Authors: Joseph Amiel
Marian was out of the booth and into her arms before Sally stepped off the set.
"You were incredible," the programming chief cried out, "dazzling, adorable. We loved Natasha."
"You mean it?"
"We've got too much at stake for me to lie to you."
The other executives crowded around her.
One rhapsodized, "You make '
hotfurter
' sound like the most torrid word in the English language."
"But clean," Marian added. "Sultry, but innocent, that's what we were saying in there."
The lesser executive quickly corrected himself. "Right, innocent-sultry, clean-sultry."
One called her a comic genius.
Another, one of America's most brilliant comediennes.
Sally appraised the level of Hollywood hyperbole and found
herself
satisfied. If not pleased, they would merely have called her "great" or "terrific." Johnny, who had been in the booth with them nodded to confirm their reaction.
Sally was jubilant. She was back.
Better than back.
She was on top.
Higher and bigger than she had ever been.
Every setback and humiliation she had ever endured was now worth it because each had served to bring
her to this moment. She, Sally Foster, a baton twirler from a little town in Alabama, was America's new superstar.
In early September, the brain trust that had gathered several afternoons a week since the scandal took their seats at the News Division's conference table: Chris at one end, Greg at the other; between them were, on one side, Alan Howe, Hugo Ramirez, Hannah Rafael, and a senior producer; and on the other, the company's public-relations chief, general counsel, and an outside lawyer, clocking five hundred dollars an hour. The network's Pentagon correspondent in Washington would often join them on Skype. Afterward most of the News contingent would remain to discuss how best to cover the looming international stories and, as always, the country's growing financial woes.
The room was large and, through a wide picture window, overlooked the newsroom one floor below. Chris peered down at the anchor desk, where
Hedy
was editing news copy she would read during the broadcast. Chris was still managing editor, and the two women maintained a curt civility, but the hurt of watching someone forcibly placed into her job, someone whose perfidy she believed had betrayed her, cut her deeply.
"The audience is falling off," Howe observed. "Every night we lose more."
"It's not just
Hedy
," Greg commented. "It would have happened if Chris were heading the broadcast."
"There's a heartwarming show of support!" Chris observed tartly.
"Our viewers are losing faith in us. They stayed with us a few days waiting for us to refute the charges. When there was no firm resolution, they began to drift away."
The outside lawyer asked whether FBS's reporters and investigators had uncovered any additional evidence to refute the Defense Department's charges against Chris. Heads slowly shook.
"We might just have to face the fact that you were wrong about that base," he asserted to Chris, "and try to minimize the damage."
"More steadfast support!" she snapped.
"Part of my job is to protect the network—and you—from having to pay damages."
"How would we do that?" Howe asked.
"Try to show that Chris's reporting was an honest mistake and she hadn't purposely lied about the guy. Absent actual malice—purposely lying—the press can say anything it wants about a public official."
"That's something to consider," Greg agreed.
"Fuck you!" Chris exploded. "Fuck you all!"
Chris and Greg's relationship had been strained to the tearing point by the new circumstances; they had run on raw emotion for too long. On
edge, grown anxious, both were beginning to blame each other for some of their misfortunes—or at least were beginning to believe the other was casting that blame. Now the strain was also apparent to their colleagues, who fidgeted in embarrassment.
"Cool it," Greg told her.
"So you can save your ass and leave my reputation slime."
"Nobody's abandoning you," Greg retorted heatedly. "We all made the decision together to run the story. We're all on the line. But we should at least protect ourselves legally, just in case."
"I don't think like that," she said, standing up and turning to the lawyer. "Do whatever you need to do to protect us. I appreciate it. But don't say that I made a mistake. I told the truth in that report. I did my job as a journalist. That should be enough." She glanced at Greg.
"Enough for everyone."
He stood up, too.
Chris shook her head. "I need to get away from this for a while. I'm going home."
"I'll give you a lift," he called after her, and followed her out of the room. He wanted to forestall a rift; he could foresee her growing sullen and self-righteous in the belief that he was not supportive.
Greg provided most of the conversation in the back of the limousine heading uptown. Thinking his motive for accompanying her had been to induce her to spend the night with him, Chris allowed her irritation to show.
"By this time you ought to realize that we react to worry differently. I don't want to be around people. I just want to get away by myself and think."
"And when I'm worried?"
"You want me there just to be sure I'm there. It makes you feel safe."
"I want you with me because I love you."
"That, too," Chris allowed. More out of politeness than interest she asked, "What are you going to do tonight?"
Long experience had taught her that Greg grew restless and fidgety alone; he needed company. If he was not working late on an evening when she could not be with him, he would go to the theater or a sporting event, seeking out the comfort of a crowd.
"I'll think of something," he grumbled.
His tone was so surly that Chris's head pivoted toward him. Then she remembered.
"Oh, Greg, I'm so sorry. The new lineup premieres tonight. We were going to watch the shows together at your apartment."
"Look, if you're not in the mood or you're doing it to—"
"Of course, I want to be with you tonight." She hugged his arm and pressed her cheek to his.
He smiled and kissed her lightly. But there was no mistaking the chill
y
loneliness that had surrounded him for an instant like sudden winter fog, penetrating down to his bones. No matter how old he became, it always
waited
to return, laughing at his delusions of hope.
The FBS network had expended tens of millions of dollars in commercial time to promote the new lineup, the "star time, good time" it would bring the viewer. Advertising was bought on the TV page of newspapers across the country. Television critics were asked to preview the shows in hopes of good reviews that would attract the public. Actors in the series were put on FBS shows and offered for magazine and talk show interviews to virtually every reputable broadcast, newspaper, and magazine that might be interested.
Because of Labor Day, FBS had decided to wait until Wednesday of that week to start rolling out the new shows. Most shows on other networks figured still to be in repeats.
This first night of FBS's premiere week would be something of an anticlimax for Greg. The tension would peak the next morning, when the overnight
Nielsens
were examined to determine whether viewers had been drawn to the lineup. Next week would be even more crucial: Viewers would already have sampled or heard from critics and their friends about FBS's shows. Did they like them enough to return? In effect the climax was a rolling one that would occur over a number of tense weeks and culminate in November's sweeps month, which would set ad rates. That was also the month Greg's fate would be determined by the board.
Although she had provided an ear for Greg's and Marian's cheers and gripes during the period of development, tonight was the first time Chris had seen any of the pilots. Greg grilled her as if she were all the Nielsen families wrapped into one.
Half-a-dozen phone calls linked Greg and Marian during the evening, some to convey sudden ideas, some to relay Chris's spontaneous reaction to a new show.
"
My Kind of Place
is a little broad and silly for her, but she thinks some of it's funny."
"She’s enjoying
A Funny Marriage
.
Says she’d watch it again."
Chris laughed with pleasure at
What's
the World Coming To?
—a show that had premiered months earlier and she had seen before. But
Scum
often had her roaring and clapping her hands in delight.
"It isn't just because I'm in news and know some despicable characters like those, really it isn't. They are just so funny."
"She loves it, Marian," Greg cried out. "What does Derek think?"
Marian reminded him that the West Coast would broadcast the program later. She was still at her office and Derek still on one of the FBS sound stages shooting an episode of
Miss Grimsby
. The two-hour movie that would kick off the series would be shown Friday night, starting at eight, replacing this week's showing of
Luba
. Sally Foster's first show would air the following week.
"You really liked Derek's work in it, Greg?" Marian asked.
"Terrific. The early reaction we're getting on him is great. He's going to be a major star."
"Wonderful," she said quietly, and swiftly ended the conversation.
Having been notified that Derek's last shot was being set up, Marian hurried over to the sound stage to pick him up. Marian maintained that driving back and forth gave them more time together. Actually, she worried about Derek socializing after hours with the nubile nymphs populating
Miss Grimsby
's boarding school. Her only defense was eternal vigilance.
At ten o'clock FBS presented a new hour-long drama series that quickly propelled Chris to the kitchen for a snack. By the second half she was consciously forcing herself not to scan the magazines on the coffee table to escape the depression that wanted to sneak back into its accustomed alcove in her chest. This was Greg's night; she wanted it to be splendid for him.
"She's bored with the
show,
and so am I," Greg groused to Marian when he reached her at home. "It never gets off the ground. We've got to be curing insomnia all over the Eastern seaboard at this moment. The lead—what's his name? . . .
Right.
Well, he's got all the appeal of a side of beef. No wonder he's always got his shirt off. His
pecs
do all the acting." He sighed, recalling the show's title.
“
High Impact
.
Why did we ever think the story of a crime-solving aerobics instructor would make it? Did we really believe people at home would want to exercise along with him before bedtime?"
"It was the only series we had to counterprogram the competition with."
"The competition should pay us to put it on against them."
They discussed ways to improve the show in upcoming episodes. Neither of them had much hope for resuscitation. Greg asked what they had in the pipeline with which to replace it.
"
Under Cover of Darkness—
the old
Adam and Eve
, remember?
although
it’s almost unrecognizable from that.
Black secret counter-espionage agent America's enemies?
White FBI agent guy who thinks he’s a bad guy? That five-minute segment Chad Laidlaw and Biff Stanfield shot for us tested through the roof. I'd like to order six episodes."
"Who's producing?"
"The
Rosenthals
.
You liked their movie of the week."
"How did a black guy get a name like Biff?"
Marian began to laugh in recollection. "He tells people his mother was hoping for a blond, blue-eyed white boy . . . who could slam-dunk."
Greg was laughing, too.
"Sounds a hell of a lot more promising than this.
Order the six and be ready to pull this other thing fast."
"It will take me ten minutes to convince Biff I'm not kidding."
"We'll talk in the morning as soon as we have the overnights."
He hung up. Chris was perched on her knees beside him on the sofa. She held two open beer bottles and handed him one.
"Here's to you, Greg
Lyall
," she announced, holding her bottle aloft. "I think you really came through.
A lot of fun in those half hours.
Some quality.
Except for
High Impact
, a lot better Wednesday night than FBS has seen in a long time. Six more nights to go, but definitely a promising
start
."