Authors: Joseph Amiel
"Don't ever do that to me again," he warned, "surprising me like that."
He could be brutal with subordinates, and Marian had taken a risk, she knew. Oddly, though, he sounded in a good mood.
"Did you read the proposal?" she pressed him.
"Piece of shit," he grumbled. "Mickey thinks
it's
shit, too, but he couldn't say that in front of what's her name." Raoul handed Marian another proposal. "After you guys left, he pitched me a project he really liked. I think the concept has great possibilities." Raoul's voice softened with emotion. "It touched me a lot more deeply than I was ready for."
"What's the concept?" she asked.
"This really warmhearted woman alien runs a crowded day-care center and can communicate with infants. It's called
We're
Outta Space
.
Catchy title.
Let me know what you think."
As soon as the door closed behind him, Marian angrily threw the proposal for
Scum
into her wastebasket and dutifully picked up the one for
We're
Outta Space
. Even before
she
starting reading, Marian knew what she would think.
As Air Force One taxied up to the red carpet and the contingent awaiting it at the Johannesburg airport, Chris tried to tell herself, this was like any other moment in front of the camera, like anchoring in Los Angeles or Wichita or reporting from London and Washington. But for just an instant, she felt her throat constricting and her emotions surging. She was the anchor, the cutting edge, and as much as she hated the word, the "star" of FBS's network news. This was the first moment for which she had worked and hoped all her life. It would be recorded, but would lead the broadcast, which was scheduled to air in less than an hour, Six
p.m.
New York time.
Chris was banking on the relationship she had developed with the Obamas in Washington to gain her an impromptu interview as they descended from Air Force One to greet the assembled dignitaries. The first in line was South Africa’s president, Jacob
Zuma
. As he shook the Obamas' hands, Chris stepped forward. Glimpsing the plea in her eyes, the First Lady placed her hand on her husband's arm, halting the men.
Chris had prepared a first question she hoped both men would want to stop and answer, about economic development efforts in Africa. The opportunity to make public the agenda he was there to advance proved to be the appropriate lure to draw President Obama and his host to Chris’s microphone. She quickly followed with a question about African drought relief and then about AIDS counter-measures.
Whenever Mr. Obama seemed likely to end the interview, Chris directed a question at Mr.
Zuma
. The reporters in the pool were still trying to get off the plane.
Mrs. Obama delayed her husband a moment longer. "Oh, Chris, your husband flew down with us."
The President’s expression grew cross as he recognized the position Chris’s presence had put him in.
"My husband is on the plane?" Chris quickly responded in feigned astonishment.
The First Lady suppressed a smile. "What a lovely coincidence! Good luck on your new assignment as FBS’s news anchor.”
The live broadcast began an hour later with Chris standing in front of a scenic view of Johannesburg. It was midnight South African time.
"Good evening. I'm Christine
Paskins
, speaking to you from Johannesburg, South Africa, where President and Mrs. Obama’s have
just arrived in a surprise visit to attend an important conference on economic development in Africa and other developing nations."
Public curiosity about Chris's first broadcast as
anchor,
heightened by the broadcast's publicity, promotion, and advertising, had produced an enormous audience, topping the other networks in the ratings regatta. Chris's being on the spot for the President's unexpected trip and getting an interview made FBS look like an aggressive leader in newsgathering, rather than the follower it had been for so long.
As soon as the program, featuring colorful reports from around the continent, ended, Greg was on the phone to the mobile control room parked outside the conference center. Hugo had the call routed onto an open speaker. Everyone within earshot heard Greg's congratulations to all on a superb job, a great start. Hugo was laughing as he reported back that people were exchanging high fives and the director was dancing on his chair. The two men would compare notes later about changes for tomorrow night, but first Greg wanted to speak alone to Chris.
She was removing her microphone as the phone rang beside her at the anchor desk. Greg's voice greeted her.
"You were terrific," he declared.
"A smash opening night."
"It was really okay? I was afraid I was going to lose it at the start. A couple of times maybe I rushed and didn't get across well enough."
"You were terrific." He paused. "I apologize."
"What for?" she asked, surprised.
For a moment Chris thought the line had gone dead. Then she heard Greg's voice again.
"For a lot of things you didn't deserve."
That was not something she wanted to hear. She had made up her mind to work with him, but had resolved long ago never to forgive him. He had once said, "Some things can never be forgiven." Time had taught her that he was right.
An instant later the humor was back in his voice. "One thing I apologize for is not pushing harder ten years ago for you to anchor at KFBS."
"Thanks," she said, but she distrusted praise, especially from him. "Now tell me what was wrong with the broadcast."
"Not much," he said honestly.
"A little too much local pageantry maybe.
I'd like to see the graphics improved and put more of the footage for the short pieces into a box next to you on the screen, at least when they start. Make the viewer feel you were there."
"But if I wasn't there—" she started to protest.
"We'll discuss all that when you get back to New York. It couldn't have been better."
Ken was asleep when she entered their bedroom at the
Westcliff
. He came awake when she slipped naked into bed and kissed him.
"How did it go?" he mumbled.
"Okay," she whispered, repressing the silent shout of exultation that wanted to burst from her lungs. "It was okay."
His eyes started to close again. She rolled on top of him and kissed him again.
"Don't you dare go back to sleep."
Newspaper reports of Chris's premiere were uniformly favorable, but questions were raised about why FBS was able to anticipate the presidential trip and the other networks were not. FBS's Public Relations Department tried to forestall criticism by issuing a statement that the decision to be at the conference had been made for good journalistic reasons before the President's plans were known. Senator Chandler's office issued a similar statement. Angry at being scooped, the other networks besieged the White House press office with complaints. It was too
late. Christine
Paskins
and FBS News had been launched.
President Obama remained in Johannesburg for a second day. Rather than the broadcast's rating dropping after viewers' natural curiosity to watch Chris’s first show had been satisfied, enough others tuned in the second night for FBS's temporary ratings lead to hold a bit longer.
Greg knew the ratings would soon fall back to earth, but hopefully to a bit higher level than before, aiding the prime-time lineup as well; the News Division had loudly, unmistakably, announced to viewers that it was on the way back. Advertisers would have to pay a little more for scatter spots, bringing in more revenue, and even his strongest doubters would have to take him a bit more seriously. Many executives with FBS affiliates, heartened by the speed with which he had delivered a more competitive news program, phoned him with compliments. Some had even inserted clips from the African reporting into their local news programs. Greg also hoped the News Division's quick start would reduce some of the skepticism about his ability to turn the rest of the company around.
"That's Sally Foster!" a woman called out.
Sally smiled and lifted her chin and breasts higher as she walked past those waiting on line for a table at
Spago
; she was grateful for the recognition that had been
dwindling in
the two years she had been out of rehab. She was a couple of minutes late and knew that her punctual best friend, Annette, despite pressing demands, would already have arrived from the set of
Loving
Luba
. Annette Valletta did not wait on lines for a table.
Annette's life ran as precisely and unfailingly as a clock. But why shouldn't it? Sally asked herself. Life was so easy for her.
Luba
was bringing her several million dollars a year in salary, and she would eventually earn millions more from residuals and syndication. She lived in a large home in
Holmby
Hills with a pool, a tennis court, and gardens. The best restaurant tables were always available for Annette. The world indeed loved
Luba
and Annette.
Sally tried not to think of the disorder and failure that had nearly destroyed her own life. Self-indulgence, she had learned, was a form of avoidance that only got you into deeper trouble. She had adopted the resilient Scarlett O'Hara's positive philosophy as her own: "Tomorrow is another day."
In a town where friendships die in tandem with declining Nielsen ratings and film grosses, how do you repay the steadfast loyalty that saves your life? Sally would be grateful to her friend until the day she died.
Drugs had harmed her in many ways—she was broke, for one—but she had not lost her looks: heads still turned when she passed. And she was still taking acting classes and working out every day. But at a time in her life when she should be luxuriating in success, she was still hustling for a break and sleeping with a creep like Danny Vickers. Among many other flaws, he was a liar and secretly given to cross-dressing in the bedroom. He made her skin crawl, but he represented her best chance for a comeback.
Spotting Sally approaching, Annette's face lit up in the way that delighted millions every Wednesday night. Her oversized blue eyes and mouth against the red of her hair enhanced the smile that was one of
Luba's
endearing features.
Sally half-expected to hear
Luba’s
Russian accent call out, "Ha-
llooo
,
Selly
."
Annette was talking with a chunky, balding man who had come over to her window table. Behind them Los Angeles's lights sprouted like flowers in a black lawn. She introduced him as Mickey Blinder, head of TV for Monumental.
He recognized Sally, said some nice things about her, and asked what she was working on. Sally's only prospect was the series concept Danny was trying to sell to the networks, but she answered in a way that made her sound in demand, yet still available for something Mickey might have for her. He stood aside to allow Sally to take her seat.
"You think about it, honey," he said to Annette. "It's a sweet deal.
One more year for that kind of money.
Think how much more your share of the residuals and profits will be worth with another year of episodes in the can."
Annette replied with hard-eyed practicality. "If FBS wants me for another year, they ought to be willing to guarantee me twenty-two episodes of a new series the year after."
"Monumental would love to do another series with you, you know that—" he began smoothly, pleased that he had anticipated her request.
She interrupted him.
"Not Monumental, Mickey.
Me.
My own production company.
Directly with FBS.
I own the new show entirely."
Mickey felt sweat wetting the back of his shirt collar. "You don't want all those headaches, the hiring, the accounting, the—"
"My own company.
All the profits.
A firm commitment for twenty-two episodes of any show I decide to do. And I want to pick a new executive producer for
Luba
."
"I'm sure your agents would tell you that—"
"Sally and I have some catching up to do. Good-night, Mickey."
Mickey uttered effusive good-byes and returned to his own table. The two women leaned forward to exchange delayed kisses.
Sally would have given her soul for
any
employment, and here was her friend declining to continue with a show that could run three or four more years.
Annette shrugged. "The way FBS treats me, I'd just as soon quit now and take my chances on coming up with a new series for another network."
This sounded to Sally like the usual complaints about inconsiderate treatment by executives at one network or another. "What's really bothering you?" she asked.