Each of them is puzzled by the other.
"I don't live there anymore," he repeats. "Can't afford two rents."
"Two? Where's the other?"
"In San Jose."
"I'm totally lost here."
"My new job. In San Jose, California."
"Oh, oh, oh," she says, faking a smile. "I'm so stupid. I thought you meant--when you said before you'd got a new job--I stupidly assumed you meant in Rome."
"No, no, I don't have papers to work in Europe anymore. And, anyhow, I was ready to get back to the States."
"So what is your new job?" she asks hurriedly, as if the location were insignificant.
"Some Web thing. Helping edit this music-mag start-up. A Web-based magazine, basically."
"Okay. I'm beginning to get it," she says. "But ..."
"What?"
"No,
nothing."
"Your ears are all red," he says. "You okay?"
Can't believe he just said that. What an assholish thing to say--to point that out.
"Yeah, I'm fine," she replies sharply.
The food arrives. He takes chicken. It's the last one. She wanted chicken. She takes fish. Kind of rude not to have asked her.
"How's yours?" he asks.
"Fine." After a minute, she adds, "Would have preferred chicken. But, whatever."
"You want to switch?"
"No, no. No big deal." She puts down her cutlery, opens a binder, and resumes work. Rather, she glowers at the page. What an idiotic thing for him to say. To point out to somebody: Hey there, by the way, you're blushing. Is he five years old? And how is she supposed to know he's moving to California? He says it like it's obvious, like the whole world has been following his life.
He
opens
Persuasion
again but remains on the same page, picking at the skin around his cuticles.
Disgusting. And is he really reading that book at all? Is this some kind of show?
To be fair, this isn't the brightest guy on earth. Good ol' boy from wherever. Some podunk town in Georgia. This is a guy who couldn't hack it at the paper, who was outclassed by those Thorazineaddled cretins on the copydesk. When she wanted to ax a job from the editorial side, Dave Belling was the most expendable--a real accomplishment among a group of such disposable losers. (In fairness, Abbey's first choice had been Ruby Zaga, but Kathleen interceded to protect her.)
"Excuse me," Abbey says, rising without explanation. She walks down their aisle, up the other, then back again. She spies the crown of Dave's head from behind. Going bald. What is wrong with guys? Half are molting; half are nothing but undergrowth. Is there some link between baldness and assholishness? Or hairiness and being dumb? It wasn't by chance that she got Dave fired. Kathleen had wanted all nine layoffs to come from the technical staff. But Abbey insisted that at least one come from editorial--time to teach the newsroom a lesson. She checked that Dave's performance evaluations were impeccably mediocre and that he had no insurmountable allies--i.e., Kathleen or Herman-
-then filed the paperwork for dismissal. Thank God, too. Imagine if she had to see this jerk every day at work now.
She goes over her files until they arrive in Atlanta. The plane taxis toward the gate, the seat-belt sign turns off, the economy-class detainees unfold themselves, arms shooting for the overhead bins. By contrast, Dave stretches casually and yawns. "Can I get your bag for you?"
"No, please just leave it. I have some fragile stuff in there."
The front exit opens and the crowd inches toward it, disembarking to the plodding rhythm of the cabin crew's "Bye now ... bye now ... bye now."
Dave waits for her to gather her belongings.
"Please--go ahead," she says.
"It's no problem."
She stalls for as long as possible. "No need to wait for me. Seriously."
"It's
fine."
In the terminal, he veers toward the baggage carousel.
"Well, take care then," she says.
"You only had carry-on?"
"Always."
"Where you staying, by the way?"
"I forget. Some hotel."
"Which
one?"
"Can't remember. The Intercontinental, possibly."
"Maybe we could share a cab."
"Don't you have to get going to wherever it is you have to go? Your hometown?
Anyway, I'm expensing the ride, so I'll get my own. Otherwise, the receipts get too complicated."
"Oh," he says. "Well, hey."
"Yup. Take care."
He leans in to kiss her cheek.
She pulls back. "Don't want to give you my cold." She shakes his hand.
At the Intercontinental, she lays out her work on the desk. She wasted too much time yakking to that idiot. She keeps yawning. She needs to stay up, to adjust to the time difference immediately--it's the only way. She checks the clock. Too late to call the kids.
But how can you not mention that your new job is in San Jose? Whatever. When's the first meeting tomorrow morning? A breakfast thing. Welcome back to the land of bad coffee and doughnuts the size of toilet seats. What was the point of him flirting the whole time if he lives in another city? Her desk in the hotel room is backed by a mirror. She catches sight of herself. She'd kill to have a chat with Henry. Travel coma is making her weepy.
A ringing. She opens her eyes, disoriented. It's dark. What time is it? The alarm is blinking. Has she missed the meeting? Fuck! That ringing. It's not the alarm, though. She reaches for the phone. "Hello?"
"Finally, I get you!"
"Hello?" she repeats.
"It's Dave Belling. I'm downstairs. I'm being real rude here. Taking a chance. But I decided, you know, my folks can wait a few hours. I didn't want us to not see each other again. I was all the way down at the bus station. Then I was, like, this is too dumb. So I came over here. I hope you weren't sleeping. And listen, if this is an imposition at all, please just say so and I'll be on my merry way, no problem. But if it isn't, I was figuring on maybe buying you a drink or something. Even some dlunch. Or a spot of slupper."
She laughs, rubbing her eyes. She flicks on the desk lamp, blinking. "What time is it?"
"Slupper
time."
"I think I dozed off. I thought it was tomorrow."
"If this isn't good for you, I can get going. No problem."
"Hang on, hang on, wait. Can you stay there a minute? I'll come right down. Don't come up. Where are you?"
She hasn't got time for a shower, so she freshens up as best she can in the bathroom, working in the skin moisturizer as if kneading dough. She should be preparing for the board meeting. She should be getting an early night.
"Hey," she says, tapping his shoulder from behind.
He is by the concierge desk, flipping through a magazine. "Hey there," he says, his face lighting up. "Sure I'm not imposing?"
"Of course not."
"What do you feel like? A drink? Something to eat?"
"After that pink mystery cake on the plane, I'm off food until October."
"I hear that. A drink it is."
They take a booth at the hotel bar. A television mounted on the wall is showing CNBC, with a headline that reads, "Markets Crash Over Fears of China Slowdown."
"It'll go fine tomorrow," he tells her. "You're obviously going to be the smartest girl in the room, so don't sweat it."
They talk and talk, him about his divorce, her about hers. After three Bacardi Breezers, she tells him: "It's like you were saying on the plane. I'm too romantic for my own good. And okay, you get kicked in the butt sometimes. But, frankly, I'd rather have, you know--actual sentiments. Than. You know? You know what I mean?"
"I hear that."
"Well, hey," she says.
"Hey," he says.
They
laugh.
He says, more softly, "Come here," and leans across the table. He kisses her. He sits back slowly, as if he hadn't been expecting to do that.
"Well," she says.
"Well then," he says.
"No
kidding."
They go up to her room. She rushes into the bathroom, mouthing at her reflection:
"You're nuts."
When she emerges, he reaches out for her. She moves into his embrace, expecting a kiss but he only hugs her, tightening, then slackening as he breathes out serenely. He leans back, looks into her eyes.
"Mmm," she says. "I needed that."
"
I
needed that," he says.
She kisses him, tenderly, then with passion. Lips locked, they lumber to the bed, tripping, giggling. She flops onto the mattress and hits the remote control, turning on the television. "Oh God, I'm sorry!" she exclaims, suddenly serious.
He turns it off, tosses aside the remote. He unbuttons her top and pulls it off. He unzips her trousers, tugs them down and off. She's wearing only the funereal black bra and the blue granny panties. She folds her arms to cover her chest and crosses her legs.
"Can we turn off a light?"
"Let's leave it on a second," he says.
"But aren't you getting undressed?"
"Hey, don't cover yourself."
"It's kinda bright in here."
"I want to look at you," he says.
"But you're still dressed. And I'm in my, in my, in this bra and these." She laughs uncertainly.
"Wait, wait, hang on. Don't pull up the covers."
"How come? Can't I?"
"One point of order first." His tone changes. His voice goes cold. "One small thing." His eyes track down her body. He proceeds, "Tell me this, Accounts Payable."
She freezes at the name.
"Why," he says, "why of all the people there, Accounts Payable, did you go and get
me
fired?" He stands at the foot of the bed, staring. "So?" he says. "Explain me that."
2004. OTT GROUP HEADQUARTERS, ATLANTA
Newspapers were spiraling downward
.
Competing entertainments abounded, from cellphones to video games, from
social-networking sites to online porn. Technology was not merely luring readers; it was
changing them. Full printed pages didn't fit onto monitors, so portion size shrank, dicing
news into ever-smaller morsels. Instant updates on the Internet bred contempt for day-old
headlines in ink. Even the habit of exchanging money for information dwindled--online,
payment was merely an option
.
As readership plummeted, advertisers fled and losses mounted. But, doggedly, the
pay-per-view papers kept at it. They made their daily judgments, produced their digests
of the world, laid them out across pages, printed tonight and delivered tomorrow, to be
flapped open before bleary breakfast eyes. Fewer eyes, each day
.
Despite all this, Boyd was not about to let his father's paper go under. He had
rescued it once before, when he'd hired Milton Berber. The trick was to find the right
leader. This time, he chose Kathleen Solson, a former protegee of Milton's. Kathleen had
risen through the ranks in Rome, then jumped to Milton's old newspaper in Washington,
progressing fast. She covered a suburban beat, joined the Pentagon team, became
national reporter for the Southwest and then national editor, all in less than a decade
.
But at that level in the Washington hierarchy, competition stiffened. To climb the
masthead, she'd need to play politics for years. Or she could gamble, jump to the top job
at a smaller newspaper, and use it as a proving ground. She flew to Rome to meet with
the current crop of senior editors, a sparse breed by then, their numbers diminished by
years of attrition
.
If she was to take the job, she told Boyd, much would have to change. The paper
needed to fill those empty cubicles, buy new computers, bulk up its coverage abroad: a
Chinese speaker for Shanghai, an Arabic speaker for the Middle East, and so forth. This
was too critical a time in history--the war on terror, the rise of Asia, climate change--to
be reporting about the fat folds of celebrities at the beach. "We can leave that to the
Internet," she said
.
Boyd agreed, and she made the move back to Rome, bringing along her deputy
from the Washington national desk, Craig Menzies
.
Soon she had cause for concern. The Ott Group--despite Boyd's promises--proved
reluctant to fund her plans. She found herself hamstrung by increasingly restrictive
budgets and Boyd himself ignored her, leaving everything to underlings--above all to the
swinging ax of the paper's chief financial officer, Abbey Pinnola. First, Abbey ordered
yet another hiring freeze. Then she abolished merit raises. Then she demanded layoffs
.
Kathleen appealed for color pages and for a website, and she hammered on about
hiring more correspondents overseas. The Ott board rejected every request. It was only
when she sought to contact Boyd through private channels that she learned how ill he
was
.
It was cancer, the same that had killed Ott. When Boyd heard his diagnosis, he
experienced something close to pride: he and his father were allied in this. But as Boyd's
symptoms worsened, any such fancy abandoned him. He seethed at those around him,
those who would outlive him, who did not deserve to--his grown children, typing asinine
messages into mobile phones, idiots who understood nothing. Eventually, even fury failed
him, giving way to dark days. His life had been wasted, second-rate beside his father's.
No time to fix it
.
As chairman, Boyd had transformed the Ott Group. But he had not enriched it. At
the time of his death, the company was worth one-third as much as when he had taken it
over
.
Not one of his four children was an obvious successor. His eldest son, Vaughn,
was widely disliked; his two daughters were intelligent but wild; and the youngest boy,
Oliver, was so weak-willed as to have recused himself from the Ott board
.