by Francis Ray
“You wanted to see me?” she asked.
Before she finished speaking, the door behind her opened after the briefest knock. Madison glanced over her shoulder, wondering who would be so foolish as to enter Gordon—s office without permission. The frown cleared and a certain wariness took its place at the sight of Louis Forbes, her agent. She slanted a quick glance at Gordon. His mouth had flattened into a thin line. She barely kept from sighing.
Louis was a fantastic agent but he had a tendency to rub people the wrong way. One of those people was Gordon.
“Hello, Madison, Gordon,” he greeted jovially.
“Hi, Louis,” Madison replied. There wasn—t so much as a grunt from Gordon. “Did we have an appointment?”
Louis smiled broadened, showing perfectly capped teeth in a dark-chocolate face. “No, but I thought you—d want to hear this from me in person. I just got off the phone with TriStar Communications and they—re interested in syndicating The Madison Reed Show.”
Madison was stunned, speechless and overjoyed. She—d hoped, she—d dreamed, but never let herself really believe it might happen. TriStar Communications had the largest distribution of television programs in the country. With their backing she could be seen in outlets across the country.
“Madison is under contract to this station,” Gordon stated, coming to his feet. He was two hundred pounds of well-conditioned muscle, wonderfully distributed over a six-foot-frame, with the wide shoulders of a linebacker and the wide-palmed hands to go with it. In his mid-fifties he still had a head of thick, curly black hair with a scattering of gray. He was a good-looking man, but it was his strength of character and his loyalty that attracted people to him. But if you happened to displease him, his laser gaze could slice you to ribbons.
“Which expires in six months at the end of the year. TriStar is willing to wait,” Louis put in smoothly, then rocked back on his Italian heels.
Madison could well imagine why he was so elated. Louis was a pit bull when it came to contracts, tough and tenacious. He had the reputation of being one of the best entertainment agents in the business. He not only got the big bucks, he also obtained other perks like maid and car service. Madison—s base salary of $400,000 easily went up $40,000 with her extra perks. Although Wes only made a little over $98,000, he had perks as well. Louis played hardball when it came to contract negotiations and he played to win.
Gordon, however, was no pushover himself. “Until the end of the year Madison is under contract with WFTA and I—d like to speak to her privately.”
The smile slipped from Louis—s face. The trick was to intimidate, not piss off. He knew better than anyone when to retreat. “No problem. I was coming to tell Madison the good news in person; saw her assistant, and she told me where to find her.”
“Thank you, Louis. We—ll talk later,” Madison offered. She might not agree with his in-your-face tactics, but in their cutthroat business you had to be tough. He—d been Wes—s agent first. After she—d won the hostess position for the talk show, she—d signed with him as well.
“I have to run now, but I—ll see you tonight at the awards ceremony,” he said. “Wes will win awards for Broadcaster of the Year and for Top Story of the Year. When he does, the network in Chicago will pay through the nose for him.” His smile slid into place, quick and confident as he opened the door. “What a duo you and Wes make. I couldn—t have been more on target when I dubbed you two ‘the perfect couple,— and you—re both under contract to me. Life is good.” The door closed behind him.
“How do you stand him?” Gordon asked, sinking back into the cushy comfort of his leather chair.
“He—s not so bad and he—s done a lot for our careers,” Madison said as she settled into a tan leather chair in front of his desk, the top of which, as usual, was strewn with paper. “You know as well as I do that it—s just as important to score in public relations as it is with your audience. Louis has done that for us.”
Gordon merely lifted a brow at her comment. “That he has, but how long do you think you can go on as if everything is all right?”
Everything in Madison went still. It was only due to years of experience that her expression showed puzzlement instead of alarm. “Gordon, what are you talking about?”
Never taking his gaze from her, Gordon leaned back in his chair. Leather sighed. “It—s my job and my inclination to watch people, study them. I don—t do it maliciously; I grew up in an area where you had to if you didn—t want a knife or a bullet to find you.”
Everyone knew Gordon—s story, his climb out of poverty from the projects in Los Angeles. He was the youngest of seven children of a single mother. Only two made it to adulthood without a criminal record. Only Gordon and his older sister remained alive. Drugs, bad health, and bad choices had claimed the rest.
“Gordon, you and ‘malicious— will never be in the same sentence,” Madison said, meaning it, but also giving herself time to think. “I—ve probably been a little preoccupied with the show lately. Taking responsibility for the programs of the shows has been exciting and scary.”
“If I hadn—t thought you could do it, I wouldn—t have given you the opportunity.”
Smiling, Madison relaxed in her chair. You couldn—t have an ego around Gordon. “I know, but in the beginning I didn—t have the confidence in me that you had.”
“And now?” he questioned, leaning forward in his seat to pick up a gold fountain pen.
“I—m good at what I do and I love doing it,” she said, feeling the Tightness of her words.
“Exactly, and it shows.” He studied her closely. “Your genuine warmth and generosity, your empathy for people, is what gives your show a humanness that others lack. Your feelings, whether you—re happy or sad, show.”
Madison barely kept the smile on her face, her body from tensing. Gordon had smoothly led her in a circle. He hadn—t lost the interview-skills he—d honed as a reporter years ago. However, she had no intention of letting him use them on her.
“I worry because my work is important to me.” A bright smile on her face, she came to her feet. “If there—s nothing else, I have a full schedule before I go home and get ready for the awards ceremony. Wes is having a car pick us up.”
Up went his eyebrow again. “Madison, one thing I—ve learned in living these fifty-seven years is that sooner or later the truth always comes out.”
Her smile wavered, then steadied and grew wider. Apparently she hadn—t hidden her growing unhappiness with her marriage as well as she had thought. “Gordon, I appreciate your concern, but I assure you I—m fine.”
Tossing the pen aside, he stood. “My mistake. Since you—re so busy we—ll put off discussing the topics you wanted for the next season until tomorrow morning.”
Madison felt the sting of his rebuff. Gordon had given her her first job at the station as his assistant, then supported and encouraged her. Without him she wouldn—t be where she was and they both knew it.
He was reaching out to her. But if there was one thing she—d learned in the media it was that if another person knew your secret, it was no longer a secret. That much she and Wes could agree on. “Is nine all right?”
Gordon nodded without glancing at his calendar. “Tell Wes good luck, even if he—s going against one of our own.”
The heaviness in her heart eased. He had forgiven her. “I will, and thanks.”
“Just remember, if you ever want to talk, I—m here.”
Her mind in a turmoil, Madison quickly left. If he suspected, perhaps others might also. They had to be more careful. No one could know the image of the perfect couple she and Wes portrayed was a lie.
TWO
I THINK GORDON SUSPECTS, ‘ Madison said as she sat beside Wes in the speeding limousine heading for the Hyatt Hotel in downtown Dallas.
Wes, who had been staring out the window for the past ten minutes, jerked toward her. “Why? What happened?” The words shot out like bullets.
Madison—s manicured
nails dug into her evening bag. She—d been dreading this conversation ever since she left Gordon—s office. “He made a comment that ‘sooner or later the truth always comes out—“
“Are you having an affair?” Wes asked, turning completely in the seat to glare at her.
“Of course not!” she answered, annoyed and angry.
‘Then we have nothing to worry about.” He relaxed back in his seat. “Gordon is just being introspective in his declining years.”
Madison almost rolled her eyes at such an absurd statement. “Fifty-seven is not ‘declining.— He—s younger than both our parents. He knows something is wrong.”
Wes—s hand. soft ,and steady. closed .around hers as he stared at her. “Things can change anytime you—re ready.” The words were a seductive whisper in the enclosed area. “Once we would have made good use of the time together in the back of this limo,”
His lingering gaze failed to make need and heat move through her as it once had. She honestly didn—t know how she felt about the loss. She tugged her hand. Immediately she was free.
“I still love you.”
She glanced out the window at the passing traffic. He played the loving, dutiful husband so well when it suited him. He—d been out of town for the past five days on assignment and he hadn—t once called her. “Wes, please.”
His long-suffering sigh drifted between them. “If you ever change your mind, you won—t have to say the words. I—ll see it in your eyes.”
The limo pulled up to the curb. Through the tinted window Madison could see TV cameras. The media had turned out en masse to pay tribute to its own.
Wes—s door opened. He flashed a grin just as a camera went off. “Got you working tonight, Jenkins?”
Jenkins, staff photographer for the Dallas Morning News, took another shot before lowering the Mamiya. “Yeah, some of us have to work while you big shots play,” he commented, then quickly snapped two more shots.
“Save that film because you—re about to see beauty in motion.” Affable and carefree, Wes stepped out of the car and reached his hand back to help Madison. “Come on, Madison, let—s show the world what a lucky guy I am.”
Madison hesitated. The light squeeze of his hand on her delicate fingers had her moving again. She stepped out to the brilliant glare of the TV cameras and the flash of cameras. Her smile matched Wes—s. As soon as she straightened, his arms curved around her slim waist. Cool lips brushed across her cheek.
And all she could think was, Keep smiling.
The Wilshire Ballroom in the Hyatt Hotel was filled with lavishly dressed people, scrumptious food, and breathless anticipation. A hush fell over the room that seated close to five hundred of the top journalists in the country. The biggest award of the night, that of Broadcaster of the Year, was about to be announced by the legendary Walter Cronkite. The nominees— names had already been given. Wes Reed—s name was among the four.
Opening the envelope, Cronkite—s mouth curved into one of his rare smiles, then he lifted his head and said in that distinctive voice, “For Broadcaster of the Year, the award goes to Wes Reed.”
Wes, known just as much for his jubilance as his tenacity, surged to his feet. People from his table and around him, quickly came to offer handshakes and robust pats on the back. He acknowledged them with a flash of the killer smile that had made him a favorite of women viewers. But as the award testified, he was respected by men as well for his hardhitting commentary.
As applause continued, he turned to Madison sitting beside him, then leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.
“Congratulations, Wes,” Madison said, still applauding. She more than most knew how much this award meant to him. Finally he had been validated by his peers, recognized as a great reporter, not just a great black reporter. This award capped off a year when he had won several, including the Ma—At Award from the Regional Association of Black Journalists. He had succeeded in his career, if not in his personal life.
With a final wave of acknowledgment, Wes started toward the stage, then whirled and came back to Madison. His manicured hand extended toward her. Applause erupted again. This time louder. Only Madison, who was watching, saw the almost imperceptible tightening of his mouth, the glint in his hazel eyes. Dutifully, she placed her hand in his. This was his night.
As they made their way toward the stage Madison heard the comments that always made her wince inside.
“Aren—t they a beautiful coupler”
“They—re so happy.”
“They—re perfect.”
With difficulty Madison kept the smile on her face. Louis—s PR had succeeded beyond any of their wildest dreams.
In her mind—s eye, she could see Wes, tall and elegant in his tailored tuxedo with a patterned vest, black tie, and snow-white pocket square. Her red Valentino slip gown highlighted her honeyed complexion and chocolate-brown eyes. The gown also picked up the red in Wes—s vest and the red in the rose in his lapel. If you didn—t look past the surface, they did indeed look good together.
Onstage, Wes accepted the award with one hand and shook Cronkite—s hand with the other. Then he reclasped Madison—s hand, drawing her with him as he stepped in front of the Plexiglas podium. “Few times in my life words have failed me. This is one of those rare times.” As expected, the audience laughed. Wes had earned his reputation as the great “talker.”
Finally releasing Madison—s hand he ran a long finger over the award, Then his head lifted, his soothing voice was deep and serious. “There are only two occasions that I will treasure more than this one, and since the first is the day Madison agreed to marry me and the second is the day we were married almost five years ago, it is right and fitting that she be with me to share this third occasion.” Turning, he stared down into her eyes. “Thank you for putting up with me and my crazy schedule, for letting me follow my dream, and most of all for loving me.”
Applause erupted. People stood to their feet. Madison swallowed, unable to say anything. Wes placed a kiss on her forehead that bespoke of tenderness and love. Curving his hand around her waist, he led her from the stage.
It wasn—t over.
Backstage more press waited. Microphones were thrust in their faces, cameras flashed, the glaring lights of the television cameras focused on them to catch every nuance.
Well aware of how the media game was played, Wes keep his arm around her waist. Madison—s smile never faltered. She also knew the routine, knew the questions that would follow, knew the choreography of tender looks that were expected.
They were the perfect couple and it was showtime. And she wanted to scream.
The next morning Madison woke up with a headache. It was probably the same one that had followed her into sleep. She seldom took medicine and had thought she could sleep off the throbbing pain. She—d been wrong. Wrong in a long list of things.
Standing in front of the wide vanity in her bathroom, she shut her eyes as if to escape the persistent pounding in her temple. That didn—t work either. Her lids lifted and she stared at herself in the mirror. The headache was due to emotional problems, not physical ones. But how did she fix her personal life without endangering her career?
Public perception, and more importantly, public confidence, was vital for any person in the media. The public didn—t like being deceived or being disappointed, and if they were, they quickly showed their displeasure. More than one person in his professional career had gone under when his image turned out to be less than people thought.
What would happen if people learned that, for the past two years, she and Wes had lived a lie? The answer wasn—t comforting.
Sliding her hands into the pockets of her slacks, she headed for the kitchen. The smell of coffee reached her as she turned down the wide hallway.
Wes always started the day off with a cigarette and a cup of coffee. She did neither, but once she would have joined him, laughing, sharing. They used to brag that there was nothing that could come between them, nothing that
they couldn—t accomplish. They had been so foolish and so very wrong. The first hard knock to their marriage had left them reeling. They had never recovered.
Not wanting to think about that day, Madison lengthened her stride, then faltered when she saw Wes with several newspapers scattered around the high-backed chair he was sitting in at the kitchen table. He was usually gone by the time she was dressed.
He glanced up. “Good morning, Madison.”
“Good morning, Wes,” she answered, and continued to the refrigerator for her yogurt and a bagel.
“How did you sleep?”
“Fine, thank you. And you?”
“I—ve slept better.” His hand caught hers as she passed.
Surprised, she paused and glanced down at him expectantly. They seldom had physical contact if no one was around. “Yes?”
“I—d like to talk with you.”
Her brow inched up higher. Not counting last night, she couldn—t remember them having more than a superficial conversation in the past six months. “I have an appointment at nine.”
“It—s barely eight. You have time,” he said. “This won—t take long.” His thumb grazed the back of her hand. “lor two people who make their living talking, we haven—t been doing a very good job of it, have we?”
“No,” she admitted.
He nodded, still not releasing her hand. “Last night Steinberg offered me the head anchor position at WGHA in Chicago. I accepted.”
“Congratulations.” Madison wasn—t surprised by the announcement. It was what Wes had wanted. What he—d asked Louis to go after once he heard the station was interested in him. The position was with a CNN affiliate, and one step closer to his goal.
He searched her face, then said, “They want you, too.”
Madison was already shaking her head. “My contract isn—t up until the end of the year.”
