But I can 7 expect . . . how the hell could I expect her to be warm and pliable, when she thinks I did my damndest to ruin her?
We keep going around in circles, he thought; we don't learn about each other. He'd watched her on a dozen or more talk shows, steadfastly refusing to discuss her sudden unexplained departure from "Anthony," and he'd wanted to ask her about it, and whether it included leaving Tony Rourke. He'd wanted to tell her about Rourke's ownership of Nuevo and the faked report lying on his desk and his resignation from Rourke's company. No longer a power at the press. No longer a power anywhere.
He reached for the telephone. He'd call her back and tell her she had to listen to him. He wanted to know what she meant about "things happening at home." He wanted her to understand that he intended to write a retraction of Artner's story, with the truth about Nuevo, and publish it, if only in the Chieftain.
And what else? Do I want her to divorce me?
In the silence, he heard the sound of a key, and his front door opening. Nicole. Damn, he'd forgotten to phone her. "Matt?" she called. "In the study," he answered, and stood up. Maybe it was a good thing she'd decided to show up; he could use some comforting, and he probably wouldn't have asked for it on his own.
"Darling, I was worried," she said, brushing his lips with hers. "When you didn't call I thought you and Keegan must be at each other's throats. I could see headlines: power barons found bloody but unbowed. What happened?"
"One of us bowed," he said with a short laugh. Putting his arms around her, he pulled her close and kissed her, holding her mouth beneath his with an intensity that he knew was not passion but a search for reassurance. He raised his head and took in with a grateful look the perfection of her face; her cool, amber eyes with a shadow of anxiety; the black halo of her hair above a white wool suit and black silk blouse open at the top to reveal her smooth skin and choker of jet and pearls. "Come and sit with me; I need a beautiful woman to tell me I'm better than I think I am and that I have a brilliant future."
"You know that already, darling." She went to the kitchen and found a bottle of vodka in the refrigerator. Dropping a curl of lemon zest and an ice cube in each of two glasses, she called out, "Have you had dinner?"
"No. I'm not hungry."
"You need something besides vodka or you'll pass out and that would make our bedtime extremely boring. Are there any leftovers? Or shall I send out for something?"
"Nothing. Damn it, Nicole, come sit with me. I need to talk."
"That must have been quite a meeting," she said lightly. He had moved to the living room and she sat beside him on the couch and handed him a glass. "Give me the details later; just tell me how it ended."
"I resigned."
"My God, you didn't! You couldn't! Matt, that's a terrible joke! Now tell me the truth."
"That is the truth." He drained his glass and went to the kitchen to get the bottle she had left on the counter. "Why did you say I couldn't do it?"
"Because you'd never do anything to destroy your future; you're the kind of man who'll do whatever you have to do to get to the top by the shortest route in the fastest time. That's why I love you. Now will you please stop playing this silly game? Are you testing me, to see if I'll still love you? Whatever you're doing, I don't find it amusing, and I'd appreciate it if you'd get serious and tell me what you and Keegan talked about."
He gazed at her thoughtfully. "You'd rather not know."
"Nonsense, I have to know! I want to know everything you do—it makes me part of you! Don't you like it at the end of the day when you come to me and talk about everything that happened? And I listen and ask the right questions and give you support! I thought you liked that. I work at it, you know. Being what you need."
"Yes." He was still scrutinizing her. "And I do like it. But right now I'm not sure whether you do it for me or for yourself."
"Oh, Matt, of course I do it for you!" She took off her suit jacket and leaned back, crossing her legs. Her breasts were outlined beneath the
sheer silk of the blouse. "What would you like me to say, to convince you?"
"I want you to tell me whatever I do is all right; that it doesn't matter whether I'm publisher of Rourke Publishing or editor of the Chieftain or a reporter on the Los Angeles Times —you'll still feel the same way about me and be at my side, pouring vodka and showing off your figure . . . even telling me I'm a great success."
"Don't be silly, darling, you wouldn't be a great success if you were a reporter or just an editor. You wouldn't want me to lie. The man I love isn't content to be third rate; he has to be first." She gave him a small smile. "Matt, you're making me worry. Tell me you didn't resign."
"I can't do that," he said quietly.
The smile faded. "You really did it."
"Yes."
"You're a fool."
"You and Rourke agree on that. Is that all you have to say?"
"Go back to him. Tell him you made a mistake but you've thought it over and there's no reason for both of you to throw away everything you've built—and a whole future—just because you got upset and lost your head. He'll understand; he knows people get emotional and can't keep things in perspective—"
"That's another of Rourke's favorite words. Damn it, Nicole, I don't need you here to repeat Rourke's arguments; I need you to give me some support. This isn't easy for me; I've got an investment of time and energy in that company, and a sense of accomplishment and a future with no limits—I thought there were no limits, until tonight—and now I have to pick up the pieces and figure out what I'm going to do next, and I want you to help me do it."
"Why should I? I liked the way things were. We were having such a nice time! Eight months, Matt, that's a long time for me to stay with a man. We have good times together, you told me yourself I'm a perfect hostess for you, and we have a lovely time in bed. And I've watched you fit into Keegan's group; I've watched you make them respect you and listen to you . . . poor Chefs so jealous, worried about you and Keegan being so close—that alone should tell you how far you've come! It was all there for you; all you had to do was keep on the way you were and nothing could stop you! You and Keegan were a team! There was nothing the two of you couldn't have done! Everything was perfect! Why do you have to go and ruin it?"
"Everything wasn't perfect. He wanted a front man to run his newspa-
per chain the way he wanted people like Ballenger to buy land while he stays in the background, pulling strings. But I won't—"
"Terry Ballenger?"
"It doesn't matter. I won't be his puppet; can't you understand that? If I'm publisher of one newspaper or twenty or a hundred, I have to be able to run them in my own way. That was my dream; not sitting in a luxurious office looking important while decisions on what goes in them, or what doesn't, are made upstairs, in Rourke's office."
"What difference does it make? The rewards are enormous! You can't just throw them away because you don't agree with Keegan on something as unimportant as how you define publisher!"
"Unimportant!"
"Damn it, of course it is! In the long run you'll be in charge of your papers: Keegan's almost seventy, Matt; one of these days he'll start turning things over to you—if he trusts you. And meanwhile you've got influence and wealth and recognition . . . my God, how can you even talk about being a puppet when you have those! So you don't make every little decision; so what? It's ridiculous that you ever thought you could. Keegan has to have final authority; it's his company. You've always known he gave you the newspapers; he can take them away—"
"So he told me. Do you two get together periodically to run through your lines?"
"That's not funny. Of course we don't."
Matt gave her a long look. "Of course you do. The two of you discuss everything, don't you? Including me."
"We're friends, Matt. You've known that from the beginning. We talk about anything that interests us."
"Including me."
"Matt, he's very fond of you! He needs yo
u! Go back to him! Don't throw everything away!"
He stood up and paced to the windows, then to the door of his study where the papers were spread out on the desk. He wondered if Nicole knew about them. It didn't seem to matter anymore. He turned and looked at her across the room. "Let me ask you the same: don't throw everything away. You were right about our time together; we've had eight good months. Why don't we have eight more? Wherever I am, you'd still be my hostess, we'd still have good times together, we'd still have lovely times in bed. Why not, Nicole?"
"Because that isn't what I want! I can't do it! Oh, damn it, damn it, can't you understand?" She was sitting straight now, head back, eyes blazing. "Couldn't you be satisfied with what you had? You had more
than most men ever dream of, much less get close to! Why couldn't you be content and protect what you have instead of throwing it away? And on top of it, ask me to wander around with you while you look for a job . . . Damn it, Matt, we could have been so happy! And now we can't, we won't, and damn you to hell for that!"
She waited, but he was silent, watching her from the doorway of his study.
"I can't go with you!" she cried. "I can't! How many times do I have to say it! I need a man who's already powerful! I thought you understood that. Matt, don't you see, I don't feel real unless I'm with a man everybody knows! I'm afraid there isn't any me unless I'm connected to somebody who opens doors and people clear a path for. Can't you see that?"
Her hand was trembling and the ice cubes shook in her glass as she drank, tilting back her head. "Some people do things—my God, I've kept track of what Elizabeth has done and I can't believe it! She writes and she's so damned good, and she was marvelous on television, much better than Tony, and she's got children, and I suppose friends—women friends —and she's always doing something that makes her Elizabeth Lovell! By herself, without anyone else! / can H do that! I can't do anything but be a perfect companion!"
"That's not easy to be," Matt said gently. She had never been so exposed and vulnerable and he wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her and tell her she was beautiful . . . but of course she knew that and she'd already said it wasn't enough. "And you're leaving out the homes and offices you decorate."
"I dabble in it. I can't do it alone; I get advice from experts. I never told you that, but it's true. I don't need the money—I know Keegan told you about how well my family has done and how I don't have to worry— and that's why I could devote myself to you and make it easier for you to be everything a man should be. You see, Matt, I could never be a sweet little woman for a man who's struggling. I could never cook wholesome dinners for him and work at making him feel big even though he's a little cog working for some corporate mogul. I can't help it; that's the way I am. But it was lovely with you because I do care for you—you're a nice man and that's rather charming and rare—and we do have good times, in bed and out . . . Matt, I don't want to lose you. Please, please go back to Keegan, be somebody again, stay with him, stay with me."
Be somebody again. Matt's gaze went past Nicole to the wall of windows, with the lights of Houston stretching below. A memory came to him: Elizabeth, laughing into his eyes in a noisy room. The women are all wondering where they can find a husband like mine.
She'd said it in Aspen, he remembered. When he was a small-town publisher of one paper. No, two; that trip was to celebrate their purchase of the Alameda Sun. But another time, when they'd bought the Chieftain and toured it for the first time, she'd pointed to the corner office and said, It's yours, Matt. Publisher and editor-in-chief. And she'd said it with pride.
"Matt?" Nicole asked. "Tell me what you're thinking."
"I was wondering what it means to 'be somebody again.' What am I now?"
"Powerless. When it comes to shaping the world, you're nobody."
He thought about it. "There are so many worlds to shape," he said at last. "Of course some are bigger and noisier than others, but what if that really doesn't make any difference? Maybe the only important thing is being visible in our own world, whatever its size."
"I don't believe that. And you don't either; I know you better than that. Those little worlds are like the ones Elizabeth writes about; nobody pays any attention to them; the people in them live and die and get trampled by men like Keegan Rourke. And Keegan's big world—and yours, too, Matt, if you have any sense!—never knows the difference. When she writes about those people, they're real for a minute and then they're gone. The newspaper wraps the garbage and that's all. Nothing is left. But what you were doing—! You were creating something that will last! Matt, you got angry and you lost sight of what's at stake. Think about it tonight, that's all I ask. Then tomorrow you can call Keegan—"
"Do you think he's thinking about it tonight? And deciding to call me tomorrow to tell me I can run my—those papers without interference?"
"That's not his style, Matt; you know that as well as I do. Good Lord, can't you admit that he owns those papers and that means you aren't equal? You work for him!" She poured vodka into her glass. "Do you want some more?"
"No, I've had enough."
She looked at him as she drank. "You know how much he admires you; he gives you more leeway than most people he hires. He thinks of you as his son; you're the one he wants to take his place eventually, no one else. How many men have a mentor like Keegan Rourke? Matt, think! You've got to take what he can offer; you'll never have a chance like it again!"
"He thought of me as his son, once; that only made it easier for him to think of me as his puppet. That's the trade-off, Nicole, and there's nothing I'd take—"
"Nonsense. Everyone has a price; it's just a matter of finding out what drives them."
It struck Matt like a blow. "Another line of Keegan's. He's taught you well." He walked to the couch and picked up her suit jacket. "Forgive me, Nicole. I can't be what you want. There isn't anything I can do for you."
She stared up at him. "You're telling me to leave?"
"I'm asking you to leave. I want to make a telephone call and then I have a great deal of work to do."
"I can't believe you're doing this. I'm trying to help you—you said you wanted help—"
"I said I wanted comfort and support. We don't agree on what that means."
"If you would listen to me—!"
"I listened to you. I'd like to help you feel better about yourself, but I can't—"
'Tee! better about myself! That sounds dangerously close to pity, Matt. And I do not need pity. I do what I want; I'm close to some of the most powerful men in the world; and I do not need pity!"
"Then I'll keep my feelings to myself. But I can't help you, any more, it seems, than you can help me. I wish we could end this with some affection—"
"It's all right, Matt; don't overdo your solicitude. I'm quite able to find affection when I want it." Deliberately, she finished her drink, set the empty glass on the table, and stood. "You'll miss me."
"Yes, I think I might. But it won't change anything." He put his arm around her shoulders, she allowed it to rest there briefly, then turned her back, waiting, and when he held her jacket she slipped it on.
They walked toward the door together; halfway there, she stopped, opened her purse, and pulled out a key on a small ring. "You'll need this for the little woman who cooks your wholesome dinners."
He felt again the desire to comfort her in her vulnerability, and put his hand on hers. But she snatched it away.
"I'm not usually this wrong," she said coldly. "But you fooled us all. Shrewd, ambitious, aggressive Matt Lovell, or so we thought. Instead, you're short-sighted, narrow-minded, self-destructive. . . . My God, what you are giving up! No one will believe it!"
"They'll believe what they want, no matter what they hear." Matt kissed her briefly. "I wish you good fortune, Nicole."
Her eyes glistened; the first time Matt had ever seen her even close to tears. "Matt, call him! Call him tomorrow! He'll understand . . . he'll take you back!"
Matt shook his h
ead and opened the door. "Good night, Nicole."
"I'm thinking of what's best for you!"
He smiled faintly. "If you were, my dear, it would be out of character."
Her tears were gone; the amber of her eyes was cool as she studied him for some last sign that he was wavering. Then she gave the tiniest of shrugs and walked down the short hallway to the elevator. She turned to him as it arrived and the mahogany doors slid noiselessly open. "If you call him, call me right afterward. I'll wait for a little while. Not long, but for a little while."
"Goodbye, Nicole," he said, and in another moment he was alone, gazing at the smooth mahogany surface of the elevator doors.
When he returned to his study, he turned off the light and sat in the darkness. Leaning back in his chair, feet crossed on the window sill, he gazed out the window at the panorama some thirty stories below. Houston: a network of tiny blazing lights, dark patches that were parks and neighborhoods, highways like great desert snakes flung across the sprawling city. In the distance, its windows lit against the star-studded sky, the black Transco Building stood alone, looking across the city at Matt's white, balconied apartment building. His two towers, he thought. Beacons of home and work. Symbols of power, symbols of the huge exciting dream that had beckoned all his life, until Rourke offered to make it come true. Now he'd lost it. He'd left his wife and family behind in the pursuit of it and now all of them, and the dream as well, were gone.
But the longer Matt contemplated it, the smaller the Transco Building looked, like a toy tower in a miniaturized town. And he knew his own imposing building looked as small and fragile from the Transco Building. And the city itself, though he knew it to be a restless and energetic place where fortunes were made and failure was larger than life, looked from his windows like a scale model, wired and motorized to convince skeptics that it was alive: a place where dreams came true.
Images, he thought. Nicole had wanted images. As long as she clung to the arm of a powerful man, or dressed for one or slept with one, she could look in a mirror and believe she was powerful. And real. Whatever was the reality of Nicole Renard, whatever substance she had, she couldn't trust it: she was too afraid of the dark beyond the spotlight that followed dominant, powerful men.
Private affairs : a novel Page 60
