Let Me Whisper in Your Ear (3 page)

She knew it would come out well. It always did. She'd done several of these Yearenders now and, each time, when they played out to the network, her newsroom co-workers watched, fascinated. They were a tough crowd, most of them not given to compliments. But even some of the most jaded could be moved by the combination of visual images, wonderful music and thoughts of people who had all made impressive marks on this world, passing on to whatever comes next.

Laura always felt satisfied after the Yearender was done. But mostly she felt relieved. Relieved that she'd made another deadline and that she could then pay a little attention to her personal life, such as it was.

Being a producer assigned to the
KEY News
Bulletin Center meant that Laura's life was not her own. When she accepted the position, she knew it meant that she would be constantly on call. Weekends, holidays and vacations were only fully her own as long as no major news story broke. If something big happened, the beeper, her constant companion, would sound and she was expected to call in to
KEY News
headquarters immediately and, most often, report in person quickly thereafter. In the year she'd worked in the Bulletin Center, she'd left dozens of dinners uneaten, and days off interrupted.

Whenever she felt a bit sorry for herself, when the rest of the world seemed to work a normal schedule, without fear of having a random act of violence or a whim of Mother Nature cut one's plans short, Laura reminded herself that there were lots of people who lived this way. Police and firefighters staffed their departments around the clock. Hospital doctors and nurses had to make sure their institutions were covered twenty-four hours a day, 365 days a year.

In fact, when reflecting on it, Laura thought that
KEY News
was a lot like a hospital. The fine surgery was performed on
KEY Evening Headlines
and on the magazine shows like
Hourglass,
where untold hours of excruciating exactitude were spent perfecting every aspect of each broadcast. The Bulletin Center was more like the hospital emergency room. The correspondents, producers and editors assigned to Bulletin duty dealt with whatever the news gods blew their way, and they dealt with it immediately. Seconds counted in being first on the air with the news and beating the competition.

Laura was so engrossed in going over her obituary list, she jumped when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

“Hey, Laura, how's it going?” Mike Schultz loomed over her desk.

“Getting there,” Laura answered, capping her highlighter. “I've whittled down the list to the most important dead people—now we just have to keep our fingers crossed that no one else dies in the next nine days.”

“You can bet somebody big will buy the farm before the year's out,” Mike replied.

Laura nodded, knowing her boss was right.

5

M
IKE
S
CHULTZ HAILED
a cab and told the driver to take him to Penn Station. He really was not looking forward to the commute home, but he
was
looking forward to a double Johnny Walker Black.

Mike was a burly bear of a guy. At six-foot-two, he carried his extra weight well, but his large frame sported fifty pounds of unexercised baggage put on since his college football days. That was only two pounds a year, he rationalized to himself.

His doctor viewed it differently. “You're looking at an early heart attack. Cut the crap out of your diet, get some exercise, quit smoking and stop stressing out over that damn job!”

“Okay, Doc.” Mike sighed resignedly.
That's easy for you to say,
he thought.

He tried. He really did. Instead of grabbing a bagel with a double-cream-cheese-and-jelly-“schmear” at the deli across the street from the commuter train platform, he'd take the time to slice a banana and cover it with raisin bran and low-fat milk, scarfing it down before he rushed out the door to catch the train from Park Ridge, New Jersey, to Manhattan. At lunchtime, he'd choose carefully from the cafeteria salad bar, instead of loading upon his usual cheeseburgers, french fries and onion rings. He'd even try to get out of the office at some point during the day to grab a twenty-minute walk.

It was harder, though, when he got home. He ached for a scotch or two, or three, after a day in the Bulletin Center. He wondered what effect always being on alert had on a human being. He was sure it wasn't good. Knowing that anything could happen at any time, and it would ultimately be his responsibility to get the news on the KEY Television Network, was part of the senior producer's job description. True, he had correspondents, producers and editors under his command to fight the war to get the news immediately on television and, in doing so, beat the other networks. But when things went wrong, when human error or logistical nightmares caused the excuses to fly fast and furious, the buck stopped with Mike Schultz.

He wanted out. It was getting to him. At first, it had been a relief just to be working in his field again. He'd been determined to do the job well and show the executives on the front row that he had what it took to be a leader and a valued team player in the
KEY News
hierarchy. Hadn't he always been a good soldier, willing to do what KEY wanted and needed him to do? Someone had to take the hit for the Gwyneth Gilpatric scandal. He still remembered with a shudder the day Yelena Gregory had summoned him to her president's office and explained that, for the good of
KEY News
and the reputation of its star correspondents, Mike would have to take the fall.

He had been dismissed from the staff of
Hourglass,
the second most highly rated news show on television. He went from traveling in the network news fast lane to being persona non grata in the industry. None of the other networks would touch him. For a year, he was out of a job … without a job, but with a wife, three kids and a mortgage.

They'd made it, scraping along on Nancy's substitute teaching, Mike's working nights at a local liquor store and dipping into the children's college fund. After months of that nonsense, he had called Yelena Gregory and threatened to expose what had really happened when he worked at
Hourglass
with Gwyneth Gilpatric.

Suddenly, Yelena reassured him that of course they wanted him back. He was a valued part of the team. They had just wanted to give the brouhaha time to settle down.

More time passed, the money oozing from the Schultz bank account, the confidence leaking from Mike's psyche. He didn't want to cause a problem, didn't want to go public. He didn't have the energy, the pocketbook or the heart to fight
KEY News.
He just wanted to work in television news again.

Just as he was steeling himself to call the media critic for the
New York Times,
Yelena Gregory phoned. They had a position for him. They wanted him to be the senior producer at the Bulletin Center, a department far less prestigious to
KEY News
insiders than the famous
Hourglass
magazine broadcast. Mike would be stuck with the tough, essentially grinding work of honchoing the center.

Mike had been so grateful to be working again, he almost forgot that
KEY News
had screwed him.
KEY News
and Gwyneth Gilpatric.

6

“M
ISS
L
AURA
W
ALSH
is here,” the gray-coated doorman announced.

Laura stood in the warm lobby of the august prewar building on Central Park West, happy to be out of the frosty night air.

“You can go right up, Miss Walsh.”

The mahogany-paneled elevator rose smoothly to the top level. Laura watched the polished brass floor indicator as she made her ascent. Penthouse. The doors opened silently and Laura found herself entering directly into the long marble-floored foyer of Gwyneth Gilpatric's apartment. A magnificent Christmas tree dominated the space, its branches densely covered with whimsical and theatrical ornaments. Laura scanned the tree but did not notice what she was looking for.

“Laura, darling!” Gwyneth approached with open arms. “I'm so glad you're here. I don't see nearly enough of you these days. But from what I hear, you may be working at
Hourglass
again.” Wearing gray slacks and a tunic with gunmetal icicle beading, Gwyneth gathered the younger woman in an enthusiastic hug. “Come in. Come in.”

Gwyneth escorted her guest into the enormous living room. The wall ahead was glass, offering a spectacular view of Central Park and the glittering Manhattan skyline to the south. Laura caught her breath at the beauty of it. On the coffee table sat an hourglass, full of pale pink sand, surrounded by a small army of Emmy Award statuettes.

“Sit in front of the fire, Laura. Will you have a drink? A glass of wine? I have a bottle of merlot open and breathing. I know that you like merlot.”

As always, Laura was flattered that Gwyneth remembered anything about her. “Some merlot would be nice,” she answered as she sank into the largest and most luxurious white sofa she had ever seen.

“Ma'am, the prime minister is on the phone again.”

“Please, Delia. Call me ‘Ms. Gilpatric.' ‘Ma'am' sounds so old-ladyish. Laura, dear, will you excuse me? I have an interview set up in London next month, and Tony and I keep playing phone tag. This should only take a minute.”

Gwyneth disappeared somewhere to take the call, and Laura settled in to enjoy the beautiful surroundings. What it must be like to live in a place like this! As many times as she'd been here, she'd never gotten used to it. It was like stepping into a dream.

Laura reached over to lift the heavy hourglass and turned it upside down. The fine pink sand sifted slowly through the small opening at the middle of the vessel. She read the inscription on the small brass plaque that was mounted on the teak base:
TO GWYNETH, YOU MAKE EVERY HOUR PRIME TIME. JOEL
.

Joel Malcolm, the executive producer of
Hourglass,
was almost the television news legend that Gwyneth was. He had created the award-winning magazine show and Gwyneth Gilpatric had ridden it to stardom.

Laura considered her boss, that first summer at
KEY News.
Malcolm initially had been brusque and uninterested in Laura when she interned that July and August at
Hourglass.
That had changed dramatically when he learned that Gwyneth seemed to consider the young college student a pet project. Malcolm went from indifference to congeniality. When the internship was over, Malcolm had ordered a large cake and champagne to thank Laura and wish her well as she returned to college for her senior year.

“To Laura,” he had toasted, raising his glass of Piper-Heidseck, and, turning his handsome head to look at the staffers gathered, he added, “She's been a terrific addition to our team, and she'll be missed around here. But,” he continued, smiling over at Gwyneth, who was perched on a desk in the corner of the newsroom, “something tells me we'll be seeing Laura Walsh again here at
KEY News.
And something else tells me that that will be our gain.”

Laura remembered how embarrassed she had been at the time. She knew others on the staff had been talking, resentful of what they rightly perceived to be the favoritism lavished on Laura. She was relieved to finish the internship and get back to school. But as the next academic year passed and graduation time neared, Laura was more and more certain that she wanted to work in broadcast journalism. And what better place to work than
KEY News?

Pulled by the twinkling city lights that magically illuminated the dark, shadowy Manhattan skyscrapers, Laura rose from the sofa and walked out to the terrace. She caught her breath as she was hit by the dry, icy December night air. Wrapping her arms around herself for warmth, Laura stepped over to the telescope that stood at the side of the terrace. She peered through the instrument, squinting and focusing on the roof garden of the Metropolitan Museum of Art across Central Park.

No warm-weather cocktail parties among the sculptures on the deserted roof tonight.

Gwyneth paused for a moment at the entrance to her living room and looked toward the glass window, out to the terrace where Laura, unaware of the eyes upon her, gazed through the telescope. What a lovely young woman she was! Her straight, naturally blond hair was blunt-cut and fell smoothly over her shoulders. Her features were fine, with alert blue eyes, straight nose and a generous mouth that broke easily into a smile revealing dazzling white teeth.

She could probably be on air if she wanted to,
Gwyneth thought.
Maybe I should encourage her to try.

Or maybe not. Being on air wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Gwyneth could attest to that. Funny, once she had thought being on television was so important. God, the things she had done, the people she had stepped on to get where she was, where she thought it had been so damned important to be.

Come on, now, old girl. You love it. What else could you have done that would have brought you as much excitement and satisfaction, not to mention adulation? And don't forget the money. You started with no connections, sweetheart, and now look. A penthouse on Central Park, a beach place in the Hamptons and a flat in London.
Though “flat” didn't seem the right word to describe the luxurious setup she had in Kensington.

All that and young enough to enjoy it. Just forty-seven years old.
Just.
Only a short time ago, that would have sounded ancient, but not anymore. Gwyneth was in her prime professionally and that was all that really ever mattered. Or so she always told herself, as she scrutinized the crepelike skin at her neck in the mirror each morning.

There had been no family along the way. Though there had been many affairs, many relationships, there had never been anyone she really wanted to marry. And that had been fine with Gwyneth. Her career was her passion and she did not want to dilute her energies.