Randall #01 - The Best Revenge

by Anne R. Allen

  ~

  Jonathan wasn’t on the phone when Camilla walked into the office, but just as she opened his door, she heard it ring. He glared at her and picked up the receiver.

  “We have no comment at this time,” he said, allowing the caller no time to speak. He slammed the phone back onto his desk. “Where the hell have you been?”

  “Lunch,” she said.

  “Why didn’t you check in with me this morning? Hell, I didn’t even know if you were going to show up.” He ran his fingers through his already out-of-control hair. “I’m sorry if I interrupted your big reunion with Julie, but something came over the wire that I thought might be of interest to you. It seems that a Boston paper has just come out with a story concerning the identity of the hot new columnist, Dr. Lavinia. The byline is E. Stuart Gordon, III. I fired the arrogant twit last week. I should have realized something like this would happen. The entire world will soon know that Camilla Randall and Dr. Lavinia are one and the same.”

  “Oh, dear,” she said.

  “‘Oh, dear’ —is that your official statement?”

  “What would you like me to say, Mr. Kahn?” She wished she could make her voice as cold and unemotional as his.

  “It’s your column. I can’t make that decision.”

  “Well, I’d better tell my readers the truth, hadn’t I? Politely, of course.”

  “Oh, yes, by all means, be polite. And quick. We’re holding page one.”

  “Oh, my goodness! Really? It’s not like it’s real news.”

  “It’s exactly like real news, Dr. Lavinia.” Jonathan’s voice was still stern, but he was grinning now. “You better get a move on. There’s a team from Channel 4 on its way over, so as soon as you’ve finished the column, you’ll have to talk to them. Keep them outside. I don’t want a bunch of those TV cretins disrupting my newsroom.”

  “You mean I have to be on television? Wearing this? You can’t expect me to face the world in purple polyester!”

  The telephone rang, and as Jonathan reached for it, grim faced, Camilla could tell her time would be wasted pleading with him.

  She rushed back to the cube she was sharing with Gloria. After a couple of false starts, Dr. Lavinia candidly wrote her readers that she thanked them for their support during her recent ordeal and that now that there was an end to the silly, but unpleasant accusations against herself, she had decided to reveal her true identity to her loyal followers. Dr. Lavinia also wrote that although she knew many of her readers had pictured her as a lady of more advanced years, she was sure they realized that good manners and common sense were not linked to the aging process, and she hoped her supporters would continue to turn to her for advice. She handed it to Gloria for proofreading just as Julie came in to say the TV crew were banging on the door downstairs.

  ~

  Dealing with them wasn’t so easy. For one thing, the perky woman interviewer kept wanting to know about Camilla’s “costume” and asked if it was part of the “gag”. Several times the woman was so overcome with laughter that she had to call “cut” to the camera operator, and the whole thing had to begin again.

  Before the final take was finished, several more camera crews appeared, and for what felt like hours, Camilla answered the same questions over and over, while more video cameras rolled around her like a crowd of one-eyed space creatures.

  When she finally trudged back up to the office, she felt drained and battered. She had no idea if she had said the right things. If she had humiliated herself, she’d never forgive Jonathan. He shouldn’t have sent her out there alone.

  Plantagenet would never have abandoned her like that. He was right. Jonathan was a jackal. Why hadn’t she gone back to L.A? Plant would take care of her. He was about to have a big success with Alexander! He’d be living in the New York world she grew up in. She could be happy with him. So what if he had flings? Lots of wives survived that.

  “Mr. Kahn says to get your butt in his office ASAP,” Julie said as she walked in.

  “Oh, does he?” Camilla said. “Well, I think it’s time Dr. Lavinia had a little talk with Mr. Kahn on the subject of his manners.”

  She was pleased to see the startled look on Julie’s face as she strode toward Jonathan’s office.

  “All right, Mr. Genghis Kahn.” She yanked open the door of the glass office and slammed it hard behind her. “Before you bark any more orders, or fire me, or whatever you’re going to do, you need to understand that people have limits, and I’ve reached mine. I’ve been answering idiotic questions for hours, all by myself, and I’m worn out. If you’re planning to be rude to me again, don’t bother. You were rude enough earlier for me to remember quite clearly. Apparently, you were also rude to my secretary, and threatened to fire her, but I’m sure it’s me you want to fire, so go ahead. I don’t think I want to work for you anymore, anyway.”

  “Too bad,” Jonathan said calmly. “You’re under contract.”

  “You aren’t going to fire me? Even though Dr. Lavinia has been—exposed?”

  “Why would I do that? Having the public know that you’re Dr. Lavinia can only boost readership. I called you in to tell you I liked your column. The tone is perfect. I think your readers will buy it.” His calm manner was infuriating.

  “You like it? I’m not even sure what I wrote—I had to do it so fast.”

  “The newspaper business is full of pressure—which you obviously handle well.”

  “It isn’t obvious to me. It was terrible out there,” she said quietly. “They kept laughing at me. You were mean to make me go out there by myself. Plantagenet wouldn’t let reporters near me. He protected me, but you—you just ordered me to go out there.”

  “Yes,” he said, leaning over his desk, “I don’t waste my time protecting people who don’t need it. My mistake. Is that why you’ve decided to go back to Smith? I take it you have, since you made such a point of avoiding me this morning.”

  “I wasn’t avoiding you. You were busy, and so was I. I’m not going back to Plant. We said goodbye yesterday. He had to go back to L.A., and I decided not to go with him.” The memory made her feel sniffly. She tried to look away

  “Why?” Jonathan said. “I think he loves you very much.”

  “He does. And I love him. But it’s not the same.”

  “The same as what?”

  “The same as…” She stared at the familiar ink spot on the floor. Now it looked like a squashed rose. “The same as the way I love you.”

  Before she could say anything else, Jonathan pulled her to him in a warm and gentle kiss. With equal warmth, she threw her arms around him and kissed him back, all her anger and pain dissolving.

  “Oh, dear,” she said, suddenly drawing back. “This office isn’t very private. Somebody might see us.”

  “Somebody already has.”

  “What do you mean?” But when she looked through the glass partition, no answer was necessary. Most of the staff of the San Diego Sentinel were standing up and cheering. Her face burned as she turned back to Jonathan.

  “What are we going to do?”

  “We’re going to walk out of here, find a nice, quiet, restaurant and have some wine, food, a little candlelight, and a lot of romance—if it’s all right with you, Dr. Lavinia?” He waved casually at his employees without taking his eyes off her face.

  “It’s all right with me, Mr. Kahn.”

  ~

  The restaurant was French-Vietnamese, and the food was delicious. As she finished the last of her cassoulet, Camilla watched Jonathan refill her glass. The wine glowed pale amber in the candlelight.

  “I wonder what they thought,” she said. “Everybody at the office—when they saw us kissing like that? It must have looked pretty funny, especially after I announced that I was going to tell you off.”

  “They probably thought I was a lucky son-of-a-bitch,” he said, reaching for her free hand across the table. “Which I am.” He brought her fingers to his lips. “And you had every right to tell
me off. I had no idea you’d have to do so many interviews. I should have put a stop to it.”

  “Maybe it would be a nice change—to be around somebody who doesn’t think I need rescuing all the time.”

  “Everybody needs rescuing sometimes. I’ll be the first to admit that. You staged a pretty good rescue that night I was mugged. I think that’s the moment I fell in love with you—when I was lying in the gutter in the pouring rain watching you fight that guy with nothing but—what was it? A can of hairspray? Angela said I was only infatuated with you because I’d finally met a reporter who was tougher than me.”

  Fell in love. He just said he’d fallen in love. Out loud.

  “You told Angela about—that night? When?”

  “As a matter of fact, I was in the middle of the story when we walked into that restaurant and saw you with Smith and his portable rose garden. Luckily I hadn’t told her your name. I felt like a horse’s ass as it was. Not that I regret breaking it off with her. We never should have tried to get back together.”

  “That’s what you were doing with Angela that night? Breaking up with her? The tough-bitch journalist you told her you were in love with—that was me?”

  “Yes, Camilla, God help me. The woman I’m in love with is you.” He set down his unfinished wine. “Let’s not get drunk tonight. And I promise not to spend half the night on the phone.”

  ~

  The phone was ringing when they walked in the door of Jonathan’s apartment, but instead of rushing to answer it, he closed the door and put his arms around her.

  “The phone,” she said. “Shouldn’t you answer it?”

  “The machine’s on,” he said, giving her a kiss. “But if it will make you happier, I’ll turn up the speaker, just in case the Berlin Wall fell down or something. Outside of that kind of miracle, there’s not a lot that would seem important to me right now.” He turned a dial on the phone machine.

  Violet’s voice blared from the speaker “…and tell Camellia her mother said she can do the Carson show, but on no account is she to play Las Vegas. Joanie thinks Las Vegas is vulgar. Now me—I’ve had some grand times in Vegas. My husband number three—what was that, Joanie?” Another voice started to speak in the background, then the call cut off abruptly.

  “Oh, dear,” Camilla said. “Should we have picked up? It sounds as if Violet…”

  “It sounds as if Violet is as crazy as ever,” Jonathan said. “You can call back if you want, but I didn’t I hear any bricks falling in Berlin.”

  He pushed some buttons and Violet’s voice came on again.

  “Jonny, this is Violet. I’m calling for Camellia, since I know she’s there. You two didn’t fool me one bit—pretending Jonny was sleeping on the sofa. I was just trying to save poor Planty’s feelings. But you better set the wedding date soon, with all that hanky panky going on. Just make sure it’s not the same day as my birthday party. That’s April the tenth, at the Hotel Del. You’d better be there, both of you. It’s real important. I’d like to tell you how important, but that would ruin the surprise.”

  The voice kept going. “Anyhow, what I’m calling for is that these Carson people keep calling poor Joanie to ask if Camellia will be on the show. They say she’s going to be the new Goldie Hawn, and they loved her act on the six o’clock news. She’s got to call them. And tell Camellia her mother said that she can…”

  Jonathan stopped the repeating tape with a click.

  “So they all laughed at you?” he said. “Poor little Camilla, out there all by herself.” He nuzzled her neck. “You neglected to tell me you were playing it for comedy.”

  “I was just being Dr. Lavinia. I thought it would be easier that way. But—my mother was there, Jonathan.” She looked at the machine. “When Violet was talking about hanky panky. She knows I’m here in your apartment. Maybe Violet’s right. We should get married right away.”

  “Well, well,” Jonathan said with a grin. “Is that a proposal?”

  Camilla felt blood rush to her cheeks.

  Jonathan laughed. “I realize you’re only asking me because you know I’ll support you in the style to which you’re accustomed.” He gestured around at her dreadful furniture. “Or are you just trying to save the expense of moving your things?”

  “I’m sorry. You see, my mother—

  “Leave your mother out of it,” he said firmly. He put a hand to her lips. “You just proposed to me, and before you can take it back, I’m going to tell you I accept.”

  “You accept? You want to marry me, really?’

  “I want to marry you, really.”

  “Maybe I should call Mother back and tell her—”

  “Your mother can wait. So can Violet. So can Jonny Carson.”

  “Do you think I should go on his show?”

  “I think you should do whatever you want, Camilla Randall. I’d be a damned fool if I thought anything else.”

  Chapter 37—Living Well is the Best Revenge

  April tenth, Violet’s birthday, dawned cold and foggy, but as Camilla drove the DeLorean over the Coronado Bridge, just before the appointed hour of six PM, the fog lifted and a brilliant sunset colored the sky above the bay.

  “That’s got to be a good omen for Violet,” she said to Jonathan, who looked fantastic in his tux. “What do you suppose her big surprise is?”

  “I don’t even want to think,” Jonathan said, tugging glumly at the starched collar beneath his bow tie.

  She didn’t want him to be grumpy on Violet’s special day. “Come on, Jonathan. It will be fun. You’ve got to be used to Violet by now.”

  “Yes, but I’m not used to Mrs. Lester Stokes.”

  He had been upset since he heard that her mother was flying out for the party.

  “The last time we had a run-in, she wrecked my career. That was just to punish me for sprinkling a society interview with some political content. I hate to think what she’ll do when she finds out I’m about to add a Jewish liberal branch to the Randall family tree.” He leaned over and nuzzled her neck.

  “Just don’t call her Stokes. She’s back to Joan Randall, since Lester died. But don’t worry—somehow Violet’s convinced her that you’re a suitable son-in-law. She’ll try to talk us into a huge wedding in Connecticut, of course, but maybe Violet can make her see the sense in getting married here.”

  Violet’s influence on her mother had been even stronger since the recent Forbes article that listed Violet as the fifteenth richest woman in America. Husband number five had apparently been a real estate tycoon who left her substantial chunks of several major American cities.

  Jonathan grimaced. “Do we have to let your mother manage our wedding? Couldn’t she take over something more befitting her talents, like running the air traffic controllers union, or managing the national debt? I know she needs a new project now that she’s killed off her husband…”

  “Jonathan! Lester died of a heart attack.”

  “A heart attack fueled by mass quantities of cholesterol-laden goodies provided by your mother, according to Violet. In fact, she seems convinced that Stokes murdered your father, and his death was just retribution.”

  Camilla decided to let his remark rest. She didn’t want to get Jonathan’s reporter-nose sniffing around Lester’s demise.

  Her mother had delivered justice in her own way.

  “Poor Violet.” Camilla patted Jonathan’s knee. “She lives in such a fantasy world. I don’t know what to expect at this party. The invitation did say black tie. I wonder if she knows what that means.” She smoothed the gold brocade skirt of the Yves St. Laurent gown she had resurrected from her debutante wardrobe.

  “We’re only a few hours from Las Vegas. We could get married tonight after the party. We’re dressed for it. Tell the Queen Mother we’ve already made wedding plans. It wouldn’t be a lie, exactly.”

  Camilla laughed and patted Jonathan’s knee again.

  “Don’t be so afraid of my mom. I won’t let her feed you any fried chicken.�
��

  As they pull into the parking lot, the multi-turreted Victorian hotel looked magical, bathed in the golden light of the sunset over the bay. Camilla breathed in the fresh sea air as Jonathan opened the gullwing door.

  “Doesn’t it look like a castle out of a fairy tale?” she said.

  “Yes.” He helped her out of the car and put an arm around her shoulders. “There’s the castle, and here’s the princess. I guess this is as close as I’ll get to ‘happily ever after’ so I’d better enjoy it.”

  “Yes. You’d better.” She kissed his cheek. But his attention had turned to a familiar white Rolls Royce that was driving up to the canopied entrance to the hotel. A blond chauffeur emerged and opened the back door. Angela! Had she managed to get an invitation?

  No. It wasn’t Angela Harper who stepped out of the Rolls. It was Plantagenet, looking his elegant best in an up-to-the minute Armani tuxedo.

  She ran to give him a hug. She hadn’t heard much from him in the last few months, except a couple of cheery postcards, but he had been awfully busy now that Alexander! had been nominated for five Tonys.

  “You look marvelous, darling.” He appraised her gown. “This gentleman must be treating you well.” He smiled stiffly at Jonathan.

  “How are you, Smith?” Jonathan offered his hand. “Congratulations on your play. I hear it’s a major hit.”

  “That’s got to be a St. Laurent, dear heart,” said a familiar voice from inside the Rolls. “You look stunning.”

  “Franny!” She ran to the passenger window. “I didn’t know you were Violet’s friend, too.”

  “Just along for the ride,” Franny said. “Hans and I thought we’d take in a play while you society people are whooping it up. They say Twelve Picassos at the F Street Theater is brilliant. Angela and Juan Carlos are in Cordoba meeting the Duchess, so Hans and I offered to drive Plant down here in the Rolls.”

  Camilla glanced over at Plant, happily laughing with Jonathan.

  “Plant thinks Violet is going to announce her engagement tonight,” Jonathan said.