Falling Star (44 page)

Janet stood in Geoff's contemporary white
living room, backlit by the midday sun streaming through the
windows. "Can you believe our wedding is just ten days away?"

Geoff lowered
The Wall Street Journal
to regard his fiancee. "I can't believe it," he replied truthfully.
He returned his gaze to the newsprint, though he had little
interest in reading it. Ten days. At Janet's request he'd taken off
from work that day to finalize the few remaining details, which
included such monumentally important questions as which champagne
flutes to use at the reception and on which linen-draped table the
guest book should be laid open.

He didn't know how it had happened but
somehow their initial "keep it small, keep it simple" plan had
morphed into a 400-person, 8-bridesmaid church ceremony, gourmet
dinner, and dance extravaganza. When he'd suggested they hire out
the Hollywood Bowl for midnight fireworks, Janet hadn't immediately
understood he was being sarcastic.

Somehow, somewhere, he could no longer
remember the exact instant, he'd realized that the woman he was
planning to make his wife was obsessed with small things,
superficial things, things that in the grand scheme of life didn't
matter one whit. And in the days since he had felt more and more
like a cog in Janet's life plan. An important cog, but a cog
nonetheless.

And now the marriage was ten days away. Ten
days. The tide was going out and he was going out with it. His
family—clearly all of them in shock—was arriving from Sydney on the
weekend; another few dozen Aussies would follow days later; the
bachelor party a surfing buddy had organized was this very Saturday
night.

He raised his eyes to observe his fiancee.
Stunning as ever, perhaps even more so. She was radiant. She
exhibited none of the confusion he felt. Or perhaps . . . He arched
his brows, a jolt rippling through him. Maybe she was feeling it,
too, but not saying anything? Just as he was?

He made his voice light, as though he were
embarking on a joke. "So. Any cold feet, now that the wedding's so
close?"

She looked amazed. "Are you kidding?"

"It would be perfectly natural." He found
himself wanting to persist. "And I'd certainly want you to tell
me." He then took a page from her book, to encourage her. "We
should share everything, you know."

Her lovely eyes narrowed, grew appraising.
"You're not having cold feet, are you, Geoff?"

"No. Of course not." The lie escaped him
easily and, once told, was irretrievable.

Her face relaxed. She approached him and bent
her head for a kiss. He obliged, remembering other lips.

What was wrong with him? He cursed himself.
Were these simply the last gasps of his male independence,
perfectly predictable and thus to be ignored? Or was he truly
wanting to stop this, but was discovering that Geoff Marner was
such a coward he couldn't manage it?

Suddenly he rose from the sofa. "I've got a
headache. I'm going upstairs for some aspirin." He knew his
abruptness startled her, but he was in too much of a muddle to deal
with it. He couldn't deal with any of it— that was the problem. It
was too gargantuan to take on.

Geoff practically ran to the second floor.
How bizarre was this? When had circumstances ever gotten the better
of him before?

He reached the second-floor landing and
pressed his right hand against the wall, leaning his full weight
against it. He really did have a headache. In fact, his head was
spinning.

*

Natalie picked up her office phone on the
first ring. She was being tremendously efficient. All business, all
the time. "Natalie Daniels," she answered.

"It's Ruth. I'm down in editing. You know the
CNN tape that Kelly tried to steal from my office?"

"How could I forget?"

"I've screened it twice and can't find a damn
thing on it."

"There has got to be something on that tape
Kelly doesn't want anybody to see." Natalie flopped back in her
chair, frustrated. "Didn't you tell me that same dub disappeared
once before?"

"At the time I thought I misplaced it. Now I
know better." Through the phone line Natalie heard Ruth drumming
the metal tabletop in Edit Bay 5. "I'll screen it one more time.
Anything on your end?"

"Good news for a change. I just got off the
phone with Brad Fenton, the MetroSeek CEO. I showed him my business
plan, to get his feedback."

"And?"

"He had some suggestions, but—" Natalie
hesitated. It was hard to say the words. Saying the words made it
real and making it real was frightening. "Overall he liked it. He
said he'd put me in touch with the venture capitalists who funded
MetroSeek."

Ruth whistled. "Line up a few more of those
guys and you might have a business to run."

"We'll see." She paused. "So what do you
think? Am I going to launch this business myself or with a
partner?"

This time Ruth hesitated. "Why don't I come
to your office?"

Here it comes
. Natalie sighed as she
hung up the phone.

Ruth appeared a minute later, looking
uncomfortable. She arranged herself on Natalie's moth-eaten beige
couch and picked at some nonexistent lint in her lap. Finally she
raised her eyes. "Turns out big bad Ruth may not actually be as
bold as she wants everybody to think,'' she said quietly. "Maybe
not as bold as she wants to think herself." She shrugged. "I'm
thinking I'd like to ride this TV-news horse for as long as I can
stay on. I've been doing it since the dark ages. It's what I
know."

"It's what you love, too," Natalie said.

"Yup. Damn shame."

They were silent. Natalie was disappointed
but not surprised. Ruth was a news hound from way back. It was damn
near impossible to imagine her out of a conventional newsroom.

Finally Ruth broke the silence. "I am sorry,
Natalie, and very flattered that you asked me."

Natalie waved a hand to quiet her, not
looking up. "It's all right, Ruth. Really, I understand."

Ruth was quiet for a second. "Is this what's
upsetting you? Or is something else going on?"

Natalie let her head drop back, her eyes
drifting across the ceiling. She felt as drained as she ever had in
her life. "There's nothing else going on, Ruth—that's the problem.
I'm ten days away from my contract expiring and there's nothing
else going on."

"Let me guess. You don't want to sign
Scoppio's deal."

"Right."

"But you're not completely sold on the web
venture."

"Right again."

"And your agent is about to marry the Breck
girl."

At that Natalie raised her head and met
Ruth's eyes. "When did you get so smart?"

"Born that way. Anything you can do about it?
Tell him how you feel, for example?"

She shook her head. "I already tried
that."

"Hmm. Well, maybe I can cheer you up. Have
you heard about the lawsuits?"

Natalie had barricaded herself in her office
to make phone calls, but not even solitary confinement could have
prevented her from hearing about the lawsuits. The entire station
was in an uproar. "Did another shoe drop?"

"Not unless you call Tony going berserk
another shoe." Ruth chuckled. "When I saw him, his face was so red
I thought he might have a seizure. I hear that, since he couldn't
get Kelly on the phone, he went off on her agent. But now the real
fun begins, because he's got to tell Pemberley. Maxine said he's
taking a walk around the lot to work up to it."

The vision of an apoplectic Tony
circumnavigating KXLA made Natalie feel marginally better. She
managed a smile. "It sounds like Tony and Kelly might both blow up,
even without our help."

"Maybe," Ruth agreed. "But I'd still like to
lend a hand."

*

Tony slammed shut his office door, still
struggling even after his long walk to take in the unbelievable
blow of the lawsuits. Sure, he'd headed news departments that had
been sued; all news directors who'd been around the block had. But
never two at a time. A two-fer. Slam, bam.

And both of them justified.

He sat down at his desk and stared at the
sickening details in the memo Elaine had drafted. His heart plunged
to some lower lumbar region where God could never have intended it
to be. Forty million smackers' worth of lawsuits, plus the legal
fees, plus
Hard Line
's fees if KXLA lost.

In his mind rose a vision of his bonus check
being carried away by a great wind, generated by an Oz-like figure
who bore an astonishing resemblance to Rhett Pemberley. And now,
merely losing his bonus check was the best-case scenario.

Sweet Jesus. Tony rubbed his left temple,
where the headache that had started in his right temple began an
assault on new territory. How was he going to explain this to
Pemberley? No way in hell had he authorized that video to leave the
lot, let alone be aired elsewhere. On a national tabloid? After
KXLA had dodged a bullet once with the Manns? Who would be so
asinine?

Though that was a rhetorical question, he
knew the answer. And it astonished him the trouble one piece of
talent could generate.

Maybe Bjorkman knew something about it? If he
did, Tony might be able to shift blame and have some
semi-reasonable explanation to hand Pemberley. He punched his
intercom button. "Has Bjorkman shown up yet?" Howard was late
coming in because of a root canal that morning. Once he got to work
his day would really go downhill.

"Just arrived," Maxine rasped.

"Get him in here."

Howard joined him a minute later. Tony
narrowed his eyes at his managing editor. "You've been named in a
lawsuit," he told him.

"Oh, my God." Howard sank into the chair in
front of Tony's desk, leaning his elbows on his knees and holding
his head in his hands. Tony got a great view of his spreading bald
spot. "Oh, my God," Howard repeated a few more times. Finally he
raised his eyes. Behind the preppy horn-rimmed frames, Tony could
see that his managing editor was scared shitless. "I know it was an
error in judgment, Tony, but you've got to believe me, it was
consensual. And it was never tied to assignments, never once."

"Consensual," Tony repeated. Consensual?

"Absolutely." Howard's face lit up, as if he
thought Tony was getting his point-of-view. "And I never promised
Kelly a damn thing. It had nothing to do with anything here, not
assignments, not anything. I told her that, repeatedly."

"Told Kelly?"

Howard looked confused. "Of course. Her suit
has no merit. I'm sure we can settle this in-house, with nobody
ever knowing." His voice got wheedly. "It's a ploy to get money out
of the station, don't you see? Women file sexual-harassment suits
all the time, to get one thing or another. They don't want to take
responsibility for what they do. It's like crying rape the morning
after."

Tony sat in his news director's chair, adding
up all Bjorkman's gibberish, and reached a total that made sense.
Bjorkman's been schtupping Kelly
, he realized.
That's
what he thinks this is all about.

Great. So Kelly could sue the station for
sexual harassment if she got sufficiently pissed off. For example,
if he fired her.

A third suit—for sexual harassment, for
anything— would kill him with Pemberley. One was bad enough. Two
was damn near impossible to spin. But three led to clean out your
desk and a guard will escort you off the lot.

"What do you know about
Hard Line
getting the Mann car-accident video?" he asked.

Howard got even more agitated. "Kelly again!"
he said instantly. "I told her not to do it but she wouldn't listen
to me. Tell Kelly she can't go on a national tabloid show? Are you
kidding? Plus, she never listens to anybody. She's a real loose
cannon, Tony," he added, as if that little tidbit were coming with
enough warning that Tony could do something about it.

"You're fired, Howard," Tony informed his
managing editor and watched his Ivy League face crumple in shock.
"Clean out your desk and a guard will escort you off the lot."

It took Howard a while, but finally he
wandered out of Tony's office, mumbling to himself like a homeless
guy. But Tony didn't give a flyer. He had his own ass to save. He
forced himself to punch his intercom button again. "Get Pemberley
on the line," he ordered Maxine.

Tony had already decided to be sober yet
matter-of-fact. The lawsuits weren't that big a deal, he'd tell
Pemberley. The forty million was posturing. KXLA's lawyers wouldn't
break a sweat.

He wiped his palms on his khakis, waiting for
Maxine to buzz him back. Maybe Pemberley would be out on the golf
course.

Maxine buzzed. "Pemberley's secretary on line
one."

Reluctantly Tony picked up the phone. "Hold
for Rhett Pemberley," the woman murmured. There was no getting out
of it now. His heart rate picked up so much it made him think he
should take one of his blood-pressure pills. But he didn't have a
chance because then Pemberley's voice came booming over the line.
"Tony, what can I do for you?"

Not fire me for the first time in my
career
, Tony answered silently. He cleared his throat and
pulled out his most serious tone—the one he used in interviews to
shmooze station owners into believing he was the best man to run
their news departments. "Rhett, we have a development here to which
I want to alert you." He cleared his throat again. "A local family
has filed suit against the station, charging us with recklessly
distributing car-accident video of their son, now deceased, without
permission."

"How much?"

Great. The question he most wanted to dodge
was the first one out of Pemberley's mouth. "Like everybody else in
America, they think TV stations have deep pockets. Thirty
million."

"But they don't have a case," Pemberley
stated confidently.