Silent Heart

by Claire McNab

  "Professor Woodson? I have an important question." The man's tone was already ringing with righteousness. Recognizing his fleshy, arrogant face, I sighed. Brilliant at working the media, he was a fundamentalist in every sense of the word. His savage campaigns against women who aspired to be anything other than subsidiary to men were legendary — and in me he had a double target. Not only was I female and a professor, I had also written something he considered to be the work of the devil. He looked around to make sure everyone was attentive before continuing, "Was it only crass commercialism that drove you to attack the Church, and those who serve her faithfully, or did you have some other, even more reprehensible, motive?"

  I said firmly, "Surely it's clear from even a casual reading of my work that I had no intention of attacking anyone, or, indeed, any institution such as the Church. What I set out to do was to trace the history of a particular strand of literature."

  "Literature!" He spat the word. "By any standard this filth is not literature. And these lies, these fabrications about men who have devoted their lives to God... pure evil!"

  "I did include female religious," I said mildly.

  He ignored my comment. "It can only undermine the foundations of society when the family, the Church, the moral fiber..."

  I tuned out his familiar phrases. Glancing at the official table I saw that Hugh had a half-smile — the more outrageous the controversy, the better the publicity.

  Silence alerted me that my reply was due. In contrast to my questioner's loud outrage, I spoke with tones of reason and persuasion, pointing out that the existence of such material was well documented, that erotica had existed throughout social history, and that I had merely recorded and commented upon certain writings, including some that had a religious background.

  My moderate reply generated a few more spluttering condemnations, then a comment from someone obviously impatient with the slant sent the questioning in a different direction. Finally, Hugh whisked me away to a table for the publisher's reward — a book signing. I was becoming more skilled at putting a bland comment and then signing my name, smiling, and then rapidly moving to the next person in line.

  John waited until the last lingering person had been dispatched by Hugh, then gave me a hug. "That was great, Vicky, great. I feel really proud to know you."

  "I don't think Zoe is."

  "Oh, Zoe...-" My cousin smiled indulgently. "You know what she's like. Underneath it all she admires you. She just can't say it."

  Unconvinced, I managed a neutral murmur that could have indicated agreement.

  As we went down to the hotel carpark, he said, "Saw that journalist who's doing your story."

  "What, on TV?"

  He stopped walking and turned to me. "I got the impression you knew all about it. She didn't actually say, but—"

  "Reyne Kendall's interviewed you? In person?"

  "Yes. Quite early this morning. She wanted some background, she said. I didn't see it as a problem..." His voice trailed off at my expression.

  I wished my words were bullets I could fire. "How dare she do that."

  John hated conflict, so he tried to placate me. "Hang on, Vicky. There were no really personal questions. I wouldn't have answered them if there had been. I just gave her some general information she could have got from other sources anyway."

  Ridiculously, I felt betrayed. "I suppose it'll be Zoe, next," I said with some bitterness.

  John's face showed guilty amusement. "I hate to say this, but Reyne Kendall's seeing Zoe about now, actually."

  I turned my anger inward, as I had from the time I was a child. "I hope Zoe keeps at least in sight of the truth," I said with a rueful smile.

  John, who never seemed able to see beneath the surface, relaxed at this indication of a reasonable attitude. "Of course she will — and anyway, as far as Zoe's concerned, I got the idea Reyne Kendall's more interested in photos and stuff like that."

  I could hear the undercurrent of resentment in my voice as I said, "I don't see what my childhood's got to do with the book."

  John put an arm around my shoulders. "You just have to accept it," he said mockingly. "You're a star, Victoria Woodson. It must be hell."

  Although feeling positively murderous towards Reyne, I matched his flippant tone. "It is hell," I said, "but it's my academic duty to endure it."

  He kissed my cheek. "Bye, Vicky. See you tomorrow night."

  "Tomorrow night?"

  "Zoe hasn't checked with you yet? Well, that's fairly typical. I bet you find a message on your answering machine summoning you. She's already asked Gerald, and I'm going. Come on, Vicky, don't frown. We don't see enough of you, as it is, so don't say you can't make it."

  John's wife had died a year ago, and though I'd spent time with him in the first few months, I was uneasily aware that I'd neglected him recently. "All right," I said, "but only if you protect me from Zoe when she launches into an attack on my book."

  His pleasure at my acceptance made me feel guilty. "Haven't I always protected you?" he said. "Particularly from Zoe?"

  Reyne answered at the third ring. "Reyne Kendall."

  Now that I had her on the phone, I wasn't quite sure what to say. The righteous indignation of, "How dare you talk to my family," would sound absurd, if not paranoid. I said, my voice chilly, "I was a little surprised you didn't mention that you were seeing my cousins for background."

  "That was deliberate," said Reyne. "It's my policy not to warn people that I'm going to see their relatives."

  I glared at the phone as though it were Reyne. "Why?" I snapped.

  "To stop the problem of rehearsing and editing memories. People often like to polish up the past."

  "I can't imagine I'd go to the trouble."

  "It's not personal — it's just my policy."

  Keeping my voice even, I said, "Were John and Zoe helpful?"

  Reyne's warm chuckle ran down the line and curled into my ear. "If you mean am I any closer to understanding you, Professor, the answer's no." She paused for my response. When I remained silent, she added, "But I can assure you I'm enjoying the search."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Warmth spiraled through me. The lover who held me in a tight embrace ran a tongue along my closed lips. I opened my mouth to the pressure. The pulse of my desire made me gasp. "Please," I groaned...

  The alarm shrilled, jolting me awake. I kept my eyes squeezed shut, but the dream evaporated, leaving only a wisp of passion to taunt me. Reluctantly I blinked in the early morning brightness of my orderly bedroom. There was something about the day I didn't like... then I remembered the midday appointment to appear live on Chisholm Tierce's television show.

  Tao, who had been galvanized into action by the alarm, continued to complain bitterly about imminent starvation as I slid out of bed, straightened the sheets that I'd churned into a twisted mess, and padded into the bathroom. My reflection stared back at me, the same controlled, quietly watchful face as always. I wondered what I would look like in the abandonment of lovemaking — not the sedate coupling that Gerald and I indulged in, but the wild, uninhibited passion that I dimly remembered from my dream.

  I arrived early at the television studio — running late always causes me such anxiety that I overcompensate — to find Hugh Oliver already there. Carrying two mugs of coffee, he followed me into the makeup room. As the grim young woman in a bright pink smock surveyed me critically before making a selection from her impressive array of bottles and tubes, I said to him, "Waiting to see meek professor transformed into effervescent television personality?"

  Even under the harsh lighting his skin glowed with ruddy health. "Not so meek," he said, handing me one of the coffees, which was prepared just as I always had it — black with one sugar. Hugh prided himself on his ability to remember likes, dislikes and preferences. "Always impresses people," he'd confided shortly after I met him. He had laughed when I'd pointed out that telling me of his achievement somewhat lessened the impact. "Not so," he'd said.
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  "Now you think you're being treated differently because I'm letting you in on professional secrets."

  Both Hugh and I watched in the mirror as the makeup woman went to work, turning my pale reflection into an exaggerated version of myself. As I looked doubtfully at her handiwork, she said tersely, "It'll look all right on the screen. The lights wash you out, you see."

  As she spoke, Christie O'Keefe came into the room. "You're early, Victoria. I'm on before you."

  "I didn't realize you'd be here too."

  She raised a satiric eyebrow. "I suspect Hugh and my magazine got together to arrange it."

  Hugh bestowed his usual sunny smile. "And you'll mention Victoria and your photographs for Millennium, won't you?"

  Christie grinned. "You sure have chutzpah, Hughie. Chisholm Tierce is interviewing me about my career. Anyway, Victoria's quite capable of beating her own drum."

  Hugh spread his hands. "Every little bit helps."

  While he went off to check that things were going to schedule, I stayed chatting to Christie while her makeup was applied. "I hear you had a run-in with Reyne," she said.

  "Not exactly. She saw my cousins without telling me, and I suppose I resented it." As I spoke, I realized that it must sound like an overreaction, so I added, "I'm a private person. I don't like my family being asked questions."

  I'd amused Christie. "Honey," she said, "you've gotten yourself into the wrong business. You get fame — you get questions. Goes with the territory."

  "You're done," said the makeup woman, who had altered Christie's lightly tanned face into a distinct brown contrast with her pale blonde hair.

  As we went down the corridor towards the studio, I said casually, "What did Reyne say?"

  "Not much. Just that you were quite an interesting challenge."

  "I'm unhappy to hear I'm only quite interesting," I said lightly, wondering why I was curious about what Reyne might, or might not, have said.

  A young man with a clipboard and a harassed expression hurried up to us. "Christie O'Keefe? Professor Woodson? You're needed now." He clucked over his list. "The running order's shot to pieces," he declared. Shoving open a heavy metal door he gestured urgently. "Through here, please."

  The studio was unremittingly ugly. Uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs rose in tiers for the members of the audience, who were already filing into their seats, even though the show wasn't due to start for some time. Looking down on us from one wall was the lit window of the control room. People hastened by, each preoccupied with some mysterious task. Thick cables snaked over the grubby concrete floor, and banks of lights hung from a jumble of metal framework suspended from the ceiling. The cameras sat like wheeled alien monsters, each with a human attendant wearing earphones and the worn blue jeans which seemed to be the uniform required for the crew. The familiar set of The Chisholm Tierce Show — even I had succumbed to the extravagant plaudits and had watched it once or twice — looked unconvincingly flimsy in the brilliant flat light that bathed its tacky outlines. Glancing at a monitor, I was surprised at how the camera made the set look substantial and attractive. I pointed out the screen to Christie. "The camera makes the set look good. Can it do that for us?"

  She wrinkled her nose. "You, maybe. Me? I'd need a couple more hours in makeup."

  I smiled at her agreeable face, thinking how easy she was to be with — by contrast to Reyne's company.

  Chisholm Tierce, his sleek good looks enhanced by the heavy television makeup, came over to gladhand us. "Ladies! Wonderful to have you here with us. We've got a great show today..." He beckoned to the worried young man with the clipboard. "Barry? Over here." Turning his smooth charm on us again, he said, "Barry will show you the ropes, make sure you feel comfortable." He looked past us to where another guest — a well-known plastic surgeon — had entered the studio. "Excuse me." As he swept towards the new arrival, his rich tones floated back to us. "Dr. Enrico! Wonderful to have you here with us. We've got a great show today..."

  "Lucky we hit him on an up day," said Christie dryly.

  Hugh joined us as Barry began instructions on the procedures to be followed and the dos and don'ts of guest appearances. He pointed out the floor manager, who was standing with arms folded waiting for Tierce's attention. "He's in charge of what happens down here, while the director in the control room decides what actually goes to air." Christie was obviously an old hand at all this, but I was becoming almost as anxious as Hugh looked. The Chisholm Tierce Show was broadcast live at noon, so if I made some embarrassing mistake it couldn't be edited out, but would be seen by the whole huge audience.

  "Don't worry," said Hugh. "It'll be a breeze."

  Christie's smile was mischievous. "Sure Chisholm's been briefed properly, Hugh? You wouldn't want him asking any questions out of left field..." Her smile broadened as he excused himself and hurried away. "He's so easy to panic it takes all the fun out of it."

  The atmosphere was taking an air of urgency as the time ticked towards noon. The guests for the show — me, Christie, Dr. Enrico and a well-known astrologer who'd had the skill, or luck, to predict several major world disasters — were shepherded into a waiting area. An exhaustingly energetic woman in a red jacket appeared on stage to warm up the audience. Within a few minutes she had turned a crowd of individuals into a good-humored, cohesive group who laughed and applauded enthusiastically when instructed by flashing red signs. A few minutes before midday Chisholm Tierce entered to a positive storm of adulation from his largely middle-aged, female audience.

  The apparent chaos of the studio was contradicted by the smooth running of the show once the well-known theme was played. It was fascinating to glance from the monitor, where everything was the familiar seamless production, to the swooping cameras and the jumble of equipment just out of view of the lens.

  Barry stood with us like a sheepdog whose flock might wander. He checked his clipboard, assuring us yet again that the running order of guests was Dr. Enrico first, followed by Christie, then me. The astrologer had the final spot, and from Barry's nervous questions, I gathered that some extraordinary prediction was to be made as the show closed. Hugh was with the director, and he waved from the control room above us, his face reflecting poorly disguised stress.

  The mosaic of the program emerged, as banter from Tierce was followed by a singer, advertisements, the first interview, more banter, a news flash, more ads, then Christie. I watched in admiration, sure that I wouldn't be able to imitate her cheerful insouciance as she chatted animatedly, ignoring the cameras crowding the one brightly lit area of the studio. She told amusing anecdotes from her travels as a photographer, and I found myself laughing along with the audience.

  My amusement died as Barry whispered, "You're next, Professor. When I give the signal, get onto the set, sit down, and be ready to go."

  Why had I thought a book-signing or a literary luncheon challenging? This was much more daunting. Tierce turned a big smile to the camera, then an advertisement for mouthwash appeared on the monitor. Barry tapped my shoulder. Someone had dashed in to dab at Tierce's brow. I stumbled past Christie on her way off the set. "Give 'em hell," she said with a grin. I didn't smile in return, being too busy negotiating the obstacle course of equipment and cables. The heat of the lights hit my face as I lowered myself into the chair, my mind completely blank. I hadn't felt this intensity of stage fright for years, not since my first public lecture. Chisholm Tierce was snarling at the floor manager. I stared at a monitor, where a white-coated man was sincerely extolling the virtues of an antacid powder. The floor manager stepped away from the set, holding up his fingers to indicate seconds elapsing. The ad ended, the logo of the program appeared — I was on camera.

  Tierce's annoyance had disappeared a moment before his image appeared on the screen. Now he looked playful, almost boyish, as he remarked upon the controversy The Erotic Muse had generated. The studio audience murmured, though whether in approval or disapproval I couldn't tell. As he introduced me with a few brief
comments, I found myself staring fixedly at the camera, quite mesmerized by its single intrusive eye. I'd been given an outline of the innocuous questions likely to be asked, but Chisholm Tierce didn't stick to the script. "Are you obsessed with sex?" he asked cheerily.

  I heard my voice as if from a distance, and was comforted at its normality. I even managed a lilting laugh. "Obsessed with sex? I don't believe so."

  "Then why this particular book, Professor Woodson?" He shot a sly smile to the studio audience as he held a copy for the camera to focus upon. "I'd imagine you'd have to wade through an awful lot of sexy material just doing the research..." As he paused, someone in the audience tittered. He gave a roguish smile as he continued, "And, Professor, some of it must have needed quite some searching to find — the scandalous religious writings, for instance."

  Before I could explain that the erotica was written by people in the Church, but wasn't religious by any definition, he had gone on to say, "I believe your book has been denounced from the pulpits of several denominations. I'm sure my audience would like to know your personal religious background and beliefs."

  I began to feel more comfortable with what was becoming a familiar query. Almost forgetting the venue, I concentrated on Tierce's face. After all, posing and answering questions were aspects of my profession, so there was no reason to be rattled. The time passed so quickly that it seemed only a few moments and then my interview was expertly wound up with yet another knowing smile from Chisholm Tierce.

  Hugh came- to meet me as I made my way back through the maze of cameras and cables. "Excellent, Victoria! That should sell a few books. I've asked for a copy of the tape, so you can review how it went."

  "I don't think I want to see it."

  Christie gave me a companionable squeeze. "If you change your mind," she said, "I know Reyne's taped it."