Falling Star (39 page)

And get this divorce over with once and for
all . . .

Her eyes fell on the digital desk clock.
8:28. She had to copy these documents. But there was no home copier
to be found.

Fine
, she decided swiftly.
The hell
with Miles
. She'd take the originals.

Leaving the studio contract and check stubs
on the desk, she grabbed the files to return them to the file
cabinet. One particularly hefty document slipped loose and landed
facedown on the whitewashed pine floor. Judging from the look of
it, it was probably a script. Natalie put the files back in the
cabinet, then bent and flipped the document over. It
was
a
script.

A very marked-up script, she soon realized.
She knelt by the file cabinet with it heavy in her hands. Even the
title page was marked up. The original title,
Jamaica Beach
,
was crossed out, and above it was scrawled
Forget Maui
.
Beneath the typewritten words
"Written by,"
the name
"Jerry Cohen"
was crossed out and
"Miles Lambert"
was
written in. All the writing was Miles's distinctive chicken
scratch.

How odd. Natalie stared at the title page,
her brow furrowed, then flipped to the middle. It, too, was marked
up. Some lines were crossed out, with new lines written in, though
not many. It was that way throughout.

The script slid out of her hands and onto the
floor. She raised her head and stared sightlessly across the study
at the built-in bookshelves, loaded with scripts.
Oh, my
God.
Her mind began to whirl.
Is it possible?

Miles had dumped Jerry Cohen as a writing
partner eight years before. Jerry went on to even greater sitcom
success, then took a sabbatical to write a screenplay. He'd moved
to Tuscany, she thought she'd heard, though she hadn't spoken to
him since he and Miles broke up. For all she knew he was still in
Italy.

But his script for
Jamaica Beach
was
here. In Miles's study. Retitled
Forget Maui
. And under
another scriptwriter's name. Miles Lambert.

It could only add up to one thing.

Miles hadn't written
Forget Maui
in a
creative burst, a sudden outpouring of long dormant but prodigious
talent. He had plagiarized it. He had sat in that study on Nichols
Canyon and decided to steal the words and ideas of his former
writing partner.

A memory rose in her mind. Miles, when they'd
been married three or four years. By then he'd started bad-mouthing
Jerry. He was sick of carrying him, Miles had told her. The guy was
a parasite, he said. Untalented. The battle raged for weeks, then a
month, then a few months. One night she'd come home from anchoring
the news to find Miles in his study, typing furiously on his
computer keyboard. His dark eyes were feverish with excitement.

"You must have found your muse today," she'd
observed.

"Read this." He'd moved aside to let her see
the computer screen.

She'd read the first lines eagerly, a few
more less so. It was a diatribe against Jerry. Vitriolic, hateful.
Almost incoherent. She remembered staring at it, shocked that her
husband could generate such bile.

"I'm dumping him." Miles's jaw set. "I may
sue. He's stolen more than one idea from me."

She'd been stunned. "Jerry hasn't stolen
anything from you."

Miles had scoffed at that. "I can make it
sound like he did."

There in Miles's study in Malibu, Natalie
knelt immobilized on the hardwood floor. Then she heard a
sound.

The front door opening. Slamming shut. Heels
sounding on the hardwood. Too quick and light to be Miles's
walk.

Instantly Natalie scurried behind the desk,
her heart racing. It was a woman. Suzy? Kelly? It was somebody who
had a key and was very much at home. The woman walked into the
kitchen and opened the fridge, then slammed it shut. Ditto with a
cupboard door. Whoever it was did a lot of slamming. Then she heard
a cork being pulled.

More steps. Natalie crouched lower behind the
desk and held her breath. The woman walked past. Seconds ticked by.
Maybe she could sneak out. She
had
to sneak out. Then she
heard a wonderful sound. The bath running.

She waited a minute more, then rose
cautiously and advanced to the door. She could see across the
living room to the master suite, where the woman was making noise.
Drawers and closet doors opening and slamming shut. A strong scent
of lilac filled the air. Bath salts, Natalie concluded. Suzy or
Kelly, it didn't matter a damn. She just had to take what she'd
found and get out.

She raced back to the desk and stuffed the
studio contract and check stubs into her purse, then stared at the
plagiarized script, lying on the floor.

No way I'm going to leave this. The gloves
are off now, Miles.

With the script cradled in her left arm like
a football, Natalie tiptoed out of the study and into the living
room. The woman was in the tub, she concluded. The Jacuzzi jets
were whirring and water was sloshing.

Carefully, Natalie made her way to the foyer,
her sneakered feet noiseless on the whitewashed pine floor. When
she got outside and silently pulled the door shut behind her, she
returned the key to its hiding place beneath the potted ficus.
Then, in the darkness that had fallen, she bent low and scampered
across the width of the house, then rose and sprinted north on PCH
toward her car.

As she ran, a grin spread across her
face.

Her TV-news career was in a shambles. Her
love life was nonexistent. But the universe was tilting in her
direction where one Miles Lambert was concerned.

Monday, September 9, 10:36 AM

Tony punched his intercom button. "Maxine,
get Ruth in here." Then he pushed a button on his remote to rewind
the hour-long special
Kids in Danger
, hosted by Kelly Devlin
and produced by Ruth Sperry, that he'd just screened for the first
time.

What a disappointment. The thing never made
it out of first gear. Sure, it conked you on the head with info,
but who the hell cared? Plus, he had to admit, Kelly came off as a
lightweight, even mouthing all those statistics Ruth had fed
her.

Ruth showed up in his doorway, looking like a
huge lemon in a bright yellow suit. "What's up?" she asked him,
sitting down in front of his desk. Never one for preamble, old
Ruth.

"You need to jazz up
Kids in Danger
.
Big-time." He pressed EJECT on the remote and the tape popped out,
like a period on his sentence.

She narrowed her beady blue eyes at him.
"What do you mean, jazz it up? What's wrong with it?"

"It's not sexy enough. Not enough effects,
not enough quick cuts, not enough music. Jazz it up."

"But we're doing a serious special ... ah,
forgive me." She slapped her forehead. "I forgot. Kelly Devlin's
the anchor. It can't be a serious special."

"Save it, Ruth. Just jazz the thing up."

"Let me get this straight." Tony watched Ruth
prepare to beat this dead horse into the ground. "You want me to
make a special about how today's young people are at risk from
unpredictable violent outbursts 'sexy' and 'jazzy' "—she drew big
imaginary quotation marks in the air—"with more effects than, say,
an action movie."

He didn't like the way she said it, but
basically, yeah. "Basically, yeah."

"Like a music video?" she went on.

He shrugged. "That's what sells."

She looked disgusted. "And heaven knows we've
got to sell, since the ratings are still in the dumper."

"The ratings are fine," he lied, but didn't
know why he bothered. Broads like Ruth Sperry were like the nuns in
his elementary school: they could see right through you.

"Fine. I'll review the CNN dubs and see what
else we can use. But only up to a point." She stood up. "I'm not
going to have my moniker attached to a special I'm not proud
of."

He watched her walk out of his office. He
hated when Ruth got all self-righteous. This was TV news, not
Sunday school. Everybody was just doing what they had to, to
survive.

*

Geoff stretched his arms across the back rest
of the park bench, happily waiting for Natalie and the bag lunch
she'd promised. She'd told him she wanted to report back on her
get-together with his venture capitalist buddy and in his
estimation this was a fine place to do it.

He'd always liked Roxbury Park. It was a spot
of green in the southern part of Beverly Hills, where the
surrounding multimillion-dollar houses would have passed for plain
old middle-class in a more rational part of the country. To the
west, toward the beach, rose the graceful white towers of Century
City, one of them housing Dewey, Climer, Fipton and Marner. To the
east lay a series of residential blocks, complete with neat squares
of lawn daily watered by hired help so they wouldn't brown in
southern California's relentless sun.

On this hot, bright September afternoon, the
sky was clear, the air dry. He'd long since shed his suit jacket.
Not far away a group of boys played soccer, madly chasing the ball,
falling on the ground, screeching, yelling at one another to pass
or run or kick. None of it was to much effect but none of them
seemed to much care. When was the last time he'd done anything just
for fun? Geoff wondered. Eventually he'd reduced even surfing to a
competition, though his only rival was himself.

His gaze traveled east and he spied Natalie
walking toward him. She was in beautifully cut white trousers and a
turquoise blouse, hair loose, ever-present black bag dangling from
her shoulder. He grinned. He liked her out of her anchor armor, the
power suits and French-twisted hair and heavy studio makeup. She
drew near and their eyes met. She'd known immediately where to find
him, of course, because every time they met at Roxbury Park it was
at the same bench. Creatures of habit, both of them.

"Sorry I'm late." She smiled. The sun made a
halo of her blond hair.

He found himself smiling, too. "No problem.
I've been soaking up the rays."

"Amazing any are getting through the smog. I
got you the usual." She pulled sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper
out of a paper bag. "Plus two enormous pickles and a Coke." She sat
next to him, plunked her bag on the ground, and proceeded to unwrap
what he knew would be a California Veggie. "Have you been able to
reach Tony?"

"No. I've left three messages with Maxine,
who's quite the guard dog. She's better than a Doberman. Clearly
he's dodging me."

"Bad sign or good sign?"

"Good sign. I bet he's rethinking his
offer."

She frowned. "You mean to pull it?"

"No, to raise it."

"Good! At least that." She smiled; then the
smile faded. "Though the idea of still working for him a year from
now kills me. Any nibbles from other news directors?"

"Hmm." He'd prefer to dodge that question.
"Let's say we're making progress."

Natalie nodded and he knew he hadn't fooled
her. They were silent for a time, both eating, before Geoff asked
about her meeting with the venture capitalist.

"Helpful, though I can't say it left me very
optimistic." She sighed, and he heard her weariness. "He said it's
just so hard to get funding for a new company these days. Even the
established ones are having trouble."

Geoff nodded, secretly pleased. Just what
he'd hoped for. Natalie getting a dose of hard reality about the
web idea but from someone other than him. He didn't like it, never
had, but had disillusioned her on so many other fronts that he
hardly wanted to add this one to the list.

Her voice perked up. "But he
did
say
this site could find an audience and that would go a long way
toward making it a viable business. And how the audience could be
anyone wired who wants to watch local news when it's convenient for
them, not necessarily when it's on. Businesspeople, for example.
We'd have numerous features they'd find attractive. Frequent
updating. Seasoned reporters providing analysis and
commentary."

He smiled. "I note you use the word
'seasoned.' "

She rolled her eyes. "What a concept.
Experience actually being valued."

They were interrupted by the soccer ball
rolling up to Geoff's feet. He kicked it back to a boy who turned
and scuttled back to his friends. Geoff returned his gaze to
Natalie. "What else?"

"How important the management team is. How in
many ways that matters more than the idea." Her face lit up. "Of
course I immediately thought of Ruth."

"Really? As a cofounder?"

"There's no one I'd rather work with. And her
experience and contacts complement mine."

"Do you think she'd do it?"

"That's the problem. I'd have to blast her
out of that station. She hates what's happening under Tony, but
still, it's the devil she knows. And she's older than I am, even
less willing to take risks."

"How willing are you?"

She looked into the distance. He watched
thoughts play out on the planes of her face. As for himself, he
found it hard to picture a Natalie Daniels who wasn't on the air.
It seemed as fundamental to her as breathing.

"If I have to, I will," she said eventually.
"I can't imagine not being an anchor anymore but I have to admit I
like the idea of running my own shop. Not being at the beck and
call of Tony Scoppio or some other news director. Maybe what Ruth
said way back when is right: we all get beached eventually. Maybe
it's better to swim to shore on my own power than wait till I'm
tossed off the boat. And if I do it now, I can leverage my
experience and contacts and name recognition."

A proactive strategy
, he thought.
Smart And admirable
. But then again he was always finding
admirable qualities in Natalie. How unstoppable she was. How
getting shunted aside in the business she loved hadn't knocked her
out of the game but geared her up to fight. Even losing that lout
of a husband hadn't left her bitter, just sad. He could tell that
from the moments when she got quiet, and distant, as if her mind
were lost in a different time.
Maybe that's another reason she
wants to launch a business
, he realized.
To drown herself in
work. To have at least one arena in which she feels in control.
He knew the strategy.