksure as he was trying to appear.

He was dressed in his all-black workaday
uniform, which as long as she'd known him he'd considered
Hollywood's highest fashion statement. Its somberness was only
slightly relieved by the silver threads in his sports jacket, the
same shade as the growing number of streaks in his wavy dark hair.
His eyes darted everywhere but into her own. And once he sat down
across the wide glass table, his hands fidgeted in his lap until
his attorney lay a calming hand on his arm.

He's even more nervous than I am
,
Natalie thought, surprised and, she had to admit, gratified. Then a
disturbing notion shot through her as she watched Johnny Bangs,
slickly well groomed in a navy worsted double-breasted suit and
light blue tie, showily thumb through an imposing stack of
documents.

"Let's dispense with the small talk and wrap
this thing up." Bangs looked across the table at Berta. "You've
been dragging this out for months and I'm putting a stop to it
today."

Natalie watched her attorney nonchalantly
roll her eyes. "My ass, Johnny." Her tone was casual. "What you
call 'dragging this thing out' is simply refusing to cave in to
your client's bald-faced lie that he never signed a prenuptial
agreement. But I will agree on one thing. We'll put a stop to it
today."

"He never did sign a prenup," Bangs declared
calmly. "And if he had, surely after all these months you would
have produced a copy."

"We would have if your client hadn't stolen
the only copy from their safe-deposit box," Berta retorted. "After
lifting the key from my client's house under the pretext of a
reconciliation."

"Oh, and did my client also pilfer Dewey,
Climer's files?" Bangs threw back his head and laughed. "Come on,
Berta." He paused, cocky as hell, and Natalie watched his eyes grow
glittery.