Private Scandals (14 page)

Now she would either earn their faith in her—or blow it.

She was fastening on an earring and giving herself a final pep talk when the knock sounded on the door.

“Don’t tell me,” she called out. “The eggplant won’t do either, and we have to dash back for tomato.”

“Sorry.” Finn pushed open the door. “I didn’t bring any food.”

“Oh.” She dropped the back of her earring and swore. “I thought you were in Moscow.”

“I was.” He leaned against the jamb as she retrieved the little gold clasp. “And look what happens when I go away for a couple of weeks. You’re the top story in the newsroom gossip pool.”

“Great.” Her stomach sank as she fought the earring into place. “I must have been out of my mind to start this.”

“I imagine you were thinking clearly.” She looked fabulous, he realized. Nervous, but revved and ready. “You saw an open door and decided you could walk through first.”

“It feels like an open window. On the top floor.”

“Just land on your feet. So what’s your topic?”

“It’s a fashion show, with audience participation.”

His grin broke out, dimples winking. “A fashion show? That kind of fluff, with your news background?”

“This isn’t news.” She elbowed past him. “It’s entertainment. I hope. Don’t you have a war to cover or something?”

“Not at the moment. I figured I’d stick around awhile. Then I could head back to the newsroom with the scoop. Tell me.” He put a hand on her shoulder to slow her down. “Are you doing this for yourself, or to irritate Angela?”

“Both.” She pressed a fist to her stomach to try to quiet it. “But for me first.”

“Okay.” He could feel the energy, and the nerves vibrating against his palm. He wondered what it would be like to tap it, when they were alone. “And what’s the next step?”

She sent him a sidelong look, hesitated. “Off the record?”

“Off the record,” he agreed.

“A meeting with Barlow James. And if I manage to get his endorsement, I’m going to Bach.”

“So, you don’t intend to pitch in the minors.”

“Not for long.” She let out a long breath. “A minute ago I was sure I was going to be sick.” She tossed her hair back.
“Now I feel great. Really great.”

“Dee!” Holding her headset in place, Fran rushed down the narrow corridor. “We’ve got a full house.” She snatched Deanna’s hand and squeezed. “Every seat. The three women we picked out from the Cook County Historical Society are psyched. They can’t wait to start.”

“Then let’s not.”

“Okay.” Fran looked sick. “Okay,” she said again. “We can go whenever you’re ready.”

She left the warm-up to Fran, standing just off set and listening to the laughter and applause. The nerves were gone. In their place was a burst of energy so huge she could barely hold still. Pushed by it, she made her entrance, settled into her chair under the lights, in front of the camera.

The theme music, compliments of Vinnie, Richard’s nephew and an aspiring musician, danced out. Off camera, Fran signaled for applause. The red light shone steadily.

“Good morning, I’m Deanna Reynolds.”

She knew there was chaos off set—the scrambling wardrobe changes, the barking of orders, the inevitable glitches. But she felt completely in control, chatting amiably with the perky, detestable Karyn, then roaming the audience for comments as the models strutted their stuff.

She could almost forget it was a career move instead of a lark as she giggled with an audience member over a pair of polka-dot micro shorts.

She looked like a woman entertaining friends, Finn mused as he loitered at the back of the studio. It was an interesting angle, because it wasn’t an angle at all. As a hard newsman with a natural disdain for fluff, he couldn’t say he was particularly interested in the topic. But his tastes aside, the audience was enchanted. They cheered and applauded, let out the occasional “ooh” and “aah,” then balanced it with cheerful groans over an outfit that didn’t hit the mark.

Most of all, they related to Deanna. And she to them, in the way she slipped an arm around an audience member, made eye contact or stepped back to let her guests take the spotlight.

She’d walked through the door, he decided, and smiled to himself. He slipped out thinking it wouldn’t hurt to put in a call to Barlow James, and hold that door open a little wider.

Angela swept through the lofty living room of her new penthouse apartment. Her heels clicked over parquet floors, muffled on carpet, clicked over tile as she stalked from airy window seat to gleaming breakfront. As she paced, she smoked in quick, ragged jerks, struggling with temper, fighting for control.

“All right, Lew.” Calmer, she stopped beside a pedestal table, stabbing out the cigarette in a crystal ashtray and tainting the scent of roses with smoke. “Tell me why you think I’d be interested in some little homemade tape of a second-rate newsreader?”

Lew shifted uncomfortably on the velvet settee. “I thought you’d want to know.” He heard the whine in his own voice and lowered his eyes. He detested what he was doing: crawling, belly-rolling for scraps. But he had two kids in college, a high-dollar mortgage and the threat of unemployment urging him on. “She rented a studio, hired techs, called in favors. She got some time off from the newsroom and put together a fifty-minute show, plus an audition tape of some of her old stuff.” Lew tried to ignore the ulcer burning in his gut. “I hear it’s pretty good.”

“Pretty good?” Angela’s sneer was as sharp as a scalpel. “Why would I have any interest in ‘pretty good’? Why would anyone? Amateurs try to push their way into the market all the time. They don’t worry me.”

“I know—I mean there’s talk around the job how the two of you had words.”

“Oh?” She smiled frostily. “Did you fly all the way from Chicago to feed me the latest CBC gossip, Lew? Not that I don’t appreciate it, but it seems a little extreme.”

“I figured . . .” He took a steadying breath, ran a hand through his thinning hair. “I know you offered Deanna my job, Angela.”

“Really? Did she tell you that?”

“No.” Whatever pride he had left surfaced. He met her eyes squarely. “But it leaked. Just like it leaked that she turned you down.” He saw the familiar flash in her eyes. “And I know,” he hurried on, “after working with you for so many years, I know you wouldn’t like to see her benefit from your generosity.”

“How could she?”

“By turning it into a matter of loyalty to the station. By soliciting Barlow James.”

He had her interest now. To conceal it, she turned, flipping open an enamel box and taking out a cigarette. Her eyes flicked over toward the bar, where champagne was always chilling. Frightened by the depth of longing for one small swallow, she moistened her lips and looked away again.

“Why should Barlow get involved?”

“He likes her work. He’s made a point of calling the station a few times to say so. And when he came to visit the Chicago bureau last week, he made time for a meeting with her.”

Angela snapped on her lighter.

“Word is he took a look at the tape. He liked it.”

“So he wants to flatter one of his young female reporters?” Angela tossed her head back, but her throat tightened against the smoke. Just one swallow, she thought. One cool, frothy sip.

“She sent the tape to Loren Bach.”

Very slowly, Angela lowered the cigarette and left it to smolder in the ashtray. “Why, that little bitch,” she said softly. “Does she really think she can begin to compete with me?”

“I don’t know if she’s aiming that high. Yet.” He let that idea simmer. “I do know that some of the Midwest affiliates are concerned about the cost of your new show. They might be willing to plug into something cheaper, and closer to home.”

“Then let them. I’ll bury whatever they put up against me.” Giving a bark of a laugh, she strode over to survey
her view of New York. She had everything she’d wanted. Needed. At last, at long last, she was the queen overlooking her subjects from her high, impregnable tower. No one could touch her now. Certainly not Deanna. “I’m on top here, Lew, and I’m damn well going to stay there. Whatever it takes.”

“I can use my connections, find out what Loren Bach decides.”

“That’s fine, Lew,” she murmured, staring over the tops of the trees of Central Park. “You do that.”

“But I want my job back.” His voice quavered with emotion, with self-disgust. “I’m fifty-four years old, Angela. At my age, and the way things are out there right now, I can’t afford to be sending out résumés. I want a firm, two-year contract. By that time both my kids’ll be out of college. I can sell the house in Chicago. Barbara and I can buy a smaller one out here. We don’t need the room now. I just need a couple of years to make sure I have something to fall back on. That’s not too much to ask.”

“You’ve certainly thought this through.” Angela sat on the window seat, lifting her arms and laying them atop the flowered cushion. Her throat had opened again, all on its own. That pleased her. She didn’t need a drink when she had the taste of power.

“I’ve done good work for you,” he reminded her. “I can still do good work. Plus, I have plenty of contacts back in Chicago. People who’ll pass on inside information, if there’s a need for it.”

“I can’t see that there will be, but . . .” She smiled to herself, considering. “I don’t like to ignore possibilities. And I always reward loyalty.” She studied him. A drone, she decided. One who would work tirelessly, and one who was afraid enough to bury ethics under necessity. “I’ll tell you what, Lew. I can’t offer you executive producer. That slot’s already filled.” She watched him pale. “Assistant producer. I know that technically it’s a demotion, but we don’t have to look at it that way.”

Her smile was bolstering. As easily as a child, she forgot her earlier disgust with him, and her careless betrayal. Now,
once again, they were teammates.

“I’ve always depended on you, and I’m glad I can continue to do so. It’s a negligible cut in salary, and it is New York. That makes up for a lot, doesn’t it?” She beamed at him, pleased with her own generosity. “And to show you how much I value you, I’ll want you on board for the first special. We’ll have legal draw up a contract, make it official. In the meantime . . .” She rose, crossed to him to take his hand between both of hers in the warm, affectionate gesture of old friends. “You go back and tidy up your affairs in Chicago. I’ll have my real estate agent look for a cozy little place for you and Barbara. Maybe Brooklyn Heights.” She rose on her toes to kiss his cheek. “And you keep your ears open, won’t you, dear?”

“Sure, Angela,” he said dully. “Whatever you say.”

L
oren Bach’s office capped the lofty silver tower that was home for Delacort’s Chicago base. Its glass walls offered a view that stretched beyond the Monopoly board of downtown. On a clear day, he could see into misted plains of Michigan. Loren liked to say he could stand guard over hundreds of the stations that carried Delacort’s programming, and thousands of homes that watched.

The suite of offices reflected his personality. Its main area was a streamlined, masculine room designed for serious work. The deep green walls and dark walnut trim were pleasant to the eye, an uncluttered backdrop for the sleek, modern furnishings and recessed television screens. He knew that it was sometimes necessary to entertain in an office, as well as do business. As a concession and a convenience, there was a semicircular sofa in burgundy leather, a pair of padded chrome chairs and a wide smoked-glass table. The contents of a fully stocked refrigerator catered to his addiction to Classic Coke.

One of his walls was lined with photographs of himself with celebrities. Stars whose sitcoms and dramas had moved into syndication, politicians running for office, network bigwigs. The one telling omission was Angela Perkins.

Adjoining the office was a washroom in dramatic black and white, complete with a whirlpool and sauna. Beyond that was a smaller room that held a Hollywood bed, a big-screen TV and a closet. Loren had never broken the habit of his lean years, and continued to work long hours, often catching a few hours’ sleep and a change of clothing right in the workplace.

But his sanctuary was an area that had been converted from office space. It was cluttered with colorful arcade games where he could save worlds or video damsels in distress, electronic pinball machines that whirled with light and sound, a talking Coke machine.

Every morning he allowed an hour to indulge himself with the bells and whistles and often challenged network executives to beat his top scores. No one did.

Loren Bach was a video wizard, and the love affair had begun in childhood in the bowling alleys his father had owned. Loren had never had any interest in tenpins, but he’d had an interest in business, and in the flash of the silver ball.

In his twenties, with his degree from MIT still hot, he’d expanded the family business into arcades. Then he’d begun to dabble in the king of video: television.

Thirty years later, his work was his play, and his play was his work.

Though he had allowed a few decorative touches in the office area—a Zorach sculpture, a Gris collage—the core of the room was the desk. So it was more of a console than a traditional desk. Loren had designed it himself. He enjoyed the fantasy of sitting in a cockpit, controlling destinies.

Simple and functional, its base was fitted with dozens of cubbyholes rather than drawers. Its work surface was wide and curved, so that when Loren sat behind it, he was surrounded by phones, computer keyboards, monitors.

An adept hacker, Loren could summon up any desired information skillfully and swiftly, from advertising rates for any of Delacort’s—or its competitors’—programs, to the current exchange rate of dollar to yen.

As a hobby, he designed and programmed computer games for a subsidiary of his syndicate’s.

At fifty-two, he had the quiet, aesthetic looks of a monk, with a long, bony face and a thin build. His mind was as sharp as a scalpel.

Seated behind his desk, he tapped a button on his remote. One of the four television screens blinked on. Eyes mild and thoughtful, he sipped from a sixteen-ounce bottle of Coke and watched Deanna Reynolds.

He would have viewed the tape without the call from Barlow James—Loren took at least a cursory study of anything that crossed his desk—but it was doubtful that he would have slotted time for it so quickly without the endorsement.

“Attractive,” he said into his mini-recorder, in a voice as soft and cool as morning snow. “Good throat. Excellent camera presence. Energy and enthusiasm. Sexy but nonthreatening. Relates well to audience. Scripted questions don’t appear scripted. Who does her writing? Let’s find out. Production values need improvement, particularly the lighting.”

He watched the full fifty minutes, reversing the tape occasionally, freeze-framing, all the while making his brief comments into the recorder.

He took another long sip from the bottle, and he was smiling. He’d lifted Angela from minor local celebrity into a national phenomenon.

And he could do it again.

With one hand he froze Deanna’s face on the screen; with the other, he punched his intercom. “Shelly, contact Deanna Reynolds at CBC, Chicago news division. Set up an appointment. I’d like to have her come in as soon as possible.”

Deanna was used to worrying about her appearance. Working in front of the camera meant that part of the job dealt with looking good. She would often discard a perfectly lovely suit that appealed to her because the cut or the color wasn’t quite right for TV.

But she couldn’t remember agonizing over the image she projected more than she did when preparing to meet Loren Bach.

She continued to second-guess herself as she sat in the reception area outside his office.

The navy suit she’d chosen was too severe. Leaving her hair down was too frivolous. She should have worn bolder jewelry. Or worn none at all.

It helped somehow to focus on clothes and hairstyles. Twinkie habits, she knew. But it meant she didn’t obsess about what this meeting could mean to her future.

Everything, she thought as her stomach clutched. Or nothing.

“Mr. Bach will see you now.”

Deanna only nodded. Her throat tightened up like a vise. She was afraid any word that fought its way free would come out as a squeak.

She stepped through the doors the receptionist opened, and into Loren Bach’s office.

He was behind his desk, a sloped-shouldered, skinny man with a face that reminded Deanna of an apostle. She’d seen photographs and television clips, and had thought he’d be bigger somehow. Stupid, she thought. She of all people knew how different a media image could be from reality.

“Ms. Reynolds.” He rose, extending a hand over the curved Lucite. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Thank you.” His grip was firm, friendly and brief. “I appreciate your taking the time.”

“Time’s my business. Want a Coke?”

“I . . .” He was already up and striding across the room to a full-sized, built-in refrigerator. “Sure, thanks.”

“Your tape was interesting.” With his back to her, Loren popped the caps on two bottles. “A little rough on some of the production values, but interesting.”

Interesting?
What did that mean? Smiling stiffly, Deanna accepted the bottle he handed her. “I’m glad you think so. We didn’t have a great deal of time to put it together.”

“You didn’t think it necessary to take the time?”

“No. I didn’t think I had the time.”

“I see.” Loren sat behind his desk again, took a long swig from the bottle. His hands were white and spidery, the long, thin fingers rarely still. “Why not?”

Deanna followed his lead and drank. “Because there are plenty of others who’d like to slip into
Angela’s
slot, at least locally. I felt it was important to get out of the gate quickly.”

He was more interested in how she’d do coming down the stretch. “Just what is it you’d like to do with
Deanna’s Hour?
”

“Entertain and inform.” Too glib, she thought immediately. Slow down, Dee, she warned herself. Honesty’s fine, but put a little thought into it. “Mr. Bach, I’ve wanted to work in television since I was a child. Since I’m not an actress, I concentrated on journalism. I’m a good reporter. But in the last couple of years, I’ve realized that doing the news doesn’t really satisfy my ambitions. I like to talk to people. I like to listen to them—and I’m good at both.”

“It takes more than conversational skills to carry an hour show.”

“It takes a knowledge of how television works, how it communicates. How intimate, and how powerful, it can be. And making the subject forget, while the light’s on, that he or she is talking to anyone but me. That’s my strong point.” She shifted, her body edging forward. “I did some summer-interning at a local station in Topeka while I was in high school, and I interned for four years at a station in New Haven during college. I worked as a news writer in Kansas City before my first on-air job. Technically, I’ve been working in television for ten years.”

“I’m aware of that.” He was aware of every detail of her professional life, but he preferred getting his own impressions, face to face. He appreciated the fact that she kept her eyes and her voice level. He remembered his first meeting with Angela. All those sexual spikes, that manic energy, that overpowering femininity. Deanna Reynolds was a different matter altogether.

Not weaker, he mused. Certainly not less potent. Simply . . . different.

“Tell me, other than fashion shows, what sort of topics did you plan to do?”

“I’d like to concentrate on personal issues rather than front-page ones. And I’d like to avoid shock television.”

“No redheaded lesbians and the men who love them?”

She relaxed enough to smile. “No, I’ll leave those to someone else. My idea is to balance shows like the demo with more serious ones, but to keep it very personal, involving the audience—studio and the home audience. Topics like step-families, sexual harassment in the workplace, how men and women cope with middle-age dating. Issues that target in on what the average viewer might be experiencing.”

“And you see yourself as a spokesperson for the average viewer?”

She smiled again. Here, at least, she could be confident. “I
am
the average viewer. I’m certainly going to watch a special on PBS that interests me, but I’m more than happy to pull up a bar stool with the gang at
Cheers.
I share my first cup of coffee in the morning with the
Chicago Tribune
and Kirk Brooks on
Wake Up Call.
And unless I have an early call, I go to bed with
The Tonight Show
—unless Arsenio looks better that night.” Now she grinned and sipped again. “And I’m not ashamed of it.”

Loren laughed, then drained his Coke. She’d very nearly described his own viewing habits. “I’m told you moonlighted for Angela.”

“Not moonlighting exactly. It wasn’t as structured or formal as that. And I was never on her payroll. It was more of an . . . apprenticeship.” Deanna screened the emotion from her voice. “I learned quite a bit.”

“I imagine you did.” After a moment, Loren steepled his hands. “It’s no secret that Delacort is unhappy about losing
Angela’s.
And anyone involved in the business would know that we don’t wish her well.” His eyes were dark as onyx against his Byronically pale skin. Yes, an apostle, Deanna thought again, but not one who would have gone cheerfully
to the Roman lions. “However,” he continued, “given her track record, she should continue to dominate the market. We’re not ready to go head to head with her, nationally, with another talk-show format.”

“You’ll counter-program,” Deanna said, making Loren stop, raise a brow. “Go against her with game shows, high-rated reruns, soaps, depending on the demographics.”

“That would be the idea. I had considered spot-testing a talk-show format, in a handful of CBC affiliates.”

“I only need a handful,” she said evenly, but gripped the soft-drink bottle with both hands to hold it steady. Sink or swim, she decided. “To start.”

Perhaps it was personal, Loren mused. But what of it? If he could use Deanna Reynolds to take a small slice out of Angela, he could afford the cost. If the project failed, he would write it off as experience. But if he could make it work, if he could make Deanna work, the satisfaction would be worth more, much more than advertising revenue.

“Do you have an agent, Ms. Reynolds?”

“No.”

“Get one.” His dark, mild eyes sharpened. “I’d like to welcome you to Delacort.”

“Tell me again,” Fran insisted.

“A six-month contract.” No matter how many times she said it aloud, the words still echoed gleefully in Deanna’s ears. “We’ll tape right here at CBC, one show a day, five days a week.”

Still dazed even after two weeks of negotiations, she wandered Angela’s office. All that was left were the pastel walls and carpet and the steely view of Chicago. “I’ll be able to use this office, and two others in accordance with CBC’s end of the deal, during the probationary period. We’ll be carried by ten affiliates in the Midwest—live in Chicago, Dayton and Indianapolis. We have six weeks to put it together before we premiere in August.”

“You’re really doing it.”

With a half laugh, Deanna turned back. She wasn’t smiling
like Fran, but her eyes were glowing. “I’m really doing it.” She took a deep breath, grateful that none of Angela’s signature scent remained in the air. “My agent said the money they’re paying me is a slap in the face.” Now she grinned. “I told him to turn the other cheek.”

“An agent.” Fran shook her head and sent her cowbell earrings dancing. “You’ve got an agent.”

Deanna turned toward the window and grinned out at Chicago. She’d chosen a small, local firm, one that could focus on her needs, her goals.

“I’ve got an agent,” she agreed. “And a syndicate—at least for six months. I hope I’ve got a producer.”

“Sweet pea, you know—”

“Before you say anything, let me finish.” Deanna turned back. Behind her, the spears and towers of the city shot up into the dull gray sky. “It’s a risk, Fran, a big one. If things don’t work out, we could be out on our butts in a few months. You’ve got a solid job at
Woman Talk,
and a baby on the way. I don’t want you to jeopardize that for friendship.”

“Okay, I won’t.” Fran shrugged, and because there was no place to sit, settled on the floor, grateful for the give of elastic over her expanding waist. “I’ll do it for ego. Fran Myers, Executive Producer. Has a nice ring.” She circled her knees with her arms. “When do we start?”

“Yesterday.” Laughing, Deanna sat beside her, slung an arm over her shoulders. “We need staff. I might be able to lure in some of Angela’s who got pink-slipped or didn’t want to relocate. We need story ideas and people to research them. The budget I have to work with is slim, so we’ll have to keep it simple.” She stared at the bare, pastel walls. “Next contract, it’ll be a hell of a lot bigger.”