"You haven't seen a third of my Brioni blazers. We'll have to do more gala evenings together. Look at us: have you ever seen a more perfect couple?"
Elizabeth looked with him at their reflection, then turned away. Because Tony was right: in their finery, beneath track lights that lit the house like a stage set, they made a magnificent couple: her glowing, honey-blond beauty beside his sleek dark handsomeness; his lean frame, pale eyes, square clefted chin, and patrician nose—the image of his father's—complementing Elizabeth's gentler curves, her dark brows above wide-spaced gray eyes, the soft shadows beneath her high cheekbones, the silken fall of her hair.
"Sensational," Tony said, facing the mirror.
Elizabeth still looked the other way. Matt and I were sensational once.
But how long had it been since they stood before a mirror, admiring themselves as a couple?
Voices filled Tony's house; the guests had arrived, all two hundred of them within a few minutes. They greeted Tony and Elizabeth with cries of congratulations, invitations, and knowing looks: nowhere do ratings and box office numbers translate into intimacy more quickly than in that small stretch of California from Malibu to Hollywood. The voices rose to the highest point of the pitched ceiling; a small orchestra in a corner of the enormous room played show tunes, with a tuxedoed baritone and a sequined soprano singing into hand-held microphones; beautiful young men and women passed champagne and hors d'oeuvres, working to earn money "between shows," silently praying to be noticed by producers, directors, stars, influential hangers-on. A row of photographs of Elizabeth and Tony, blown up to life-size, stood along one wall.
"Success," Bo said to Tony as they watched guests unerringly spot Elizabeth in the crowd, and move to her side for a few words. "If anyone knows who has a chance to make it, they do; celebrity is their food and drink."
Elizabeth was smiling—quiet, poised, gracious—but there was a gleam in her eyes and Tony knew she was reveling in every minute: it was a new experience for her to be the center of attention in a room filled with famous, wealthy, never-quite-satisfied people who usually demanded, and got, the kind of attention they were giving her. It was partly her beauty, Tony thought. There was, of course, more beauty per square inch in Los Angeles than anywhere in the world, but in this crowd of professional beauties, Elizabeth stood out, not only because she had worn cloth of gold, which few women could wear without looking brassy, but also because she used less makeup and stood still, her eyes on the person talking to her instead of darting about the room to see who was there, who was watching her, and which women others were watching. Amused, Tony decided it was Santa Fe. She still had the natural beauty and self-possession of a child of the desert.
"Isn't that Markham?" Bo asked him.
Tony's smile broadened. "It is." He watched Paul Markham take Elizabeth's arm and walk with her to the small dance floor on the other side of the orchestra. "All is well, Bo. You may drink champagne and relax. We have nothing to worry about."
"Tony Rourke is watching us," Markham said to Elizabeth, his arm around her waist. "I hope he's not jealous; I'm a poor duelist."
Elizabeth laughed as they moved onto the dance floor. "Tony would be the first to run from a duel. But there wouldn't be one; he wants me to enjoy myself. It's my party, after all."
"So it is. And from what I hear, you've earned it. Stopped his ratings from plummeting."
Elizabeth frowned. "I've heard that before. It's an exaggeration. They'd dipped lower; that's all. It often happens when a show has been on for years."
He smiled. "I admire that. Loyalty is rare in the television industry." His hair was brown, his eyes blue, his brown beard streaked with gray. He wore a gold wedding band and his eyes admired Elizabeth, but when he talked it was as if he were in a business meeting. "I've been thinking about you for six months," he said as they glided farther from the orchestra where it was quieter. "I read your columns; I watch you on television. You've got a rare talent for making people think you care about them."
"I do care about them."
"If that's true, you're the first television interviewer who does. Maybe that's why they open up to you. Could you travel around the country, if necessary, to interview for your column?"
Elizabeth felt a quick rush of excitement and anticipation. "Yes," she
replied. "Not too much, but some. My daughter is still at home and I won't leave her for more than a day or two at a time."
"We can work that out," Markham said as the music stopped and they stood still in the middle of the dance floor. "It shouldn't be a problem. Elizabeth, I want you to sign with Markham Features and let us syndicate 'Private Affairs.' You've impressed me. You're a fine writer and interviewer and a remarkable woman. I've never seen you demean anyone to get a laugh or make a point, you're never salacious to increase ratings, you never cause pain to make yourself seem in control. And you never let your audience see too much; you know when to stop. Also—and this is not a small detail—you're extraordinarily lovely. We'll expect you to give talks now and then; good speakers are in great demand and you help both yourself and us by keeping a high visibility, but the main thing is your writing. We want to offer three columns a week to our subscribers; four hundred papers, from New York to—"
"Four-hundred—?"
"Give or take a few. From New York to Hawaii, Toronto to Bermuda. This isn't the place to talk about money, but I guarantee you'll do extremely well."
It was the dream of every newspaper writer, but most of them dreamed —if they let themselves—of fifty, seventy, perhaps a hundred papers. Four hundred, Elizabeth repeated to herself. The orchestra began a waltz and she and Markham were dancing and she was still saying the number to herself. They whirled about the floor, revolving in small circles past guests clustered in conversations, past Tony, talking to a willowy raven-haired beauty while his eyes followed Elizabeth and he wondered what had caused her to have that stunned look.
"No answer?" Markham asked. "If you're waiting for more specific details—"
"No. I mean, of course I'll want those, but not now." Elizabeth took a deep breath. "I'm sorry; I'm a little dizzy. You've reminded me of someone else who was offered a great chance, the kind people dream of, and when he grabbed it, his whole life changed."
"And you're afraid yours will change."
"Perhaps . . . Yes, I think that's what I'm afraid of."
"So afraid you can't enjoy your good fortune?"
She looked at him. His smile was warm, his eyes were like pale blue pools, hiding nothing. Elizabeth floated on the music and let herself believe it. He was real; he was serious; he wasn't an illusion. Four hundred papers! Wait until I tell Matt!
She missed a step in the dance, almost stumbling, then caught herself.
Tell Matt? The last time she'd told him about herself—that she had a chance to do her interviews on television—all he'd thought of was how much it would increase her value as a columnist in Rourke's papers.
Anyway, when had they last shared news of their triumphs, or setbacks? Why hadn't she gotten over wanting to do it?
Why should I get over it?
"Lost in thought," Markham observed. "Anything I can share?"
Elizabeth met his eyes again: warm and admiring. "Not yet," she said. "I'm getting used to it."
Four hundred papers. The only way a newspaper writer could break out of home territory and enter millions of households all over the country.
Of course she did that now, on television. And television had that exciting glamour that nothing else matched. But still, newspapers were different. They were tangible; they could be held, savored, clipped, filed. Long after the television set had been turned off, a newspaper story, like a book, could be picked up, re-read, brought to life again.
It all fell into place—her own treasure, her own pot of gold at the end of the rainbow—and Elizabeth laughed, a joyous peal that caused others to turn, smiling, because her delight was infectious. "Thank you, Paul. Of course I can
enjoy it. I've been dreaming of it since college."
"I'm glad," he said. "I thought I might have to talk you into it. Now tell me about yourself. I've been curious. Where did you learn to talk to people? Where did you learn to listen? Almost no one listens, these days. Most people are so busy thinking about what they'll say next, they can't hear what's going on around them. You're every man's dream: a beautiful woman who listens."
"And what do women dream of?" Elizabeth asked.
"The same thing in reverse. I've never met a woman who thinks a man listens to her with the attention and sympathy she deserves. You do. And you're a stranger, so your beauty isn't threatening."
"If you really believe all that," said Tony, coming up behind them, "how could you wait so long to offer Elizabeth a contract?"
Markham smiled easily. "I had to be convinced that the public would care about people no one ever heard of. I know how many people buy books about Bette Davis, Lee Iacocca, Joan Collins, Jane Fonda, John Belushi; I know how many people turn on their television sets to watch the glamorous, the notorious, the ridiculously wealthy, the criminal . . . or all the above. You should know, Tony; they're your guests."
"That's what I'm known for," Tony said. "And why should I change? I have Elizabeth to delve into the secret thoughts of those waiters over
there, and my gardener, and the man who presses my pants, and all those other people I can never tell apart because they all look exactly alike to me."
Elizabeth gave him a quick look. "Do you really mean that?"
"I do; I can't help it. I was brought up to divide the world into those who are worth knowing—and all the rest. I'm satisfied if all of them know me. Shall we eat? I see by the caterer's autocratic nod that I am to lead the way to dinner."
Twenty round tables covered with blue linen and set with crystal and cobalt-rimmed china formed two rows along the front of the great room, overlooking the deck and a starry sky vaulting over the dark ocean. At the center table, Tony was on Elizabeth's right; Paul Markham was on her left. Seven other guests had been chosen to sit with them, although everyone at the party seemed equally famous to Elizabeth; she had been recognizing actors and actresses, singers and musicians all evening. It was exactly what she had called it: a coming-out party to introduce Elizabeth Lovell as one of them: famous, recognizable, envied.
And just three years ago, she thought involuntarily, she and Matt had been jubilant over thirteen letters from readers of her first "Private Affairs" column, on Edward Ortega, in the Santa Fe Chieftain, circulation ten thousand.
Tony had given Elizabeth capsule descriptions of everyone at the table: two lead characters in a detective series, the red-headed beauty who played the villain's first wife in a series about a wealthy shipbuilding family, the anchorman of an evening news program, a screenwriter on a steamy soap opera, an actress being considered for a morning talk show. "And Polly Perritt," Tony finished up, knowing Polly was listening, "who terrorizes us with the gossip she puts in her syndicated column. Be gentle with her, be diplomatic, and never let down your guard."
"Dear me, I do sound dreadful," sighed Polly, dissecting her quail. "Don't believe him, Elizabeth; I'm tender-hearted and I cry easily at movies." She crunched a small bone between her teeth. "I'm a faithful follower of 'Private Affairs' and I'd feel privileged if you could give me five minutes tonight; a quick interview for tomorrow's column."
"What a good idea," Tony said smoothly. "May I sit in?"
Polly twinkled at him. "You know me better than that, my sweet. Elizabeth and I will become good friends without any help."
"Turning the tables," said the television detective. "Ever been interviewed, Elizabeth?"
"Not by an expert," she replied. "I'm looking forward to it. Over coffee?" she asked Polly. "We can sit in the library."
"Lovely," Polly hummed, and turned back to her quail, listening, as the others talked of television and feature films, for the small tidbits of information from which she wove her tapestry of the lives and loves and litigation of Hollywood. Elizabeth watched her as she finished the quail, downed several glasses of wine, and dug into the salad of watercress and arugula as soon as it was placed before her. She took no part in the conversation; she seemed interested only in food and wine; but her hand stilled when something caught her attention, her head tilted, her whole body tensed with listening. She doesn't want good news, Elizabeth thought, unless it's titillating. And Tony's voice echoed in her mind: be diplomatic; never let down your guard.
"Tony's a love," Polly said as they left the table after finishing their salad. A waiter followed them to the library, bringing dessert and coffee. "My, my, he is indeed a love. Amaretto cheesecake! My favorite." She speared it with her fork.
Elizabeth sipped her steaming coffee. "What would you like to know about me?"
"Oh, everything, of course." Polly used her fingertip to pick up crumbs from the plate. "How you feel about fame and fortune and having one of the most desirable bachelors between the Mississippi and the Pacific at your beck and call. The usual things." She drank from her cup, eyeing Elizabeth over the rim. "The truth is, I know a good bit about you. But not exactly what I'm looking for. So what I want to know is, how come you're so tolerant?"
"In what? Politics? Religion? Books for teenagers?"
"Husbands humping in Houston was what I had in mind."
A silence fell. From the other room, Elizabeth heard the orchestra slide smoothly from "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes" to "Send in the Clowns."
"Crude," she said evenly. "I'd like you to explain it."
"That was my surprise gambit," Polly said. "Being crude helps the surprise. As a fellow interviewer, you know all about that: it's wonderful for tripping people up and making them pour their guts out. How else would you and I get real stories? I wondered if you'd fall for it, but of course you're too smart. Anyway, your Matt is playing around, honey, and it looks more serious than a toss in the hay—everybody knows it— and I want to know what you think about it. You and I can talk to each other because we're in the same business, we understand each other, we like to get inside people. Now that's as honest as I can get. I don't beat around bushes, you know."
"I imagine you spend more time in them than around them," Elizabeth said, her voice like a whip. Hearing Matt's name on those crumb-covered
lips made her sick, and having "Private Affairs" compared to the sleazy gossip of this bone-crunching peeping Tom made her so furious, she didn't care what she said.
Polly's eyes narrowed. "My, my, aren't we brave. After lover told you specifically to be gentle and diplomatic."
"Diplomacy works when everyone follows the same rules," Elizabeth said. "I'm waiting to hear what you were implying."
"I don't imply, my sweet. I state facts." Polly drank coffee, searched nearsightedly for crumbs on her plate, let the silence drag out. "The word from Houston is that the hottest couple in town is the star publisher and the lady with the playroom. She's a well-known hostess; he's—as I said— a star and he's got her. She's his." When Elizabeth was silent, she said, "Your turn."
"For what?"
"To talk, honey. This is an interview. You know what that is?"
"Questions and answers. I haven't heard a question yet."
"Well, then, I'll ask one. Is your hubby the luckiest man between the Mississippi and the Pacific because he has a famous wife keeping the home fires burning while he slides between the sheets with a happy homebreaker named Nicole Renard?"
"Nicole?" Elizabeth swallowed the bile in her throat and made her face a mask, bland and faintly amused. "She's an old friend of the family. We ski together in Aspen. She's very beautiful, isn't she, Polly? Or haven't you met her?"
She had succeeded in flustering her. Polly tilted her wine glass and found it empty. "Aspen," she said, casting about.
"And, yes, of course my husband is pleased to have a famous wife; he's encouraged me in my writing from the beginning. We ran a newspaper together for a couple of years, which you
know, of course, and when our daughter goes to college next fall we'll combine our careers again and buy a house somewhere. Nicole will no doubt be a frequent dinner guest. With her companions. She has a number of them, but of course you know that, too, don't you, because you're careful to collect facts, you don't imply, and you're never crude except when you're being surprising. I find you surprising all the time. Is there any other information I can give you? If not, I'll rejoin my host and good friend, whose only mistake tonight was seating you at our table."
She swept from the room, her gold gown rustling as it brushed the doorway. It's a lie, all of it. Matt wouldn't . . . not before we've decided anything.
Tony was standing at her chair, waiting for her. His smile faded as she
came closer. "Something wrong?" he asked. "Elizabeth? There isn't anything wrong between you and Polly, is there?"
"She said we're in the same business and we understand each other," Elizabeth said.
"Did she mean it?" Elizabeth did not answer. "Well, of course this isn't the place to discuss it." He put his arm around her and led her to the dance floor. The music was a slow sweet version of "Summertime" and Elizabeth put her cheek against Tony's shoulder, closing her eyes, letting her body move with his as she thought about Matt.
How could you give people a chance to talk about us? If you had to have a woman, did you have to choose one who advertises herself? Didn 't you know that by flaunting her, you'd hurt me?
Or didn't you care?
Tony's cashmere blazer was soft beneath her cheek; the bright lights burned through her closed eyelids; the music wove about her as the soprano crooned the words. Hush, little baby; don V you cry.
And don't complain either, Elizabeth thought, remembering what she had told Isabel, if things don't go the way you want. Do something about it.
And that was when she knew she was going to Houston.
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