Private affairs : a novel (67 page)

"Not quite gone. She wrote a column on Jock Olson, which, obviously, you did not read."

Boyle's face underwent a series of transformations. "Jock Olson?"

Rourke indicated with a tilt of his head the newspaper on his desk and Boyle went to read the story, standing over it, leaning on his hands. "Jesus Christ," he muttered. "Jesus. What a shit. To go behind our backs and put it in the paper after I told her—"

"Told her what? You stupid, half-assed prick, what the hell did you think she'd do when you killed her interview?"

"Now just a minute; I have great respect for you, but let's not get confused here; you specifically told me to kill that interview and that's exactly what I did."

"And made her furious."

"Well, you wouldn't expect her to dance for joy."

"What I expected, you damned idiot, was that you'd mollify her, coddle her, make her feel smart and beautiful instead of kicked in the teeth. Do you know what you've done? Do you have any idea what your amateurish bungling has done? You had enough sense to call me about that interview—you knew I wouldn't like it—why the fuck couldn't you use a little of that sense when you killed it? Read that line again: For unknown reasons it was canceled. . . . What the hell did you say to her? Did you take her to dinner and give her the reasons the Olson interview wasn't right for the show? Did you ask her suggestions on what to replace it with? Did you bribe my son to buy her a fur coat and take her back to Amalfi for a week so she'd forget that one of her gems was pulled off the air? Did it occur to you that her column appears in four — hundred — newspapers? Are you aware that television is not her only means of communication with the world—that she's a powerful writer with a huge and adoring following? You empty-headed son of a bitch, what the hell did you do to make that woman so angry she wrote that column and made it clear that it was canceled by 'Anthony' so everyone would pay even closer attention to it?"

Boyle shriveled. The sheaf of papers fell unnoticed from his hand. His cheeks were hollow, his eyes blank, his mouth slack as he watched his future disappear, swept away in the torrent of Rourke's rage.

"And what did you do to make her quit the show? What did you and Tony do to make her walk out? The best talk segment on television; you had it in the palm of your hand, Tony had his cock in it, and the two of you threw it away. WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO TO HER?"

"I don't know! We had a fight. . . ."

"Who had a fight?"

"Tony and me. I. Not Lizzie; she stayed out of it. She got mad at Tony and told him off, but it didn't have anything to do with me. The truth is, I don't remember too much about any of—"

"You and Tony had a fight and Elizabeth told you off and walked out and you don't remember it."

"Told Tony off! Not me! And that's right, I don't remember! It was late —they woke me up—and I was drinking—I was very upset! And I don't remember! And what the fuck difference does it make anyway? She's off the show and we have enough tapes for the rest of the season—almost, anyway, we'll re-run two or three from last fall—and if we line up a couple of sponsors we'll be fine for next year. I'll put off the miniseries, since you'll need me to keep Tony going for another season—that's getting harder, but I have him under control now—I really do know how to handle him, you know, and get him to do his best—no one knows him the way I do, no one could produce him better than—"

"Stop whining. You're through and you know it. I hired you for two simple jobs: to keep an eye on Tony and to keep his ratings up until I was ready for him to do something else. You bungled both of them. I gave you an even simpler job—to keep one interview from the light of day—and you fell apart. You're a useless piece of shit and you're through. Get out. And get out of your office by tonight; I'll have someone else in it tomorrow morning."

"You don't mean that! Mr. Rourke, you need me . . . no, wait, I meant to say, listen, I've lived up to my part; I've watched over Tony, I've reported everything he did, here and in Europe, I've cleared his interviews—and Lizzie's!—with you. I did everything you told me; I had as many politicians on the show as I could and Tony scored points with all of them—if he ever wants to go into politics he has more friends and people beholden to him—" At the expression on Rourke's face, Boyle stopped abruptly.

"If you're quite through," Rourke said flatly, "my secretary has a check for you. I don't want to see or hear from you again. If you ever repeat any part of this conversation, or decide to write a book about your experiences as Tony's producer, or about anything at all that has to do with Tony or me, I will destroy you. You can get a job tomorrow in any television station in the world—I don't give a fuck what you do—but the day you talk about Tony or me is your last day in television. Is that clear?"

Boyle's face worked but no words came out.

"I asked you a question."

"Yes. It's . . . clear."

"Then get out."

Boyle dragged himself to the door, turned back to pick up his lists of ideas for films, then disappeared.

Rourke picked up the intercom. "Call my son and tell him he's to be at my home tonight. If he asks for me, I'm not here. But first get Nat Pollock on the telephone."

He stood by the desk, drumming the same two fingers, until his telephone rang. "Mr. Rourke," Pollock said. 'This is a pleasure. Been a long time—"

"Nat, I need a producer for three months. Nothing fancy; most of the show is already taped. I heard you weren't doing anything right now; can you handle it?"

"Word gets around. What show?"

" 'Anthony.'"

Pollock whistled. "Bo died?"

"You might say that. He's left the show and Tony needs someone to keep it going for the rest of the season."

"And Daddy's helping out."

"That's what we're for, Nat."

"How did you know I'm not working?"

"I had someone check around. I don't intend to talk about your private life—you've done a good job of hushing it up—and I'll find you a show next season if you'll do this now, no questions asked."

"Just three months? To the end of the season?"

"That's all. The show is being canceled."

Pollock whistled again. "The ratings were going up. Something to do with the disappearance of the gorgeous lady?"

"I said no questions asked."

"So you did. Can I ask when I start?"

"Tomorrow morning. Twenty thousand for the three months; Tony will do a few live interviews; they're already scheduled. The rest is on tape."

"Enough for three months?"

"Close. When they run out, use re-runs. Any other questions?"

"Which office do I use?"

"Boyle's. It will be empty."

"Okay. That takes care of it."

"Keep in touch; I'll expect regular reports."

"On what?"

"Anything that strikes you as interesting. And let me know what kind of show you want for next year."

"I'll do that. Talk to you soon. And thanks." Rourke did not answer; Pollock heard the telephone click as it was hung up. Slowly he put his own telephone down. "Anthony" had lasted ten years, a long time for any television show. Something peculiar had happened over there and no one had the whole story; even Polly Perritt was frustrated—not satisfied with the official word that Lovell had been let go for insubordination—and poking around town like a beaver, looking for dirt. Maybe we'll never know, thought Pollock. But isn't that something? After all these years. With no warning. No more "Anthony".

The last light was fading from the sky when Holly walked home after dinner with Saul and Heather. At her front door, she lingered, reluctant to go inside. The evening was clear and perfectly still and in the darkening sky stars were beginning to appear, becoming brighter as she watched. The magic of their appearance, just out of reach beyond the treetops, made her feel crazily happy, but then she caught the scent of pines and it made her feel melancholy, and so restless she thought she would jump out of her skin.

/ want everything. I want to do everything and see everything, sing every song, taste every food, love ecstatically and be passionately loved. . . . I want everything and I want it now . . . why do I have to go a step at a time when I want to fly?

The air had turned chilly. She unlocked her front door, but before she could go in she heard behind her the sound of tires on the gravel drive. She turned, and saw Tony Rourke stopping his car a few feet away.

She caught her breath. He was so beautiful and he was like a dream— someone she knew but hadn't seen for so long, except on television—and she could only stare at him as he got out of the car and came up to her, smiling a little crooked smile that seemed so sad she almost couldn't bear it. He took her hand and kissed her cheek, and he said her name, and then, through the jumbled thoughts in her head she heard herself say, "I'm sorry ... I mean I'm not sorry, but . . . mother isn't . . . here."

"But can't I wait?" he asked, still with that sad little smile.

"She's not here. She's in San Francisco."

The smile disappeared. "San Francisco?"

"Taping ..." She swallowed; it was so hard to talk because she wanted to tell him how beautiful he was and she'd missed him and she thought about him so much and he made all the boys at school seem like children and why did he look so sad? But finally she said only, "They're

taping her on the Sherry Todd show tomorrow morning; she'll be home in the afternoon."

"Sherry Todd." He nodded. "Very big." His mouth drooped. "I was so sure . . . Sunday night, you know; I was so sure she'd be home . . . and I wanted so much to apologize. . . ."

"Apologize? Apologize for what?"

Tony's brows drew together. "She didn't teD you?"

"You mean about your show? She said she was mad at Bo and you didn't agree with her about what he'd done and how the show should be handled, and so she decided not to be on it anymore. But it sounded like she was mad at Bo. Did you fight with her?"

"No ... oh, no, we'd never fight, we were good friends, you know, and we worked together, we were partners, but I said some things that your mother really didn't understand and she did seem angry at me and I've felt so alone, Holly, because I thought she didn't like me anymore and I had to come and tell her how sorry I—" He looked down as if only then realizing he still held Holly's hand. "I never thought she wouldn't be home, you know."

Blushing, Holly pulled her hand away, then wished she could put it back; it had felt so warm and lovely in his. "She'll be here tomorrow. You could stay in town and wait for her."

He shook his head. "My father has ordered me to Houston." He gave her a small boy's smile. "When he does that, I always wonder what I've done wrong."

Holly felt a rush of protectiveness. "You could go to Houston tomorrow."

Again he shook his head. "I've already disobeyed my orders; I was supposed to be in Houston by now. Holly, could I ask you for something to drink? Are you allowed to offer Scotch to a friend, or would I be corrupting a minor?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Holly said angrily. "Come in. You're probably hungry, too; wouldn't you like something to eat? There's lots of leftovers—"

The telephone rang and Holly ran through the living room into the den to answer it. "Just making sure you're there," Saul said. "When a beautiful young woman refuses my offer to accompany her home—"

"You follow up with a chivalrous phone call. You're sweet, Saul, but you always say exactly the same thing."

"I always feel exactly the same way about letting a woman walk home alone. You forget, I'm from New York."

"I don't forget; you keep reminding me. Anyway, this isn't New York, I only walked four blocks, and I'm fine."

"You're sure?"

"Of course."

"You sound breathless."

"I was outside . . . looking at the stars, and I ran in to answer the phone. Saul, stop worrying. You're worse than Mother."

"Could be. Okay sweetheart, we'll see you soon. We loved having you, as usual. Come any time."

"I had a good time, too. Thank Heather for me. And thank you." She hung up and looked through the doorway and met Tony's eyes. He had followed her as far as the living room and had been listening as she avoided mentioning him to Saul.

We have a secret, she thought.

"Leftovers," she said, leading the way to the kitchen. "You probably don't remember, but I offered you leftovers a long time ago. You and Mother were going out and I wanted you to stay and I tried to tempt you with paella. I suppose you don't remember. Do you want some dinner?"

"I would love dinner." He was smiling at her, but it wasn't a sad smile anymore; it was bright, as if he were thinking about something new. "And of course I remember that night; I wanted to stay here but your mother wanted to go out. What I don't remember is where we went."

"Rancho Encantado." Holly went to the refrigerator, trying to be calm, but she was so excited she was almost shaking. For years she'd dreamed about being alone with Tony and she'd made up all the things they would say to each other, but nothing she had ever imagined had been anything like this: warm and exciting and so happy.

Drinking his Scotch, Tony sat at the round table where, long, long ago, he had watched Elizabeth fix a lunch for him and Matt. This time he watched Holly fill a platter with cold sliced meat and jalapeno cheese, slices of avocado fanned out with circles of red pepper, and, in the center, a pile of fresh tortilla chips. "How wonderful you are," he said when she put it before him. "But part of this is for you."

"I ate with friends, just before you got here."

"The phone call just now?"

She nodded. "We ate early so I could come back and practice my music."

"For. . . .?"

"The senior musical. I have the lead."

"You always have the lead, as I recall."

She flushed and nodded. "So far."

He was eating ravenously, as if he'd been starving for weeks, but he kept looking up at her with that curious brightness in his eyes. "Holly, would you sing something for me?"

"Of course. Shall I play the piano or sing without it?"