Private Scandals by Nora Roberts
ANGELA TRADES WINDY CITY FOR BIG APPLE
TALK SHOW QUEEN TO REIGN IN NEW YORK
MULTIMILLION-DOLLAR DEAL FOR
CHICAGO’S FAVORITE BLONDE
The headlines gloated over the news. Even staunch vehicles like the Chicago Tribune, The New York Times, The Washington Post carried the banner. For one sunny day in June, stories of Angela’s record-breaking deal overshadowed the troubled economy and unrest in the Middle East.
She was in her element.
With the graciousness of royalty, she granted interviews, welcomed a team from People into her home, chatted with Liz Smith over the phone. She had a quote for Variety and agreed to a layout in McCall’s.
Finally, through hard work, blind ambition and sheer guts, she had attained what she’d always craved. Undivided attention.
She was canny enough to have nothing but the highest praise for CBC, for Delacort and for Chicago. She even worked up a few tears on Entertainment Tonight.
And her clipping service captured every word, every inch of print that revolved around her.
Then, amidst the uproar, she delivered the coup de grace. She would be taking the last six weeks on her contract as vacation.
“She knows how to turn the screws, doesn’t she?” Fran rolled a pair of mismatched socks into a ball and tossed them into a laundry basket.
“That’s not the worst of it.” Deanna paced the tiny living room of Fran’s downtown apartment. “Half her staff got pink-slipped. The others have the choice of pulling up stakes and moving to New York or looking for a new job.” She hissed through her teeth. “There aren’t any damn jobs.”
“Obviously you don’t read the papers. The administration says we’re not in a recession. It’s all in our minds.”
Unamused, Deanna picked up a book of baby names and slapped it against her palm as she roamed the room. “I saw Lew McNeil’s face when he left the building yesterday. God, Fran, he’s been with her almost six years, and she cuts him loose without a thought.”
Fran chose another pair of socks, one navy, one black. Close enough, she decided, and bundled them together. The heat made her purple tank top stick to her skin. “I’m sorry, Dee, for all of them. Everybody in television knows the game usually stinks. But I’m more concerned about you. Is Marshall still calling?”
“He stopped leaving messages on my machine.” She shrugged. “I think he finally figured out I wasn’t going to call back. He still sends flowers.” With a bitter laugh, she tossed the baby book back onto the coffee table. “Can you believe it? He really thinks if he blankets me in enough posies, I’ll forget everything.”
“Want to have a men-are-scum session? Richard’s playing golf, so he can’t be offended.”
“No, thanks.” For the first time, she focused on her friend. “Fran, you just rolled up a gray sock with a blue one.”
“I know. It adds a little excitement to the mornings. I gotta tell you, Dee, Richard’s getting staid. You know, Saturday golf dates, three-piece suits. The house in the ’burbs we’re buying. Jesus, we used to be rebels. Now we’re . . .” She shuddered, lowered her voice. “Mainstream.”
Laughing, Deanna sat cross-legged on the floor. “I’ll believe that when you buy a Volvo and an espresso machine.”
“I almost bought one of those ‘Baby On Board’ signs the other day. I came to my senses just in time.”
“Then you’re okay. I haven’t even asked how you’re feeling.”
“Fabulous, really.” Fran jabbed a loose pin back into her messy topknot. “All these women at work who’ve had kids look at me with scorn and envy. They have all these horror stories about pregnancy—morning sickness, fainting, water retention. And I feel like Rocky.” She lifted an arm, flexed her muscle and managed to make a couple of freckles ripple. “Like I could go the distance without breaking a sweat.” Lips pursed, she held up a checked argyle and a white sweat sock. “What do you think?”
“Why be subtle?” For the next few minutes they worked silently, folding laundry. “Fran, I’ve been thinking.”
“I wondered when you’d get around to it. I could practically see the idea hopping around in your brain.”
“It could be impractical,” Deanna mused. “Hell, it could be impossible. After I run it by you, I want you to be completely honest.”
“All right.” Fran shoved the laundry basket away with one bare foot. “Shoot.”
“Delacort, Angela’s old syndicate, is going to have a big hole in their line-up and in their revenue. I’m sure they can fill it adequately enough, but . . . Did you know Delacort’s CEO was Angela’s second husband?”
“Sure. Loren Bach.” Aside from the occasional grisly mystery, Fran’s favorite reading was gossip rags, and she wasn’t ashamed of it. If you wanted to know what celebrity was doing what with whom, and where, she was your girl. “They hooked up right after she ditched her first one—the real estate tycoon. Anyway, Loren Bach put a lot of money and muscle behind our girl. Made her a star.”
“And though there were a few rumors, and some items in gossip columns to the contrary, they supposedly parted amicably.” That much, Deanna had read. “Knowing Angela the way I do now, I really doubt that.”
Fran’s eyebrows wiggled. Not only did she love gossip, she loved dirty gossip best. “Word was she cost him a cool two million in the settlement, plus the house and furnishings, so I’d make it four mil. I wouldn’t think Bach would have too much residual affection for our heroine.”
“Exactly. And Bach has a long-standing relationship with Barlow James, the president of CBC’s news division.” Deanna rubbed her nervous hands on her knees. “And Mr. James likes my work.”
Fran cocked her head, her eyes bright as a bird’s. “So?”
“So I’ve got some money saved, I’ve got some connections.” The idea had her heart jittering so that she pressed the heel of her hand against it as if to slow its pace. She wanted this very much, maybe too much. Enough, she realized, to skip several steps of her carefully calculated career plan. “I want to rent a studio, put together a tape. I want to pitch it to Loren Bach.”
“Jesus.” Fran leaned back against the cushions of the couch and goggled. “Is this you talking?”
“I know how it sounds, but I’ve thought it through. Bach moved Angela from a small, local show to a national hit. He could do it again. I’m hoping he wants to do it again, not only for his company, but personally. I can put together a series of clips from ‘Deanna’s Corner’ and my news reports. I think I can get Barlow James to back me. And if I had a pilot, something simple and slick, I might have a shot.” She rose again, too excited to sit. “The timing’s perfect. The syndicate’s still reeling from Angela’s defection, and they haven’t groomed a successor. If I could convince them to give me a chance locally, a handful of markets in the Midwest, I know I could make it work.”
Fran blew out a breath, tapped her fingers on her flat belly. “It’s off the wall, all right. And I love it.” Letting her head fall back, she laughed at the ceiling. “It’s just screwy enough to fly.”
“I’ll make it fly.” Deanna came back to crouch in front of Fran and grip her hands. “Especially if I have an experienced producer.”
“You can count on me. But the cost of the studio, the techs, even a trimmed-down production staff. It’s a lot to risk.”
“I’m willing to risk it.”
“Richard and I have some put away.”
“No.” Touched, grateful, Deanna shook her head. “Absolutely not. Not with my godchild on the way. I’ll take your brain, your back and your time, but not your money.” After patting Fran’s belly, she stood again. “Believe me, the first three are more important.”
“Okay. So what’s your format, what’s your topic, where’s your audience?”
“I want something simple, comfortable. Nothing issue-oriented. I want to do what I do best, Fran. Talk to people. Get them to talk to me. We get a couple of deep, cozy chairs. God knows I need new furniture a
“Fun,” Fran said. “If you’re not going for the tears and angst, go for the fun. Something the audience can get involved in.”
Deanna pulled at her earlobe. “I thought I might draw on some of the guests I’ve had on ‘Deanna’s Corner.’ Sort of a woman-in-the-arts thing.”
“It’s not bad, but it’s tame. And it’s lofty. I don’t think you want talking heads for a demo, especially arty ones.” Fran thought over the possibilities. “We did this makeover thing on Woman Talk last year. Went over big.”
“You mean a before-and-after sort of thing?”
“Yeah. Makeup, hair. It’s fun. It’s satisfying. But you know what I’d like?” She curled her legs up, leaned forward. “A fashion show sort of thing. What’s new for summer? What’s hot? What’s now? You get, say, Marshall Field’s involved. They get to show off some of the summer styles. Career stuff, evening stuff, casual wear.”
Eyes half closed, Deanna tried to visualize it. “Right down to shoes and accessories, with a fashion coordinator. Then we choose women out of the audience.”
“Exactly. Real women, no perfect bodies.”
Warming to the idea, Deanna reached for her purse and took out a notebook. “We’ll have to have chosen them earlier. So the fashion coordinator has time to find the right look, the right outfit.”
“Then they get, say, a hundred-dollar gift certificate from the department store.”
“How to look like a million for a hundred dollars or less.”
“Oh, I like it.” Fran rocked back. “I really like it.”
“I’ve got to get home.” Deanna scrambled up. “Make some calls. We’ve got to move fast.”
“Sweet pea, I’ve never known you to move any other way.”
It required eighteen-hour days, the bulk of Deanna’s savings and a surplus of frustration. Because she was able to wrangle only a week off from her duties at CBC, she did without sleep. Fueled on coffee and ambition, she pushed the project forward. Meetings with the promotion people at Marshall Field’s, phone calls to union reps, hours of searching for the right set accessories.
The first Deanna’s Hour might need to be produced on a shoestring, but she didn’t intend for it to look that way. Deanna oversaw every step and stage. A loss or a victory, she was determined that it carry her mark.
She bargained. A set of chairs for on-screen credit. She promised. A few hours’ labor for a full-time position if the pilot was picked up. She begged and she borrowed. Fifty folding chairs from a local women’s group. Floral arrangements, equipment, bodies.
On the morning of the taping, the small studio she had rented was in chaos. Lighting technicians shouted orders and suggestions as they made last-minute adjustments. The models were crammed into a bread box-size dressing room, jockeying for enough space to dress. Deanna’s mike shorted out, and the florist delivered a funeral wreath instead of the baskets of summer blossoms.
“ ‘In loving memory of Milo.’ ” Deanna read the card and let loose with a quick, hysterical laugh. “Oh, Christ, what else?”
“We’ll fix it.” Firmly, and perhaps frantically, in control, Fran gave her a brisk shove. “I’ve already sent Richard’s nephew Vinnie out for baskets. We’ll just pull the flowers out and toss them in. It’ll look great,” she said desperately. “Natural.”
“You bet. We’ve got less than an hour.” She winced at the sound of a crashing folding chair. “If anyone actually shows up for the audience, we’re going to look like idiots.”
“They’re going to show up.” Fran attacked the gladiolas. Her hair stood out in corkscrew spikes, like an electric halo. “And we’ll be fine. Between the two of us we contacted every women’s organization in Cook County. Every one of the fifty tickets is spoken for. We could have managed twice that if we’d had a bigger studio. Don’t worry.”
“You’re worried.”
“That’s a producer’s job. Go change, do your hair. Pretend you’re a star.”
“Oh, Miss Reynolds? Deanna?” The fashion consultant, a petite, perky woman with a permanent smile, waved from offstage.
“I want to kill her,” Deanna said under her breath. “I want it bad.”
“Stand in line,” Fran suggested. “If she’s changed her mind about the running order again, I get first shot.”
“Oh, Deanna?”
“Yes, Karyn.” Deanna fixed a smile on her face and turned. “What can I do for you?”
“I just have a teeny little problem? The walking shorts in pumpkin?”
“Yes?” Deanna gritted her teeth. Why did the woman have to make a question out of every statement?
“They just don’t suit Monica. I don’t know what I was thinking of. Do you think we could have someone dash over to the store and pick up the same outfit in eggplant?”
Before Deanna could open her mouth, Fran eased forward. “I’ll tell you what, Karyn. Why don’t you call the store, have someone dash over here with the outfit.”
“Oh.” Karyn blinked. “I suppose I could, couldn’t I? Goodness, I’d better hurry. It’s almost show time.”
“Whose idea was it to do a fashion show?”
Fran went back to dismantling the funeral wreath. “It must have been yours. I would never have thought up something this complicated. Go put yourself together. You won’t make much of a fashion statement in sweats and with curlers in your hair.”
“Right. If I’m going to bomb, I might as well look my best doing it.”
Deanna’s dressing room was the size of a closet, but it boasted a sink, a john and a mirror. She grinned when she saw the big gold star Fran had taped to the door.
Maybe it was just a symbol, she mused as she ran a fingertip over the foil, but it was her symbol. Now she was going to have to earn it.
Even if everything fell apart, she’d have three weeks’ worth of incredible memories. The rush and thrill of putting the show together, the fascination and strain of handling all the details. And the knowledge, the absolute certainty that this was exactly what she wanted to do with her life. Added to that, astoundingly, was the fact that so many people believed she could.
There had been tips from the floor director at CBC, advice from Benny and several others on the production end. Joe had agreed to head up the camera crew and had persuaded a few of his pals to help with the sound and lighting end. Jeff Hyatt had arranged for editing and graphics.
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.
“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.”