Falling Star (17 page)

*

Tony sat behind a big rectangular pane of
one-way glass in a dull beige suite of offices in Burbank,
observing a group of ordinary news-watching Americans who'd been
brought together that July lunchtime for his benefit.

Focus group, shmocus group. He shifted his
bulk on the orange plastic-and-metal chair they'd set up for him,
which looked like it had been swiped from the NBC commissary down
the street. Geez, was he hungry.
Why did he do this shit? Why,
when he had a golden gut?
He understood what viewers liked and
what they didn't.

Still, sometimes at these things he gathered
the occasional pearl of wisdom. It was like watching resume reels
that came in over the transom. Every once in a while you stumbled
on something surprising.

Through the one-way glass, Tony could see
that all eyes in the office were fixed on the television in the
corner. On it was playing a dub of Friday night's
The KXLA
Primetime News
, on which he'd teamed Natalie with Kelly. An
anorexic-looking fiftyish broad in a bright blue suit was leading
the focus group. A "marketing analyst," she'd told him—whatever the
hell that was. She looked like Ruth's skinny sister. She
fast-forwarded through a package, then played the tape at normal
speed while Kelly read a lead-in. All the assembled watched,
bug-eyed. Then the broad hit PAUSE, freezing Kelly onscreen in what
even Tony had to admit was an unflattering openmouthed pose.

"Immediate impressions, immediate
impressions," she yelled.

People piped up, even the old ones. "Seems
sassy." "Looks like maybe she understands the news." "Reminds me of
that actress who posed naked in
Playboy
." "Too much makeup."
"Too young to be anchoring." "Makeup just right." "Very
sparkly."

What'd I tell you.
Tony slurped
lukewarm coffee from a Styrofoam cup.
They love Kelly.

The broad again punched FAST FORWARD, this
time halting on Natalie reading a story. The crowd got quiet again.
When she hit PAUSE, they knew exactly what to do.

"Classy." "Seems really smart." "Kinda cold."
"Very elegant and seems knowledgeable." "I like her voice." "Too
aloof." "Reads like she really knows the news."

That settled it. Tony tossed the Styrofoam
cup. He wasn't the only one. Everybody thought Natalie was an ice
princess. That was her problem, pure and simple. Maybe that had
worked in another era, like ancient times, but not anymore.

He stood up. He'd heard all he needed to
hear.

"Are they getting rid of the older one for
the younger one?"

He was almost at the door when that gem
popped out of some old lady. He paused.

"Now why would you think that?" asked the
marketing broad.

"Because they do that all the time and I
don't like it. It's like what they did to Jane Pauley and Joan
Lunden. I don't like it."

The crowd got boisterous, all piping up with
opinions.

Tony shuffled out, thinking. If he got rid of
Princess, he risked a backlash. He knew that. Unless, of course,
she left on her own. He chuckled. Stranger things had happened.

*

Natalie sat on a wooden bench in the
Millennium Club dressing room, looking at her watch, the only thing
she was sporting apart from earrings and a towel.
Two more
minutes and I'll get dressed, even if my clothes are still
damp.

She waited. The room was silent save for a
low hum generated by who knew what equipment. After what seemed
like an eternity the two minutes were up. She rose, just as the
dressing room's outer door creaked open and Hope reappeared in the
doorway. Alone.

Natalie wasn't sure whether Hope's return was
good or bad. But one thing was clear. It was now or never, naked or
not.

She forced a smile at the tall, lean beauty
in the navy Speedo dripping water onto the mosaic. She held out her
hand. "I'm Natalie Daniels."

Hope frowned and ignored the hand, her arm
still propping open the dressing room door. Her eyes darted around
the room. "How did you get in here?"

"I walked past reception. No, please don't
go." Natalie took a step toward Hope, who backed away slightly.

"I don't know you. And why are you in a
towel? This is too weird. I rented out this entire club for a
private party." Again Hope made a move to retreat. "This is
unacceptable."

"No, please. Please. Hear me out. It'll only
take a minute, I promise." Natalie held her breath.

Hope stilled, eyeing her narrowly. Then, with
an annoyed look on her face, she shook her head and walked inside,
the door slamming noisily shut behind her. She held up a finger.
"One minute." Then she cocked her wet blond head. "You look
familiar."

"You may recognize me from Channel 12.
The
KXLA Primetime News
. Natalie Daniels," she repeated.

"Ah, yes." Hope smiled a brief smile of
recognition. Then again a shadow dropped across her face. "Oh, no.
You're here to—"

"No." Natalie clutched her towel. "Well, yes,
but hear me out. Here, sit down." Natalie waved her arm, inviting
Hope to sit next to her on the bench. As though she had a right to.
She felt driven by an odd mix of idiocy and courage. Here she was,
naked but for a towel, pitching an interview to a dripping wet
soon-to-be-princess in a Speedo, who just happened to be the most
sought-after interview of the year. The whole thing was lunatic but
somehow seemed to have taken on a crazy life of its own.

"Please," Natalie repeated, and then the gods
smiled, because Hope nodded almost imperceptibly and sank next to
her on the bench. Hope turned to face her, her knees carefully
together, her hands resting on her wet thighs, her clear blue young
eyes, their long lashes beaded with moisture, gazing quizzically at
Natalie.

Natalie took a deep breath. "You and I have
something in common. I too lost my mother when I was a child. I was
seven. She died of cervical cancer."

Hope shook her head. "How is that relevant
now?"

"I believe it creates a bond between us.
I—"

Hope spoke impatiently. "I don't mean to be
rude but I hardly think that creates a bond between us." She
stretched out the word, as though Natalie were insane to think such
a thing.

" 'Bond' may be too strong a word." Natalie
paused. "It does mean that I have a certain understanding of what
you must be feeling in these last days before your wedding."

Hope made a dismissive noise. "I doubt
it."

"I remember how
I
felt when I got
married," Natalie went on hastily. "Nobody understood how much I
missed my mother. And how could they? No one understands unless
they've gone through it themselves."

Hope looked down at her lap. She was quiet
for a time. "It is funny how much I'm thinking about her these
days," she admitted.

An opening
. "I don't think it's funny
at all," Natalie said. "I think it's perfectly natural."

She waited, watching Hope drift with her own
thoughts. Then, "Hope, I know you've rejected all interview
requests but I would very much like to profile you from this angle.
How a woman feels as she takes one of life's biggest steps without
her mother's guiding hand."

"No." Instantly Hope shook her head. "Too
personal."

"It's
powerful
." Natalie leaned
forward. "Your situation, of course, is unique. In fact, it's
tremendously poignant." That was stretching it, but nothing worked
better than flattery. "You're marrying under the glare of
publicity, And for you more than most brides, the marriage truly
marks the beginning of a new life."

"Be that as it may—" Hope began to rise from
the bench.

"I know you're involved in Big Sisters."
Natalie threw out what she hoped would be her trump card. Months
before she'd spied the name DALMONT, HOPE above her own on a list
of local celebrity sponsors. "So am I."

"Really?" Hope halted halfway off the bench.
"What got
you
involved?"

"The same thing as you, probably. A real
concern for girls who went through what I did. I've been a Big
Sister to three girls now."

"I've done it for two." Slowly Hope sank
again onto the bench.

"You know," Natalie said, "we could use an
interview to generate support for the organization."

Hope was silent and Natalie waited for the
idea to take root. When Hope did speak again it was in a murmur,
almost as if she were speaking to herself. "My mother died when I
was eight." She met Natalie's eyes. "Did your father remarry?"

"Six months later. And he never had much time
for me then."

"The whole second family thing." Hope shook
her head. "New wife, new kids. My dad sort of lost interest until I
became an actress. A successful actress, that is."

"My father's interest never revived, even
after I started doing well in news. I could never really get his
attention. My stepmom had something to do with that, too."

Natalie felt Hope's eyes and looked up to
find understanding, and sympathy, there. Then amusement. Both women
laughed.

"Stepmommy dearest," Hope said.

"Exactly."

Hope made a restless gesture and again stood
up. She pulled her goggles off her neck, sending a strong whiff of
chlorine into Natalie's nostrils. "So you want to interview
me."

Natalie threw up her hands. "I do." Her
admission hung in the air, a refreshingly straightforward
counterpoint to the day's lunacy.

"I've said no to everybody. I decided months
ago that I wanted to have some control over how much my life became
tabloid fodder."

"But here's a chance to use publicity to
further your own ends."

Hope gave Natalie a wry look. "Not to mention
yours."

Natalie grinned. "It's win-win."

Hope smiled as well and began to pace the
mosaic, there in her Speedo, lovely, gracious, so young, and even
in this odd situation, pondering this fly-by-night request, a
powerful self-contained presence. She halted after a bit, suddenly
frowning. "How did you even know I was going to be here today?"

"I followed you."

Hope's eyes narrowed. "You
what
? From
my home?"

"Every reporter in town knows where you
live." Natalie paused. "I waited in my car until you came out."

"Then you followed me here and sneaked in,
past reception?"

"Yes."

Hope retreated a few steps, vigorously
shaking her head. "I can't accept that. That's going way too
far."

Oh, no
, Natalie thought,
that was a
mistake
. But she had no chance to regroup, because just then,
as she sat on the bench in plain sight, the outer dressing room
door slammed open and in burst the ponytailed brunette and the
behemoth cop, followed by a stampeding herd of more female behemoth
cops.

"Her!" The brunette halted triumphantly in
front of Natalie, who was frozen into horrified immobility on the
bench. The brunette's young face was twisted in perverse glee. She
raised an accusing finger to Natalie's face. "This is her!"

Swiftly the behemoths encircled her.
This
cannot be happening
. "You are under arrest for trespassing,"
one of them said, and snapped a handcuff on her right wrist.
This cannot be happening
. "You have the right to remain
silent . . ." The cop continued to read Natalie her Miranda rights
as she forced her roughly to her feet.

Desperately, Natalie looked over at Hope, who
was standing by the sinks. She was shocked at what she saw on
Hope's face. Anger. Vindication.

She's not going to help me. It's all over
...

It was when the behemoths were forcing
Natalie toward the door that the horror rocketed toward fever
pitch. She couldn't hold on to the towel, not with the cops
manhandling her, and all at once it fell away.
Oh, my God, no .
. .
She was stunned by a paroxysm of humiliation so huge it was
beyond imagining. The brunette started cackling and one of the cops
said something like "We can't take her in like that." There was
some discussion before another one thought of looking for a
robe.

Which took a hellacious eternity to find,
because the brunette refused to help. And all the while Natalie
stood nude in the dressing room, unable to cover herself,
handcuffed to one of the amazon cops, able to do nothing more than
wallow in the whole crazy horror that she herself had created.

Thursday, July 11, 3:16 PM

Kelly sat in the darkness of Edit Bay 3,
staring with disgust at the boring-as-hell video from that goddamn
funeral. A kid died in the school shootout and she had to cover the
service. "You covered the shooting," Ruth told her. "This is the
natural progression of the reporter's involvement." To top it off,
Ruth said she couldn't do a stand-up. "The focus isn't on you," she
said.

Kelly snorted. Maybe it should be.

She swiveled away from the monitor to face
the computer screen head-on. Once she got done writing her script
for
The KXLA Primetime News
, and a shorter version for the
morning newscast, that would be the end of it. She'd never have to
think about that goddamn shooting again. No one had seen her with
that flashlight. The next night she'd driven to the Santa Monica
Pier and tossed it into the Pacific. And even if somebody had seen
her use it, no way did she have anything to do with what went down.
She'd thought about it since and that was what she'd decided. The
gunman was crazy and shit just happened.

She ran her eyes down the script. A minute
forty of the dullest crap she'd ever written in her life. But if
Ruth was gonna make her cover funerals, then Ruth was gonna have to
air a funeral piece that would make every last viewer die of
boredom. It would serve the hog right.