Private affairs : a novel (50 page)

"Paul Markham," said Tony, skimming one of the guest lists on the glass-topped table. "He isn't here."

"Why should he be?" Bo asked. "We're not inviting any newspaper syndicators."

"I want him."

"We already have one hundred and thirty-two—"

"If you're worried about champagne, I'll buy Markham's bottle. Bo,

think a minute. We want 'Private Affairs' to appear in as many newspapers as possible, do we not?"

"No question. But we send copies of every one to the syndicators, three times a week, week in and week out—"

"With no results. Markham's different from the others; he likes off-beat pieces. I want him to meet Elizabeth; I want to ply him with your champagne."

Bo shrugged and added the name to a short list before him. "Any more?"

"Not that I can think of. These people should be called; not enough time to use the mail."

"I know. The girls will do it tomorrow." He stood and planted a casual kiss on the top of Elizabeth's head. "I'm off. Some fancy do at the Wil-shire tonight and I should make an appearance. You're bringing us luck, Elizabeth. I only wish you'd relent and let me call you Lizzie."

"She's not a Lizzie type," said Tony. "Can you find your own way out?"

"You know I can. Goodbye, E-liz-a-beth."

She smiled. "Goodbye, Bo. I'll remember the Concorde."

"Did I mention the Concorde? It must have been a slip of the tongue. Early taping tomorrow, Tony; I'll see you at eight."

Tony waved a careless hand. "An abominable hour to be upright, much less witty and charming. But I'll do my best. As always." He turned to Elizabeth as soon as Bo was gone. "What can I get you? Three hours until dinner, according to my tyrannical cook. Another drink? Snacks? French hors d'oeuvres?"

"French hors d'oeuvres."

"Done. You thought I was joking." With his toe, he pushed a buzzer in the floor beneath the table, and in a moment the houseboy appeared. "Hors d'oeuvres, two bottles of the Margaux, and no phone calls. You see?" he said to Elizabeth. "My suggestions are not to be taken lightly."

"I take you very seriously, Tony," she said.

"Not true, at least not completely true, but we're getting there. As for the party, dearest Elizabeth, you deserve everything we do for you, and more. When you do an interview you don't just talk to one person, you talk to everyone out there, and you make them feel they're not alone. That's the key, dearest Elizabeth: Other people are like me; Fm not alone. You're the only one who does it. That's why our ratings are going up; that's why we raised you to eighty thou a year; and that's why we're throwing a party next weekend. Elizabeth, are you listening?"

She nodded. "Yes. Thank you, Tony." But she was thinking of some-

thing else: the first time Tony had praised her for her story on Heather. That night she'd decided not to talk to him again because she and Matt were so content, with each other and their family.

"Elizabeth," Tony said. She had been looking at the ocean, a frown between her eyes; when she turned back, he was offering her a glass of wine and a plate of small triangles of toast covered with pearl-gray caviar. "You requested these."

"Thank you. I'm sorry, Tony; something you said reminded me of . . . another time."

"I'll try not to be guilty of that again." He put some hors d'oeuvres on his own plate. "I didn't finish telling you the main reason I'm giving this party. It brings you to my house. You have a standing invitation, but you've been here exactly five times; I had a key made for you, but you refused it; I've offered you my guest suite as your own whenever you're in Los Angeles. The guest suite instead of my bed! To the most beautiful, desirable woman I've ever met! My God, do you know what that would do to my reputation if it got out?"

Elizabeth laughed. "No one will know. I promise. It's better if I stay at the hotel, Tony."

"Better for whom?"

"For me."

"We could debate that."

"But we won't. Because we're having a wonderful time and you don't want to ruin it."

"How can I argue with that? My very clever Elizabeth. But some day, dearest Elizabeth, you won't want to be clever with me; you'll want to be loving. I predict that. It's what I'm waiting for. Now try some of these: they're either roasted peppers with melted chevre or lobster mousse with paprika—I can never tell them apart. Why do you laugh?"

"Because they look nothing like each other and a two-year-old could tell them apart. Who's being clever, now? You make a declaration you know I don't want to hear and then you sneak in some silliness that makes me laugh."

"The lady sees through me," Tony said conversationally to a seagull soaring at the water's edge. "I'll have to think up new mysteries to keep her intrigued." He took a box from his pocket. "What color are you wearing to your party?"

"I haven't decided, but put that away, Tony, please. You've already given me a necklace—"

"That was from the staff."

"Everyone gave ten dollars; you paid the rest."

"You're not supposed to know that."

"It doesn't matter. I love it and I wear it. but I won't take any more jewelry from you. Don't argue, Tony—"

"Because we're having a wonderful time and I wouldn't want to ruin it?" She smiled and he sighed deeply, contemplating the box in his hand. "A gold bracelet. What shall I do with it? Never mind; I don't want to hear your answer. I'll put it away for the time you no longer want to be clever with me." He replaced it in his pocket. "Now you can relax; I'll be very good for the rest of the evening. We have wine and hors d'oeuvres and in a little while we will have the sunset. Tomorrow we work, but the evening is ours."

He stretched out his legs and leaned back in his chair. "You are the only woman I've ever known who is quiet. You don't fidget. You don't curl your hair around a finger or examine your nails or consult a mirror to see if your lipstick is sufficiently glutinous to satisfy the entire cosmetics industry. You sit quietly; you speak quietly. You make it very pleasant to sit on the deck and look at the ocean. I never do it when I'm alone; it bores me. I begin to tremble in five minutes, shake in six, go into convulsions in seven, and then go running through the house in a desperate search for entertainment. You laugh, but I am telling the truth. Yet right now I feel perfectly peaceful. However, I'm talking too much. Tell me what you do in Santa Fe on those dreary days when you're not here with me. Tell me your dreams. Tell me anything you like."

Elizabeth told him very little about her feelings, but it was more than she would have told him a year, or even six months, earlier. And as they sat together, talking about themselves and then the interviews they would tape the next day, she thought how pleasant Tony could be, how comfortable she felt with him, and how well they worked together.

How well we work together.

It had happened so gradually, she hadn't thought of it until now. For two months—three, if she counted August, when she'd begun taping interviews for the fall season—she and Tony had been working together. As Bo let her participate more fully in their planning sessions and editing her interviews, she'd begun coming to Los Angeles for a day or two every week, taping more of her interviews in the studio than on location, since she was there anyway, and expanding the time she spent with Tony. Together, they were thinking of new ideas for a show that would reach as many people as possible, attract advertisers, and be remembered and looked for when the same day came around next week.

Exactly what I dreamed of doing. Except that I thought it would be with someone else.

The thought was like a thorn that pricked her at unexpected moments that evening, the next day in the studio, and all week, before she returned to Los Angeles for Tony's party. And when she stood in the two-story living room, wearing a cloth of gold dress with long sleeves, a deep V both back and front, and a full skirt falling to the floor in deep folds that seemed to catch the sun and its shadows, the thorn was still there.

"My lovely Elizabeth," Tony said, holding her hands as he stood back to gaze at her. His eyes went to her wrist. "You need the gold bracelet."

"All I need is that look in your eyes," she said lightly. "You are a very handsome host. Have I seen that navy blazer before?"

"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.