Good Sister, The

by Diana Diamond

  “It’s too dark to tell. Wait while I put a light on.”

  “What are you doing in bed?” Catherine’s voice demanded.

  “Aren’t I talking to you?” Jennifer responded.

  “Why aren’t you celebrating? I just talked with someone at the party. It was so noisy I could hardly hear.”

  “I did celebrate.”

  “Jennifer, this is the biggest coup of your career. You’re in a building with a couple of dozen Frenchmen and a maybe a thousand bottles of champagne. What the hell are you doing in bed … alone?”

  “What makes you think I’m alone?”

  “Because the French male voice I spoke with said that you had left the party at the stroke of midnight. He wondered if you might have lost a glass slipper in your hurry.”

  “It was getting a bit out of hand.”

  “That’s what a party is, Jennifer. It’s supposed to get out of hand.”

  “Catherine, is this why you’re calling me? To tell me to go back to the party?”

  “No. I called to congratulate you. Peter left a message at my hotel telling me that Pegasus III was up and working. You could have let me know.”

  “How? You didn’t tell me you’d be traveling. I don’t even know where you are.”

  “In Hollywood, dammit. Don’t you ever read my e-mail?”

  “Oh, right … right,” Jennifer mumbled as she searched through her foggy memory. “That Cannes thing, isn’t it?”

  “Cannes thing?” Catherine sounded angry. “It’s the Cannes Film Festival, and maybe enough movie traffic to load up Pegasus III and keep it full.”

  “Of course,” Jennifer answered. “That’s what I meant. How’s it going?”

  “Very well, thank you. We’re going to be featured at three of the technical presentations, and most of the producers will be guests at our party.”

  “And the Europeans?” Jennifer questioned. It was the European producers and exhibitors who would make money for Pegasus III.

  “Some will be at our hospitality. We have lunch dates with others. We’ll just have to make cold calls on the rest. But we should see all the important ones.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Jennifer said. “Sounds like you deserve congratulations as well.”

  “I most certainly do.” Catherine laughed. “We can buy each other lunch in New York.”

  They laughed together before they hung up. It took Jennifer only a few seconds to get back to sleep.

  THREE

  CATHERINE RETURNED to the guests in her suite and interrupted the piano player to announce the successful launch of Pegasus III. There was a burst of applause, then gushers of congratulations as the party pressed in around her. The richest person in the room had just become much richer, and the Hollywood moguls sensed money the way sharks sense a struggling tuna.

  But if Catherine had moved a few notches higher on all the producers’ hit lists, the more important of them were in clear focus on hers. Pegasus Satellite Services was about to take a giant step into film distribution, routing live movies through the air in competition with copy prints shipped as freight in heavy cans. The company’s satellites could change the way movies got from the studios to the theaters, eliminating dozens of costly and time-consuming printing and duplicating processes. So, as each of her guests fawned over her, hoping to register his name and face, Catherine trained her dazzling smile on the few who produced films in bulk. It was a smile that Peter Barnes often called the company’s greatest asset.

  Catherine had made herself the exciting persona of a company that was boringly technical, and given visibility to a business that had no visible assets. She had left the technology and the operations in the capable hands of her sister and given herself over completely to the first rule of marketing: Put yourself where the money is. Pegasus was playing for big stakes, she had reasoned, so it had to play with the big players. She had set out to make herself known in all the boardrooms of global business.

  First were the charities; she lent her energies to Save the Children, the Fresh Air Fund, Doctors Without Borders, Make-A-Wish, and dozens of groups determined to end the endless hunger of East Africa. She even made the cover of a weekly magazine holding an emaciated Somalian child in her arms. She rubbed elbows with publishers, broadcasters, software gurus, computer mavens, university deans, and television clerics. She was invited onto the boards of a local exchange carrier, a television network, and a publishing conglomerate. Simultaneously, three telephone and data communications companies signed on to the Pegasus network.

  Next came the arts. She raised money for symphony orchestras, funded local opera start-ups, patronized obscure painters, and supported urban dance companies. She was photographed with the conductor of the New York Symphony, on the stage of La Scala, and surrounded by the Vienna Boys’ Choir. That put her shoulder to shoulder with old money, billions of dollars in residue from defunct steel mills and grown-over railroads. Three financial institutions brought her onto their boards, and she brought financial wire services and private banking networks into the Pegasus fold.

  Catherine managed her image carefully. Everything she did projected a keen business mind, a burning social empathy, and nearly imperial stature. She also mixed in a generous glimpse of cleavage and an occasional flash of thigh so that even when she wasn’t actively involved in a momentous occasion she could count on making the fashion pages and the gossip columns. She had been flattered when her advertising agency proposed making her the company’s spokesperson in television commercials and print ads. But, wisely, she had recognized that turning herself into a commodity was the worst thing she could do. The trick was in convincing everyone she met that he or she had a special place in her life.

  Hollywood had required a slight shift in her image. She took her long hair a shade or two lighter and let it blow a bit more freely. Her makeup became a tad more theatrical, with more red in her lip gloss, deeper tones in her eye shadow, and blush to emphasize her perfect bone structure. She slipped her hourglass figure comfortably into a smaller dress size and added bare-midriff jeans to her wardrobe. The result was a younger, more casual version of herself, still intelligent, still sympathetic, still sexually provocative, but definitely less regal. She had moved to the left cusp of the horsey set, where it blended indistinguishably into the entertainment riffraff.

  Catherine kissed the cheek of each of her guests as they left, begging off invitations to join one group for a nightcap and another for a sunrise beach party. She had to get packed for her trip back to New York, she reminded them. After all, there was an empire to run. “See you in Cannes” were her last words to the studio heads and important producers. She made it sound like a friendly promise, even though it was really a sales pitch.

  Her New York apartment was part of the persona, a two-story penthouse overlooking the East River that had been featured in both Architectural Digest and Interior Design. Catherine managed the place with telling glances to her housekeeper, a German matron named Inga who ordered about an army of window washers, silver polishers, and cleaning services with Prussian efficiency. In response to a call placed somewhere over Kansas, Inga had laid out Catherine’s black business dress and a string of perfect pearls, so within an hour of her transcontinental flight’s touchdown, Catherine was flashing by her secretary’s desk and into her office.

  The office bore little resemblance to a work area. Surrounded by a glass floor-to-ceiling panorama of the New York skyline, it was arranged on two carpeted levels. The lower level had several groupings of modern furniture, minimalist in design so as not to block the picture windows. There was a conference table with half a dozen stern chairs, a grouping of softer, more comfortable chairs and a sofa around a coffee table, and four chairs arranged theater-style in front of a huge television screen. That level was currently taken up with sketches and models of the company’s planned exhibit at the Cannes Film Festival. The exhibit, built around the capabilities of Pegasus III, had been in the works for months befo
re the launch, a tribute to Catherine’s confidence in her sister’s capabilities.

  Up one step was Catherine’s desk, a glass platform that seemed to float in space with no visible means of support. There was just one chair, a chrome and white leather low-back design in keeping with the minimalist theme, and one desk appointment, a chrome telephone. The design required secretaries to carry work in and out on demand, and those who approached the desk to remain standing. It also served, as Peter Barnes delighted in reminding her, as a perfect showcase for her perfect legs.

  Not immediately visible were the other rooms of the office suite. A bathroom with a cavernous shower as well as an oversize Jacuzzi. A wine cellar with two-zone temperature control. A fully equipped gymnasium. A clothes closet with changes that let Catherine dress up or down on a minute’s notice. And a small kitchen with a stocked refrigerator and china cabinet. It was, as Jennifer teased her, a decent apartment for a family of five.

  Catherine jumped up and rushed across the office to greet her sister, who was still dressed in jeans and a blouse. She kissed Jennifer on the lips, hugged her close, and repeated her congratulations. “The news rocked them in Hollywood,” she reported. “I think we did more celebrating than you.”

  She stepped back to take in Jennifer’s attire and reacted with horror. “Oh, for God’s sake, we could have put this meeting off until tomorrow. You haven’t even had time to clean up from the jungle.”

  “I got in this morning,” Jennifer answered.

  “That is her business suit,” Peter Barnes said, standing in the doorway. Catherine went toward him with a sisterly kiss.

  Peter wandered to the sofa and settled in, his long legs sticking up awkwardly from the low perch. “Both of you returning home in triumph. No Caesar was ever blessed with such generals.” He glanced around at the Cannes displays. “I got a glimpse of this when they were setting it up. It looks spectacular.”

  “It is,” Catherine answered. “It’s also expensive, to answer the question that you’re dying to ask. Way over budget but worth every penny.”

  Jennifer settled into a chair and stretched her sandaled feet onto the coffee table as Catherine began her presentation of her plans for conquering the Cannes Film Festival. She was interested, but only in the broad brush strokes. She could safely leave the details up to Peter. He had demonstrated time and again that he could digest volumes of information and spot the minutest flaws in the logic. He would sit with a pleased expression as Catherine gushed over every element of the design and justified every event. But before she was finished, he would pin down the need for every meal being planned and the cost of each shrimp on every plate.

  Martin Pegan had made a fine choice in Peter Barnes, and the two sisters had come to appreciate their father’s wisdom. They were both headstrong, confident, and accomplished, but neither harbored any illusion as to who was responsible for the success of the business. In the final analysis, it was Peter who had made the decisions. Not that he had been arbitrary. As they both came to recognize, he managed by guiding them to the right decisions.

  But if they knew his business style, they were generally in the dark as to his personal life, a mystery that he seemed to enjoy leaving unsolved. They knew, for example, that he had been a high-tech nerd, one of the educational dropouts who invented light-wave devices in his garage. But there was none of the sneakered iconoclast about him. He wore well-tailored business suits with tasteful ties, more in the style of a banker than an inventor.

  They knew he was a technical genius with a clear understanding of the physics of satellite orbits and the electronics of digital communications. Yet he spoke in simple declarative sentences with hardly a trace of the technobabble that passed as conversation in their industry.

  Although he was single, he always appeared at business affairs and at Catherine’s social events with an attractive woman on his arm. He was never secretive about who the lady was, or her background and accomplishments. But he didn’t give a clue as to whether the relationship was serious or casual. What they noticed was that few of his women lasted through a season. None had ever stayed around for a year.

  It was obvious that he was wealthy. They both knew his salary, his bonuses, and the value of his stock. Yet he lived modestly in what had once been a caretaker’s cottage and summered aboard a boat tied up at a North Shore marina. He was certainly successful but had never appeared in a business publication, never given an interview on cable, never spoken at an industry event.

  They knew he was good-looking, even if his nose was a bit too long and he had developed a habitual squint through his heavy glasses. They knew he was athletic, with a fine tennis game, a low golf handicap, and a successful record in yacht racing. They knew he was passionate about an Italian sports car that seemed perpetually in the shop, and that he was addicted to books on European history. They knew he liked good bourbon and defied convention by drinking it over a single ice cube.

  But they had no idea where he’d been born and raised, who his parents were, or whether he had any brothers or sisters. They didn’t know where he had gone to school or for how long. Was he always single, or had he divorced? Was he religious or agnostic? Gay or straight? Generous or thrifty? Did he bathe or shower? Wear boxers or briefs? Despite the fact that they were with him every day in an intimate business relationship, their private lives never mingled. Peter offered no insights into his, and they had never caught him peeking into theirs.

  They had often speculated. Once they had hired an investigator to look through yearbooks and other matters of public record. Just the essentials, they told each other. Things they really were entitled to know. But they had called the investigator off before he could get started. If they were entitled to know, they should simply ask Peter, they had reasoned. They knew how much they depended on him and couldn’t risk driving him away.

  Privately, both had wondered from time to time whether Peter might have any romantic interest in them. Catherine, with her public glamour, had a very sensitive antenna for both decent and indecent advances and fielded them skillfully on an almost daily basis. But she had never once detected any personal interest in her from Peter. He complimented her, teased her, and never forgot her birthday. But his manner was always “big brother,” personal but never intimate. She had also wondered whether Peter held any particular charm for her. He was a desirable man from any point of view. But in her analysis, he turned out to be too straitlaced, long on reliability and short on excitement. Maybe she had been overexposed to his business demeanor.

  Jennifer had a different view. She had spent a bit of personal time with Peter, joining him in road rallies in Connecticut on rare occasions when the Italian sports car was running, and sailing with him in club races on Long Island Sound. She knew he had a great capacity for fun and excitement and had enjoyed every moment she had spent in his company. But she had little interest in intimacy and was generally careful to shield herself from its dangers. Little rich girls, she knew, had to be suspicious of compliments. And in Peter’s case, there was an added danger. If she grew too close to him, it might well upset the delicate balance among the three principals of Pegasus Satellite Services. There could be nothing between the two of them as long as Catherine was involved in their affairs. Jennifer had seldom offered Peter encouragement.

  “Just a couple of points!” was Peter’s opener when Catherine had finished explaining the Cannes arrangements. “You need to spend less time at our pavilion and get to more of the events. The publicity will center on the openings, so that’s where you need to be.

  “Next, I think you ought to move one of our cocktail parties out of the hotel and onto a private yacht. The change of venue might get us a second crack at some of these guys.

  “Third, I think Jennifer should be at our technical display. She’s the most knowledgeable person we have to handle questions about Pegasus three.”

  Jennifer’s feet snapped down from the coffee table. “Me?”

  “Why not?” P
eter said.

  “Because I don’t do openings.”

  “He’s right,” Catherine joined in. “Everyone knows you’re the one who put up the satellite. They’ll be dying to meet you.”

  Jennifer jumped up. “Out of the question,” she snapped. “I’ll line up some of the engineers.”

  “Our guests won’t be engineers,” Peter said. “They’ll be former furniture salesmen who fancy themselves as artists. Or graduates from film school who think they’re producers. Maybe even a few billionaires who really believe that the starlets find them physically attractive. They won’t understand a thing our engineers tell them.”

  “It’s a very personal business,” Catherine added. “The top people all know one another. And they want to know all the people they’re dealing with. They won’t spend ten seconds with a technical expert, but they’ll spend hours getting to know you.”

  “You’re both crazy.” Jennifer laughed. “Can you see me in one of those Academy Award dresses with no top and no back?”

  Peter smiled. “That’s just the way our Hollywood customers would like to see you.”

  “You can wear whatever you want,” Catherine said.

  Jennifer glanced at her with eyes narrowed in disbelief. “Anything?”

  “Well, within reason. Give me an hour in one good store. We’ll find something that you’re perfectly comfortable in. And then another hour with Nicholas …” She made a show of inspecting her sister’s grooming. “Well, maybe two hours.”

  They both laughed.

  “You know this isn’t my thing,” Jennifer said to them.

  “It’s important,” Peter responded.

  “What’s not your thing?” Catherine asked. “A week of partying with Hollywood heroes. Great French restaurants. Sunny beaches. Yacht cruises. What part of that do you find painful?”

  “I’m not a … celebrity. I don’t like to be on display.”

  Catherine threw up her hands. “I give up. It’s not as if we were asking you to dance naked on the bar. All you have to do is put on a tasteful outfit, a few cosmetics, and talk to people. No one will mistake you for a celebrity.”