Sometimes Patty would feel like an alien from a lost world after chatting in the supermarket checkout line with a forty-year-old investment banker who was on her first maternity leave.
And yet, despite the bankers and analysts and sales directors who thrived in residential Stanton, Patty was very happy with her gym teacher. They could use more money—always—but they had been blessed. Very blessed.
And every once in a while—and almost always around Jimmy's birthday—she and Ted made love the way they had in Cape May. And it was still great.
"Mom, you got a Federal Express letter," Mary Ellen said, never turning her face from the TV.
"Thanks, sweetie." Patty appreciated the instant alert, but hated finding her daughter in front of the TV. This was not a good sign and she dreaded her next question. "Did you start dinner?"
Mary Ellen turned, screwed up her face, and said, "Yes, I started dinner." She rolled her eyes. "God, if I hadn't, I'd probably be thrown into prison."
Kevin walked through the front door, straight across the living room, and up the stairs.
Patty watched him and then turned to Mary Ellen. "Homework?"
"Done," Mary Ellen said triumphantly, moving closer to the TV.
Patty walked over and touched the top of her daughter's head.
Mary Ellen gave an exaggerated sigh and looked up. "What now?"
"Kev lost today, they won't be in the playoffs." She winced a little. "I'm afraid he caused the last out and he's feeling pretty rotten."
Patty could tell Mary Ellen was tom between the TV show and her brother. "Oh, okay," she sighed, turning off the TV, "I'll go up and talk to him."
Patty smiled. Mary Ellen had a lot of faults, but not loving her younger brother was not one of them. "Thanks, sweetie, you're the best," Patty said, giving her a pat on the rear and heading for the kitchen. "Where's the letter?"
"Kitchen table," Mary Ellen called. "Millicent Parks?" Patty murmured, ripping open the cardboard envelope. "What could this be?"
5
"Oh, he's got a good thing going," the president's wife said when asked her opinion of Montgomery Grant Smith and his repeated attacks on her husband. "Not to write him off, but when a person's making the kind of money he is, they can hardly afford to change their mind about anything. And when a person never changes his mind, it's usually a pretty good indication that he's stopped thinking."
"Screw you, madam," Monty said quietly, sitting in his easy chair at home in Evanston, Illinois, watching CNN.
"To be perfectly honest," the first lady continued in response to another question, "I'm not sure Montgomery Grant Smith has political relevance anymore. His views are expressed solely for commercial profit. If he really wanted to see this country change for the better, he'd be a public servant. He's not. My husband is."
His phone rang and he picked it up. "Are you watching this?" Mike, his producer, asked.
"Yeah. And they just let her go on and on, you notice? I can always tell when there's a feminist producer."
"I'm taping it," Mike said. "Let's use it tomorrow. And we can add those jokes we've got."
"Not the personal stuff," Monty said. "I don't want to make cracks about her body."
"But those are the best!"
Monty, who had trouble with his weight, hated personal attacks on anyone's physical appearance. "No," he said. "I'll do a riff on the first couple's pillow talk at night. It'll be great. Tell engineering to key up her voice to make it sound more shrill."
"Gotcha," he said. "Gotta go.”
Most nights Monty was still pretty excited when his name came up on TV. Back when no one would give him the time of day, the Hillingses had sold his book of essays for five hundred dollars to an academic press and landed him a job as a substitute on a radio talk show, and he had been blown away. But the Hillingses had believed in Monty. He had the courage and convictions to think for himself, they said. And they felt he could teach a lot of other people to do the same through talk radio.
They had been right and they had been wrong. Right in that people had wanted to hear him, but not for the reason the Hillingses had thought. The sixties and seventies were over and people—at least Monty's audience—were sick of change. In fact, the majority of the people who would become Monty's listeners were almost obsessed with shutting the system down to preserve it the way they had been taught it was supposed to work, i.e., to their advantage. The last thing they wanted was someone on the radio who would let people think for himself or herself—they wanted unity against what they saw as the encroaching enemy.
And so, Monty filled the bill. He was nearly six feet four, had thinning blond hair, blue eyes, and was Christian. His mother had stayed at home to raise her children while his father had gone out in the world to support his family. Montgomery Grant Smith, these people decided, was the leader of the revolution they had been waiting for. He was someone who understood their fears; he was someone who spoke to the far Right. The fears of his audience had at one time actually been listed in a confidential ratings research report Monty's radio network swore didn't exist:
Greatest Fears of MGS's Audience
1. White Christians becoming a minority.
2. White male Christians losing economic seniority.
3. White Christians losing economic seniority.
4. White Christians marrying out of faith and/or race.
a. Birth control and abortion
b. Homosexuality
c. Feminism
5. White Christians losing ability to segregate.
At thirty-seven, Montgomery Grant Smith was considered the hero of the ultraconservatives, despite the fact that he had been divorced, had no children, and had no time to do anything but prepare for his show. In short, the reality was that his life had so very little in it outside of the show it could hardly be considered a life at all, conservative or otherwise.
He was a Floridian who lived in Evanston, Illinois, the lively suburb of Chicago where Big Mont—as he was known—broadcast what was said to be the most popular radio talk show in America. He was young for this kind of success, but even Monty would occasionally admit, in private, that it was the lefty kooks and perverts like Howard Stern who had ridden his right-wing show up in the ratings through backlash.
"But how left wing can Howard Stern be," one caller from New York had asked Monty on the air recently, "when he's the father of three children and is faithful to the one and only wife he's ever had?"
"Sir," Big Mont had said, "New York Jews are not known for conservative views, period.
"And how 'bout failed leftist playwrights from Florida who can't get a date?" the caller responded.
Even Big Mont could be surprised occasionally by what a caller said. And in this case, the caller's claim was true. As a youth, he had written an idealistic play about a new government conquering all ills, but how did this wacko know about that? And about his dating woes? It was that goddamn People article again, the one that quoted a well-known feminist as saying, "No self-respecting woman could bear to be in the same room with him, much less imagine a romantic involvement."
"Sir," Big Mont said quietly, "I did not fail as a playwright. The one play I wrote as a misguided youth was a great success—of course, in a city like Miami, what do you expect?—and then I came to my senses. As for getting a date, I beg to disagree. Many fine, beautiful women enjoy my companionship."
The part Big Mont failed to mention was that almost all of his ex-lovers in recent years had been married—and usually to one of his wealthy conservative supporters. He was also far too polite to explain that his nickname came not from his height and weight, but from the gossip the wives exchanged at political rallies and fundraisers. Standing by a lily pond in South Carolina during a five-hundred-dollar-a-seat dinner for Strom Thurmond one woman was heard to say, "Honey, a battering ram's more like it. I was sore for a week." Her comment was followed by gales of laughter.
Either the male supporters of Montgomer
y Grant Smith had never heard of his battering ram, or they were simply content with mistresses of their own, but Monty's decision to stop carousing among married women last year was his own. He knew he couldn't preach family values and run the risk of getting caught.
Once he stopped sneaking affairs with the women who came to him, he had no affairs at all, so he worked and ate and gained weight.
He knew he could get a date if he wanted one. Plenty of them. The People article was not true. He just didn't have time.
"Hello, America," Monty said jovially on Monday, pushing aside a plate of glazed donuts. "This is your leader speaking, the illustrious Montgomery Grant Smith, who, many say, is the last hope of the free world." A deep, gentle laugh rolled over the airwaves while he adjusted his headset. "I will not agree with that statement, nor will I disagree absolutely." The show was off to a good start.
During the news, Mike brought him a Federal Express packet marked Personal and Confidential. Monty opened it and found a letter from Millicent Parks.
Ben Rothstein at ICA had negotiated Monty's first radio contract, and although he had warned Monty against going into partnership with The Right Way, Inc.—Hollywood liberals could be such a pain—Ben had been an honorable old guy, and had done very well for Monty. Evidently, however, the sharks out there had finally gotten him.
But the point of this letter, Millicent wrote, was to inform Hillings & Hillings's clients that Creighton Berns, the new head of ICA, had literally torn the agency out of the Hillingses' hands, physically locked the couple out of their own offices, and caused Dorothy Hillings to suffer a heart attack, for which she was still being hospitalized.
Would Mr. Smith come to New York for a meeting to lend his support to an effort to reinstate the agency to the Hillingses?
Monty thought about the request for the rest of the show. And then, during the last news break, he buzzed his producer. "Mike, tell Stazza I want to do the show from New York three weeks from today."
When Monty's weight had crept up to nearly three hundred pounds six months ago, he had given in finally and gone to a therapist, who had immediately and urgently suggested that Monty break out of his work isolation and do something for someone else. "Like what?" he had asked.
"Anything that involves other people and their needs, not just your own."
Although Monty had never gone back, the sense of urgency in the therapist's voice had stayed with him. And reading the letter again, he knew, deep down, that this trip would be a good thing for him to do. After all, without the Hillingses, God only knew where he would be today. Selling insurance in Orlando?
"New York," Monty confirmed to his producer, glancing up at the clock. "The whole week, Monday through Friday." He put his headset on, nodded to the engineer, and said into the microphone, "Okay, folks, you're back with the mighty me, in this, the last precious half hour of wisdom, guidance, and intellectual euphoria, from yours truly, Montgomery Grant Smith, known to millions as Big Mont—and Golden Boy to my mama."
He glanced at the monitor. "And now we're going straight to the phones and take a call from Glen in—Glen in Glendale—yes, ladies and gentlemen, Glen in Glendale, California." Click. "Hey, Glen, don't you think you should consider moving? Or Paul in St. Paul?" Pause, chuckle, voice dropping to its lowest register. "Or Hannaloooo in Honalooolu?"
"I tell ya, Monty," the caller said, "if your words were manure, I could fertilize the world with it."
"Ah!" Monty cried, pounding the console. "A Democrat! I knew it! I knew one day one of you would call!"
6
Georgiana Hamilton-Ayres was waiting for the light to change on Santa Monica Boulevard when a pest-control company van slammed into the back of her car. Her head was thrown back against the headrest and then into the steering wheel. It was a sickening sound.
There is no airbag on a '78 Jaguar convertible.
The next thing she heard was the horn of the van behind her blaring in her ear. Dazed, she looked down in her lap and saw her sunglasses neatly snapped in two amidst the torrent of blood that was streaming out of her nose.
A frightened teenage boy with a gold tooth was looking at her. "Don't move, lady," he said. "You're hurt. Don't move. Help's on the way."
There was a woman peering around his shoulder, and then a man in a dark blue suit. Soon there were a lot of people. Then sirens. Georgiana simply sat there clutching the steering wheel, her eyes closed. She couldn't bear to see all the blood and know that it was hers. And too, an earlier look in the rearview mirror had told her that the man who had hit her had gone through his windshield and was not a pretty sight either.
When she opened her eyes again, there was a policewoman in the passenger seat beside her. "You'll be fine," the woman said, "the ambulance is here." And then Georgiana heard someone say, from far, far away, "It's Georgiana Hamilton-Ayres, the actress."
"Jesus," another voice said, "of all the people to hit. God, look at her face."
Well, Georgiana thought before passing out, if they can still recognize me, it can't be too bad.
When she awakened in the emergency room of Cedars-Sinai, the first thing she became aware of was the strange and ghastly sensation of her tongue sliding through a small, wet, bumpy place on the left side of her mouth, instead of stopping at the back of her tooth. Georgiana cried out when she realized what this meant. Her mouth ached, her face throbbed, her forehead felt like it was going to explode, and her jaw seemed to be rusted shut.
She was covered by the movie's insurance, her agent from ICA explained to her in a business-like manner as she lay there, hooked up to an IV, getting stitches from an intern.
"The delays and cost of replacing you in the movie will be covered in full by insurance—including your salary for the film. We're very lucky."
"Ah shee," Georgiana said, which meant "I see," the best elocution she could manage while getting the inside of her mouth stitched.
"By the way, Creighton Berns is very upset and says to tell you he is praying for your recovery."
Georgiana's nose was broken in two places. All of her teeth were fine except for the jagged remains of her front left eyetooth. She was suffering from a mild concussion, a cracked jaw, and a broken cheekbone. Other than that, she was just fine.
She was taken to a private room in the plastic surgery wing.
Georgiana thought she was dreaming. Alexandra Waring, the DBS anchorwoman, was standing next to her bed, looking concerned. Georgiana blinked, trying to focus.
"Hi," the dream said softly. "I was in town and I heard about the accident—l snuck in to see how you're doing."
Georgiana tried to speak, but her mouth was wired shut. Her head was swimming and though she wasn't in pain, exactly, she thought she could feel her head throbbing.
"Don't even try," Alexandra whispered, touching her arm. "Look, I'm going to leave the name and number of a good friend of mine on your bedside table. Kim works for DBS here in Los Angeles and she can get you anything you need, or do anything you need done. I've asked her to check in twice a day with you." Alexandra put the paper on the table and turned back to Georgiana. "She's doing this for me, so please let her do it. Okay?"
Alexandra smiled and Georgiana felt her eyes filling with tears. To distract her guest, she pointed to Alexandra's beaded evening dress. "Oh, it's the anniversary of our affiliate. That's why I was here. I was going to give you a call anyway. I wanted to see you again."
Georgiana must have drifted back to sleep, because she remembered nothing after that, and she had been awake for hours the next day before she realized that it really might have happened, that Alexandra Waring might have actually been there the night before. The nurse went to check and returned, saying, "She was here, all right! Signed autographs for the night shift."
Georgiana and Alexandra Waring, the fiercely bright, more than slightly enigmatic workaholic star of DBS News, had met in New York at a party given by Jessica Wright, a talk show hostess Georgiana knew. They h
ad hit it off immediately, something Georgiana frankly did not often do with journalists. Waring had the most extraordinary blue-gray eyes and a slow, dazzling smile—a trifle shy perhaps?—that made Georgiana feel both well liked and worthwhile.
Usually the hair on the back of her neck went up when she met a journalist at a party, basically because they were always working, and while Alexandra was no exception (asking smart questions, listening closely, responding perfectly to what was being said—in short, being charming while sniffing out possible story leads), the contrast between the woman and the anchorwoman on the nightly news was, well, endearing. There was vulnerability about Alexandra Waring when she was not on camera, an accessibility that Georgiana liked. She liked it even more when she saw this trait disappear when Alexandra talked to other people.
"I don't usually trust journalists," Georgiana said to her at the party, after witnessing this on-again, off-again vulnerability, "but for some reason I want to trust you."
"Well, thank you," she had said, smiling, sipping her Perrier. "I'm not usually terribly trusting of actresses, I must confess—especially gifted ones—but I feel the same way about you."
Georgiana had felt her face grow warm.
It was hard being a public figure. As time rolled on and you were approached in so many different ways for so many different things, you simply had to form protective layers—translucent veils that could be lifted one by one as you got to know someone well, someone who could be trusted. Georgiana was always oblivious to the process until she witnessed it in someone else. And that night, she knew, intuitively, Alexandra Waring, for some reason, had made an effort to let Georgiana get close to her, and so she had responded in kind.
Any Given Moment (The Alexandra Chronicles Book 3) Page 4
