Cassy walked over to Madison Avenue and looked for a cab.
After seeing a therapist for eighteen months, she couldn’t help wondering what her life might have been like had she gone sooner. After years and years of feeling so terribly alone with her problems with Michael, the difference that being able to talk —honestly, for a change—to another person was incredible to Cassy. It was as though the walls of a prison had fallen, one by one, until there were only horizons of choice—which at times actually seemed more terrifying to Cassy than the days she had been so used to, the days when she had felt as though she had no choice at all.
The most painful part of the process so far had been the awareness that the problems in her marriage were not all Michael’s. In fact, more and more Cassy saw that whatever had been “wrong” with Michael’s drinking, his flagrant infidelity, there had been something “wrong” in her that responded to what was wrong in him—denial of how bad his drinking was, denial of his affairs, her inability to leave the marriage—that had enabled the horrendous situation to continue for years.
Well, Michael had not had a drink in a year and half and his infidelity was no longer flagrant—he only had one girlfriend now, out on the West Coast. And while Cassy had faced up to the girlfriend’s existence over a year ago, she still couldn’t bring herself to end the marriage. After twenty-two years—ten of which had been an absolute nightmare—now that Michael was healthier than he had ever been in his life, now she was supposed to give up on them? After all the time she had put in? After throwing away her thirties, she should start over again at forty-three?
Oh, they had had their moments, of course. Like the day Henry had been accepted at Yale, where Henry had been dying to go but where they had worried he would not get in. But Henry had been accepted and had run off with his girlfriend to celebrate, leaving his parents home alone, smiling at each other, marveling over the fact that they—despite all their problems—had produced this wonderful young man who Yale thought was pretty wonderful too. Yale University. Henry. Their baby. And that night the two of them had dragged out home movies they had not looked at in at least ten years and set up the old screen in the living room and sat on the couch, roaring with laughter, watching themselves with baby Henry in Chicago. Oh, remember? The skating rink? Remember those little double runners? And look at you! And there’s Joe from the newsroom, remember him? Oh, and what’s—her—name. And there’s—
That night was one of the few times it had worked sexually between them.
But that was almost a year ago, she thought, flagging down a cab. Of course he has to have a girlfriend—who can have sex three times a year? The cab pulled over to the side and, as Cassy opened the door, she noticed a man in a suit standing behind her, smiling. Apparently he had been trying to get a cab too. He held the door for her as she got in. If you only knew, she thought, I’d have sex with you in a second before I’d sleep with my husband these days. “Thank you,” she said.
“My pleasure,” he said with a slight bow, closing the door.
Maybe you do know, she thought, giving the man a brief parting smile. “West End Avenue and 67th Street, please,” she told the driver. “It’s that new complex—”
“West End,” the driver said. “It’s called West End.”
“Right,” Cassy said.
They turned west and headed into Central Park.
The driver looked at Cassy in the rear-view mirror. “They’re not gonna let us through the gate unless they know who you are, ya know.”
Cassy smiled. “You mean to tell me you don’t know who I am?”
The driver frowned, glancing furiously back and forth between the road and the mirror. “You a game show hostess or something?” he finally said. “I mean, did ya used to be?”
Ooo—ouch. I asked for that one, she thought, wincing. “No,” she said. “I was just pulling your leg.” She took a breath and let it out slowly, looking at the trees, wishing that she could see buds on them. But no, it was still winter. “Actually, I’m going on a job interview.”
“Huh,” the driver said. Into the rear-view mirror, “Whaddaya do?”
“I’m in television,” she said.
“But not game shows,” the driver said.
“Right,” Cassy said.
“So what kinda TV?”
She hesitated and then thought, Why not? See how it feels after all these years. “News. I’m in television news.”
“Oh, yeah?” the driver said. “I shoulda known. That was the next thing I was gonna ask ya—what city you’re from. Ya like being an anchorwoman?” he asked, looking in the rearview mirror.
She smiled, broadly. “No, I’m on the production side. Off camera.”
“Huh,” the driver said. “Maybe you oughta look into being an anchorwoman. You look the part. That Alexandra Waring’s doin’ all right for herself. She’s at West End, ya know.”
“So I’ve heard,” Cassy said.
“Yeah, well, I had her in the cab once—back when she was workin’ at, uh…”
“WWKK,” Cassy said.
“Yeah. She used to do the news there. So I picked her up once, it was like five in the morning and she was goin’ to work.” He frowned, shaking his head. “She had newspapers all over the back of the cab—I mean, like I said to her, ‘So what are you doin’ back there? Wrapping fish or somethin’?’ “
Cassy laughed. “What did she say?”
“So she said she was readin’ the papers. And I said, ‘You hafta read six papers at the same time?’ And she sorta laughed—and then she put ‘em all away and talked to me. She was real nice. I liked her and so I started watchin’ her. She grew up on a farm, ya know. She’s not a New Yorker or nothin’. So where are you from?”
“Iowa, originally.”
“Man, ain’t nobody round here who’s from New York anymore, ya know? Closest we get to a New Yorker these days is Yoko Ono. She lives over there, ya know,” he said as they came out of Central Park.
They continued across town to West End Avenue and turned south. As they neared 67th Street, the driver put on his signal.
The entrance to West End wasn’t very impressive. In fact it was extraordinarily plain. There was one lane going in and one lane coming out, and a large, square concrete guardhouse in the middle. Lowered across each lane was an orange and white striped gate. There wasn’t even a sign to indicate what this Checkpoint Charlie was for—which, Cassy thought a second later, for security reasons, was probably just as well.
“So what’s your name?” the driver said. “I’ll announce you with style, whaddaya say?” She told him and he rolled down his window to talk to the guard. “Catherine Cochran is expected,” he said, winking to Cassy in the mirror.
“Oh, Mrs. Cochran?” the guard said immediately, bending to look in through the cabby’s window.
“Yes?” she said.
“They want you to come in downstairs.” To the cab driver, he pointed, “Follow the driveway, and when you get just past the apartment building, on your right will be a ramp. Turn down that ramp and it will take you down around to the back entrance of the studio. I’ll call ahead and there’ll be someone there to meet you.”
“Thank you,” Cassy said.
“Sounds like they want somethin’ from ya pretty bad,” the driver said, driving on after the gate rose. “The last fare I took here hadda walk in.”
They drove along, rising higher and higher, turned sharply to the right behind an enormous apartment building, and then right there was the ramp the guard had told them about. They turned onto it and snaked around, easing downward, and then straightened out underneath the upper driveway, leading them into a large carport.
A security guard waved them on to what appeared to be the entrance. When the cab stopped, another guard was right there to open Cassy’s door. “Mrs. Cochran,” he said, standing there.
“Yes—hello,” she said. “Let me just pay for the cab.” She fumbled in her purse, found a ten. She handed it over
the seat to the driver and was about to say, “Take seven-fifty out of that,” but then drew her hand back, saying, “Thanks for the nice ride. It’s just what I needed.”
“Thanks,” the cabby said. He turned around to get a better look at her. “Just remember, they want somethin’ bad from ya, so play it cagey—that’s my advice.”
“Thanks,” she said, getting out.
The double glass doors leading into the building slid open and a young man with curly brown hair came dashing out. He was in blue jeans and a tweed jacket. “Cassy?” he asked, holding out his hand. “Hi, remember me? I’m Will Rafferty, Alexandra’s field producer.”
“Of course I do, Will, how are you?” Cassy said, shaking his hand. “And you’re not her field producer anymore. You’re the affiliates producer for the DBS television network.”
“Yeah, right, that’s what they tell me,” he said. “I’ve only been here an hour and so I’m not used to my new exalted status. So anyway,” he continued, with a little shake of his head, “I’m supposed to take you up to Darenbrook’s office—” He looked over his shoulder. “Only I’m not sure I know where it is.” He looked back at Cassy. “The real reason I’m here is that Alexandra told me to ask you who would be the better affiliate in New Orleans, KRQ or KLV? We have to make up our minds today and she wants your opinion.”
Cassy laughed to herself, shaking her head. “I’d take KLV,” she said, turning as the doors opened again behind Will.
“Cassy, hello,” Langley Peterson said, walking out.
Cassy’s cab driver honked twice and they all looked. He was waving bye-bye. Cassy gave him a wave back and he pulled away. When Cassy turned back to Langley, Alexandra was now coming out the doors.
“Hi!” Alexandra said, rushing past Langley to give Cassy a one-armed hug, carefully executed around her sling. “Hi,” she said again, backing away a step, holding Cassy’s elbow in her free hand. “I can’t believe you’re here,” she added, eyes sparkling. She took Cassy’s hand and turned to Langley and Will. “Doesn’t it seem like she’s always been working with us? Doesn’t she just belong here?”
They heard the screech of tires and everyone looked to see that Cassy’s cab had done a U-turn and was now coming back toward them. The guard leaped in front of Alexandra, spreading his arms out. “Watch it, watch it, Miss Waring!” he said, pushing her back.
But the driver was just excited. He stopped the cab, jumped out and over the roof of the cab yelled, “Hey, Alexandra!” He looked at Cassy. “Tell her I gave her a ride.” To the guard, “She knows me,” he said, pointing to Cassy. “I just wanted to say hi to Alexandra.”
Leave it to Alexandra to actually remember the driver after two years. She went over and signed an autograph for him while he told her about their previous encounter. After she handed him the autograph, she shook his hand and said, “So how’s your son’s knee? Didn’t you tell me that he was going to have to have surgery after football season was over?”
The cab driver’s face could have lit up Times Square. He gave the guard a triumphant look and announced, “My son’s knee is fine. The surgery was a complete success. He’s playin’ ball now for the University of Bridgeport.”
By this time someone else had joined them outside, a black man about forty-five whom Will introduced to Cassy as Hex Hamilton.
“My mother was a witch,” Hex explained in a deep, rolling West Indian accent. Judging from the way he was smiling, she had no idea whether or not he was serious. He turned to Langley. “Am I allowed to ask Cassy how many editing bays she thinks we need?” He turned back to Cassy. “Alexandra and I know we need at least six, but we are, as they say, suffering temporary technical difficulties with the management.”
Langley cleared his throat and stuck his hand into his pants pocket. “The management is suffering, period,” he told Cassy.
“She even looks like she runs the place,” Alexandra announced, walking back over. She gestured to Cassy with her free hand. “Look at that pose, Hex—I think we ought to work a shot of Cassy into the open montage for ‘News America Tonight.’ “
“Maybe she should anchor ‘News America Tonight,’ “Langley suggested under his breath.
The doors opened yet again and out came a very young woman, scarcely out of colllege, who actually looked a little like a washed-out version of Alexandra. “Oh, hi,” she said, “here you are.”
“This is Kate Benedict, my assistant,” Alexandra said. “Kate, this is Cassy Cochran.”
“Thank God,” Kate exclaimed, shaking Cassy’s hand in a very businesslike manner. “Can you sign Alexandra’s expense account stuff?”she asked, holding up papers in her other hand. Then she noticed Langley. “Oops,” she said, shrinking.
“Don’t let me stop you,” Langley said. “Charge it to WST.”
“That’s what he says about everything,” Kate told Cassy. “Alexandra won’t sign anything either. I really think you better work here.”
“And how,” Hex said.
“Seconded,” Will said. “All those in favor of Cassy—”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute!” Cassy said, holding up her hands and backing away slightly. “This isn’t fair, you guys—”
The doors slid open again and familiar figure emerged this time. It was tall, lanky Kyle McFarland, the same Kyle McFarland who had been a news intern with Cassy at WST back in 1973, the same Kyle McFarland who had been producing a network morning show, the same Kyle McFarland she had urged Alexandra to try and get as senior producer for “DBS News America Tonight.” And here he was.
“Hi, Cass,” Kyle said, simply giving her a little wave and dropping his hand, as though they hadn’t missed a day of work together in fifteen years.
Cassy suddenly felt like crying. There was something about what was transpiring that was making her feel terribly happy.
“Come on,” Langley then said quietly, touching her arm. “I’ll take you up to Jackson’s. We won’t hound you anymore.”
“No, we won’t,” Alexandra promised.
Hex started to laugh and Kate shhhed him.
Langley led Cassy inside, the group trailing behind them, whispering and elbowing each other like unruly schoolchildren. “Ignore them,” was Langley’s advice as they walked through a reception area.
The receptionist looked up from whatever she was doing and smiled. “Hi, Mrs. Cochran,” she said.
Cassy did a double take and the group behind her started to laugh. She looked at Langley.
“This way,” Langley said, “we’ll just swing through the studio on the way.”
“Excuse me,” an electrician said, trying to get by them with a large coil of wire. His eyes skipped over Cassy and then came back again. “Oh, hi, Mrs. Cochran,” he said.
“Uh, hi,” Cassy said, turning to look at Langley.
“Don’t look at me,” he said, “I’m not that manipulative,” prompting the crew behind them to start laughing again. As Cassy looked back at Alexandra, he took her arm. “This way.”
They wound around the corridors and then walked through Studio B, tremendous Studio A, through the newsroom, through Engineering A, Engineering B, the satellite room, and then back into the corridors, walking past editing, audio, graphics, film, winding back around to end up at the elevators. And every single person they came in contact with—from the head of technology, Dr. Kessler, to the carpet layers—took one look at Cassy, smiled and said, “Hi, Mrs. Cochran.”
Langley and Cassy left Alexandra, Kate, Hex, Kyle and Will on Sub Level 2 and took the elevator up to the second floor of Darenbrook I. Langley pointed out his office as they passed by it and then they turned into the outer reception area of Jackson Darenbrook’s office. His three assistants—Ethel, a black woman of about fifty; Randy, a balding man of about thirty; and Claire, a redhead of about twenty-five—were on their feet in a minute, all hailing, “Hello, Mrs. Cochran!”
“Please go right on in,” Ethel said in a wonderful Southern drawl, showing them the door. �
��Mr. Darenbrook has so been looking forward to meeting you.”
“Here she is, Jack,” Langley announced, holding the door open for Cassy.
Jackson Darenbrook stood up behind his desk. He was a big man, nice-looking, Cassy thought. He reminded her a little of Michael, except where Michael’s hair was so dark Jackson’s was brown with a great deal of gray running through it, and where Michael was handsome, Jackson Darenbrook was only, well, pleasant-looking. He had wonderful blue eyes, though.
He was staring at her, his head cocked to the side. Then he looked down at his desk, back up at her, down at his desk again and picked up something that turned out to be—when he held it up for her to see—an 8 x 10 glossy of Cassy someone had blown up from her WST PR photo. “Which one of you has been retouched?” he asked her.
“Jack!” Langley said.
“Jaaack,” Jackson mimicked, coming around his desk. “That was a compliment, jerk head. I meant that Alexandra’s right.” He held his hand out to Cassy. “She said Mrs. Cochran was even more beautiful in real life than she is in that photograph.”
“Thank you,” she said, shaking his hand. His handshake was dry, firm, nice.
“Go away, Lang,” Jackson said, still looking at Cassy.
“Wait, Jack,” Langley said, “I want a word with you.”
Jackson gestured to his office. “Please make yourself at home. I’ll be back in a moment.” He stepped outside with Langley.
Cassy turned around. The office was enormous. One part of it was a work area, with a tremendous leather-topped oak desk, a couple of chairs, and over along one wall two computer terminals, a drafting table, and an elongated table with stacks of newspapers on it. Across the room was what looked almost like a den, with an oriental rug thrown over the wall-to-wall carpeting, easy chairs, a coffee table, magazine racks, a bar, and a large TV screen built into the wall. In the corner there was a huge oak wardrobe. There were also several trees here and back in the work area, accentuating how high the ceilings were.
And then, in front of the solid glass wall to Cassy’s right, there was a cluster of two small sofas and two chairs around a low, round glass table. Cassy headed to this area and sat down in one of the chairs, facing the glass wall. It felt as though she were sitting in the front row of a wonderful movie about the Hudson River and the magnificent skies of west Manhattan. Her next thought was how desperately she needed to get out of the city if she thought the view was so pretty that it looked fake to her.
Alexandra Waring Page 9
