Andrews was an imposing figure, tall and lean with broad shoulders and weighty arms, more basketball player than business executive. His face, like his frame, was long and thin with a prominent nose and strong cheekbones. His eyes, behind frameless glasses, seemed to be squinting, so that Jane had no idea of their color. Andrews wore his hair long, not quite ready for a ponytail but over the back of his shirt collar. He was gray on the sides and dark on top, casually styled with no defined part. His appearance stressed the artistic side of his endeavors rather than the financial, the physical rather than the mental. She might have guessed a campus career if she hadn’t studied his career as a tycoon.
“You seem to be quite comfortable rushing around like this,” Jane said to Robert Leavitt. “I think the pace would drive me crazy!”
He shrugged. “I suppose I’ve been with him so long that it seems normal.”
“How long? When did you join Andrews Global Network?”
Leavitt chuckled. “Join? I was born here. Bill and I were college roommates. His senior thesis was an application for a community antenna license. That’s what a cable system used to be called. We moved out of the frat house and right into a two-room office.”
“That was in Pittsburgh,” she said, showing that she had done her homework.
He nodded. “For a couple of months. Then we used the license as security and bought another system in Harrisburg. In five years, we had twenty-four cable franchises and linked them together in a network that covered four states. We moved our headquarters sixteen times. It’s been quite a ride!”
“Have you enjoyed it?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. It hasn’t been dull.”
The flight attendant set out place settings and began serving a dinner of poached salmon. He brought plates into the conference room but set them on the far end of the table, away from the conference. William Andrews never seemed to notice the food.
“He doesn’t eat?” Jane wondered aloud.
“With customers and backers. For him, dining is a business function. It has nothing to do with nutrition.”
Jane leaned back from the table. “But still you like him. He’s a social misfit, but nothing he does offends you?”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Leavitt answered. “He can be offensive, is always ungrateful and sometimes downright rude. But the work is exciting, and I can’t complain about the money.”
“Do you have time for a life of your own?” she asked.
“Not much,” Leavitt agreed with a smile. “A few hours here and there. Fortunately, I’m not married. Except to the company.”
Andrews jumped up from the conference table and backed out into the aisle. When he started forward, Jane thought she was about to get her interview, but he stopped at the end of the aisle. “Bob,” he said, “let’s go.”
Leavitt undid his seat belt. “My master’s voice,” he said with a look of resignation. He swung out into the aisle and followed Andrews into the conference room. That left Jane looking across at the still scowling John Applebaum and Kim Annuzio, who was now absorbed in her laptop.
Dessert came, an apple tart glazed with raisin sauce. And then cordials, in Jane’s case a ruby port. It was close to ten P.M. back in New York, and probably past midnight over the Atlantic when the meal was cleared away. Andrews and his people were still talking vigorously in the conference room. Applebaum had been summoned to join them, and Kim had closed her computer and was looking out her window at the starlit sky.
“Are they going to keep going all night?” Jane asked.
“I’m not sure.” She undid her seat belt and slid across to join Jane. “We haven’t been introduced,” she said, and mentioned her name. “You’re J. J. Warren,” she added before Jane could introduce herself. “I’ve read your articles on the company.”
“And you’d like to push me out the door,” Jane suggested.
“Not at all. I thought you did a good job, as far as it went.”
“Where else should it have gone?”
“I was hoping you’d look at the properties we’ve acquired,” Kim answered. “You say we can control editorial opinion. But generally we leave the properties running pretty much as they were. We make them more efficient and more profitable, but we’re not trying to promote an ideology or a viewpoint. We’re trying to make money.”
Jane nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll look into that in the next piece. But the potential for propaganda is still there, and I think that’s more important than your shareholders getting richer.”
Kim shrugged. “That’s the dilemma, I suppose.” She slid back across to her seat.
Was she being set up? First Leavitt tells her how hard they’re all working, and then another executive makes a pitch that she might take a different viewpoint. What’s next? she wondered. Maybe Applebaum will stop by and offer me a raise.
She opened her computer and went back to work on the questions she would ask. They were tough and potentially embarrassing, reflecting the latest change in her opinion of William Andrews. According to Kim, he was all about money. Leavitt had described him as ungrateful and rude. And he was a total bastard in dealing with her. He had agreed to the interview, charged his old college roommate with keeping her at the ready, and then ignored her as if she were an insect too insignificant to swat. Well, screw him! If he managed an interview, she would hold his feet to the fire. And if he didn’t, she would tell her readers exactly what kind of a horse’s ass he was.
She glanced up. He was pacing around the conference table, jabbing a finger in front of him to emphasize whatever point he was making. His top executives were nodding their approval over their laptops as they raced to capture his every thought. “Screw it!” she told herself in a full voice. She slammed the computer shut and snapped off the overhead light. If he wanted an interview, let him come and ask for it.
When she awoke, the flight attendant was setting a glass of orange juice in front of her. Robert Leavitt had returned and was sitting across from her, absently spooning cold cereal into his mouth while reading a printout of the latest news. He had a linen napkin tucked into his collar and spread across his shirt and tie.
“Damn,” Jane said, sitting up straight. “I fell asleep.”
Leavitt set down his news report. “You didn’t miss anything. When the meeting broke up, they all went to bed.” He nodded to the curved lounge where Gordon Frier was sound asleep. “There are bunks aft,” he went on, explaining the absence of the others, “and Bill has his own cabin in the tail.”
The steward brought her coffee and promised to return with fruit and yogurt.
“Let me ask you something,” she said, and went ahead without waiting for permission. “If I were from the Times, or The Wall Street Journal…”
“The same thing would have happened,” he said, anticipating the end of her question. “William Andrews is an equal-opportunity in-grate. He’s stiffed lots of journalists and left it to me to convey his apologies. So when I apologize on his behalf, you shouldn’t feel that you were stiffed just because you’re not a big-city editor.”
“How does he get away with it?”
“He doesn’t,” Robert answered. “He gets crucified by the press.”
Jane nodded. “He should. I’m going to do a story about what it’s like to sit around waiting on his royal pleasure.”
Leavitt pushed his cereal bowl aside and leaned closer. “Look, I’ll do everything I can to get the two of you together. Once this fire drill is over—”
“Forget it,” Jane snapped. “You said you would put me on the first plane back to New York. That’s what I want—my return ticket.”
He nodded. “Okay, but the first plane going back won’t take off until one o’clock. So let me get you settled into a hotel where you can run up a big room-service tab and catch a few hours’ sleep. Then I’ll have a car take you back to the airport.”
She shook her head. “That won’t be necessary.”
“It’s only fair,�
�� he reminded her.
After a few seconds’ reflection, Jane announced, “You’re right. It’s the least that the great William Andrews can do for me after dragging me halfway around the world by my nose. I’ll run up one hell of a room-service tab.”
Her coffee, fruit, and yogurt appeared before her. And when Leavitt pushed up the window shade, she could see the shape of the French coast bordering the Channel. She watched carefully, until the suburbs of Paris passed underneath, and caught a glimpse of the Seine snaking around Notre Dame on its way to the Eiffel Tower. Not bad, she thought again. Maybe she should tell Robert that she needed a rest day before she headed back, and then spend a night on the town. That way she could really run up an enormous bill and pay herself back for the inconvenience. It wouldn’t matter how much she spent. Once her article appeared she was going to be fired anyway.
They touched down at Charles de Gaulle and taxied to the executive hangar. William Andrews charged out of his private quarters the instant the door was opened. He was unshaven and unkempt. Apparently he had stretched out in his clothes. And the eyes behind his glasses were bloodshot.
Jane was in his path, standing in the aisle as she smoothed her skirt and picked up her briefcase. They came face-to-face and then nose-to-nose. Andrews swayed forward, his body language telling her to either get out of the way or get moving. She stood her ground.
“Mr. Andrews, I’m J. J. Warren, the editor you were supposed to meet back in New York.”
He blinked as if trying to make certain that someone was actually standing in his way. “J. J. Warren?” he asked.
“From the Southport Post. I’m the one who said that you had the SEC and FCC in your pocket. I was going to give you the opportunity to tell your side of the story.”
He stared at her, his brow wrinkling as he tried to make sense out of her intrusion. Then the pieces fell into place. “Oh, yes. J. J. Warren. We’re going to do an interview.”
“No, we’re not,” she contradicted him. “We were going to do an interview, but you blew it. What you’re going to get now is a feature article that tells my readers just what an insufferable stuffed shirt you actually are.”
He still seemed to be groping for information. Robert leaned in close and whispered the relevant facts in his ear. “Ms. Warren is with the New England Suburban Press organization that we just bought. You wanted to meet her.”
There was another flicker of recognition. “Yes … of course. How are you, Ms. Warren?”
“Pissed-off, thank you,” she answered. “You may be able to treat your flunkies with indifference and bully your critics. But not me! I say what I see. And what I see is an insensitive gorilla used to pushing people around. And what I want you to know is that I don’t push easily. So just wait your turn.”
She shouldered her laptop and started down the aisle at a graceful pace. William Andrews followed meekly, and then came his wide-eyed, open-mouthed staff. Robert Leavitt filled in at the rear, scarcely able to suppress the laughter that went along with his broad smile.
5
Jane stirred, stretched like a kitten, and enjoyed the luxury of satin caressing her bare skin. She rolled onto her side and gathered the pillows into a soft mound so that she could bury her face. Then she pulled her knees up to her chest, settled into the cozy quiet of the womb, and sighed with content. Wherever she was, she planned on staying for the full term.
Where was she? The question perplexed her for a moment because this certainly wasn’t her bed and she generally slept in at least a T-shirt. Now she was naked, rolled up in a ball, and floating in what seemed to be a pond of rosewater. Was it possible that she had died and gone to heaven?
Probably not, because she could hear traffic noises—revving engines, high-pitched horns, and rumbling trucks. All strange sounds, recognizable even though they weren’t the sounds she was used to hearing. She blinked an eye open and saw a cream-colored cascade of bedspread, beautiful but certainly not hers. She was in someone else’s bed!
She sat bolt upright, her eyes suddenly wide-open. The room was huge, with towering walls that disappeared into the darkness. There was only one streak of light that pushed between the drapes, falling across an intricate pattern of an Oriental rug. It was just enough to illuminate the corner of the footboard so that she could make out the carved fleur-de-lis and the gold detailing on the off-white panel. Paris, she remembered. She had fallen asleep in Paris.
Jane bounded out of bed and ran to the window, poking her face into the split of the drapes. Through a huge French door, and over the rail of an iron balcony, she saw a wide boulevard with a center divide. Traffic whizzed in both directions, oblivious of the clusters of pedestrians who risked their lives in timing the space between cars. Across the street was a row of white granite town houses with storefronts at street level. Cartier, Chanel, and Ferragamo were among the discreet signs.
“Paris,” she said with a sigh. She teased the drapes open a bit so that she could get a better look. “Damn,” she said, suddenly wheeling away from the window. The streets were full. What time was it? What time was her flight? She saw the clock on her night table— 9:15. The sun was out, so it must still be morning. And what had Robert Leavitt said about the first flight back to the States being in the afternoon? She caught her breath. She hadn’t overslept. But what were the arrangements? Did she have a ticket? Was she being picked up, or was she supposed to make her own way to the airport?
She remembered her parting scene with William Andrews in the aisle of his private jet. Oh, Jesus, what had gotten into her? Why hadn’t she just stepped out of his way and kept her mouth shut? What had she called him? She was grateful that she couldn’t remember. She knew it was something spiteful and insulting, but it was easier to remember that she had been just a bit intemperate. In the car she had suggested to Robert Leavitt that her days with Andrews Global Network were probably numbered and that the number more than likely was one. Maybe she had already been terminated, in which case there might not be a ticket or a limo to the airport.
But if they had dumped her, they had certainly let her fall into luxury. The room might have been a ballroom with its fabric-covered walls, crown moldings, and intricately worked plaster cornices. The ceiling, visible as soon as she turned on the three-tiered crystal chandelier, was a blue sky with puffy clouds supporting cherubs who flew out of the corners. Two decorated armoires flanked the double doors to the next room.
She eased open the double doors and blinked into the glare of sunlight coming through another set of French doors. The sitting room was sumptuous, a backdrop against which Empress Josephine might have received admirers. The walls were a brocaded fabric framed in gilded moldings. Paintings—a Loire landscape and two portraits of long-dead gentlemen—were hung. A chandelier, like the one in the bedroom but much larger, hung over two French Victorian sofas that faced each other over an inlaid table. There was a mantel at the far end serving as backdrop to an arrangement of Empire chairs. Jane wandered in, her jaw dropping just a bit, and spun around slowly to take it all in. “Not your typical Holiday Inn,” she said to herself. “Where in God’s name am I?” The answer came instantly: in front of an open window without a stitch of clothing on.
Her clothes, Jane remembered, were in one of the armoires. She slunk back into the privacy of the bedroom, took the clothes off the shelf, and laid them out on the bed, her suit and blouse, panty hose, half-slip, bra, and panties. Then she went into the bathroom, hoping to find enough shampoo and scented soap for a decent shower, and maybe a hot radiator or towel bar that would let her dry her underwear. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be able to rinse them out in the sink.
The telephone rang, a symphony of jingles coming from the suite’s four telephones, including one hanging next to the bathtub. Jane picked it up and answered in English. The response was also in English, flavored with a French accent. “Mademoiselle, there’s a gentleman here with a package for you. Some things for your trip.”
My tickets, she th
ought. “Oh thank, you. Could you have someone bring it up and slide it under the door.”
The operator chuckled. “I’m afraid it won’t fit under the door, Mademoiselle. There is … apparel.”
Great, Jane thought. They had bought her some traveling things. She wondered which of the executives had guessed her sizes, and figured it must have been Kim Annuzio. “Just leave it inside the door,” Jane answered. “I’m going to be in the shower.”
“Very well,” the woman’s voice said cheerily, and then she clicked off the line.
Jane looked around the bathroom, another room with high ceilings but with walls and floor of white tile. The huge tub, set on lion-paw feet, was ergonomically shaped with the back high and the foot low. It was placed away from the wall with its polished copper pipes completely exposed. A handheld showerhead was clamped to a vertical pole so that it could be slid up and down. There was no curtain. Overflow from the tub drained through a scupper in the center of the floor.
She moved the bottles of soaps and oils close to the tub, climbed in, and began experimenting with the valves and levers. When the water was delightfully hot, she routed it up to the showerhead and held the unit close to minimize the splashing. It felt so refreshing that she closed the drain and settled down so that the tub would fill around her. In just a few minutes she was slouched in water up to her chin, her hair in a lather of scented soap. She would have lingered much longer, but she still had no idea when her flight would be leaving. She stood to rinse under the shower and then stepped out onto wet tiles.
The First Wife Page 4