Private affairs : a novel

by Michael, Judith

  "I've missed you, too, you know; we had some good times. You were a hell of a publisher. I'm not sure how much we have to share anymore. But I'll give it some thought. Do you have time to say hello to Heather?"

  "Of course. Is she here?"

  "In my office. Sorry. Yours."

  "Yours, Saul. For now."

  Through the glass wall they saw Heather look up from the book she was reading and her face light in a smile when she saw Matt. Poor love, Saul thought. She thinks all is well, but she's about to discover once again that men are often unreliable.

  "I found a friend in the pressroom," he said, opening the door.

  "Matt, how wonderful to have you back!" Heather said, kissing his cheek. "There's grease on your sleeve; what have you been doing? Elizabeth's on her way to—"

  "Heather," said Saul quietly.

  She looked from his face to Matt's. "Oh. How long are you staying?"

  "Through dinner." Her green eyes, losing their warmth, made him uncomfortable. "I'm on my way to Phoenix and I stopped off to—" He caught himself as Saul and Heather exchanged a glance, and he knew they were remembering all the times he'd been annoyed at Tony's "stopping off' in Santa Fe.

  Heather's eyes had become as glittering as emeralds. "Saul," she said, "I have some questions about the special section on the opera. When can we talk about it?"

  Saul gazed at her thoughtfully, wanting to kiss her. He knew what she had in mind and he loved her for it, but it wouldn't work; Matt might be interested in what they were doing, but not interested enough to change his mind all of a sudden and move back to Santa Fe. They were small potatoes next to what he had in Houston.

  But what the hell, he thought; what did they have to lose? "Let's talk about it now," he said. He pulled his desk chair across the room, next to a pair of faded armchairs. "Want to sit in, Matt? Give us the benefit of big city thinking?" Without waiting for an answer, he sat down and when Heather sat in one of the armchairs and handed him a folder, he said, "Elizabeth thought this up a few months ago. . . ."

  He and Heather began to talk, glancing at Matt without bringing him into the discussion. But after a while he couldn't resist it. The ideas were good; best of all, they were ideas he knew he could use for all his other papers, and soon he was caught up in their talk. He leaned forward,

  offering a tentative suggestion. "Good thinking," Saul said casually, and added one of his own.

  With that, suddenly, the two men were talking at the same time, challenging each other, topping each other, jumping from thought to thought, idea to idea. Now and then Heather asked a question, but mostly it was Matt and Saul, reaching into their store of knowledge for new ways to do traditional things, chuckling as they tossed in impossibly expensive gimmicks or story ideas they'd never put in a family newspaper. Watching them, Heather knew, from the look of contentment on their faces, that only Elizabeth was missing to make this exactly like the wonderful give-and-take sessions they'd had in the years before Matt left.

  Matt knew it, too. As he and Saul talked rapidly, voices overlapping, he felt the joy of creating, sharing his experience and skills with the one man whose thoughts most closely matched his. Then, in the middle of a sentence, Saul said, "I have a lot to do before the end of the day. Matt, how about staying over until tomorrow? I don't want to cut in on your dinner with Holly, but in the morning we could—"

  The spell was broken. Matt sat back and shook his head. "I'm expected in Phoenix. I'd like a raincheck, though."

  Saul nodded, disappointment and nostalgia sweeping through him, even though they'd only been recapturing the past for an hour. Don't act like a cast-off mistress, he ordered himself. We're too small for Matt; I knew that. Small potatoes compared to Rourke Publishing. "We'll be using some of those ideas you've just given us," he said.

  "I hope so," Matt replied. "I'm going to do the same. Modified, of course." He hesitated, reluctant to move. "I've enjoyed this."

  Saul nodded, then stood up. "So did I. It's fun to look back now and then."

  It was polite, but it was a dismissal. Matt kissed Heather, shook hands with Saul, promising to keep in touch, and then he went into the newsroom and talked to the staff, making conversation about Houston and Elizabeth and the Chieftain's success under Saul.

  And all the time, beneath the friendly banter, he was telling himself that his joy in one small discussion wasn't important. Nothing he did in Santa Fe could be as far-reaching, or have the same impact, as his work in Houston. The afternoon had been only a reminder of what was gone, like a footprint on a beach or the wake of a boat in a quiet lake. Time didn't stop; people didn't go backward.

  He used Barney Kell's telephone to call home—Elizabeth's home—and Holly answered. "I finished early, sweetheart," he said. "Can you spare an extra hour?"

  "Oh, yes," Holly said. "How lovely. Mother's not here—"

  "I know. I'll see her next time. But I want lots of time with you. Can I pick you up in ten minutes?"

  "I'll be ready. I'll be waiting in front."

  "I'll see you soon. I'm looking forward to it."

  Too formal, he thought. Somewhere between a father and a date. He stood beside Barney's desk, absently gazing through the glass wall of the corner office where Saul Milgrim sat at Matt LovelPs desk. Heather sat nearby, making notes on a page from one of her folders. Watching them, Matt realized they were more harmonious than he had ever seen them. They were working together and they'd already forgotten him; they were busy putting out a paper. And all around him, the newsroom was busy; everyone intent, concentrating . . . it's Wednesday, he thought. Tomorrow they go to press. He was an outsider, watching. And then, he heard Nicole's voice. You were wonderful. You did exactly what you had to. You have power, Matt.

  The feeling of being an outsider left him. He'd been right; this wasn't his place anymore; it wasn't where he belonged.

  The trouble was, he thought as he waved good-bye to the staff and went outside to his rented car, he didn't know exactly where he did belong. The give-and-take with Saul, the brief feeling of a close-knit group he'd had in the newsroom, were part of what he'd given up for Rourke Enterprises. He'd done it because there was a bigger job to do there than any in Santa Fe, but it left him with an empty space that nothing else quite filled, and that odd question of where he belonged.

  Maybe nowhere, he thought disconcertingly. But as he drove the familiar route to Camino Rancheros, he brushed it aside. At least in Houston, he knew the direction he was going. He knew what was expected of him; he knew what power he had and how to use it. And Nicole was there, approving what he did. Houston was the closest he could come, at the moment, to being home.

  ♦♦

  o

  n stormy days when the surf was high, waves thundered against the wall at the base of Tony's Malibu house; when the wind was calm and the ocean tame, the water lapped in playful curls and ripples of foam along the glistening sand of his beach. From the low window seat that spanned the width of his glass-fronted living room, Elizabeth had watched storms roll across the sky, and waves rise into huge silver walls hundreds of feet from shore. When they crested, the top of the waves curved over, then plunged straight down, like waterfalls along the faces of the advancing walls that grew smaller as they ran down themselves until what was left crashed with a roar against the piled stones protecting Tony's house.

  On other nights the ocean was quiet, reflecting vivid sunsets that lit the room behind Elizabeth in shades of salmon, coral, burnt umber, violet, and purple. The colors blended imperceptibly into each other until darkness swept them all away, flinging stars in their place.

  On the night of Tony's party in her honor, no one paid attention to the stars outside: the important ones were in the house. Tony and Bo Boyle had made up the guest list in the first week of October; invitations had been printed; envelopes were stuffed, addressed, and stamped—and

  tucked away in a drawer, to be mailed only if "Anthony" 's ratings were up at the end of the month.

/>   They were up three and a half points, moving "Anthony" to second place in its time slot. Television critics across the land wrote solemn analyses of Elizabeth Lovell, "Private Affairs," and the new American passion for the secret lives of "invisible" people. And Bo Boyle, in a reckless moment of uncharacteristic generosity, promised to supply cases of Dom Perignon for Tony's party—the invitations to which had been mailed two minutes after the ratings were in.

  "Tony, you're making me feel like the debutante of the year," Elizabeth said as she listened to the two men go over the guest list a final time. She looked at the papers scattered on the round, glass-topped table, with names starred, checked, or crossed out. A breeze off the ocean, reaching the deck where they sat, riffled the sheets of paper, and the rustling mingled with the cries of gulls and the steady rhythm of the waves that slid lazily up the beach and then withdrew. The afternoon sun was low; the three of them wore slacks and cotton shirts and dark glasses, and Elizabeth had trouble believing it was the end of October and she'd worn a wool suit when she left Santa Fe that morning. "If you give this kind of party for me after only two months on your show, what's left? I have nowhere to go but down."

  "Give us another five points in the ratings," Bo said in answer, "and we'll charter the Concorde for you. Just to prove you can always go higher."

  Higher, she repeated to herself. Big, bigger, biggest. She knew exactly why it tugged at Matt; it tugged her in the same way. She remembered when she had been stopped in grocery aisles in Santa Fe. Now she was stopped in restaurants in Los Angeles, and recognized in the boutiques of Rodeo Drive and Melrose Avenue, and greeted with pleasure by executives and crews of the television network who had long ago stopped being impressed with most celebrities.

  And then Tony told her he was giving her a party, to present her to the most important people of television and movies, because she was now one of them.

  "Paul Markham," said Tony, skimming one of the guest lists on the glass-topped table. "He isn't here."

  "Why should he be?" Bo asked. "We're not inviting any newspaper syndicators."

  "I want him."

  "We already have one hundred and thirty-two—"

  "If you're worried about champagne, I'll buy Markham's bottle. Bo,

  think a minute. We want 'Private Affairs' to appear in as many newspapers as possible, do we not?"

  "No question. But we send copies of every one to the syndicators, three times a week, week in and week out—"

  "With no results. Markham's different from the others; he likes off-beat pieces. I want him to meet Elizabeth; I want to ply him with your champagne."

  Bo shrugged and added the name to a short list before him. "Any more?"

  "Not that I can think of. These people should be called; not enough time to use the mail."

  "I know. The girls will do it tomorrow." He stood and planted a casual kiss on the top of Elizabeth's head. "I'm off. Some fancy do at the Wil-shire tonight and I should make an appearance. You're bringing us luck, Elizabeth. I only wish you'd relent and let me call you Lizzie."

  "She's not a Lizzie type," said Tony. "Can you find your own way out?"

  "You know I can. Goodbye, E-liz-a-beth."

  She smiled. "Goodbye, Bo. I'll remember the Concorde."

  "Did I mention the Concorde? It must have been a slip of the tongue. Early taping tomorrow, Tony; I'll see you at eight."

  Tony waved a careless hand. "An abominable hour to be upright, much less witty and charming. But I'll do my best. As always." He turned to Elizabeth as soon as Bo was gone. "What can I get you? Three hours until dinner, according to my tyrannical cook. Another drink? Snacks? French hors d'oeuvres?"

  "French hors d'oeuvres."

  "Done. You thought I was joking." With his toe, he pushed a buzzer in the floor beneath the table, and in a moment the houseboy appeared. "Hors d'oeuvres, two bottles of the Margaux, and no phone calls. You see?" he said to Elizabeth. "My suggestions are not to be taken lightly."

  "I take you very seriously, Tony," she said.

  "Not true, at least not completely true, but we're getting there. As for the party, dearest Elizabeth, you deserve everything we do for you, and more. When you do an interview you don't just talk to one person, you talk to everyone out there, and you make them feel they're not alone. That's the key, dearest Elizabeth: Other people are like me; Fm not alone. You're the only one who does it. That's why our ratings are going up; that's why we raised you to eighty thou a year; and that's why we're throwing a party next weekend. Elizabeth, are you listening?"

  She nodded. "Yes. Thank you, Tony." But she was thinking of some-

  thing else: the first time Tony had praised her for her story on Heather. That night she'd decided not to talk to him again because she and Matt were so content, with each other and their family.

  "Elizabeth," Tony said. She had been looking at the ocean, a frown between her eyes; when she turned back, he was offering her a glass of wine and a plate of small triangles of toast covered with pearl-gray caviar. "You requested these."

  "Thank you. I'm sorry, Tony; something you said reminded me of . . . another time."

  "I'll try not to be guilty of that again." He put some hors d'oeuvres on his own plate. "I didn't finish telling you the main reason I'm giving this party. It brings you to my house. You have a standing invitation, but you've been here exactly five times; I had a key made for you, but you refused it; I've offered you my guest suite as your own whenever you're in Los Angeles. The guest suite instead of my bed! To the most beautiful, desirable woman I've ever met! My God, do you know what that would do to my reputation if it got out?"

  Elizabeth laughed. "No one will know. I promise. It's better if I stay at the hotel, Tony."

  "Better for whom?"

  "For me."

  "We could debate that."

  "But we won't. Because we're having a wonderful time and you don't want to ruin it."

  "How can I argue with that? My very clever Elizabeth. But some day, dearest Elizabeth, you won't want to be clever with me; you'll want to be loving. I predict that. It's what I'm waiting for. Now try some of these: they're either roasted peppers with melted chevre or lobster mousse with paprika—I can never tell them apart. Why do you laugh?"

  "Because they look nothing like each other and a two-year-old could tell them apart. Who's being clever, now? You make a declaration you know I don't want to hear and then you sneak in some silliness that makes me laugh."

  "The lady sees through me," Tony said conversationally to a seagull soaring at the water's edge. "I'll have to think up new mysteries to keep her intrigued." He took a box from his pocket. "What color are you wearing to your party?"

  "I haven't decided, but put that away, Tony, please. You've already given me a necklace—"

  "That was from the staff."

  "Everyone gave ten dollars; you paid the rest."

  "You're not supposed to know that."

  "It doesn't matter. I love it and I wear it. but I won't take any more jewelry from you. Don't argue, Tony—"

  "Because we're having a wonderful time and I wouldn't want to ruin it?" She smiled and he sighed deeply, contemplating the box in his hand. "A gold bracelet. What shall I do with it? Never mind; I don't want to hear your answer. I'll put it away for the time you no longer want to be clever with me." He replaced it in his pocket. "Now you can relax; I'll be very good for the rest of the evening. We have wine and hors d'oeuvres and in a little while we will have the sunset. Tomorrow we work, but the evening is ours."

  He stretched out his legs and leaned back in his chair. "You are the only woman I've ever known who is quiet. You don't fidget. You don't curl your hair around a finger or examine your nails or consult a mirror to see if your lipstick is sufficiently glutinous to satisfy the entire cosmetics industry. You sit quietly; you speak quietly. You make it very pleasant to sit on the deck and look at the ocean. I never do it when I'm alone; it bores me. I begin to tremble in five minutes, shake in six, go into co
nvulsions in seven, and then go running through the house in a desperate search for entertainment. You laugh, but I am telling the truth. Yet right now I feel perfectly peaceful. However, I'm talking too much. Tell me what you do in Santa Fe on those dreary days when you're not here with me. Tell me your dreams. Tell me anything you like."

  Elizabeth told him very little about her feelings, but it was more than she would have told him a year, or even six months, earlier. And as they sat together, talking about themselves and then the interviews they would tape the next day, she thought how pleasant Tony could be, how comfortable she felt with him, and how well they worked together.

  How well we work together.

  It had happened so gradually, she hadn't thought of it until now. For two months—three, if she counted August, when she'd begun taping interviews for the fall season—she and Tony had been working together. As Bo let her participate more fully in their planning sessions and editing her interviews, she'd begun coming to Los Angeles for a day or two every week, taping more of her interviews in the studio than on location, since she was there anyway, and expanding the time she spent with Tony. Together, they were thinking of new ideas for a show that would reach as many people as possible, attract advertisers, and be remembered and looked for when the same day came around next week.

  Exactly what I dreamed of doing. Except that I thought it would be with someone else.

  The thought was like a thorn that pricked her at unexpected moments that evening, the next day in the studio, and all week, before she returned to Los Angeles for Tony's party. And when she stood in the two-story living room, wearing a cloth of gold dress with long sleeves, a deep V both back and front, and a full skirt falling to the floor in deep folds that seemed to catch the sun and its shadows, the thorn was still there.

  "My lovely Elizabeth," Tony said, holding her hands as he stood back to gaze at her. His eyes went to her wrist. "You need the gold bracelet."

  "All I need is that look in your eyes," she said lightly. "You are a very handsome host. Have I seen that navy blazer before?"