dreams together, and maybe they were timid and young, but I was excited about them because they were about two people who were in love and getting married and planning to work together as partners. And when we came back here to take care of Zachary, you weren't the only one to give up a dream; I did, too. I waited, too. But Keegan wasn't looking for me in Aspen; he came for you and you went along, as starry-eyed as a teenager, and got busy remaking the world, and that put an end to what we were building together: a new partnership, a new marriage. By now we can't even talk about my interviewing on television. Did you ask me how I feel about it? Did you ask how many days I'd have to be in Los Angeles—?"
"Los Angeles?"
"It doesn't matter where. New York, Berlin, Moscow—what difference does it make? You weren't curious enough to ask. All you thought about was the impact it might have on your newspapers. You weren't so preoccupied with grabbing your brass ring a couple of years ago—you had time for the rest of us, then—but Keegan has always thought of grabbing opportunities for himself first. It must please him to see how well you've learned his lessons/'
Her throat was tight. She turned away, putting her palms on the cool tiles of the countertop. "You said I didn't have to stand by. You meant that. You try to pretend that you want me, probably because you think a man ought to want his wife, but I think you'd be happiest if I stayed out of your way. And I'd rather do that, Matt: stay out of the way while you and Keegan go after all the money and power and influence you can get, in any way you can, without my questions or criticism. It's probably best for you: sometimes people travel fastest and farthest alone." She moved toward the door, her back to Matt, to get out of there before the tightness in her throat turned to tears. "I wish we could have found a way . . . some way to—"
"Elizabeth, damn it, I love you." Matt was behind her, holding her with her back against him, his face in her hair. "Come with me. You helped me before; help me again. And then we'll have everything. There's nothing we can't do if we do it together."
His arms were strong and warm around her, and she put her hands on his, remembering all the times their bodies had been so close, closer, joined. "I'll live with you in Houston if you want me to stand with you when I think you're right and disagree when I think you're wrong, and try to slow you down if I think what you're doing is destroying what we have. Do you want that?"
"A loaded question," he said wryly. "You answer for me."
"Your answer is no. You don't want me there. I think you still love me
... or maybe what you love is the idea of the perfect woman: loving wife, mother, helpmate, successful career woman with her own newspaper column, maybe even a television show. The ideal companion for Kee-gan Rourke's publisher. Why do you hold me this way, so we can't see each other or kiss each other?"
After a moment, his lips still in her hair, he said, "I don't want you to see my eyes."
She nodded. She felt empty and cold. "I'd hoped I was wrong, but I wasn't, was I?" Loosening his clasp around her waist, she turned within his arms to face him, her hands on his shoulders, her eyes searching his, and she knew he agreed with her: he could go farthest and fastest alone. "I love you, Matt. But I want you to go. Now."
He touched her hair, then dropped his arms. "Will you tell Peter and Holly I . . . had to leave early? I'll call them. I'd like them to come to Houston. You could come with them. We'll work that out, don't you think? I'll call you. You'll be here?"
"Yes."
"I'll call you. Tell Peter and Holly. . . ."
Elizabeth nodded. There was a long silence. And then he turned and left.
"Wait," Elizabeth said. "You didn't pack." But there was no one to hear her. And then she realized it didn't matter. He had a closet full of clothes in Houston. And work and friends and challenges and dreams.
He had another life. And when she got used to that idea, and figured out what it meant to both of them, she'd have to find a life of her own that didn't include him. At least for a while. At least until they decided whether this arrangement—whatever it was, exactly—was what they wanted.
On the table beside the telephone was a picture of them in Matt's office at the Chieftain. She picked it up and ran her sleeve over the glass. She rubbed it harder and harder, her arm moving as fast as it could, polishing the glass above those smiling faces until she realized they were blurred because of her tears. Carefully she put it down and turned away. And as she did, she caught a glimpse through the doorway of the television set in the corner of the den—and once again heard Tony's voice. It can make you famous.
H A P T E R
B
o Boyle had been the producer of "Anthony" since its premiere, hitching his career to its popularity, building a new personality for himself as he and the show became more successful. From Booton Eamon O'Boyle, choir boy and playground coward at St. Joseph's Grammar and High School in Newark, New Jersey, he had transformed himself, beneath the shimmering Los Angeles sun, into Bo Boyle, who was climbing to the top in television with astonishing speed. He was beginning to attract notice for making lackluster game shows more lively, when, out of the blue, he was plucked from a dozen contenders with better backgrounds and named producer of "Anthony."
Insulted by his new producer's lack of glamorous credits, Tony Rourke ignored him, but Bo Boyle, amiable and tenacious, outwaited him and within six months they had settled into a friendly, if wary, partnership. It was good for both of them: Boyle's changes in lighting, stage set, and pacing made Tony look better, and when the ratings went up, that made Boyle look good.
Tony had the visibility=Tony Rourke, with the sleekest of good looks, a quick tongue, and a unique talent for making women viewers feel moth= erly and sexy at the same time, without making male viewers resent him
—but Bo Boyle was beyond jealousy: he was too busy gathering power into his hands. Tony was the perfect perch for a producer who would stop at nothing to get to the top, and when Tony and his show ultimately faded, as happens to all television hosts and shows, Bo Boyle would lose nothing but a perch—and perches, he liked to say, had only one purpose: to become launching points for flying to even greater heights.
But for now, "Anthony" was the right place for him. And it might be about to get better, Bo thought, contemplating Elizabeth LovelTs profile across the studio as he finished a telephone call, it might be about to get better. "Tony wtfl be late," he said, his voice echoing in the cavernous room as he picked his way over the heavy power cables stretching across the floor. Grabbing a folding chair, he opened it beside Elizabeth's and straddled it, folding his arms along its back, gazing at her with bland eyes that seemed half-asleep but saw everything. Christ, the son of a bitch had done it again. Even in the middle of the goddam New Mexican desert, where Bo Boyle would be lucky to find lizards and prairie dogs, Tony Rourke comes up with this incredible creature with a face and a pair of legs that would keep half of America from switching channels. How the fuck did he always do it? "He said to start without him."
"I'd rather—" Elizabeth caught herself. "Fine. What would you like me to do?"
"Well now, Lizzie, let's think about that." He saw the shadow cross her face. "Something wrong with Lizzie?"
"Yes."
He sighed. "We live in a fast-moving world. Elizabeth is a long name. All those syllables. Liz? Liza? Betsy? Bets! None of them? Elizabeth, then. How formal. How proper. Well, Elizabeth, what will you do for us while our Tony is absent? Let's wing it, shall we? Find out how you think on your feet. Let's have you interview"—drumming his fingertips on his knee, he glanced about the studio—"Greg Roscov. Any problem with that?" Elizabeth followed his glance and met the startled eyes of a burly cameraman a few feet behind them. "Of course there's no problem with that," Bo answered himself cheerfully. "In fact, it's perfect. Greg helps bring "Anthony" into millions of living rooms, but no one ever sees him. The invisible man! Now is that perfect or is that perfect! You come here to interview people the rest of the wo
rld doesn't see and I hand you one on a silver platter! Greg, you'll help us, won't you, in our hour of need? Be on the other side of the camera for once."
There was a pause. Damn it, Tony, Elizabeth fumed silently. You got me into this; where are you now, when I need you?
It seemed she was doing everything herself, these days. Only two weeks
since Matt had gone back to Houston, but already everything had changed, She was alone most of the time, Peter had a summer job at an an gallery on Palace Avenue, and spent his spare hours with Maya, Holly had begun her apprenticeship with the Santa Fe Opera, and her day stretched from mne in the morning until late at mght. Lydia was getting ready for the first tourists who would arrive in June, and Spencer was in his workshop, having recklessly promised caned wooden candlesticks. his latest triumph, to everyone who admired the pair he had placed beside the coffee and tea service m the bookshop.
Elizabeth wrote. In a kind of fury, she interviewed two and three, sometimes four people a day, then sat at her typewriter until early morning, for the first time gettmg ahead of her schedule. It was a good thing she did. Because within that same fourteen days, she said yes to Tony when he offered agam to give her a spot on his show; Bo Boyle telephoned to say they required a camera test; Tony called back to promise her there was nothing to it; and two days later she flew to Los Angeles where a studio limousine drove her to Television City in Hollywood. Once there, she was led to a cavernous studio hung with lights and cluttered with cables, equipment, and battered desks and chairs. In an odd way. it reminded Elizabeth of a newspaper office.
Fourteen days ago Matt had left. And was anything in her life the same?
Behind her, the cameraman shrugged. "I don't have anything to talk about. I'm not good at acting or anything like that."
"Acting!" exclaimed Bo Boyle. "You just be your own sweet self. Elizabeth will take care of the rest." He stood, "We'll use Tony's set, but I want the armchair and couch closer together, and the coffee table pulled forward. , , ." He stepped onto the raised platform where half of a lavish mahogany and leather study faced the cameras. It was a room designed to portray Anthony Rourke as a man of wealth and lightly stuffy tradition but also—because the couch was so deep, the carpets and drapes faintly Arabian, the cognac accessible, and a silk robe just visible on a hassock near the fireplace—a man who used the privacy of his retreat for sports other than reading and interviewing occasional guests. Bo, who had helped design it. stood beside the couch, directing two stagehands, seeing in his mind the angles of Elizabeth's face he wanted the cameras to cap= ture. Another thought came to him , "Makeup," he called to Elizabeth, "Tell Roberta ten minutes,"
Elizabeth caught Greg Roscov's eye, "Why not 0 " she asked, smiling, "Since the whole thing is made up from start to finish. Roberta can do both of us,"
He shook his head. "Boyle'd hit the ceiling. Nobody cares what I look like."
"I do," Elizabeth said. "Tell me something. If I'm plastered up with creams and powders, how will the lights make you look, next to me?"
"Like something fished out of the water," he said.
"That's what I thought. Come on, Greg; we're in this together. We both glow with health or we both look like drowned rats."
He grinned, beginning to feel better about the whole crazy business. Maybe she was okay and not out to make an ass of him.
"Come on. We won't give them time to wash it off." She took his hand and led him from the studio and up the stairs to the makeup room she had seen earlier that afternoon. A step behind her, he looked at her long legs, the curve of her rear end under her silky skirt, and her shining hair lying in long waves like dark honey against the jade green of her silk suit, and he knew he'd do anything she said. The hell with Boyle. The hell with everything.
But he became worried again when he was sitting close to her in the luxurious study he'd seen every week from behind his camera. He didn't belong there and he was miserably uncomfortable. The goddam leather was slippery; he kept sliding forward on his ass, digging his heels into the Arabian carpet to keep from going all the way to the floor, trying to wriggle back into position while one of the crew was bending over him, clipping the microphone to his shirt.
Elizabeth knew she should be setting him at his ease, creating the relaxed and friendly atmosphere that led people to reveal the private person behind their public defenses, but she couldn't do it. It was one of her greatest skills in interviewing for her column, and she knew she couldn't succeed in television without it, but at that moment she couldn't concentrate. Everything was too new. The lights were blinding, making her feel exposed and vulnerable; beneath their white heat she felt she was melting into the leather chair. The cameras leered at her like black one-eyed monsters; her silk suit clung to her back; damp tendrils of hair curled on her forehead; her heart was pounding.
Turning her head, she saw a television set off to one side, and on the screen a woman's face, fearful, tense, trapped. Poor thing, Elizabeth thought involuntarily, and then realized she was looking at herself.
It couldn't be! Where was the beautiful Elizabeth Lovell people were always talking about? This woman looked like a squirrel being chased into hiding ... no, a panda, she thought with a flash of humor. A suntanned panda. Too much eyeliner; too much makeup. Roberta overdid it: this isn't me!
Someone was clipping a small piece of metal to her suit lapel. "Microphone," said a quiet voice. "Relax; you look great. Dynamite. Now if you'll sit still, I'm not getting fresh, I'm just hiding the mike wire under your jacket, pull it behind you ... no sweat. Thanks."
"Thank you," Elizabeth murmured.
"Voice level," a disembodied voice said.
"Elizabeth, can you say a few words?" Bo Boyle asked, his voice floating in from beyond the blinding lights. "Talk about the weather, list the kings of France, anything. We're just checking your microphone."
"What about Greg's microphone?" Elizabeth asked.
"We'll make it as exquisite as his makeup," Boyle said dryly.
Elizabeth saw embarrassment sweep across Greg's face and she forgot the lights, the dampness across her back, the confusion of seeing her unfamiliar image on the television screen. She leaned forward. "I heard you talking to the other cameramen earlier; you seem to know every inch of this place. How long have you worked here?"
Startled, Greg dug his heels into the carpet and sat straight. "Ten years."
"We're not taping," said Boyle. "I asked for a few sentences."
Still looking at Greg, Elizabeth said softly, "I'm sorry, Bo. It's just that Greg is much more interesting than the kings of France. And isn't this a good time for us to begin talking? You can check both our microphones while we get acquainted."
There was a brief pause. "Suit yourself," Bo said and pulled his folding chair forward so he could watch her and the television monitor at the same time.
"Did you start out as a cameraman?" Elizabeth asked Greg.
He shook his head. "Gaffer."
Elizabeth made a mental note to find out later what a gaffer was; now she didn't want to interrupt Greg's thoughts. "Not everybody can be a cameraman?"
"Right."
"Why not?" Elizabeth asked when he said no more.
"It's complicated."
She sighed. "What makes it complicated?"
"There's a lot to it."
There was a silence. This is awful, she thought desperately. Dull, slow, dead. It's not for a newspaper; I won't be writing it up later in a lively way; it has to be lively right now.
From the corner of her eye, Elizabeth saw a red light on one of the cameras. They're taping, she thought, and to her other desperation she
added worries about her looks. Which was better—profile, full face, three-quarters? And how could she control it, how could she decide how to sit, if she didn't know which camera shot which angle? How would she know if she were on the screen, or Greg, or both of them?
The palms of her hands were moist. She was going to fail. She'd never done anythin
g like this before and she was going to fail.
Who says I am? Matt did something new and he succeeded. Why should he be the only one?
She took a deep breath. "Okay, Greg," she said firmly, holding his eyes with hers. "Let's say your bosses tell me I can't handle a television cam-era; it's a man's world, they say. I want to prove they're wrong. I ask you to teach me everything a good cameraman knows. How do you do it?"
He grinned. "It is a man's world."
"Baloney." Elizabeth stood up. "Microphone!" someone yelled just as she felt the tug of the wire beneath her jacket. She undipped it from her lapel, putting it on the arm of the couch, and then strode to the nearest camera. She saw another camera following her as she grabbed it, ignoring the yelp of surprise from the man behind it, and began to maneuver it closer to the set. It was unexpectedly difficult. The wheels seemed to go their own direction, like a grocery cart with a bad wheel. It was only when the cameraman told her that while she was pushing it she had to turn a huge steering wheel encircling it horizontally, that she was able to move it smoothly on its rubber wheels to the edge of the rug.
"Okay," she said, coming back to her chair and clipping her microphone on. "It's heavy and clumsy and I had to be shown how to handle it, but obviously the technique can be learned, and if it's a question of muscle, there are lots of strong women around. Who says it's a man's world?"
"I do." He was still grinning, but this time with admiration, and then he began to talk. He talked about producers and directors who sat in control rooms and told cameramen where to move their cameras and where to focus them; he talked about the headset he wore that connected him to the control room; he began to ramble about cross shots and close-ups, dollies and microphones, booms and teleprompters.
Private affairs : a novel Page 29
