Sellevision (16 page)

“Eliot, that’s so—I don’t even know what—sweet, generous, but I just don’t feel comfortable.”

Eliot shrugged nonchalantly. “Okay then, if that’s how you feel, I’ll eat it myself.” And he popped the jewelry box open, revealing a colorful candy necklace.

Bebe burst into a fit of laughter, snatched the necklace from the box, and gave the elastic a little stretch. “Oh my God, I haven’t seen one of these in years,” she cried. She doubled it and slid it onto her wrist.

“It’s lovely,” he admired.

She extended her arm in front of her, as though wearing something by Harry Winston. “You failed your normal test,” she told him.

“I had you really worried for a minute there, didn’t I?”

“Maybe a tad,” she admitted. “But thank you. I mean it, this is like the sweetest—no pun intended—thing.”

She leaned over slowly and kissed him on the cheek, then pulled away slightly and paused, lips parted.

Gently, tentatively, he moved his lips to hers, closing his eyes.

And they kissed.

He brought his hand around to the back of her neck and she placed her hand along the side of his face.

For an instant, her eyes opened, and then suddenly she pulled away from him. “Oh my God, Eliot, look!” she cried, pointing out the window beside him.

Eliot turned quickly.

Almost breathless, Bebe whispered, “Oh Eliot, have you ever? It’s so beautiful. I feel just like Jodie Foster in
Contact
.”

Out the window of the Concorde, from an altitude of over eighty-five-thousand feet, the curvature of the earth filled the lower portion of the window. Blackness and stars filled the rest.

“I

thought you said you spoke French,” Bebe said, punching Eliot playfully in the shoulder.

They were sitting in the back of a taxi, en route to an address that Eliot gave to the driver by pointing to it in a travel guide. “If I told you I didn’t speak French, you wouldn’t have come.”

“The ugly Americans go to dinner,” she joked.

“Ugly?” he said, looking at her and smiling.

She came fairly close to blushing, turned away, and looked out the window.

Although the early-evening sky was overcast, there was still a pinkish hue around the edges. Two bicyclists sped past the taxi. On the river, a group of swans bent their graceful necks to take pieces of bread an old woman on the bank was tossing them. Bebe had been to Paris before, but it felt new.

The restaurant was a tiny bistro on a narrow, twisting side street, down a few moss-covered stone steps. Inside the floor was slate, with ten tables each blanketed by crisp white tablecloths. Three beeswax candles sat on each table. A row of tall topiary trees lined the far wall. Bebe thought it truly looked like a place out of a fairy tale. “Eliot, you almost get the feeling they have gnomes in the kitchen.”

“Yeah, either that or they serve gnomes for dinner.”

Over an appetizer of paté, capers, mustard, and fresh, crusty bread, Eliot and Bebe had the inevitable Past Relationships from Hell conversation.

Bebe told Eliot of the Gay Weatherman (“I just thought he really happened to like Cher. Then I found the Bob Mackie”).

Eliot topped her with Tales of Theresa, including her infamous I-slept-with-my-brother confessional weekend.

The waiter arrived, waited for a break in their laughter, then offered more wine.

“We’ve both really got to stop dating guests from the Jerry Springer show,” Bebe said.

“Speak for yourself. I’m strictly a Sally Jessy kind of guy.”

Dinner was braised medallion of duck with vegetable confit and, of course, more wine.

As Bebe watched a bite of duck fall from Eliot’s fork and land on his tie, she thought,
Is it possible that he becomes more handsome by the minute, more charming?

Removing the stained tie, rolling it up, and slipping it into the outside pocket of his jacket, Eliot told Bebe that although it was only their third date, “I really feel like I’ve known you forever, and I don’t throw my clichés around lightly.”

Bebe admitted that she felt exactly the same way, that the flight over had been magical, and so was dinner—right now.

“I know it’s too early to tell you I’m in love with you, but is it okay if I tell you that I’m very much in
like
with you?”

“I’m very much in like with you too, Eliot,” she said, unaware that she was absently playing with the candy necklace on her wrist.

For dessert, they shared a cream puff drizzled with Armangac. Two spoons and one plate sat between them on the center of the table. Bebe felt flushed. She couldn’t believe she was in Paris
for the evening
with this wonderful guy who for some unknown reason owned the Mr. Spotless dry-cleaning chain. She couldn’t believe how quickly her emotions were making themselves known. Three dates. Three dates? How was it possible? Was she that desperate? Or was she that lucky? But why shouldn’t he like her? She was attractive, funny, sane. And it’s not like she was after him for his money. With a salary from Sellevision of well over $600,000 a year, Bebe could have easily afforded to take them both to Paris on the Concorde for the evening. As she sat thinking, eyes focused on the flickering candle flames on the table, she was unaware of what Eliot was doing—which involved a spoon, a small dollop of whipped cream, a bit of physics, and excellent aim.

The whipped cream hit her neck with a splat that startled her out of her thoughts. It took her a second to understand what had happened. She ran her finger across her neck, wiping off the whipped cream. She looked at Eliot, who was beaming mischievously. Had any other man done such a thing on their third date, Bebe would have simply thrown her glass of wine in his face and stormed out of the restaurant, never to speak to him again.

But since it was Eliot, and she, after all, had been Bozo Bebe in college, she simply plucked the sweet red cherry from the top of the dessert, popped it into her mouth and then spat it across the table, directly onto his clean white shirt. The cherry slid down down his shirt, leaving behind a red trail.

Eliot picked up the cherry and ate it.

Bebe laughed.

Eliot told Bebe that she was especially beautiful when she laughed and that that was the only reason he flicked the whipped cream on her in the first place, scout’s honor. To see her laugh.

“No wonder you’re single,” Bebe teased.

Eliot polished off the last of his dessert wine. “That’s funny, I don’t feel very single.”

A

s the Concorde flew against the rotation of the earth, Bebe rested her head on Eliot’s shoulder. Then she noticed the in-flight duty-free shopping catalog and she immediately reached for it. “Can I borrow a pen, Eliot?”

“I don’t have a pen, but I can prick my finger and you can write with my blood, if you like.”

Bebe rolled her eyes and signaled for the flight attendant. Once she had a pen, she began circling items in the catalog.

Eliot watched her, amused.

Bebe leafed through the magazine, writing down item numbers.

“You smoke?” he asked, when Bebe selected a carton of Dunhill menthol cigarettes.

“Not me,” she said. “But I’m sure I know someone who does.”

T

he box arrived via certified mail, so Peggy Jean signed for it, personally. “Close the door behind you,” she ordered the mailboy on his way out.

Under his breath he muttered, “Sure thing, bitch.”

What could this be?
she wondered. A thoughtful gift from her husband? Perhaps she had ordered something herself and simply forgotten?

Opening the thick paper revealed a simple, flat white box, wrapped in plastic. Sometimes chocolates arrived in such a box. She smiled at the thought, but silently warned herself against eating more than two. If they were chocolates, she would place them in the hosts’ lounge for others to enjoy, along with a little note: “Enjoy! God Bless, Peggy Jean.”

She placed the box squarely on her lap and opened it. But it wasn’t a box of chocolates.

It was a crucified rat.

The tiny little paws were thumbtacked to a homemade cross, Jesus style. The rat’s neck had been cut so it sported a collar of dried blood. And then there was the smell.

Peggy Jean let out a high-pitched scream and leapt up, sending the box tumbling onto the floor. She dashed out into the hallway, and ran screaming for the exit.

In the parking lot, a heel snapped off one of her Easy Spirit pumps. Frantically she tried to open her car door, but it was locked, and she’d left her keys and purse in her office. Tugging on the door handle caused the car alarm to begin wailing, the horn honking, and the lights flashing.

When the security officer arrived, she was hyperventilating. He handed her an empty Taco Bell Express bag to breathe into. “Just calm down, Ms. Smythe. Breath into the bag, then tell me what’s going on.”

Peggy Jean placed the bag over her face and breathed. The bag inflated and shrunk against her mouth.

“I thought it was a box of chocolates,” she said, heaving into the bag. She was aware of the scent of nachos . . . or was it a Burrito Supreme? She pulled her face out of the bag and waved it in front of her open mouth, as if to fan more air into her lungs.

Then she limped alongside the security officer back to the building. She led him to her office but refused to step inside herself.

“Well, how about that,” the security guard remarked upon seeing the crucified rat. “Poor little thing.” An older man, near retirement, the security officer seemed genuinely saddened by the fate of the rodent. “Sure are a lot of crazies out there.”

“Just get rid of it,” Peggy Jean cried. “Get it the hell out of my office.” Her arms were folded tightly across her chest. She was shivering.

Once the security guard and the rat were gone, Peggy Jean sprinkled Giorgio perfume on the floor where the rat-box had landed. Then she took two Valium and washed them down with one of the little bottles of Frangelica.

“I don’t like the taste of liquor, so it’s okay,” she said aloud.

A moment later, Trish appeared in Peggy Jean’s doorway. “What’s this I hear about someone sending you vermin on a stick?”

Peggy Jean started, and immediately tucked the little empty bottle in the pocket of her jacket. “Tic Tac?” She picked up the small plastic box and rattled it at Trish.

“Sure, thanks.”

Could Trish have
. . . ? Peggy Jean wondered.
No
. She had to stop thinking like that. It was a sin to suspect her cohost and friend. “Oh, Trish, it’s just awful. It’s that Zoe woman, she’s terrorizing me, and I’m going absolutely out of my mind.” Peggy Jean’s hands were visibly shaking as she popped a mint into her mouth. She was sweating profusely.

Trish sat against the edge of the desk. “I know it’s not my business, but have you considered seeing someone?”

Peggy Jean perked up. “You mean, like a federal agent?”

“Actually no,” Trish said. “I was thinking more along the lines of a therapist. You know, someone you can talk to who can help you deal . . . with the stress.”

“I beg your pardon?” Peggy Jean asked, incredulously. “Are you suggesting that
I
see a mental health professional?”

“It couldn’t hurt,” Trish said, crossing her legs at the ankle.

“But I am not the one mailing crucified rats to people.”

“Yes, true. But you are the one receiving them.”

Peggy Jean licked her lips. She just
hated
Frangelica.

“And, well, you do seem awfully stressed out lately.” Then Trish turned around and picked up the box of Tic Tacs. “And, Peggy—I’ve seen you taking the pills. I don’t know what they are, but I’ve noticed.”

Peggy Jean’s face flushed red with humiliation. “They’re natural—homeopathic pills, like
vitamins
,” she said, a bit too defensively.

Trish set the Tic Tacs back down on the desk. “Well, I still think it might be a good idea to see somebody, just until this whole thing passes over.”

After Trish left, Peggy Jean waited until her hands stopped shaking before she phoned her other, secret doctor for a Valium refill.

I

nside Control Room 1, the producer directed her engineers. She faced a wall of monitors, and was surrounded on all sides by sophisticated technical equipment: title generators, switchers, a stack of nine Sony Beta video players, an audio mixing console. There were also three Avid editorial stations in the room where editors could cut together promos. Not to mention the all-important “G-spot,” a nickname for the red button that allowed producers to speak to hosts while they were on the air. It was
Broadcast News
, without the news.

“Five, four, three, two . . . and now!” she said.

Somebody threw a switch.

Cut to ten-second prerecorded program promo.

“I am so sick of pizza. Three nights in a row, God I hate this job,” Rob, one of the engineers complained.

“Camera Two, we’re gonna open with your wide shot . . . ready . . . set . . . three . . . two . . . and . . .
Trish
.”

“Hi, everybody, and welcome to the O-mazing Oriental Ring Spectacular! My name is Trish Mission, and you’re watching Sellevision.”

“Camera Three, stay as you are—we’re gonna grab that medium shot.”

“We have a lot to talk about this evening, so I want to just jump right on in and start.”

“Doing great, Trish.”

Trish was radiant, her blond hair piled atop her head in an elegant updo. She wore a sleeveless black satin dress that hung gracefully from her shoulders by two spaghetti straps. “Let’s talk bold. Let’s talk solid fourteen-karat gold. Let’s talk—are you ready?—jade. And gold. Together. Mystery and magic, gold and jade.” As she said this, she moved her head from side to side. Already the phones were ringing.

“You’re rockin’, Trish, love the drama.”

“This is item number J-5114—and it’s
brand-new
tonight.” Trish stared into the camera and let that fact sink in.

“Jeff, gimme some graphics. Camera Three, stay on Trish.”

“This is the double-cross jade signet ring, and it’s introductory-priced at just one hundred and seventy-nine dollars.”