A ruling passion : a novel (65 page)

She wrote dozens of reports, and sent them to Earl, who sent them

to Les, who discussed many of diem widi Nick, but Valerie was not part of their discussions and so she did not know the fate of her suggestions. "They could at least tell you if they throw them away or not," Sophie said. "It's not like Les and Nick to be rude."

"Maybe they're afraid I'll write longer ones if they thank me, and none at all if they criticize," Valerie said with a smile.

"But you must care what happens to something when you spend a lot of time on it," Sophie insisted.

Valerie nodded. She did care. But it was more important to her that she was writing the reports at all, because she was so excited to discover what she could do. She had never known how many ideas she could think up, how swiftly she could link them with other ideas, how well she could identify and solve problems, how vividly she could envision a piece of dialogue, a scene, an entire program, and the script that would bring it to life. And the more excited she became, the longer her reports grew, the more elaborate, the more ambitious. She could not believe how much pleasure it gave her to do a job and do it well.

Her mind stretched, like a cat, and woke up. And soon, in spite of the constraints of a full-time job, which she never got used to, she discovered she was having a very good time.

She could not talk about it to Rosemary, who had made friends in the neighborhood and spent her days with them recalling past glories. She could not talk about it to the men she went out with, introduced by Sophie or others at E&N; even with the ones she liked well enough to see a second or third time she did not feel close enough to talk about her feelings.

I wish I could tell Nick, she thought one day in December. He'd understand; he's always felt this way. I didn't realize that until now.

But there was no opportunity to tell him, since they never exchanged more than casual greetings when they met in the corridors of E8cN. Everyone knew that Nick was traveling more than ever, and when he came home he spent most of his time in his office with his business staff.

Those who had been there in the early months, when he had just bought the network and renamed it EScN, told Valerie how different things had been then, when Nick spent most of his time in their offices, getting acquainted, learning the business from those who had been in it for years, asking for programming ideas and suggestions for running the office, making everyone feel part of something that he was determined would succeed.

"He was terrific," Earl told Valerie. It was two days before Christmas, and the four members of the E&N research department were at dinner at a large round table set for five at La Bergerie, in Alexandria's Old Town. It was Earl's way of having an office Christmas party, and he was being nostalgic, as he was every Christmas. "He had us working our buns off, harder than we'd ever worked before, and we'd thank him for giving us the chance to do it. Weekends, Chad would come down and be our gofer—run errands, Xerox stuff, file, whatever—and we'd be like one jolly family. My wife finally came down one Sunday; said she couldn't fight Nick, so she'd join him. God, two, two and a half years ago; seems a lot longer."

"Or shorter," said Barney Abt. "Fastest two and a half years of my life."

"And fun," said Sophie. "Merry Christmas," she added, looking up as Nick arrived and took the extra chair. "We're talking about early times at E8cN."

"It wouldn't be Christmas if you weren't," Nick said, smiling. He raised his wine glass, already poured at his place. "Happy holidays and a peaceful, healthy, prosperous new year."

They began reminiscing about an early incident at E8cN, and Valerie watched them. They were relaxed and bantering, affectionate and comfortable together. It would not have been obvious to a stranger who owned the network, who ran the research department, and who worked for one or the other. It was not that Nick tried to talk the language of those who worked for him; it was that working came naturally to him. Valerie, accustomed to the distance her father and his friends had diligently maintained between themselves and their employees, found that attractive in Nick.

With their appetizers and soup, they talked about television. "Seventy percent of the market," Earl said. "That's my guess; cable will be in that many homes—about sixty-five million, right?—in another five years. But it ain't enough, folks. We ought to be able to reach out and touch ninety, ninety-five percent."

"If we get the young people, we will," said Nick. "If they order cable for their new house or apartment as automatically as they order water and gas and telephone, then we could get to ninety percent or better."

'7ust give 'em what they want," said Barney. "It's an old principle of show biz."

Sophie looked at Nick. "We give them what men want," she said.

Nick chuckled. "Sophie and I don't agree on that," he said to Va-

lerie. "We changed some of our programming last year to attract more male viewers, because advertisers prefer them; we added three historical documentaries and a special on weaponry, and one on hunting." He grinned. "All those male hobbies."

"Sexism," Sophie declared. "I'd feel the same way if you went heavy on fashion shows and documentaries on knitting and hair curlers."

"I understand that," Nick said. "But we didn't violate any moral principles; if women wanted to watch documentaries on the history of naval warfare they could. They did watch the one on four centuries of slavery; almost as many women as men watched it. You don't really believe we downgraded our programming, do you?"

"No. I just don't like the assumptions."

"The trouble is, they're not assumptions; they're reality. There's a different audience for different shows. The real trick is to attract the different audiences without pandering to the lowest level in each of them. I don't think we did that. We increased our male audience, we added another forty advertisers, and we did it with programs we're proud of."

"I know it," Sophie said. "I just wanted to make a point."

"Is it really male and female that brings advertisers in?" Valerie asked. She had been silent so long that the others looked surprised when she spoke. "I thought it would be age and income and education."

'Tt is," Nick replied. "But advertisers also Hke men."

"Big ticket buyers," said Earl wisely. "Women buy detergent and floor wax and aspirin; you don't see many of them buying cars and lawn mowers and insurance policies."

Valerie met Sophie's eyes. They began to laugh. "Oh, well, single women might..." Earl said, and was saved by the arrival of the waiter with their entrees.

Through the rest of dinner, the talk ranged from Virginia politics to the presidential election that would be held in the new year, violence in the Middle East, airline fares, and the Jim and Tammy Bakker scandal and a possible special on tv ministers if research could come up with a different angle for it. Sophie looked at Valerie, waiting for her to say something about Lily and Graceville, but Valerie was silent. She was silent through the rest of the meal, enjoying the friendship around her, and feeling part of it.

"Anybody need a ride home?" Earl asked, pushing back his chair as he finished his third cup of coffee.

They all followed his lead and began to stand up. "Valerie," Nick said. "Could you stay for a minute?"

"Of course," she said, and sat back.

Nick said goodbye to the others, then once more took his seat. They sat across from each other, glasses and coffee cups and crumpled napkins on the large round table between them. Nick signaled to the waiter and ordered another cognac. "Valerie?"

"Yes, thank you."

There was a silence. Nick leaned back in his chair, away from the table, his long legs crossed. He ran his napkin through his fingers. Valerie sat straight, her red wool dress, long-sleeved and high-necked, giving her face a rosy glow in the flickering candlelight. Her earrings, cut glass that had replaced the diamonds she had sold, caught the light and sent it in small sparks to Nick, who thought how remarkable it was that each time he saw her she was lovelier than the time before. Scientifically speaking, that was not possible, unless one believed in the principle of infinitely expanding beauty, so it had to be his flawed memory. And yet he could have sworn that his memories of her had never dimmed: the joys and the disappointments, in equal measure, as well as her extraordinary beauty, as clear through all the years as if he had been looking directly at her.

And now he sat opposite her and it was as if they were alone. And more, Nick realized. It was as if they had been apart for only a short time. He found himself leaning forward, with questions to ask, with stories to tell, with an eagerness to share.

But it was complicated by her working for him. He wished briefly that she did not... but if that were the case, they would not be here, together. And then he knew that it was too soon to think of sharing as they had so long ago, or to try to recapture it. Too many years, too many separate experiences, lay between them, and somehow those had to be understood and shared before they could discover, or rediscover, anything else.

Valerie was watching him with a slight lift of her eyebrows. Nick picked up the cognac that had appeared before him and sipped it. "Les wanted to tell you this," he said, "but he had to go out of town this afternoon and won't be back until after the first of the year, so I told him I would. We wanted you to know as soon as possible."

She held the balloon glass in the palm of her hand, and waited, her eyes on his.

"We haven't ignored those reports you've been writing; Les has

them all, and a few of them are being worked on for possible programs. We should have told you sooner; I'm sorry we didn't. We're all too busy, but I imagine you've noticed that. The point is, I like—Les and I like what you do, we like your ideas and the way you put them together. Everything you've sent us has been thoughtful and intelligent and imaginative. Sometimes you fly a little too high; there are things we can't do, for legal or financial reasons; we'll talk about those specifically when we all sit down together, so you'll understand some of the limitations we face."

He sat up straighter and recrossed his legs, as if his formal speech made him uncomfortable. It did make him uncomfortable, but he was not sure how else to talk; the weight of the past and the changed relationship of the present held him back and made him sound, to his own ears, unnatural. He thought it absurd that they were separated by the white linen expanse of that round table instead of sitting next to each other; he felt foolish, raising his voice slighdy to reach her over the murmur of the diners all around them, instead of speaking quiedy, as he always preferred. Her steady gaze seemed to draw him to her, as did her perfect stillness, so different firom the resdessness he remembered. So changed, he thought, as he had while reading her reports over the past few months with growing astonishment. So gready, unpredictably changed.

"We want to make a change in 'Blow-Up,'" he said. "The ratings are good, but we want them to be a lot better. In this case," he added with a grin, "we want to increase the number of women viewers. We want to add a personality profile, the kind of thing People magazine does so well. Anyone from politics, entertainment, business, sports ... all we care about is that he or she is fascinating for one reason or another. We haven't got a tide yet, or a finished format; that will all be worked out with you, we hope. We want you to do it."

Valerie leaned forward. "You mean, report it?"

"I mean all of it. Plan it, research it, write it, report it. You'll have to clear your subjects with the screening committee—I sit in on it once in a while—and our lawyers will have to read your scripts, but otherwise, the show is yours. You can use the research staff, but you probably won't need them. At least in the beginning you should be able to handle it yourself."

She frowned. "You're not giving me a staff?"

"You'll have a director from the 'Blow-Up' staff."

"That's not enough. Sixteen minutes every week—"

"Fm sorry, I didn't make that clear. It's four minutes. That's all we can take out of the hour right—"

'Towr minutes) Out of that whole hour, you're giving me four minutes?"

"We tried to make it more; we couldn't. If you make something of your report, we'll weigh it against the other three and then decide if we want to change the balance."

'Tou could change it now. Make it ten minutes; it still wouldn't be enough, but at least I could get some depth."

"Valerie, this decision is made. In the first place, Les and I don't assign a sixteen-minute segment to someone who has no experience in writing and reporting a show. And this is the way we want the hour to be structured. We'll talk about it again in a few months, after you've shown what you can do with the time you have."

"You made the decision without me," she said coldly.

Just as coldly, Nick replied, "We're scheduling a personality segment on 'Blow-Up,' not the debut of a Hollywood star. And we're going to run it, all four minutes of it, whether you do it or someone else does."

There was a silence. Valerie gazed around the dining room, at all the people having amicable discussions. No one seemed angry or impatient; they all seemed to have what they wanted. Oh, stop it; youVe feeling sorry for yourself. Ifs his company; he makes the rules; how come you haven't learned that by now? Why don't you take his measly four minutes, and show what you can do with them, and then force him to admit he was wron£i, that you deserve a whole sediment of your own?

"Is it really four?" she asked.

"Not quite, I wish it were." He noted the change in her voice. No temper tantrum, he thought; thank God. She was obviously as arrogant as ever, but he'd still like to see what she could do on "Blow-Up," as long as she could keep her temper while she did it. "You'll have to write an opening and a close, and they'll cut into your four minutes. Ifs up to you how long they are."

"Five seconds each," she said prompdy, and suddenly they were laughing together.