Sellevision (15 page)

Peggy Jean laughed and took a dainty sip of her cherry beverage. “Of course not! You boys
deserve
a treat!” Then glancing at her watch, “Now go put your sneakers on, we don’t want to be late.”

In the car, all three boys sat in the back as usual. The eldest made a gun with the fingers of his right hand and pretended to shoot their mother in the back, through the seat.

The other two boys covered their mouths and tried not to laugh.

A

t 7:30 sharp the doorbell rang, and John Smythe bounded down the stairs wearing a T-shirt and a pair of shorts, which he hoped showed off his muscular legs to their best advantage. Nikki was wearing jeans and a little white top. She looked fresh, as if she had just come from a nap on a bed of violets.

“Hi, Mr. Smythe,” she said when he opened the door. “I hope I’m not late.”

John invited her inside. “Not at all, Nikki. Perfect timing. But there’s been a change of plans, and it’s all my fault.”

She looked at him with big eyes.

“My wife screwed up and took the kids out to a movie. She must have forgotten that I told her I had a surprise.”

Nikki looked disappointed. “Gosh, Mr. Smythe, that’s awful. And it sounded like it was going to be so romantic.”

“Ah, well, another time,” he said, scratching his leg, drawing her attention to it.

“Do you run?” she asked.

“Now and then, just to, you know, keep in shape.” His face felt hot, flushed. “Well, since you’re here, can I get you something? A Pepsi or maybe some milk?”

“Do you have any wine?” she asked.

“Young lady, you aren’t even eighteen years old,” he said, smiling, flirting.

“I’m almost eighteen,” she said, shrugging. “Pepsi’s okay, I guess.”

She smelled, he thought, like springtime.

“One Pepsi coming right up. Go ahead and make yourself at home.” His heart was beating so hard in his chest that he was worried she could hear it. He walked into the kitchen and got two glasses from the cupboard and two cans of Pepsi from the refrigerator, and filled the glasses with ice.

“So tell me, Nikki,” he said as he handed her a glass, “how’s life?

“Good, I guess. Why is your hand shaking?”

He sat down on the couch, putting his glass on the coffee table. “Oh, just the ice from the drinks, that’s all.”

She took a sip.

“So, ah . . .” thinking of something to ask her, “what are your plans when you finish high school?”

“Well, actually, I was kind of hoping to be a model,” she said bashfully.

He smiled. “Yes, yes indeed, I could see that. You do resemble Bridget Hall.”

“Oh my God!” she exclaimed, turning sideways on the sofa to face him. “You
know
who Bridget Hall is?”

“Well, of course I do, everyone knows who Bridget Hall is.”

She widenend her eyes. “I cannot
believe
you know who she is, that is like,
so
cool. God, my father has no clue at all.”

Why would he
, John thought,
with a daughter like you?

“But I think you’re a lot prettier than she is. You’re kind of Bridget-Hall-slash-Kirsty-Hume.”

“Kirsty Hume! I love Kirsty, I would die to look like her, God,
her hair
.” Then, “Do you know that new girl, oh what’s her name, she’s like fourteen . . . really tall . . . long red hair . . . oh, what’s her
name?
” she whined, squeezing her eyes shut, trying to think.

“Heather Sands,” offered John immediately. “But she’s
thirteen
, not fourteen.”

She slammed both hands down on the couch between them. “Yes! Exactly! Oh my God, you are so totally cool, I wish you were my father.”

Good thing I’m not
, John thought.

“I

t’s really hard to be sympathetic toward somebody who is so tan,” Leigh told Howard on his first day back from St. Barts. They were having lunch together at a restaurant forty minutes from Sellevision, a small, unremarkable establishment where there was no chance of being seen together.

“Well, I’m telling you, Leigh, it was hell, just hell. Can you pass the salt?”

“You didn’t answer my question,” she said, placing the salt shaker in front of his plate.

“Yes, I told her.”

“Oh, Howard! You did? You really did?”

“Yes,” he cleared his throat. “And no. I mean, I started to.”

She glared at him, dropping her fork on her plate. “Howard, cut the b.s., okay? Did you tell your wife you want a divorce or not? I want to know where we stand.”

“All right, I started to. I started talking about making changes, evolving as people, and then I realized that it was just too heavy. Way too serious a conversation to have in an airport in San Juan.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute, I thought you went to St. Barts. Are you just physically unable to tell the truth?”

“We did go to St. Barts, Leigh, but we changed flights on the way home in San Juan.”

“Okay, whatever, I don’t even care about that. I’m just really confused. You told me, you promised me, that you were going to tell your wife as soon as you got back.”

“I know what I promised, and I’m going to keep that promise. I love you, Leigh.”

“God damn it, Howard,” Leigh said, blinking back tears. “Why are you doing this to me? Telling me you love me, telling me ‘oh, I’m going to leave my wife for you,’ and then nothing ever happens, nothing changes?”

“Sweetheart,” Howard said, reaching over and placing his hand gently against Leigh’s cheek. “It’s just timing, that’s all it is, it’s just a matter of finding the right time.”

“I hate how much I missed you,” she said softly, almost under her breath.

“I missed you too, Leigh, so much, so very, very much.”

Leigh stared at the poached blowfish on her plate. “You know, I bought this book while you were away,” she said, poking her fork at the fish. “It’s about women who love people they shouldn’t.” She decided not to tell him the
exact
title.

“Leigh, why? Why are you reading trash like that, huh? I’m not the wrong man for you. I’m the right man for you, because I love you.”

“No, wait. Just listen.”

Howard exhaled and set his fork down. “Okay, I’m sorry, tell me about your little book.”

“Well, it just really made me feel upset, because in the book they talk about the warning signs, what to look for in a bad relationship. And it was like they were describing you. Everything they said, it was all you.” Leigh dabbed her pinkie under each eye and sighed.

“Sweetheart, I just want to hold you. You need to be held. Let’s get out of this place and go somewhere where we can be close for a couple of hours.” Howard raised his hand and wrote his signature in the air, signaling the waiter to bring the check.

A

fter making love on top of the garish bedspread at the Ramada Inn. Howard rolled over, said, “I’m just gonna grab a quick shower,” and went into the bathroom. Leigh stared at the heavy pleated drapes over the window that matched the hideous bedspread. Though it was midafternoon, the room was dark, except for what light leaked out from under the bathroom door.
In the dark, that’s me
, Leigh thought to herself.

This was Leigh’s day off, so Howard drove her home. “I’ll see you tomorrow, sweetheart, and don’t forget that I love you.” He kissed her cheek.

Leigh managed a weak smile, stepped out of the S-Class Mercedes and walked into her apartment building.

Howard pulled away and headed for Sellevision. As he merged onto the freeway, he caught a glimpse of his aquiline nose, slightly sunburned, and hoped that it didn’t peel. He also thought,
What excellent rhinoplasty
.

W

ith a grave expression on his face, the news anchor read the Teleprompter. “In other news, killer teens continue to terrorize schools across the country. The latest massacre occurred yesterday in rural Alabama, where a twelve-year-old boy executed seventy-two of his classmates with an Uzi submachine gun. The youth, now in police custody, is said to have listened to music by the recording artist Celine Dion. And now for sports.”

“Cut,” the director shouted. He folded his almost
carpeted
arms across his barrel chest and walked over to the news desk. “Max, ya gotta
sell
the news. What’s with this sour face?”

Max swallowed and cleared his throat. “Um, well, I just thought, you know, since this is about a kid killing other kids, it should, you know, be sort of on the serious side.”

The director, a large, balding man with one thick black eyebrow running horizontally above his eyes, was losing patience. “Look, this shit happens all the time. Americans are bored with killer teens. Maybe in the nineties it got under people’s skin, but not anymore. This stuff is so
over
.”

Max nodded his head.

“Jazz it up! You know? Put a wink in it.”

“A wink,” Max said. “Okay, I’ll try that.”

The director exhaled and turned around. “All right, okay, let’s take it again from the top.” He clapped his hands. “Everybody quiet now, and . . .
action!
”

Again, Max recited the news copy, this time trying to impart a certain edge of restrained wit to the delivery. He even smirked slightly when he mentioned Celine Dion.

“Cut! Cut!
Cut!
” the director shouted. “Okay, this isn’t working, but I have an idea.” He spun around and started yelling. “Mitch, hey Mitch! Where the hell is Mitch?”

“I’m right here!” shouted one of the guys wearing jeans and a T-shirt, a half-eaten croissant in his hand.

“Mitch, buddy, I want you to throw a key light on Max’s chin. Maybe something a little off to the side, something to really emphasize the cleft. Do that for me, buddy?”

“Sure thing,” Mitch said, tossing the rest of his croissant into a nearby trash can and running off in search of a key light. The director then stomped back over to Max. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. Forget what I said before. This time, I want you to be sexy.”

“Sexy?” Max asked, unsure.

“Yeah, I want you to think Brad Pitt meets Dan Rather. The fact is, fifty-nine percent of our viewers are women.” Then, liking his own idea more and more, the director said, “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” and rubbed his hands together fast. “This could be good, so just really
seduce
the camera. Forget you’re reading about killer teens. Pretend it’s poetry.”

After the audition, Max phoned his agent, Laurie.

“She’s in a meeting,” the receptionist said after putting Max briefly on hold. “Any message?”

“Tell her I just got out of the audition with WXON for the anchor spot.”

“Mm-hmm-hmm,” the receptionist mumbled into the phone as she wrote. “And a phone number where she can reach you?”

“She has my number. I’ll be home in a couple hours, have her call me there,” he said, then added, “when she gets a chance.”

Max walked down Broadway, thinking about his chances with the station. He thought that what he may have lacked in journalistic appeal, he made up for in personality, believability, and looks. Plus, he was just so natural in front of the camera. It was difficult to read the director, though.

Then, as he was walking, he saw a $50 bill, right there on the sidewalk. He bent over and picked it up. It
looked
real. He grinned, stuffed the bill into his pocket, and continued walking.
So much of life is luck
, he thought.

ten

T
he flight attendant aboard the Concorde approached Bebe and Eliot with two tall crystal flutes of champagne balanced on a silver serving stray. “Veuve Cliquot?” she asked.

“Yes, thank you very much.” Bebe took one glass for herself and handed the other to Eliot. This marked the first time since the sonic boom a few moments ago that the two had acted like adults.

Not wanting to establish a precedent for such behavior, Eliot sipped his champagne with a loud, childish slurp.

Laughing, Bebe challenged him. “I dare you to be normal for five minutes.” Then looking at her watch, “I’m going to
time
you.”

“Okay, time me,” Eliot grinned. After a pause of about three seconds, he turned and asked, “What do normal people talk about?”

“God, how would I know?”

“Okay, let’s talk about our jobs, normal people talk about their jobs, I think.”

“Terrific, you’re doing good so far. You go first.”

Eliot raised his eyebrows and said seductively, “There’s no stain on earth I wouldn’t eliminate for you, my dear.”

Bebe smiled at him.

Then remembering, he said, “Oh, I almost forgot, I brought you a surprise.”

“You mean like a trip on the Concord to Paris for dinner isn’t enough?”

He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket. “
Voilà
,” he said, presenting her a long, black velvet jewelry box.

Startled, Bebe said, “Oh no, Eliot, no, whatever that is, it’s way too much, I can’t.”

“Please, I wanted to—please, Bebe.”

Feeling that she had already been rushing things by agreeing to this crazy Concorde trip in the first place, Bebe was now feeling like this might have been a mistake, that Eliot was moving a little too fast.