by Rae Lawrence
“Neely, this is journalism, not filmmaking. We can’t script everything beforehand,” said Anne.
“Why not? No one has to know. I’m only trying to make things better. Don’t you want the best interview possible?”
She loved talking about what she was going to wear. “I’m thinking a nice yellow sweater and white slacks. You know, the ‘lady of the house’ look, Malibu style. And I’ll get yellow flowers for the coffee table. We have to be sure we’re color coordinated. You can wear a gray suit. Yellow and gray look terrific together, don’t you think?”
Anne had always looked washed out in gray. “Neely,” she said, “maybe you want your publicist to handle some of these details. Isn’t that what she gets paid for?”
“She gets paid to do whatever I want. Isn’t it more fun this way?” Neely knew she could count on Anne to make her seem as sympathetic as possible. It was a great plan. She hadn’t talked to anyone about work in a long time, but she knew that the morning after the interview aired, her phone would start ringing off the hook. And the ratings would be tremendous. Anne didn’t sound nearly appreciative enough. Neely was getting a little tired of Anne pushing her around. Neely didn’t need to be baby-sat anymore. Her confidence was back. Whoever invented those little blue baby dolls ought to win a Nobel Prize, or whatever prize they gave out at the pharmaceutical companies.
Anne showed Keith Enright some of Neely’s faxes.
“A sketch,” Anne said. “Of how she thinks the furniture should be arranged, and where the cameras should be. Apparently certain camera angles are off limits.”
“Quite the prima donna,” Keith said.
“You have no idea.”
“Just keep giving her the star treatment.”
“Wait till you see the florist bills.”
“Will she be ready in time for sweeps week?” he asked.
“I can’t nail her down,” said Anne. “She says she needs to lose three more pounds before she can commit to a date.”
This went on for another six weeks. The rumors of the IBC takeover were an open secret now. Bill told Anne her stock options might double in value.
In early April, Keith dropped by Anne’s office just before five.
“Did we have a nice day?” he asked sarcastically.
“I suppose. What’s going on?” she asked.
“You haven’t heard.”
“Heard what?” she asked. She had rarely seen him so angry. Bill had told her to be prepared for anything. She wondered how long it would take her to pack up her things. There wasn’t much that was personal in her office—a few photographs of Jenn and Bill, a watercolor of the house in Southampton, an Hermès scarf that Bill had bought her in Paris, stretched and framed behind her desk.
“You know, I thought maybe I would let you read it in tomorrow’s columns like everyone else. But that would be too cruel. And I wanted to see your face when you found out. Nancy Bergen’s office has issued a press release about her upcoming interview with Neely O’Hara.”
“But that’s impossible. I talked to Neely two days ago.”
Keith handed her the fax. “Some friend,” he said.
“I don’t understand,” said Anne.
“I understand. I understand perfectly. She suckered you. She’s probably been talking to Nancy for months. She just strung you along for leverage, to get what she wanted out of another network. Wake up, Anne.” He gave her an ultimatum. Neely’s interview was scheduled to run on Wednesday during sweeps. Anne had to find another celebrity to draw viewers to the Tuesday night show. “Or,” Keith said.
“You don’t have to spell it out. I get it.”
“This is do-or-die, Anne. We’re a publicly held company in the midst of a hostile takeover. If senior management isn’t happy with the ratings, I’ll be asked to make some tough decisions.”
“It sounds to me like you’ve already made them.”
“You have connections. I’m sure people owe you favors. Now is the time to call them in.”
“I can’t think of anyone.”
“Can’t you?”
“To compete with Neely? Perry Hayes is old news. Serena Kyle would have been perfect, but her album is tanking. What about Tommy Sutherland? George Dunbar says he’s the next Robert Redford. Or what about George?”
“George Dunbar is a lousy interview. Maybe his movies are great, but his life is boring. You know who I want.”
“I have no idea.”
“Get Casey Alexander.”
“That’s impossible and you know it. Casey doesn’t do television. She barely does any print. Even Nancy Bergen can’t get anywhere with Casey Alexander.”
“Exactly. Casey’s a pal of yours, I’m sure she’ll want to help you out.”
“I can’t ask her. It’s too awkward. She wouldn’t agree to it, and the friendship would be over.”
“Anne, let me explain something to you. There are no friendships in this business. There are just relationships. You think Nancy Bergen has friends? Maybe she still hangs out with her high school buddies from the Bronx, but I doubt it. All these people she calls friends, it’s all just business relationships. They can do something for her, or she can do something for them. You say Casey is your friend. What does that mean? When you have a cold, does she show up with chicken soup? When you have a bad day at the office, do you call her up and unload? If you had a fight with Bill, would she invite you over to make popcorn and watch old Cary Grant movies? I didn’t think so. Think you can come through on this one?”
“I’ll try. I’ll try my best.”
He folded the fax into an airplane and sailed it over her head. “You have one more chance. Don’t blow it.”
Anne took Casey to lunch at a small French restaurant in the East Fifties.
“Wow, this is really the hard sell,” Casey said. “You know, all these rumors about why I avoid the press, they aren’t true. I’m just shy. It’s one thing when I’ve got a script, when I’m in character and I’m reading someone else’s words. And with print interviews, the publicity people help me, they go over everything and fix it, add the big words in. Otherwise I’d just sound like a dumb blonde. I know what people say about me.”
“People don’t say anything of the sort,” Anne said.
Casey smiled. “You’re too nice. But let’s face it. I barely graduated from high school. You have to promise you won’t make me look stupid.” She passed Anne a list of approved topics prepared by her publicist. “I’m supposed to give you this.”
“It’s a news show,” said Anne. “I can’t make any guarantees.” She passed the memo back to Casey.
“I had to try,” Casey said. She could see how much pressure Anne was under. Everyone was talking about how they were about to send her back to a morning slot. She hadn’t forgotten how Anne had once reached out to her. “Oh, what the hell. Okay, I’ll do it. But you have to promise me I’ll come out smelling like a rose.”
“Of course you will,” said Anne. It was the kind of promise Charlie Brady had taught her never to make, but right now she’d say anything to land the interview.
“Promise?” Casey said.
“Promise,” said Anne.
They taped the interview at Casey’s house two weeks later. A camera crew followed the two women as Casey gave a tour of the property. Anne walked Casey through the easy questions: about her childhood in a Los Angeles suburb, about meeting her husband at the restaurant, about her screen test with Perry Hayes. Casey had been carefully coached and peppered her answers with references to books that Anne was fairly sure Casey had never read. When Anne asked her about children, Casey got tears in her eyes and gave an emotional answer about how growing up in a broken family might be holding her back. They took a lunch break while the crew set up in Casey’s living room.
Keith pulled Anne aside. “You’re doing great,” he said. “She’s nice and relaxed. The stuff about her husband’s heart condition is fantastic.”
“Of course, Gregor will probab
ly outlive us all,” Anne said. “I’m dying for a cigarette.”
Keith took out a pack. “Let’s go for a walk, I have something I want to show you.” It was a three-page report from one of the researchers. Sections were highlighted in yellow. “Great stuff, hunh?” Keith said.
“This can’t be true,” Anne said.
“Anne, her story just doesn’t play out. Don’t tell me you haven’t sensed it.”
“It’s just the usual stuff,” Anne said. Everyone in Hollywood embroidered their biographies. “I never imagined there was anything …”
“Scandalous?” Keith said. “This is hot stuff. Spend the first hour warming her up with softballs, and then I want you to go for it.”
Anne read the report again. Someone had found a fragment of a pornographic videotape, and the woman in it was clearly Casey. There were no records of her ever having lived in California before she met Gregor: no voter registration, no driver’s licenses, no passports. And there was a rumor about an earlier marriage, though no one could find hard proof. “Look, this isn’t fair,” Anne said. “There may be explanations for everything. We don’t have enough backup. We’ll look ridiculous if we go out there with guns blazing. I’ll get creamed, and you know it.”
“I’m not asking you to accuse her of anything. Just lead the conversation in the right direction. She isn’t that smart, she won’t know what to say. She’s been coached up to her eyeballs, but I’d bet the farm her publicist doesn’t have a clue about this stuff. You don’t have to say anything, just hint at it, that will be enough. Just show her the rope, she’ll hang herself. You’ll come out smelling like a rose.”
“I won’t do it,” Anne said.
“You have to do it. Otherwise this is just a puff piece.”
“You asked me to get Casey and I did. You should have told me about this earlier. We had a deal.”
“I didn’t know about this earlier. I swear to you, Anne, the information just came in last night. This is a great story, it’s the kind of story that can make a career. Come on, how well do you really know Casey Alexander?”
Anne thought about it. “Not so well after all, that’s obvious.”
“Then what’s the problem? It’s not like she has you wrapped around her little finger. Remember, you’re in charge, it’s your interview, you’re in control.”
Through the French doors Anne could see Casey having her hair fluffed. Maybe Keith was right. Casey was just another movie star, using the press to get what she wanted. The Greta Garbo bit had probably been dreamed up by her publicist, and Anne had fallen for it. Charlie had always called Anne a soft touch, a sucker for a good sob story. She had felt bad about using Casey, but maybe Casey had been using her all along.
“I’m in,” Anne said.
They spent the first half hour talking about what it was like to be married to a much older man.
“And this is his second marriage?” asked Anne.
“Yes,” she said. She talked about his first wife, who had died of cancer.
“And your first,” said Anne.
“Yes,” Casey said.
“There’s a rumor that you were married before,” Anne began. “I know it isn’t true, but maybe you want to say something to help clear up the misunderstanding.”
Casey blinked and signaled for a time-out. “Could you please turn off the camera,” she said.
She leaned over toward Anne. “What’s going on?” she whispered. “You know I wasn’t married before.”
“It’s no big deal,” said Anne. “We have to ask. Just tell the truth, everything will be fine.”
“You must think I’m stupid,” Casey said. “What else do you have.”
“What do you mean.”
“You promised me, no surprises. You promised.”
Anne took Casey’s hand. “Don’t be nervous. Trust me, everything will be fine.” She nodded to the crew, and the cameras were turned back on.
“Okay,” Anne said, “we’ll go back to the marriage stuff later, if we have time. Let’s talk about before you met Gregor.”
Casey told a few waitressing stories, most of which Anne had already heard.
“And before you were a waitress,” said Anne. She read from an index card. “In 1991 … No, I must have written it down wrong. In 1992 … let’s see … this doesn’t make sense. Forgive me, I’ll find it in a minute.…”
When she looked up, Casey’s face was pale, her mouth set in a nervous line. Casey began to play with her left ear, twisting her earlobe back and forth. Her hand looked so familiar … the long, tapering fingers, the delicate bones of her wrist. There had always been something familiar about Casey … everyone said she looked so much like Jennifer North. Jennifer had pretty hands, too. But there was something else about her … the way Casey was staring at her, like a sad little puppy … the way she played with her ear. Her ears were lovely … Jennifer had such big ears, that’s why she always wore her hair long and loose … Anne felt the realization rising up in her like a wave. But it couldn’t be … it wasn’t possible …
“Turn off the camera,” Anne said. “We’re through.”
Keith waited with the crew for another two hours before finally packing up.
“Don’t bother threatening me,” Anne said. “It’s over.” Casey had locked herself in an upstairs bathroom.
“You bet it’s over,” Keith said. “You can kiss IBC goodbye.”
After they left, Anne poured two glasses of Scotch and went upstairs.
“You can come out now,” she said. “It’s just us.”
Casey’s eyes were puffy and her makeup was streaked. “Did you tell them?” she said, sniffling.
“Of course I didn’t tell them. What kind of person do you think I am?”
“I was starting to wonder,” Casey said. “God, I never should have agreed to this interview. I knew it was a big mistake.” She pressed the skin under her eyes. “I must look terrible.”
“Not so bad,” Anne said. “I’ve seen worse.” She handed Casey the drink.
“Don’t you have anything stronger?” Casey said. They split a BuSpar. “You want to hear something funny? I’m kind of relieved. It’s so hard, day after day, to be living with all these secrets, to have to lie all the time. You have no idea how many times I almost told you. But I promised Gregor I wouldn’t, and a promise is a promise, right?”
“A promise is a promise,” said Anne.
“God, Anne, you really scared me there for a few minutes.”
“I was just doing my job. Or should I say, my former job.”
“Come on! They wouldn’t.”
Anne shrugged. “It’s just a job. But you … I don’t understand.”
“I’ll tell you everything,” she said. “But you have to swear to me …”
“I swear. But first, you better give me a big hug.” They wrapped their arms around each other. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” Anne whispered as the other woman began to cry. “Let it all out.”
“I’m so sorry,” she sobbed. “I didn’t want … I had to … I missed you so much.”
“Oh Gretchen,” said Anne. “I missed you, too.”
Gretchen began her story at the airport in Los Angeles. “I had my return ticket, so I figured I’d fly back to New York and wait for everything to settle down.” She glossed over the argument with Jenn, telling Anne it was just one of those ridiculous adolescent tantrums, that she couldn’t even remember how it started.
“But I couldn’t get a flight till the next day. I was going to have to spend a whole day and a whole night at the airport.”
She went to a bar in the late afternoon and ordered herself a margarita. Men kept coming over, asking if they could join her. She nursed her first drink for a long time, then ordered another. An older woman approached her.
“Excuse me,” she said. “My husband and I, we’re sitting in the corner and we can’t help noticing. A girl like you alone in a bar like this, it must be difficult. Would you like to come join us
?”
The woman looked exactly like someone from Southampton. Gretchen could tell—from her hair, from her clothing, from her upper-class accent with just a tinge of Europe in it—that she was from a nice family. Her husband had been in the oil business. They had just returned from three weeks at a spa in Mexico.
“They’re painting the house. We weren’t supposed to come home until tomorrow,” the woman said. “So we thought we would just kill a few hours at the airport, pretend we are still on vacation.” Sonia and Harry Chase both had deep tans and looked to be in their late fifties. They sat with Gretchen for two hours, telling her one fascinating story after the other: about Hollywood in the sixties, about their trips all over the world. They were glamorous, and funny, and clearly still madly in love after thirty years of marriage. Gretchen told them her life story.
“Such bad luck,” Sonia said. “Life can be so unfair.”
“We have been exceptionally lucky,” Harry said.
“Exceptionally,” said Sonia. Their personal assistant had just quit to work for a studio. They offered Gretchen the job. “Just answering phones, keeping track of appointments, that sort of thing. And Harry has to organize his papers, we need someone to help him organize his papers.”
“Thanks, but I really have to go back to New York,” Gretchen said.
“But why such a rush?” asked Sonia. “You haven’t even seen California. You can stay for a couple of months, no strings attached.” They would pay her three hundred dollars a week in cash, with room and board thrown in. “The house is so big, you’ll have plenty of privacy,” Harry said.
Gretchen had applied for jobs like this in the Hamptons but had always been turned down. She figured it was the way she looked, or maybe her accent. But the Chases didn’t seem snobby like the women Gretchen knew in Southampton.
The house was in Beverly Hills, behind tall iron gates. Her room looked over a garden and a small pond. In the mornings she worked for Harry Chase; he was only semiretired, and there was still plenty to do. Her afternoons were free.
