Private Scandals (18 page)

“I understand.” He was pleased, very pleased that they were communicating again. “You see, Deanna, I believe part of our difficulties stemmed from the fact that we didn’t know each other as well as we should have. We share the blame there, but it’s a very human, very natural inclination to show only your best sides when developing a relationship.”

She had to take a deep breath, had to school herself to remain seated when the urge to spring up and strike out was churning inside her. “You want to share the blame for that, fine—particularly since I have no intention of ever moving beyond that stage with you.”

“Deanna. If you’ll be honest, you’ll admit that we were creating something special between us.” As a good therapist, he kept his eyes steady on hers, his voice mild and soothing. “A meeting of intellects, of tastes.”

“Oh, I think our meeting of intellects and tastes took a sharp division when I walked in and found you and Angela groping each other. Tell me, Marshall, did you have the brochures for our proposed Hawaiian tryst in your jacket pocket at the time?”

His color rose. “I have apologized repeatedly for that lapse.”

“Now it’s a lapse. Before it was an incident. Let me give you my term for it, Marshall. I call it a betrayal, a betrayal by two people I admired and cared for. Deliberate on Angela’s side, and pathetic on yours.”

The muscle in his jaw began to twitch. “You and I had not
fully committed to each other, sexually or emotionally.”

“You’re saying that if I’d gone to bed with you, it wouldn’t have happened? I’m not buying it.” She sprang to her feet. “I’m not sharing the blame for this one, pal. You’re the one who thought with your glands. So take my advice, doctor, and get the hell out of my house. I want you to stay away from me. I don’t want you knocking at my door. I don’t want to hear your voice on the phone. And I don’t want any more calls in the middle of the damn night where you can’t even drum up the guts to speak.”

He stood, standing stiffly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you?” Her cheeks were flaming.

“I only know that I want to make things right. My eyes have been opened during these months since you cut me out of your life, Deanna. I know you’re the only woman who can make me happy.”

“Then you’re in for a sad life. I’m not available, and I’m not interested.”

“There’s someone else.” He stepped forward, gripping her forearms before she could jerk away. “You can speak of betrayal when you so casually, so easily move from me to someone else.”

“Yes, there’s someone else, Marshall. There’s me. Now take your hands off me.”

“Let me remind you what we had,” he murmured, pulling her against him. “Let me show you the way it could be.”

The old fear returned, making her tremble as she fought free of his grip. Struggling for air, she braced herself against the chair. Cornered, she was cruel. “You know what would make an interesting topic for my show, Marshall? Try this on. Respected family counselors who harass women they’ve dated as well as seducing underage girls.” She wrapped her arms tight around her body as his color drained. “Yes, I know all about it. A child, Marshall? Can you imagine how that revolts me? The woman you were seeing while you
were supposedly developing our relationship is small change compared to that. Angela sent me a little package before she left for New York.”

Cold sweat pearled on his brow. “You have no right to publicize my private life.”

“And no intention of doing so. Unless you continue to harass me. And if you do—” She trailed off.

“I expected better than threats from you, Deanna.”

“Well, looks like you were wrong again.” She strode to the door, yanked it open. “Now get out.”

Shaken, he picked up his coat. “You owe me the courtesy of giving me the information you have.”

“I owe you nothing. And if you’re not out this door in five seconds, I’m going to let out a scream that’ll raise the roof on this building and bring the neighbors running.”

“You’re making a mistake,” he said as he walked to the door. “A very big mistake.”

“Happy holidays,” she told him, then slammed the door and turned the bolt.

“Great show, Deanna.” Marcie wiped at her eyes as Deanna walked back into the dressing room. “It was great to have all those families of soldiers over in the Gulf on together. And those tapes from over there.”

“Thanks, Marcie.” Deanna walked over to the lighted makeup mirror and removed her earrings. “You know, Marcie, it’s New Year’s Eve.”

“I’ve heard rumors.”

“It’s that time for ‘Out with the old, in with the new.’ ” Pushing a hand through her hair, Deanna turned in front of the mirror, critically studying left profile, right, full face.

“And Marcie, my friend, I’m feeling reckless.”

“Oh yeah?” Marcie stopped arranging her makeup case in preparation for Bobby Marks. “What kind of reckless? Like going-out-and-picking-up-strange-men-at-cheap-bars reckless?”

“I didn’t say I was insane, I said I was reckless. How much time do you have free before Bobby comes in?”

“About twenty minutes.”

“Okay, that should do it.” Deanna boosted herself into the swivel chair, then spun it away from the mirror. “Change me.”

Marcie nearly gave in to the urge to rub her hands together. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly. I had a nasty scene with a former relationship a few days ago. I don’t know if I’m going to have a job much less a career this time next month. I may just be falling in love with a man who spends more time out of the country than in, and in two weeks we could be at war. Tonight, New Year’s Eve, I will not be with the man I think I may be falling in love with, but at a crowded party socializing with strangers because socializing with strangers is now part of my job. So I’m feeling reckless, Marcie, reckless enough to do something drastic.”

Marcie clipped the knee-length bib around Deanna’s neck. “Maybe you’d better define ‘drastic’ before I get started.”

“Nope.” Deanna inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly. “I don’t want to know. Surprise me.”

“You got it.” Marcie picked up her spray bottle and dampened Deanna’s hair. “You know, I’ve been wanting to do this for weeks.”

“Now’s your chance. Make me a new woman.”

Little tangles of nerves formed in Deanna’s stomach as Marcie snipped. And snipped. She watched with a faltering heart as tresses of ebony hair hit the tiled floor at her feet.

“You know what you’re doing, right?”

“Trust me,” Marcie told her, as she snipped some more.

“You’re going to look fabulous. Distinctive.”

“Ah, distinctive?” Wary, Deanna tried to turn toward the mirror.

“No peeking.” Marcie laid a firm hand on her shoulder. “It’s like going into a cold pool,” she explained. “If you try to ease it a little at a time, it’s a hard, miserable experience. And sometimes you chicken out and back off before you get under. If you do it all at once, you have that one nifty shock, then you love it.” She pursed her lips as she wielded
the scissors. “You know, maybe it’s more like losing your virginity.”

“Holy shit!”

Marcie glanced up and grinned at CBC’s resident television chef. “Hiya, Bobby. Almost done here.”

“Holy shit,” he said again, and stepped inside to stare at Deanna. “What’d you do, Dee?”

“I wanted a change.” Her voice was weak as she started to lift a hand to her hair. Marcie pushed it away.

“A cold pool,” she said darkly.

“It’s a change, all right.” Bobby stepped back, and shook his head. “Hey, can I have some of this hair?” Stooping, he picked up a handful. “I can have a toupee made. Hell, I could have half a dozen.”

“Oh, God, what have I done?” Deanna squeezed her eyes tight.

“Dee? What’s keeping you? We need to—oh, Jesus!” Fran stopped in the doorway, one hand covering her gaping mouth, the other pressed to her belly.

“Fran.” Desperate, Deanna reached out. “Fran. Fran, I think I had a nervous breakdown. It’s New Year’s Eve,” she babbled. “Bobby’s making toupees. I think my life is flashing in front of my eyes.”

“You cut it,” Fran managed after a moment. “You really cut it.”

“But it’ll grow back, right?” Deanna snatched a lock of hair from her bib. “Right?”

“In five or ten years,” Bobby predicted cheerfully, and arranged some of Deanna’s shorn locks atop his bald dome. “Not quite soon enough to honor the clause I imagine you have in your contract restricting appearance changes.”

“Oh God.” Deanna’s already pale cheek went dead white. “I forgot. I just didn’t think. I went a little crazy.”

“Be sure to have your lawyer use that one with Delacort,” Bobby suggested.

“They’ll love it,” Marcie said grimly. “She’ll see for herself in a minute.” Marcie fluffed and combed. Unsatisfied, she added a dab of gel, working it in, then styling with the
concentration of a woman cutting diamonds. “Now you just take a deep breath, and hold it,” Marcie advised, unhooking the bib. “And don’t say anything until you take a really good look.”

No one spoke as Marcie turned Deanna slowly toward the mirror. Deanna stared at the reflection, her lips parted in shock, her eyes huge. The long mane of hair was gone, replaced by a short, sleek cap with a saucy fringe of bangs. In a daze, she watched the woman in the mirror lift a hand, touch the nape of her neck, where the hair stopped.

“It follows the shape of your face,” Marcie said nervously when Deanna only continued to stare. “And it shows off your eyes and eyebrows. You’ve got these great dark eyebrows with this terrific natural arch. Your eyes are a little almond-shaped and dramatic, but they kind of got lost with all that hair.”

“I . . .” Deanna let out a breath, took another. “I love it.”

“You do?” As her knees buckled in relief, Marcie dropped into the chair beside her. “Really?”

Deanna watched her own smile bloom. “I love it. Do you realize how many hours a week I had to devote to my hair? Why didn’t I think of this before?” She grabbed a hand mirror to view the back. “This is going to save me almost eight hours a week—an entire workday.” She picked up the earrings she’d discarded and put them back on. “What do you think?” she asked Fran.

“Not to diminish your time-saving priorities, you look incredible. The hip girl-next-door.”

“Bobby?”

“It’s sexy. A cross between an Amazon and a pixie. And I’m sure Delacort won’t mind reshooting all the promos.”

“Oh my God.” As the idea took root, Deanna turned to Fran. “Oh my God.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll dazzle Loren with it tonight. Then we’ll work it into the next show.”

“Post-holiday blues?”

“Sure, sure.” Thinking frantically, Fran gnawed on her lip. “Ah—something as simple and frivolous as a new hairstyle
can give you that quick lift after the party’s over.”

“I’ll buy it,” Bobby decided. “Now, if you ladies don’t mind, I need to get into makeup. I have a trout to sauté.”

Early in the first light of the new year, with a video of
Deanna’s Hour
playing on the TV, a single, lonely figure wandered a small, dark room. On the table where framed pictures of Deanna beamed into the shadowy light, a new treasure was laid: a thick tress of ebony hair wrapped in gold cord.

It was soft to the touch, soft as silk. After a last caress, the fingers wandered away, toward the phone. They dialed slowly, so that the joy could be drawn out. Moments later, Deanna’s voice drifted through the receiver, sleepy, a bit uneasy, bringing with it a silver spear of pleasure that lasted long after the receiver was replaced again.

I
t was after two
A
.
M
. in Baghdad when Finn reviewed his notes for the scheduled live broadcast on CBC’s
Evening News.
He sat on the single chair that wasn’t heaped with tapes or cable, dragging on a fresh shirt while his mind honed ideas and observations into a report.

He tuned out his surroundings, the noise of preparation, the smell of cold food and the chatter.

His crew was spread around the suite, checking equipment and tossing jokes. A sense of humor, particularly if it was dark, helped cut the tension. For the past two days, they had hoarded food and bottled water.

It was January sixteenth.

“Maybe we should tie some sheets together,” Curt suggested. “Hang them outside the window like a big white flag.”

“No, we’ll send up my Bears cap.” The engineer flicked a finger at its brim. “What red-blooded American boy’s going to bomb a football fan?”

“I heard the Pentagon told them to hit the hotels first.” Finn glanced up from his notes and grinned. “You know how fed up Cheney is with the press.” Finn picked up the phone that connected him with Chicago and caught the byplay at the news desk between commercials. “Hey, Martin. How’d
the Bulls do last night?” As he spoke he moved in front of the window so that Curt could get a video test of him against the night sky. “Yeah, it’s quiet here. Nerves are pretty high—so’s the anti-American sentiment.”

When the director cut in, Finn nodded. “Got it. They’re picking up the feed,” he told Curt as he moved out onto the balcony. “We’ll go on in the next segment. In four minutes.”

“Bring up the lights,” Curt demanded. “I got a bad shadow here.”

Before anyone could move, there was a rattling boom in the distance.

“What the hell was that?” The engineer went pale and swallowed his gum. “Thunder? Was that thunder?”

“Oh, Jesus.” Finn turned in time to see the searing glow of tracer rounds split the night sky. “Martin. You still there? Haversham?” He called to the director even as Curt shifted the camera to the sky. “We’ve got explosions here. The air raid’s started. Yes, I’m sure. Get me on the air for God’s sake. Get me on the goddamn air.”

He heard the curses and cheers from the Chicago control room, then nothing but a statical hiss.

“Lost it. Fuck.” Coolly, he eyed the violent light show. He didn’t give a thought, at the moment, to one of those deadly lights striking the building. Every thought in his head was focused on transmitting the story. “Keep running that tape.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice.” Curt was all but hanging over the railing. “Look at that!” he shouted in a voice that was tight with nerves and excitement. Air-raid sirens screamed over the crash of exploding shells. “We got ourselves a front-row seat.”

In frustration, Finn held his microphone out to record the sounds of battle. “Get Chicago back.”

“I’m trying.” The engineer worked controls with trembling hands. “I’m trying, goddamn it.”

Eyes narrowed, Finn stalked to the balcony rail, then turned to the camera. If they couldn’t go live, at least they’d have
tape. “Baghdad’s night sky erupted at approximately two thirty-five this morning. There are flashes and the answering spears from antiaircraft. Flames shoot up from the horizon sporadically.” When he turned, he saw, with both awe and dull disbelief, the searing comet trail of a tracer flash by at eye level. Its deadly, eerie beauty made his blood pump. What a visual. “Oh, Christ, did you get that? Did you get it?”

He heard his engineer swear thinly as the building shook. Finn shoved his blowing hair out of his face and shouted into his mike. “The city is being rattled by the air raid. The waiting is over. It’s started.”

He turned back to the engineer. “Any luck?”

“No.” Though his color was still gone, he managed a wobbly grin. “I think our friendly hosts are going to be coming along pretty soon to evict us.”

Now Finn grinned, a quick, reckless flash as deadly as rifle fire. “They have to find us first.”

While Finn taped his war report, Deanna sat, numbed with boredom, through another interminable dinner. Strains of monotonous piano music wafted through the ballroom of the hotel in Indianapolis. In addition to after-dinner speeches, mediocre wine and rubber chicken, all she had to look forward to was the long trip back to Chicago.

At least, she thought, selfishly, she wasn’t suffering alone. She’d dragged Jeff Hyatt with her.

“It’s not too bad,” he murmured, as he swallowed a bite.

“If you put enough salt on it.”

She sent him a look that was nearly as bland as the meal. “That’s what I love about you, Jeff. Always the optimist. Let’s just see if you can smile about the fact that after we finish not eating this, the station manager, the head of sales and two of our advertisers are going to give speeches.”

He thought about it a moment, opted for water rather than wine. “Well, it could be worse.”

“I’m waiting.”

“We could be snowed in.”

She shuddered. “Please, don’t even joke about that.”

“I like these trips, really.” Head ducked, he glanced at her, then back to his plate. “Going through the station, meeting everyone, watching them roll out the red carpet for you.”

“I like that part myself. Spending time at one of the affiliates and seeing all that enthusiasm for the show. And most of the people are terrific.” She sighed and toyed with the lump of rice next to her chicken. She was just tired, she thought. All of her life, she’d had a surplus of energy, and now it seemed she was running on empty. All those demands on time, on her brain, on her body.

Celebrity, she’d discovered, was not all glamour and limos. For every perk there was a price. For every rich-and-famous elbow she rubbed, there were half a dozen corporate dinners or late-night meetings. For every magazine cover, there were canceled social plans. Helming a daily show didn’t simply mean having camera presence and good interviewing skills. It meant being on call twenty-four hours a day.

You got what you asked for, Dee, she reminded herself. Now stop whining and get to work. With a determined smile, she turned to the man beside her. Fred Banks, she remembered, station owner, golf enthusiast and hometown boy.

“I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed seeing your operation today,” she began. “You have a wonderful team.”

He puffed up with pride. “I like to think so. We’re number two now, but we intend to be number one within the year. Your show’s going to help us accomplish that.”

“I hope so.” She ignored the little ball of tension in her stomach. Her six months was almost up. “I’m told you were born right here in Indianapolis.”

“That’s right. Born and bred.”

While he expounded on the delights of his hometown, Deanna made appropriate comments while her eyes scanned the room. Every table was circled by people who were in some way depending on her to make it. And doing a good show wasn’t enough. She’d done so that morning, she thought. Nearly ten hours before—if you didn’t count time
for makeup, hair, wardrobe and pre-production. Then there’d been an interview, a staff meeting, phone calls to return, mail to screen.

Mail that had included another odd letter from what she was coming to think of as her most persistent fan.

You look like a sexy angel with your hair short.
I love the way you look.
I love you.

She’d tucked the note away and had answered three dozen others. All that before she’d hopped a plane with Jeff for Indianapolis and the tour of the affiliate, the meetings and handshakes with the local staff, the business lunch, the spot on the news and now this never-ending banquet.

No, a good show wasn’t enough. She had to be diplomat, ambassador, boss, business partner and celebrity. And she had to wear each and every hat correctly—while pretending she wasn’t lonely, or worried about Finn, or missing those quiet hours when she could curl up with a book for pleasure rather than because she’d be interviewing the author.

This was what she wanted, Deanna told herself, and beamed at the waiter as he served the peach melba.

“You can sleep on the plane going home,” Jeff whispered in her ear.

“It shows?”

“Just a little.”

She excused herself and pushed back from the table. If she couldn’t fix the fatigue, at least she could fix its signs.

She was nearly at the doors when she heard someone tap on the podium mike. Automatically, she looked back and saw Fred Banks standing under the lights. “If I can have your attention. I’ve just received word that Baghdad is under attack by UN forces.”

There was a buzzing in Deanna’s ears. Dimly she heard the noise level rise in the ballroom, like a sea at high tide. From somewhere nearby a waiter raised a triumphant fist.

“I hope they kick that bastard’s sorry butt.”

Slowly, all fatigue washing away, she walked back to the table. She had a job to finish.

Finn sat on the floor of a hotel bedroom, his laptop on his knees. He hammered out copy as fast as it could pass from his mind to his fingers. It was nearly dawn now, and though his eyes were gritty, he felt no sense of fatigue. Outside, the fire-fight continued. Inside, a game of cat and mouse was under way.

During the past three hours, they had moved twice, hauling equipment and provisions. While Iraqi soldiers swept the building, moving guests and international news crews to the basement of the hotel, Finn and his crew had slipped from room to room. The successful intrigue had his blood pumping.

While he took his round at sentry duty, his two companions sprawled on the bed and snatched sleep.

Satisfied with the copy he’d finished thus far, Finn turned off the computer. He rose, working out the kinks in his back, in his neck, and thinking wistfully of breakfast: blueberry pancakes and gallons of hot coffee. He made do with a handful of Curt’s trail mix, then hefted the camera.

At the window he recorded the final images of the first day of war, the lightning flashes of cruise missiles and smart bombs, the streaks of tracers. He speculated on how much devastation they would see when dawn broke. And how much they would get on tape.

“I’m gonna have to report you to the union, pal.”

Finn lowered the camera and glanced back at Curt. The cameraman was standing beside the bed, rubbing his tired eyes.

“You’re just pissed because I can handle this baby as well as you.”

“Shit.” Challenged, Curt walked over to take the camera. “You can’t do nothing but look pretty on tape.”

“Then get ready to prove it. I’ve got some copy to read.”

“You’re the boss.” He rolled tape in silence as bombs
exploded. “Are we going to work on a way to get out of here?”

“I’ve got some contacts in Baghdad.” Finn watched the fires leaping from the horizon. “Maybe.”

The moment the last after-dinner speech was finished, the last hand shaken, the last cheek kissed, Deanna headed for a phone. While Deanna called Fran and Richard, Jeff used the phone beside her to contact the Chicago newsroom.

“What?” Richard answered with a snarl. “What is it?”

“Richard? Richard, it’s Deanna. I’m on my way to the airport in Indianapolis. I heard about the air strike, and—”

“Yeah, right. We heard. But we’ve got our own little crisis right here. Fran’s in labor. We’re just about to head out to the hospital.”

“Now?” Because it felt like her circuits were about to overload, Deanna pressed her fingers hard against her temple. “I thought we had another ten days.”

“Tell that to Big Ed. Breathe, Fran, don’t forget to breathe.”

“Look, I won’t hold you up. Just tell me if she’s okay.”

“She just finished half a pizza—that’s why she didn’t tell me she was in labor. She already contacted Bach. Looks like you’re going to be preempted tomorrow. No, damn it, you’re not going to talk to her, Fran, you’re going to breathe.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can. Tell her . . . Oh, Jesus, just tell her I’ll be there.”

“I’m counting on it. Hey, we’re going to have a baby! See you.”

With the line buzzing in her ear, Deanna rested her brow against the wall. “What a day.”

“Finn Riley reported the air strike.”

“What?” Alert again, she spun around to Jeff. “Finn? He’s all right, then?”

“He was on the line with the studio when it hit. He got about five seconds of pictures across before they lost the feed.”

“So we don’t know,” she said slowly.

“Hey, he’s been through stuff like this before, right?” He put a hesitant arm around her shoulders as he led her out to their waiting car.

“Yes, of course. Of course he has.”

“And look at it this way. We’re getting out of here at least an hour early, because everybody wanted to get home and turn on the tube.”

She nearly laughed. “You’re good for me, Jeff.”

He beamed back at her. “Same goes.”

It was six
A
.
M
. when Deanna finally unlocked the door to her apartment and staggered inside. She’d been up for a full twenty-four hours and was long past fatigue. But, she reminded herself, she’d fulfilled her professional obligations, and she’d seen her goddaughter born.

Aubrey Deanna Myers, she mused, and smiled blearily as she walked to the bedroom. An eight-pound miracle with red hair. After watching that incredibly beautiful life slide into the world, it was hard to believe there was a war raging on the other side of the world.

But as she tugged off her clothes, unspeakably grateful that her show was preempted that morning, she switched on the television and brought that war into her home.

What time was it in Baghdad? she wondered, but her mind simply wouldn’t cope with the math. Wearily she sat on the edge of the bed in her underwear and tried to concentrate on the images and reports.

“Be careful, damn you.”

It was her last thought as she slid down over the bedspread and tumbled into sleep.

Late during the second night of the Gulf War, Finn set up at a Saudi base. He was tired and hungry and longed for a bath. He could hear the roar of jets taking off from the airfield to make their way to Iraq. Other news teams, he knew, would be broadcasting reports.