Her Name Will Be Faith

by Christopher Nicole

  “That is it,” J. Calthrop White declared. “Kill it, Kiley.”

  Kiley twisted his fingers together. “It’s getting quite good audience support, JC…”

  “You mean half a dozen telephone calls.”

  “Well, people don’t usually telephone after the weather report…”

  “Yes, they do. And the people who are telephoning are the same who were watching the weather program anyway. That program has had not the slightest effect on our ratings.”

  “That’s true, JC, but there could be something any day. According to Connors…”

  “That asshole? Bringing him up here is the biggest mistake you ever made, Kiley. And at seventy-five grand a year… Jesus Christ! He’s made us the laughing stock of the networks with his warnings that this could be the year of the big storm, or at least of exceptional activity. All because it’s hot? For Chrissake, it’s too damned hot for hurricanes, that’s what it is. How many have we had so far?”

  “Well,” Kiley said, “the last was named Eric…”

  “So that makes five. Just five, in six weeks since the start of the season. And every one has gone flatter than one of my wife’s pancakes in less than a week.”

  “Yeah. Connors says he can’t understand it.”

  “He couldn’t understand a tornado in his back yard.”

  “Well… there’s this big system out in the Cape Verde Islands…”

  “The Cape Verdes? Holy shit! That’s four thousand goddamned miles away. And it’s been there for damn near a month, just sitting. That isn’t going anywhere, Kiley. It’s pure convection. We want programs which are going to boost our ratings. That’s damned important right now. Having the capital isn’t enough to convince those goddamned Limeys we can run a network. They want proven results. And bids for that franchise need to be in the first of next month.”

  Kiley nodded. “How’s the financing going, JC?”

  “Goddamned Irish shit,” JC said. “Still saying it can’t be done at such short notice… and in the summer. What the hell has the time of year to do with it? You know something, Kiley, it’s because that asshole of a son of his wants to spend the whole goddamned summer racing. And now Mike tells me he’s packing it in as well and going to the Bahamas for at least a fortnight. Says he does it every year and can’t change his plans now. Nothing to worry about, he says; my partner, Cal Palmer, is handling everything. For Chrissake, Cal Palmer. That bid has to be in August One.” White brooded for several seconds, then raised his head. “Now you listen to me, Kiley…” He wagged his gold pencil. “You kill those goddamned chats. And I want you to get this straight: Connors’ contract will not be renewed next spring. You got that?”

  “I’ve got it, JC,” Kiley said, unhappily.

  WEDNESDAY 12 JULY

  Bognor, Connecticut

  “Saturday,” Babs said happily. “Oh, Saturday. It’s just incredible that another whole year should have rolled by. But you know what, Jo, honey, every fifteenth of July I feel kind of reborn. How I love that place.”

  Jo watched the children playing in the pool. School had broken up a week before, to her great relief. Owen Michael’s stomachache had developed into an almost nightly feature during the exams, and she had worried herself sick — when she had been in the mood to be worried. But, as Dr Glenville had prophesied, with the ending of the pressure it had just disappeared.

  “When Big Mike retires… heck, it’s only in a couple of years,” Babs reflected. “I reckon we’re going to move down there, permanently.”

  Jo turned her head in surprise. “Not sell Pinewoods?”

  “Well, I don’t think we will. I mean, Michael will take over as head of the firm. So why shouldn’t you take this place? You don’t want to spend the rest of your life in a New York apartment.”

  “Um,” Jo said. She had realized that Babs, and no doubt Big Mike as well, had interpreted her almost euphoric happiness of the past month as meaning she and Michael had at last patched up their differences; fortunately Michael, absorbed with getting Esmeralda ready for the big race, which started this weekend as well, had not noticed any difference in her demeanor at all. He had hardly been home long enough to do so, anyway.

  She still had no idea what to do about it. She had now been to Richard’s apartment five times, had met him for lunch on nine occasions, had called him at least three times a week or been called by him. Most of the calls had been made from the privacy of her study at home, but sufficient had been from the office to cause a certain amount of gossip. She was dipping her hand into the fire without caring if it was burnt.

  Simply because she was in love. But even through the euphoria she understood that she could not live the rest of her life as a lie — any more than she could give up the children. Because that was what would happen if Michael found out. So maybe nowadays there was no guilty party, in the eyes of the law; there was still the discretion of the judge as to who was the more fitted to bring up the children — a husband who, if his true love was a boat, could yet provide them with the loving family background of grandparents and aunts and uncles, or an adulterous mother who would have to bring them up in a tiny Manhattan apartment… all she would be able to afford on her salary from Profiles.

  It was a sodding world, she thought. She had always dreamed of one day inheriting Pinewoods. The thought that it could happen in a couple of years… but did she want it, now?

  “All packed?” Babs asked, determined to keep the conversation going.

  “Not really. I’ll pack Friday.”

  “You sure leave things late.”

  “Well, there’s not all that much to pack, for just the three of us,” Jo pointed out. “Shorts, shirts, that’s it. Anyway, I have Michael’s dinner party tomorrow night.”

  “Oh, yes, I’d forgotten that. Will it be the usual crowd?”

  “The crew and their wives, yes.”

  “What are you giving them?”

  Jo told her. “Followed by Baked Alaskas.”

  “Isn’t that a bit ambitious for twelve?”

  “Florence is a whizz with baked Alaskas. Anyway, it won’t be twelve. Only Sam and Larry are married.”

  “Well, you ought to have fun.” Babs hesitated, choosing her words. She and Jo hadn’t really had a chance to talk about much for the past three weeks or so, but with the girl so obviously happy… and yet there remained an undercurrent of tension. “I can’t tell you how happy it makes Mike and me to see you… well, to feel things are okay between Michael and you again.”

  “Um,” Jo said.

  “Sure, I know it’s one hell of a disappointment, Michael not coming. I feel the same way about Marcia, but she has her Benny, and they are so anxious to get their house fixed up.”

  “And they’re doing something together,” Jo said before she could stop herself.

  “Jo! You’re not still angry about that, are you?”

  “No,” Jo said, with complete honesty. “Michael is welcome to spend all the time he wants in his plastic bathtub.”

  “Just let him do this race,” Babs recommended. “And win his class. That’s all he’s ever wanted to do, win his class in the Bermuda. Then we’ll talk him into letting go a little.”

  WEDNESDAY 12 JULY

  Park Avenue

  “Hi,” Richard’s voice drifted over the phone. “Tomorrow?”

  “I can’t,” Jo said.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I have to prepare a dinner party for Michael’s crew.”

  “Hell… and you’re off on Saturday?”

  “So I’m free… Friday evening. I’ll get a sitter. Michael will have left for Newport by then.” She waited; they had never had the opportunity to spend even part of a night together. She had become utterly wanton. But she wanted this to happen, and then… she knew that three weeks on Eleuthera would give her the time to think, to know what she had to do.

  “Oh, Jo,” he said. “That’ll be just marvelous. I have to do the ten o’clock forecast.”r />
  “So I’ll watch it, from your lounge.”

  “Sweetheart. Say, I have some news.”

  “Good news?”

  “Well, some of it’s good, some of it’s bad, and some of it’s just interesting. What’ll you have first?”

  “The bad.”

  “Ah. JC has killed the chat show.”

  “No! But why?”

  “Seems his ratings people have told him it hasn’t had any impact. No storms, you see.”

  “But there could be one.”

  “Sure. As a matter of fact, I’ll give you the interesting piece next.”

  “Shoot.”

  “You know that huge cloud mass over the Cape Verdes I’ve been telling you about, and showing on the box.”

  “Yes.” Suddenly she was breathless.

  “It’s started to shift.”

  “Where?”

  “Slightly to the west. Only slightly. But Jo” — now his own voice was excited — “Mark says there are signs of circulation.”

  “Oh, boy,” she said.

  “Pleased about that?”

  “Shouldn’t I be? It’ll vindicate everything you’ve been saying.”

  “Maybe. The circulation is still very weak. Highest sustained winds aren’t much over 20 knots; that’s just a good sailing breeze.”

  “But it’ll grow from that.”

  “It could. And if it does, well… it has to come ashore somewhere. Not a nice thought for those people in the way.”

  “Where would you expect that to happen?”

  “From where it is now, anywhere. But most probably the northern West Indies. Say Haiti or Puerto Rico.”

  “So I’ll worry about them. But Richard, can’t you put that information on White’s desk and convince him the show should go on at least another week?”

  “Nope. For two reasons. One, it would be begging, and begging JC is one thing not on my agenda. And secondly, there is every possibility this one will turn out to be a damp squib, just like the other five we’ve had so far. It’s still pretty early in the year, and while I’m prepared to bet there’s going to be a big storm this year, I’d rather go for the end of August, early September. Anyway, if it does prove something, it’ll be mud in JC’s eye. And it’ll give your article a boost. When is it out?”

  “Next week. I won’t be here, but I’ve arranged for Ed to let you have a copy.”

  “Something to keep me warm while you’re away. Three weeks. I am going to go stark, raving mad.”

  “Are you?” she murmured.

  “Yeah. You never asked me what the good news was.”

  “No, I didn’t,” she said. “Tell me?”

  “Only that I love you.”

  “I love you too,” she said.

  THURSDAY 13 JULY

  Park Avenue

  Florence was in despair — the cooker wouldn’t work and she couldn’t get anyone to come and repair it.

  Owen Michael had a tummy ache all over again.

  Ed phoned; would she like to do a series on Andre Previn?

  Tamsin had a fight with the girl on the floor below.

  And to cap it all, Nana was sick on the lounge carpet — the third time in two days.

  Jo handled it all, but even the children noticed how she repeatedly grinned, for no apparent reason. Florence was most impressed by the calm way she coped with the disastrous afternoon, though she did wonder if her young employer realized that the dinner she and her husband were giving that night would be wrecked if someone didn’t get the cooker working in time.

  Jo got on the phone and threatened the maintenance people with publicity on their inefficiency — which brought a Mr Fix-It to tackle Florence’s problem within twenty minutes. She sat Owen Michael in front of the TV and told him to relax — presumably he was getting worked up over his father’s imminent departure for Newport and his own flight to Miami and thence Eleuthera… but if he was going to have to go through life with a bellyache every time he got excited he was going to have a hard time.

  She sang as she scooped up the mess on the carpet and washed the stain, and gave Tamsin a brief lesson on basic judo — while Ed sat at his desk impressed, not to say overwhelmed, by Jo Donnelly’s enthusiastic reception of her latest assignment, which she promised to research during her vacation and undertake the moment she returned. Maybe, he thought, she has something going for Previn.

  Jo’s mood lasted all evening. Wearing a stunning little cocktail number, she welcomed Sam and Sally Davenport — Sam was Michael’s best friend as well as his second-in-command on the yacht — Larry and Beth Simmons, Jon Tremayne, Pete Albicete, and Mark Godwin. Mark was as shy as ever — he was by some distance the youngest and newest of the crew — but the others she had known for years. Actually, she liked them all, and could understand the good fellowship Michael enjoyed with them; she would have enjoyed it too had she been allowed to share. But Sally and Beth did not seem the least resentful of their husbands’ preoccupation, and joined in the enthusiastic counting up of reasons why they should win their class this year.

  Michael was at his beaming best. He was always a superb host, and he was obviously pleased that Jo was making such a magnificent effort to play the beautiful and loving wife. Certainly she was convinced, unless he had been doing some locker-room confiding, that none of the others had the slightest idea that they had not shared a bed for a month, or that their marriage might be on the edge of disintegration. But then, she supposed Michael was not aware of the latter either.

  The party was a great success. Thanks to Florence, the meal was first-class and the Baked Alaska superb, and due possibly to the power of Jo’s cocktails and the wine that followed, everyone became hilariously jolly. Anecdotes and laughter rocked the apartment — and the elevator as the guests departed — and when Jo and Michael returned to the lounge after saying their goodbyes, and he put his arm round her, kissed and thanked her for a marvelous evening, she was in far too happy a mood to push him away.

  So that later she found it impossible to ban him from his marital rights, as she had done ever since their last quarrel. But she froze. Suddenly he was alien and unwanted. She switched her mind away, tried to blot out his touch, his weight, his presence in her, and instead distracted her brain with thoughts of Richard. Richard’s face above hers, his breath, his arms, his body pressing down, filling hers… as he would be doing tomorrow night. Momentarily her back arched ecstatically, and a moan of pleasure reached Michael as he climaxed.

  He smiled with satisfaction as he left her, congratulating himself on standing his ground until she’d learned to control her stupid selfishness and become human again.

  FRIDAY 14 JULY

  Park Avenue

  Jo didn’t sleep. She hadn’t climaxed, had deliberately switched off. She felt guilty, soiled, disloyal — to Richard. She was angry that force of habit had led her into allowing Michael to make love to her. She hated herself for it; she no longer belonged to him. Jo and Richard — Richard and Jo.

  Then, as the sleepless night passed, reality took over, and a black cloud of gloom shadowed her mind. The future seemed absolutely insoluble. Of course a lot of women ran a perfectly happy marriage and kept an afternoon lover on the side, but she couldn’t imagine how they did it. She couldn’t make love to two men concurrently. Either she loved — or she didn’t. And now she loved Richard — not Michael. But her whole life revolved around being Mrs Michael Donnelly junior, with everything that that implied, socially, domestically, and sexually. To refuse Michael might be to alert him to the fact that she no longer wanted or needed him, and then… when she thought of the children she felt sick. Therefore the sensible thing to do would be to put Richard out of her mind — never see him again.

  With stinging eyes and a painful weight of dread in her stomach, Jo fought for sleep until, sticky with perspiration, she left the bed to turn up the air conditioning and hunt in the bathroom for the Panadol.

  “I can’t find my red sports shirt or my yacht cl
ub sweater,” Michael complained, stuffing clothes into a duffel bag. “Where have you put them?”

  “Haven’t touched them,” Jo called from the bathroom, where she was desperately trying to wake up.

  “Well, will you look, please? I’m in a hurry. I want to be in Newport for lunch.”

  “For God’s sake, the race doesn’t start until Sunday.”

  “True. But there’s a lot of preparing to be done. Or hadn’t you thought of that?”

  “Judging by the amount of time you’ve spent in Newport these last six weeks one would have thought Esmeralda could have been re-fitted and ready a dozen times.” She scrubbed her face with her towel and lurched into the bedroom.

  “Do you know,” he remarked. “Just for a moment, last night, I thought you had finally come to your senses — but I can see it was just alcohol. Now for God’s sake be reasonable and try to help.”

  Jo strode silently into the dressing room, looked through the neat stack of shirts and sweaters, and carefully drew out the ‘missing’ items. “There, under your nose,” she said quietly, and strode out again.

  “You stupid bitch,” he growled. “Are you going to keep up this farcical performance every time I go yachting, for the rest of our lives?”

  “As long as you continue to break promises, hurt your children’s feelings, and disappoint Owen Michael in particular by your selfishness — yes, I probably will.” She was too hungover to care what she said at that moment.

  “You don’t give a damn about the kids, you’re only thinking about yourself! Anyway, they couldn’t care less what I do with my spare time; they’re perfectly happy. But I’m damned if I am. You’d better start pulling yourself together or there is going to be one big parting of the ways. I’m not going to put up with much more.”

  “You’re not?” Jo exploded. “You…”

  “That’s correct. Now come on, for Christ’s sake. I’ve got to go. Let’s part friends, okay?” He was standing in the bathroom door, waiting.