The Proprietor's Daughter

by Lewis Orde

  “John, would you do me a favor? Today, right now?”

  “Anything.”

  “Tell Jeffrey Dillard that I’d like to see him. Tell him I’m very interested in working with him on ‘Fightback.’”

  “I’ll be delighted to tell him that.”

  Katherine broke the connection and breathed in deeply. Then she dialed her father’s number, ready to tell him that she had decided to leave the Daily Eagle and start a new career in television.

  Chapter Seventeen

  KATHERINE KNEW she should not be nervous, but she was. “I am bloody well petrified,” she told Jeffrey Dillard, when, half an hour before the start of her first “Fightback,” the show host visited her dressing room to ask how she was feeling.

  “My dear, there’s no reason for you to be so worried. You’ve appeared on television before. Standing in front of a camera is nothing new.”

  “That was almost three years ago, Jeffrey.” She noticed that he held a bunch of tulips in his hand. “I was a guest speaker then, invited to participate because of ‘Satisfaction Guaranteed!’ This time, I’m a co-host.”

  “And an excellent co-host you’ll be. Sit down and take a few deep breaths. You’ll be surprised how those butterflies will calm down.” Dillard’s blue eyes twinkled merrily as he kissed Katherine on the forehead. “Before each production of ‘Fightback,’ I always gave flowers to Elaine Cowdrey, your predecessor. Just a silly superstition really. You see, I’d given her flowers before her debut, and that debut had been a success. So I got into the habit of giving them to her before every show. I would very much like to continue that superstition with you.”

  “Thank you. And it’s not a silly superstition — it’s a perfectly delightful tradition.” As Dillard left the room, she placed his tulips on the dressing table, alongside floral tributes that had been delivered earlier. Red roses from John Saxon, who was sitting in the studio audience. An enormous orchid plant from Roland, who, with Sally Roberts, was also in the audience. And one good-luck wish that had not been formed with a florist’s skill: a telegram from Raymond Barnhill urging Katherine to “Knock ’em dead!”

  Four men sent me good wishes, Katherine mused. My father. My lover. My American friend. And my television mentor. All the men in my life!

  She laughed, and some of the tension disappeared. Standing in front of the mirror, she checked her appearance for the umpteenth time. The cream-colored cashmere sweater dress finished just below her knees. Her hair was pulled back, and she wore beaten gold hoop earrings. The light colors were Erica Bentley’s idea. “Jeffrey Dillard always wears dark suits,” Katherine recalled Erica telling her. “Get out of his shadow from the very beginning, show him that you are your own person. And for God’s sake, don’t even think of wearing those bloody suits of yours! Burn them! Give them away to the Salvation Army! Get rid of them!”

  More butterflies died. Erica was in the audience as well. Afterward, she would join in a celebration dinner at A l’Ecu de France, in Jermyn Street. Katherine hoped it would be a jollier affair than the last time they’d all been together. That had been a month earlier, just before Christmas, her farewell party at the Eagle. Despite the food and drink, the good wishes and merry chatter, Katherine’s eyes had been brimming with tears. After ten years, she was leaving the Eagle, and her feelings were, understandably, mixed. As well as a career advancement, she was making an acknowledgment of failure. She’d found out, as John Saxon had once so eloquently phrased it, that her readers didn’t really care for much beyond the price of beer and cigarettes after all.

  She had managed to keep those tears in check all through the party. She hadn’t even cried at the end of it, when her father had kissed her and said, “Remember, Kathy, whenever you want to come back, the door’s open.” But she’d had no defense when, moments later, Lawrie Stimkin had come up to her, his lugubrious face tinged with warmth, his eyes moist.

  “Don’t think me daft, Kathy, but it always makes me cry to see good newspaper talent going to the flaming idiot box!”

  Katherine’s own tears started. She didn’t object to being called Kathy; she didn’t even jump back when Stimkin threw his arms around her in a bear hug. He was tipsy and sad and remorseful, and somehow it all seemed so fitting.

  “You know something, Lawrie? You’re not such a miserable bastard after all.” Then they’d stood there, crying on each other’s shoulders. . . .

  By show-time, whatever butterflies weren’t dead had flown away. When the call came, Katherine was ready and raring to go.

  *

  “You were marvelous, Katherine. Absolutely marvelous.” Sally Roberts lifted a glass of Krug in a toast. “The Eagle’s loss is television’s gain.”

  Katherine gazed around the restaurant table. Her father sat opposite, with Sally Roberts on his right. To Katherine’s left sat Erica, and to her right was John Saxon. “I wish I could agree with you,” she responded, “but to tell you the truth, I can’t seem to recall much about it.”

  “Oh, come on!” Erica protested. “What were you doing out there — sleepwalking?”

  Katherine shook her head. “I remember Jeffrey Dillard introducing me to the audience.”

  “Your two audiences,” Sally pointed out. “Your personal audience in the studio, and the countless millions across the country who were clustered around their television sets.”

  “Don’t say millions; it frightens me. I remember that, but the rest of the show — the rest of my debut — is a complete blank.”

  Everyone tried to fill in Katherine’s memory lapse. Saxon said something about a wedding. Erica drowned him out by talking loudly about men’s suits. Sally mentioned the name of a clothing shop, then Saxon fought his way back into the discussion by talking about bankruptcy. Roland, his hands over his ears to block out the confusing babble around him, looked at Katherine and asked, “Now do you remember?”

  “Yes, yes, it’s all coming back.” The bad situation she’d rectified for her debut “Fightback” had concerned a wedding that had taken place the previous week. The groom, his two brothers, and the best man — all members of the same amateur rugby team, hulking brutes who could never be fitted off the rack — had ordered custom-made suits from the tailoring department of a local menswear shop. A week before the wedding, when the suits were waiting to be picked up, the shop had gone bankrupt. Immediately, a hold had been placed on the shop’s assets. Those assets had included uncollected orders such as the wedding party’s suits.

  The wedding day had been saved by Katherine. Film clips followed her frustrating journey through the bankruptcy-court bureaucracy, waving receipts to prove the suits had been paid for. At last, she had reached an official willing to take responsibility for releasing the disputed merchandise. The final scene was of the wedding itself, to which Katherine had been invited as a guest of honor.

  Katherine wound up her first “Fightback” by showing the audience a brown paper bag. “To demonstrate his appreciation, the bridegroom presented me with this.” She pulled a rugby uniform — black shorts and yellow-and-black striped shirt, all caked with mud — from the bag. “I don’t know whether he expects me to wear it, or to wash it.”

  For obvious reasons, the Eagle’s entertainment page made nothing more than a passing mention of “Fightback’s” new co-host. Other newspapers were kinder, giving a former journalist high marks on her television debut.

  After a month on “Fightback,” Katherine felt as if she had been in television for as long as Jeffrey Dillard. Nerves no longer bothered her. There was really very little difference between a typewriter and a television camera in reaching people; a good story, well told, was exactly the same in any medium. And Dillard, as he came to appreciate Katherine’s professionalism, gave her more and more of the show, content to let his latest discovery hog the limelight.

  In March, after Katherine had been doing “Fightback” for two months, John Saxon told Katherine about a surprise party he was planning.

  “In fo
ur weeks’ time, on April the seventh, my friend and your colleague, Jeffrey Dillard, celebrates thirty years in television. It falls on a Saturday. I’m organizing a super surprise party for him, and I want you to be my hostess.”

  “Who are you inviting?”

  “Jeffrey’s friends, most of whom happen to be my friends as well. You know something, Katherine, in all the time we’ve known each other, you’ve never been out to my other home.”

  “I haven’t, have I?” It seemed quite incredible, but she had never visited his home at Henley-on-Thames. She either met him at Marble Arch, or else he collected her at Kate’s Haven. Nor, she thought, had she spent a complete night with him since the soccer riot that had caught them in its aftermath. She always had to be available in case her children wanted her first thing in the morning. “It’s about time I did. I’d love to be your hostess, John.”

  The party soon took shape. Saxon gave Katherine the names of the guests who would be attending. The list read like a Who’s Who — the director of a prestigious merchant bank, the chairman of one of the smaller breweries, an eminent surgeon, a judge, some retired high-ranking military men, and two Conservative Members of Parliament. Saxon also showed her the evening’s menu — hors d’oeuvres including smoked salmon and caviar, a main course of beef Wellington, salads, and several desserts, all followed by a gigantic chocolate birthday cake. Katherine’s one suggestion was that the birthday cake be made in the shape of a television set.

  During the week preceding the party, cards and telegrams began arriving at the “Fightback” office for Dillard. On Thursday afternoon, while Katherine and Dillard were putting the finishing touches to that night’s “Fightback,” an enormous bouquet arrived.

  “Is it your birthday, Jeffrey?”

  “A work anniversary. Saturday makes thirty years in this daft business for me.”

  “That is exciting!” She kissed him on the cheek, and, acting to the full, asked, “What celebration plans do you have? Or are you leaving it to your wife?”

  “Leaving it?” Dillard raised a white eyebrow. “You don’t leave things to Shirley — she takes control. She’s booked dinner for us at some restaurant she’s discovered in the back of beyond. Won’t even tell me where it is, the wretched woman.”

  Dillard’s wife of forty years was a former actress, and she’d played this role to perfection.

  Each time the telephone rang, it seemed the caller was someone else wanting to congratulate Dillard. Finally, Katherine insisted that Dillard answer all the calls. “They’re going to be for you, anyway.”

  The next call, of course, was not. Dillard took it, placed his hand over the mouthpiece, and called Katherine. “For you. An American.”

  Katherine took the receiver. “Raymond?”

  “Congratulate me. I’m going to be published.”

  “Someone bought your book?”

  “Knight and Robbins in New York. Small, independent publishers, but they put out a quality list. I got a letter from the agent this morning.”

  “That is wonderful news, Raymond. I’m thrilled for you.” Katherine felt truly uplifted. The agent had been showing the book for nine months, and Barnhill had become more depressed with each rejection, more certain that no one would ever publish him. He had even started talking about paying to have the book published by a vanity press, if only to soothe his ego.

  “Does that mean you’re a millionaire now?”

  Barnhill chuckled. “Far from it. Fifteen thousand up front, that’s all. But that’s more than enough to take you out for the slap-up, five-star, celebration dinner you promised you’d have with me tonight.”

  “I promised . . .?”

  “It’s in my diary. Remember when I finished the manuscript and mailed it to the agent last summer? I asked you to help me celebrate then. You were busy, but you promised to have dinner with me on the day I sold it.”

  “I’ve got a show to do tonight, Raymond.”

  “I know, but it’s over at eight o’clock. After the show we’ll have dinner.”

  “Raymond, I always go home as soon as ‘Fightback’ finishes. My children are allowed to stay up late on Thursday to watch the show, and I like to hear what they have to say. Why don’t we make it for tomorrow?”

  “I can’t.” His normally easy speech turned sharp with a tone that puzzled Katherine. “I’m catching a flight to New York at midday tomorrow.”

  “How long will you be away?”

  “Maybe a month. Some revisions need to be done. To save shuttling the manuscript back and forth across the Atlantic, I’ll take care of everything over there.”

  “You’ll finally be able to get a decent hamburger.”

  “You said a mouthful there.”

  “You are coming back, aren’t you, Raymond?”

  “Sure. I’ve written a return date in my diary, and I always keep everything I write in my diary, don’t I?”

  “Raymond, I think of you as a very dear friend. I don’t want to lose you just because you’re upset that I couldn’t keep a date. That’s stupid, isn’t it?”

  He laughed at that, but the laugh was sharp, just like his tone. “I guess it is,” he said, and hung up.

  For half a minute after Barnhill had broken the connection, Katherine held the receiver to her ear. He had counted on celebrating with her, because he had no one else in London he called a friend. And she’d turned him down. She’d stood him up on a date made the previous summer.

  Suddenly, she understood Barnhill’s odd tone of voice. Disappointment, liberally laced with petulance.

  *

  Katherine’s contribution to “Fightback” that night concerned a string of odd resolutions recently passed by left-wing local councils across the country. It was a departure from the normal format, but Katherine felt some fun at the expense of what she termed the “lunatic left” was long overdue. The winter just finished had been a nightmare of industrial action as militant unions flexed their muscles. Energy strikes had led to the closure of schools and hospitals. Public transport had been paralyzed. Even gravediggers had gone out on strike . . .!

  Katherine finished her piece with the most bizarre legislation of all. In one London borough, garbage collectors would no longer pick up black plastic garbage bags.

  “And why is that, Katherine?” Dillard asked, in the easy, conversational tone that was the hallmark of “Fightback.”

  “Well, Jeffrey, the lunatic left in this instance feels that the use of black garbage bags is a deliberate and humiliating insult to black people.”

  “I see.” Dillard nodded his head sagely, as if it all made perfect sense. “What colors are acceptable?”

  “Just one. Gray. The lunatic left doesn’t think any particular group will be upset by gray garbage bags.”

  Dillard touched his white hair. “I’m not so sure. Using the lunatic left’s own yardstick, that could be taken as a deliberate and humiliating insult to the elderly.”

  After that, there wasn’t one straight face in the audience. It was always fun, Katherine reflected as she drove home that night, to burst the bubbles of the pompous idiots who all too often filled local council seats. It was also excellent television entertainment.

  Her audience at home agreed. The children had not really understood what was going on — they only stayed up in pajamas and dressing gowns to watch their mother, not to understand her — but Edna and Jimmy Phillips applauded as she entered the house.

  Their weekly treat over, Henry and Joanne went to bed. Katherine tucked them in and kissed them good night. Henry fell asleep instantly, his short hair forming a blond cap around his face. Joanne was more difficult. She insisted that Katherine read her a story. Relishing one of the all too rare moments when she could be a mother, Katherine sat on the edge of Joanne’s bed and told her about Goldilocks. By the time she reached the point where the three bears returned home, Joanne was asleep, her long blond hair spread across the pillow like a fan.

  When Katherine returned down
stairs, Edna was busy in the kitchen, cleaning up the dinner plates she’d neglected in favor of watching “Fightback,” and Phillips was in the garage, repairing a flat tire on Henry’s bicycle. Katherine found herself thinking about Raymond Barnhill. He’d expected to do a lot of celebrating tonight. Instead, he was on his own, with nothing to do but pack a suitcase. Remorse got the better of Katherine. Using the telephone in the breakfast room, she dialed the home number of Raymond Barnhill. At least, she could speak to him.

  Barnhill’s telephone rang for two minutes before Katherine hung up. Thinking that she might have misdialed, she tried again. The telephone rang for another minute. As she was about to hang up, the ringing stopped. A voice, strangled and barely audible, said, “Hello?”

  “Raymond, is that you?” Katherine pressed the receiver to her ear, then snatched it away when a crash like thunder almost deafened her. “Raymond, are you there?” She called his name several times, before hanging up and dialing the number once more. This time, she got the busy signal. She waited five minutes before trying yet again. It was still busy.

  Why, she asked herself, was she even worried? She’d probably had the wrong number when that unfamiliar voice answered, and now that she’d reached the right number, Barnhill was involved in a long conversation. Nonetheless, she kept trying every fifteen minutes. By ten-thirty, she was very concerned. Barnhill’s line was still busy, and no one stayed on the phone for an hour and a half. What worried her most was that strange voice . . . What if she hadn’t reached the wrong number?

  After telling Edna that she was going out, Katherine climbed into the silver Porsche and pointed it south, toward the Thames and Dolphin Square, where Barnhill lived.

  All during the journey, a sense of emergency kept every other thought from her mind. But the instant she entered Barnhill’s apartment block, she felt foolish. What excuse was she going to give for banging on his door at eleven o’clock at night? Raymond, I had this dreadful premonition . . .?

  She rang his doorbell. After thirty seconds, she rang again. From inside, she could hear faint sounds of music. A third time she rang, then she hammered on the door with her fist. A lock snapped back. The door swung open. Barnhill, wearing only jeans, stood in front of her.