“Have you met the Kansas Kitten yet?” Amos was asking her, taking his drink from Ivor.
Cassy tried to think. “Oh, the new anchor. No, I haven’t. Thanks, Ivor.” He bowed again.
“Alexandra Waring—that wearing woman, we all call her,” Amos said, stirring his drink with his finger. He put the finger in his mouth for several moments and sent a meaningful look to Cassy—who chose to ignore it. Slightly annoyed, Amos continued. “But you know all about Michael’s private coaching lessons.” When she didn’t say anything, he laughed sharply, adding, “Day and night lessons.”
“If Michael brought Alexandra Waring here from Kansas,” Cassy said, rising out of her chair, “then she must be extraordinarily talented. Excuse me, Amos, I have to check on things in the kitchen.”
“Extraordinarily talented,” she heard Amos say. “Too bad we’re not talking about the newsroom.”
In the kitchen, Cassy told Ivor to listen for the doorbell. “And let whoever it is, Ivor, in. All right? Oh—” She retraced her steps. “Take that tray of hors d’oeuvres in, please. And if that animal tries to bite you, you have my permission to kill it.”
Cassy walked back to the bedroom, knocked, and let herself in. Rosanne was standing in front of the mirror—in the dress. She looked terrific and Cassy told her so, moving over to check the fit from a closer view.
“Did Mr. C lose his keys again?”
“No,” Cassy said, turning Rosanne and looking at the hem, “that was Amos.”
“The guy I threw the sponge at last time?”
“Yes. Rosanne, come here.” Cassy pulled her over to the dressing table and sat her down. She picked up her own brush and paused. To Rosanne’s reflection in the mirror she said, “I want to try something with your hair.” Rosanne shrugged. Cassy took it as consent and started to brush out Rosanne’s long hair.
“Too bad you didn’t have a daughter,” Rosanne said into the mirror.
“Hmmm.” Cassy had hair pins in her mouth. She was bringing the sides of Rosanne’s hair back up off her face. The doorbell rang; Rosanne started to rise; Cassy pushed her back down into the chair. “Not yet.”
Rosanne watched her work for a while and then said, “Who did you play dress-up with before me? Not the kid, I hope.” The kid was Henry, Cassy’s sixteen-year-old son.
“No one,” Cassy said. She looked down into the mirror, turning Rosanne’s head slightly. She considered their progress and then met Rosanne’s eyes. “You know, Rosanne,” she said, “the only reason I do this is because you’ll need it one day.” She paused, letting her hand fall on Rosanne’s shoulder. (The doorbell rang again.) “You’re not going to be cleaning houses forever.” Rosanne’s eyes lowered. “Maybe you don’t think so,” Cassy said, resuming brushing, “but I know so. And I want you to be ready.”
Silence.
It wasn’t a lie, what Cassy had said. But it certainly wasn’t the whole truth behind “playin’ dress-up.” The first time Cassy had coaxed Rosanne out of her usual cleaning garb and into a dress, Cassy had been quite taken aback. For some reason Cassy couldn’t understand, Rosanne seemed determined to conceal from the world not only her body but the basic truth of an attractive face. Here, right now, in the mirror, was a nice-looking young woman with long, wavy brown hair, large brown eyes (with lashes to die for) and a slightly Roman nose. And her skin! Twenty-six years of a difficult life, and yet not a mark was to be found on Rosanne’s complexion.
And so the whole truth had a lot to do with Cassy’s pleasure at performing a miracle make-over. And it did seem miraculous to Cassy, this transformation of Rosanne, because she herself always looked the same—at her best. And Cassy longed for a startling transformation for herself, but there was no transformation to be had. No, that was not true. There was one long, painful, startling transformation left to Cassy now—to lose her beauty to age. Others might not have noticed yet but, boy, she had. Every day. Every single day.
“I want you to enjoy what you have while you’ve got it,” Cassy murmured, picking up an eyeliner pencil.
Rosanne made a face in the mirror (decidedly on the demonic side) and then sighed. “Well, if I’m gonna lose it, maybe I don’t wanna get used to havin’ whatever it is you keep sayin’ I got.”
“Youth,” Cassy said, smiling slightly, tilting Rosanne’s face up. “Close your eyes, please.”
“Youth?” Rosanne said, complying with Cassy’s request. “Man, if this is youth, then middle age’ll kill me for sure.”
“I know what you mean,” Cassy said.
The doorbell rang again.
“So you’re on strike, or what?”
“Maybe,” Cassy said. “Hold still.”
Ten minutes later the doorbell rang again and Cassy hurried to reassess and touch up her work. There was a great deal of noise coming from the front of the apartment now, and Cassy hoped that Ivor hadn’t quit yet. “Okay,” she said, stepping back, “that’s it. If I do say so myself, you look wonderful. Here,” she added, handing Rosanne some earrings, “put those on and then come out and make your debut. I better get out there.”
As Cassy reached the door, Rosanne said, “Hey—Mrs. C.”
“Yes?”
Rosanne was admiring herself in the mirror. “Thanks.”
Cassy smiled. “The pleasure’s all mine.” She turned around and nearly collided with a young woman in the hall. Cassy stepped back, profusely excusing herself. The young woman merely laughed. Who was this?
Looking at Cassy was the most exquisite set of blue-gray eyes she had ever seen. And the eyes were not alone-great eyebrows, good cheek bones, a wide, lovely mouth. And her hair... This wonderfully dark, wildly attractive hair about the woman’s face. How young you are, Cassy thought.
“You must be Cassy,” the girl said. Her voice was deep, her diction perfect.
Cassy realized the girl was offering her hand to be shaken and so she took it, and did it, still fascinated with her eyes. “Yes,” she said, “and you’re...?”
“Alexandra Waring,” she said, baring a splendid smile. Cassy apparently jerked her hand away, for the girl took hold of her arm and said, “I’m sorry, did I startle you?”
Oh, Lord, Cassy thought, you may be the one Michael will want to marry. “How old are you?” Cassy said, cringing inside at how ridiculous the question sounded.
“Twenty-eight,” Alexandra said, laughing.
“Well,” Cassy said, clasping her hands together in front of her and composing herself slightly, “Michael has told me a great deal about you.” When the girl merely continued to smile at her, Cassy shrugged and said, “So—don’t you want to ask me how old I am?”
The girl’s smile turned to confusion on that one, and the moment was saved by Rosanne’s head appearing over Cassy’s shoulder. “I saw you in the Daily News, “she said. “Liz Smith says they’re gonna can Boxby to make room for ya.”
“I really don’t know,” Alexandra said vaguely.
“Better read Liz Smith then,” Rosanne suggested.
“Oh, brother!” cried a booming voice. It was Michael, his six-foot-two frame looming from the other end of the hallway. Cassy could already tell that he was three—no, maybe only two—sheets to the wind. “What are you doing, Cassy, introducing Alexandra to the maid?”
“I was just about to.” Cassy made the appropriate gestures. “Rosanne, this is Alexandra Waring. Alexandra, Rosanne DiSantos.”
Michael laughed, lumbering down to the group. “Who is this?” he cried, reaching around Cassy to pull Rosanne into view. “whooo-weee, look at you! How did you get so gorgeous?”
“Hey, watch the merchandise,” Rosanne warned him.
Alexandra turned to Cassy, smiling slightly. “Has she worked for you long?”
Cassy glanced at her. “Three years.” Her eyes swung back to Michael. “Not to be nosy, but where have you been?”
“Out,” Michael said, yanking the skirt of Rosanne’s dress.
“Yeah,” Rosanne said, yankin
g her dress back. “Five hours gettin’ ice. Gettin’ iced is more like it.”
“Big bad Rosanne, huh?” Michael said, putting up his dukes.
“You two—” Cassy began.
“Hey, Mr. C,” Rosanne said, sparring as best she could in the confined space, “listen, we gotta go easy on Mr. Moscow tonight. He’s the last guy they’ll send over.”
“Mr. Moscow?” Alexandra asked.
“The bartender,” Cassy said, catching the sleeve of Michael’s sweat shirt. “You better get changed.”
He stopped sparring and looked at her. “I stopped by the station,” he said.
“May I throw my things in there?” Alexandra asked, nodding toward the bedroom. “Cassy?”
“What?”
“My things—may I put them in there?”
“Stop lookin’ at me like that,” Rosanne said, swatting Michael’s arm. “I’m not gonna be a cleanin’ houses forever, ya know.”
“Rosanne,” Cassy said, “will you please get out there and pass hors d’oeuvres? And be forewarned that Amos has an animal on his head.”
“Amos,” Michael sighed, leaning heavily into the wall. “What an ass-hole.”
“He claims you gave him that thing for his birthday.”
“Yeah,” Michael sighed. “It’s a hyena. Looks like him, doesn’t it?”
“I’m takin’ the sponge with me then,” Rosanne said, moving down the hall,” just so ya know.”
“Cassy—” Alexandra tried again.
“Yes?”
“My things?”
“Yes. In there. On the bed.”
“And I’ll help you,” Michael said, brightening.
Cassy snatched his arm and turned him around. “You, in the kitchen now.”
“Wait,” Michael said, turning around. Cassy pushed him backward down the hall by his stomach. “No, wait, Cass, I just want to know what Alexandra wants to drink—ALEXANDRA. WHAT DO YOU WANT TO DRINK?”
“Good Lord,” Cassy sighed.
“Perrier!” came the reply.
This did not make him happy. Cranky, “WHAT?”
“Michael,” Cassy said.
“I’d like a Perrier,” Alexandra said, emerging from the bedroom.
“Oh, man,” Michael whined, turning around and walking to the kitchen of his own volition. “What is it with you guys? Get within ten feet of Cassy and suddenly everybody’s drinking Perrier. Shit.”
Cassy waited to escort Alexandra out of the hall. “What do you usually drink?” she asked, letting Alexandra pass in front of her.
“Perrier,” Alexandra said.
A nice figure, too. This is not good. “Really?”
Alexandra turned and smiled. Ratings were made on smiles like these. “Really,” she said.
Cassy’s father, Henry Littlefield, had always told her that she was the most beautiful girl in the world. Cassy’s mother, Catherine, yelled every time he said it. “If you keep telling her that, you’re going to make her a very unhappy woman!”
Cassy was twelve when her father died. Afterward, Catherine—over and over again, year in, year out—-strongly advised Cassy to forget everything her father had ever told her. Her explanation ran something like this:
Catherine had been quite a beauty herself, although you couldn’t tell that now. Years of slaving on Cassy’s behalf had destroyed her looks. But the point was, you see, Catherine had been a beauty. Everyone had always told her so and Catherine had believed them. She had also believed everyone when they said that her beauty would win her the best man alive and she would marry him and live happily ever after.
But instead of going for the Miss Iowa title in 1939 (which she won hands down, don’t you know), she should have gone to college and learned something. But she didn’t and she didn’t win the Miss America title, but she did win Henry Littlefield and life went steadily downhill after that.
It wasn’t that Henry had exactly been a bad man. No, no, far from it. It was just that he was so unlucky. Catherine had never seen anyone so unlucky. His career never got off the ground and they never did manage to move out of their starter house (or pay for it) and then Cassy came along and Catherine had to stay home all the time to take care of her and then Henry went off and died on her and Catherine had to work as a receptionist at Thompson Electronics to support Cassy and—
Sigh. “You know, sweetie, life is tough and then you’re dead and if only they hadn’t all kept telling me how beautiful I was.”
But you’ll be different, honey lamb. I won’t let that happen to you. You’re going to make something of yourself and not end up like your poor old mother.
And Cassy was different, and she did listen to her mother. She was a good girl; she did graduate at the top of her class; she did receive a full scholarship to Northwestern. She didn’t keep bad company (she didn’t really keep any company at all, frankly) and she didn’t fill her head with silly notions about boys.
That is, until Michael Cochran. Oh, but he was handsome in those days. So darkly, devastatingly handsome. (He still was, with a suntan.) And Cassy fell in love with him, despite the fact that she did not want to fall in love with him. He was too wild, too untrustworthy. (She was never quite sure, but over the years Cassy had come to suspect that her falling in love with him may have had something to do with the fact that he had never openly appeared to be in love with her—unlike almost every other man.) But Michael was always laughing, always on top of the world, and was such a good-natured, warm, fun-loving bear of a man-much like Cassy’s father had been. And Michael was so worldly! After six years of working at his hometown paper in Indiana, twenty-four-year-old Michael Cochran was an awesome entity in the journalism school. (Cassy was the second.)
They dated throughout college and Cassy agreed to marry him shortly after graduation. Catherine was horrified and refused to have anything to do with the wedding. If Cassy wanted to marry that “good-time Charlie” and throw her life away, she could go ahead and consider herself an orphan. Cassy and Michael went ahead and got married.
The Cochrans were hired as a team in the news department at a network affiliate in Chicago, Michael as a writer and Cassy as some glorified term for a secretary. They both worked very hard and Michael also played very hard. The guys in management, big drinkers themselves, loved having Michael along on their city jaunts. Michael was a kick; Michael was smart; Michael Cochran was going places.
And so was Cassy—on his coattails. When Michael was offered a producer slot in documentary, he demanded and got Cassy as his assistant producer. They worked extremely well together, Michael with his grand visions and good writing, and Cassy with her sharp technical eye and awesome organizational skills. In short, Michael would get a great idea and Cassy would see that it was carried through to completion. Michael hated details and follow-through (“DETAILS!” he would roar. “FUCK ‘EM— LET’S JUST DO IT!”).
Cassy got pregnant in 1968 and miscarried in her third month. But then in 1969 she conceived again and everyone (even her mother, who had deigned to speak to her again) was thrilled when Cassy’s term progressed without any problems. She continued working up to the week Henry was born, and did not return to work full time until two years later, when the biggest documentary of Michael’s life was falling apart—all because of those insidious DETAILS. She had not stopped working since.
They made the move to New York City in 1973 when Michael was offered the job of news director at WWKK. Cassy was hired as a feature segment producer in the news department at rival independent station WST. Both did very well, Michael earning more and more money, and Cassy, in 1976, becoming managing director of news operations at WST. But then, in 1978, Cassy started doing better-well than Michael. She was made managing director of news operations and co-programming director for the station. But since Michael was a vice-president and she wasn’t, it was okay for a while. But then in 1980 she was made vice-president and managing director, news and programming, and the situation became sticky. And then in 1982,
when Cassy was promoted to vice-president and general station manager, the Cochran marriage began to rock. As some sort of unspoken compromise—in terms of work—they spoke of news and only of news, and Michael was to remain the indisputable authority.
So here were the Cochrans of 1986, ensconced in the large West Side apartment on Riverside Drive they had owned for seven years now, both with careers they adored (most of the time) and a son they always adored. They were so lucky in that department, with Henry.
So why did Michael and she have so many problems? Cassy wondered. Problems that were never out in the open, problems that were tied into everything else in such nebulous ways that it was near impossible to even isolate them as such.
Fact (or Fact?): Michael may or may not have had anywhere between fourteen and thirty-seven affairs in the last ten years. (Cassy was always sure, but never really sure, and never wanted to know for sure.)
Fact: Their relationship as husband and wife had evolved into something suspiciously similar to that between an errant student and teacher.
Fact: Cassy and Michael rarely agreed on anything anymore, except a desire not to openly fight. Even on the subject of their son, their viewpoints were so far apart that it was amazing to think they had even known each other for twenty years, much less been married to each other. Michael cast his son as a jock and booming ladies’ man; Cassy knew him as a quiet, shy, gentle young man who was perhaps a bit too smart and too sensitive for his own good. As for the ladies’ man part of Michael’s perception, that only came up when Michael was drinking—when he would attribute all of his own sexual exploits and conquests to his son, going on and on in front of other people, daring to see how far he could go before Cassy showed visible signs of distress.
Looking in the powder-room mirror, tracing the hairs slipping from the clip with her fingers, Cassy considered the amount of gray she could distinguish from the ash blond. She was an expert at this by now. Would she...? No, not yet.
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