Any Given Moment (The Alexandra Chronicles Book 3)

by Laura Van Wormer

He shrugged, smiling.

  "You right-wingers, I tell you," Georgiana sighed.

  "So Jessica doesn't do blow and she doesn't drink anymore," he said. "Interesting."

  "So you'll have to think of another way to entertain her, won't you?"

  "Ms. Hamilton-Ayres?" Montgomery said, after staring at her for a moment.

  "Yes?"

  "Go fuck yourself, ma'am," he said.

  "Thank you, I will, Mr. Smith," she said.

  At the gates to West End they had another argument over how Georgiana did not want to be responsible for helping a radical right-wing media star infiltrate DBS. "I don't know what to tell you, Ms. Hamilton-Ayres," the se­curity guard said, hanging up the telephone. "Ms. Wright said Mr. Smith is more than welcome, and Ms. Wright is in Ms. Waring's office right now, so short of holding him here for thirty seconds and making him walk in by himself, I'm not sure what to do except let him go in with you the way he wants to."

  "I don't believe this," Georgiana said, pressing the bridge of her nose.

  "Thank you, kind sir," Monty said to the guard.

  "This is unbelievable," Georgiana told him, dropping her hand. "Don't you have anything better to do?"

  "Than talking to DBS about press coverage on the ICA protest? No way, this is a killer idea, and I must commend you on it."

  Oh, right. She had forgotten about that. Monty thought she was seeing Alexandra about press coverage.

  They walked into the lobby of the DBS complex where a secu­rity guard stopped them at a second checkpoint. They were issued badges with their names, the time, the date, and the code number of whom they were visiting.

  "Ms. Hamilton-Ayres, Mr. Smith?" yet another security guard said to them, this time a woman. "I'll take you to Darenbrook Three."

  Aboveground the West End Broadcasting Center consisted of three three-story office buildings that were built in a U-shape around a park, facing west toward the Hudson River. Hidden below street level were the labyrinths of electronics that were at the heart of Darenbrook Communications—the newspapers, the magazines, the broadcast network, and the electronic reference companies. The lowest level was the DBS television studio facility, including the DBS newsroom.

  The guard was taking them to Darenbrook III, the office build­ing for the DBS Television Network. Although scarcely five years old, DBS had made use of satellite technology to link independent TV stations around the country into a part-time network. As ev­eryone knew, Alexandra Waring and Jessica Wright were two peo­ple responsible for much of the network's success. America's first anchorwoman with her own national evening news broadcast would be thirty-five this year, and America's only national prime-time TV talk-show hostess was only thirty-three.

  After walking through miles of corridors and riding two differ­ent elevators, they were led down the hall toward the voice of the famous talk-show hostess. "The mountain comes to Mohammed! Montgomery Grant Smith comes to DBS!" Jessica Wright called as they came into view.

  Heads peered out of offices on either side of the corridor and scattered applause broke out, to which Monty responded by bowing gracefully. "Greetings, oh-left-wing liberals of the media!" he said.

  "You are the dopiest son of a bitch I know," Jessica told him, striding into the middle of the hallway in a miniskirt and ornate cowboy boots, "but I like you anyway," and she gave him a hug and kiss on the cheek.

  "Georgiana," she said, reaching to give her a hug and a kiss, too, "seeing you with this guy is like tripping over Betty Crocker at a sit-in."

  They all laughed. "Boy, do you look great," Jessica said, holding Georgiana's arms and studying her face carefully.

  Georgiana smiled. She had forgotten about her face and that she was not quite healed. Amazing how a lunatic like Monty could take her mind off things.

  "You look marvelous, Jessica," she told her.

  Jessica Wright's feminine attributes—long, wild auburn hair, dazzling green eyes, and a bust line that had provoked more comments than Jessica's show—made her wildly attractive to men, but her boundless energy and humor and compassion made her irresistible to women as well. In short, she was a network executive's dream of a TV talk-show hostess.

  "Mr. Smith," a low, charming voice came from an office door­way, "how utterly remarkable it is to see you in our hallowed halls."

  It would have been difficult to find a more striking contrast to Jessica Wright than Alexandra Waring. Tall, thin, and elegant, Alexandra was the epitome of conservative good looks and good taste. She was in a simple navy blue dress, pearls, silver earrings and bracelet. Her shoulder-length almost black hair was swept back off her face as if by magic, and the blue of her dress made her eyes startling intense.

  As Alexandra shook hands with Monty, she complimented him on his constant reminders to his listeners that he was not a jour­nalist and therefore never had to be fair to anyone or any issue. Characteristically, she said it in such a way that Monty felt flattered and laughed loudest.

  "Why don't we all go to my office?" Alexandra suggested. "Jes­sica, will you show Monty the way?"

  Jessica nodded and took Monty's arm. "Since I let you in, I'm responsible for you."

  After the two had walked off together, Alex­andra turned to Georgiana and smiled. "It's so wonderful to see you," she said softly, touching Georgiana's face where there were still traces of a bruise. She dropped her hand quickly, but the smile lasted.

  Monty evidently decided he should run the meeting, informing them that he and Georgiana were here to ask for media coverage for the ICA demonstration. Georgiana gave Jessica and Alexandra full marks for their patience, as Monty launched into a recap of every­thing that had happened to Hillings & Hillings to date. Jessica, who was represented by ICA, asked a lot of questions, but Alexandra merely listened and took a few notes.

  "So what do you say?" Monty asked as he finished explaining everything. "Will you send a camera crew to cover the protest a week from today, next Monday? We need national coverage bad."

  "At this point," Alexandra said, "all I can promise is that we'll look into it. If the story warrants it, we'll be there. I'm sorry, but that's the best I can do right now."

  "The story'll warrant it," Monty promised her. "If we weren't in the right, I wouldn't be getting a court order."

  “When is that order being served?" Alexandra said, eyes spark­ing with interest.

  "I'm getting it tonight and I'm serving it tomorrow," he said.

  "You're serving it?" Alexandra said, sitting up a little straighter.

  "Yep."

  She sat back in her chair. "Let me get this straight. Montgomery Grant Smith is going to personally serve a court order for Inter­national Communications Artists to vacate the premises of Hillings & Hillings."

  "You can bank on it," he grinned, sensing her excitement.

  "It's a deal; you've got a camera crew, my friend. We'll be there tomorrow. And I'll make sure we're at the demonstration next week." She was up in a shot and opening the office door. "Ralph? Ask Kate to come up from the newsroom, will you please? And see if you can get Will on the phone."

  "Mr. Right-wing Radio busts the chops of Creighton Berns," Jessica was saying. "I like it. I wish I hadn't sent him a congratu­latory note when he got promoted."

  "Do you have a blue suit?" Georgiana asked Monty.

  "Blazer," he said. "The one I wore on Saturday."

  "Right, wear that," Georgiana told him.

  "Why?"

  "Listen to the lady," Jessica said. "On camera the jacket you're wearing will make you look like the entire state of Utah."

  "My field producer's coming up from the newsroom," Alexan­dra said, sitting down again. "I'd like you to go over a few details with her, okay, Monty?"

  "Hey, that's great," Monty said, sitting up straighter and straightening his tie as if he were on camera already. "I really appreciate this." He looked over at Georgiana. "What's the matter?"

  "What?" Georgiana said, startled. "Nothing." And she offered him her b
est smile, the one that was designed to reveal everything except what she was really feeling.

  24

  "Track down Aussenhoff in New York," Creighton Berns said to the person on the other end of his car phone, as his Mercedes drifted from one lane to another on Sunset Boulevard, "and tell him if he doesn't return my call within an hour, his movie's history!" He slammed the phone down and it bounced out of the cradle.

  Marion Ballicutt picked it up and put it back in the cradle.

  "There's something going on I don't like," Creighton mut­tered, suddenly veering across Sunset onto a road by Hamburger Hamlet, causing traffic to honk and swerve in all directions.

  "It's okay, Creighton, they're swinging in the dark," Marion assured him, holding on to her armrest.

  "I want those Hillings & Hillings offices cleaned out," he said, driving up the street. "I want you to fly back to New York tonight and see to it yourself." He turned left into a driveway, pushed a button, and the gate to the garage swung open; he drove inside, cut the engine, and the door closed behind them. As they got out of the car, the door to the house opened and a young houseboy said, "Mr. Berns, shall I be leaving now?"

  "Thanks," he told him, walking in. Marion Ballicutt followed behind, high heels clicking. Creighton went straight to the master bedroom, where he took off his jacket, threw it on a chair, and loosened his tie. Marion closed the door behind her and walked over to the closet, where she began systematically taking off her clothes and hanging them up. Down to a black brassiere and pant­ies, she slipped off her wedding and engagement rings, put them in her blazer pocket, and walked over to Creighton, who was sitting at the vanity table doing a line of coke.

  He dropped the solid gold straw and reached for her. "I want to fuck you bad," he growled, stroking his face against her lace-covered breasts.

  She laughed, messing up his hair. "Let's get to it then," she said, pulling him out of his chair. "We've only got an hour."

  25

  With the nine o'clock newscast approaching at the West End Broadcast Center, Alexandra and Georgiana only had time for a quick supper in the cafeteria, over the course of which they were interrupted four times—by an executive news producer, a senior producer, the weatherman, and a guest expert on terrorist psychol­ogy. Just as Alexandra was finally managing to finish her soup and salad, a stunning blonde in her late forties came dashing into the cafeteria waiving a videocassette.

  "Brilliant, brilliant!" the woman cried, making her way to them as Kyle McFarland, DBS's executive producer, trailed in behind her. At first Georgiana thought she knew the woman; she possessed the fading classic beauty of a celebrity. But her suit was definitely that of a chic businesswoman, although her hair looked as though it were simply thrown up on the back of her head the way hip women had worn theirs in the early seventies.

  "Glad you like the piece," Alexandra said, putting her fork down.

  "There's just one problem: I don't think anyone is going to understand it," the woman finished, handing the tape to Kyle. "You guys are going to have to fit in a recap of the history of religious wars in Iraq somewhere."

  "Oh, fine," Alexandra sighed, "let's just make the piece three hours long while we're at it."

  "We can do it," Kyle told her, "and it won't be that much longer."

  "But I wanted to use it tonight," Alexandra said.

  "I would wait and use it on Thursday," the blonde suggested. "Make it a three-parter. Let's start with an intro tomorrow, the recap on Wednesday, and save the best for Thursday. If you do, I'll get the gang started on network promos tonight."

  Alexandra was looking at the woman with open amazement. "That's a fabulous idea," she said, smiling.

  "Thank you," the woman said, smiling back.

  "Georgiana," Alexandra said, "this is Cassy Cochran, president of DBS."

  "I'm a great fan of yours, Ms. Hamilton-Ayres," Cassy said.

  "Georgiana, please." "Georgiana," she said, transferring the videocassette to her left hand (where, Georgiana noticed, there was an elegant rock of an engagement ring and no less than three bands—very married, she supposed it meant), and shook hands with Georgiana across the table. "Are you being interviewed, or—"

  "No, no, I came to see where Jessica and Alexandra work."

  "I hope you'll stay for the newscast," Cassy said. "It's a lot of fun to watch."

  "Fun?" Alexandra said. "Watching twenty people running into each other, screaming louder and louder, until the red light comes on and I go into self-imposed hypnosis while everyone behind the camera keeps running into each other, only now screaming in mime?"

  "Georgiana," Cassy said, ignoring Alexandra, "I would love it if you would stay and watch the show with me. I'll give you the whole tour and it is fun—I only ask that you give me an autograph for my son, Henry, who is completely and totally in love with you.”

  "Done," Georgiana said, smiling. She looked at Alexandra. "As long as you don't mind."

  "To the contrary," Alexandra said, beaming, "I'd love it if you'd stay."

  And so while Alexandra and Kyle went charging off to the news­room, Cassy Cochran gave Georgiana a tour of the entire news facility, from editing to engineering, satellite room to video shader. "I'm very proud of what we've accomplished," she explained.

  Cassy, it turned out, was married to Jackson Darenbrook, CEO of the print side of the Darenbrook Communications empire. She had originally joined DBS News as Alexandra's executive producer, but from what Georgiana could read between the lines, it seemed Cassy had wound up in charge of launching not only the DBS news show, but the entire DBS network itself. In the process she and Darenbrook had fallen in love, and so he had stepped over to the other side of the empire, and his brother-in-law, Langley W. Pe­tersen, took over as CEO of the broadcast and electronic research divisions.

  After five years, DBS was doing very well, offering thirty hours of programming to their affiliates each week.

  As the newscast drew closer, they trailed Alexandra through the news catacombs, observing her as she watched video segments, read over copy, and visited with each of the on-air reporters to go over their copy. Finally, she sat down and pounded out copy that she would read over the air in less than an hour. After keying her final draft into the computer—which Kyle and the segment producers were standing by to read on their terminals—Alexandra went into wardrobe where a lady named Cleo did her makeup and hair. She then took her place at the desk on the set, reading through a copy of her script from beginning to end.

  Sound levels. Tests. Segment transitions. Alexandra looked up from her script or stopped her discussions with on and off-air talent to comply with requests coming into the studio from the director in the control room.

  Long accustomed to retakes and sometimes entire days of preparation to shoot a single scene, live television scared Georgiana to death. The entire process was full of the tension and controlled panic she had been trying all her life to avoid, yet these people worked here, day after day, under the most stressful conditions imaginable. It was they who were held accountable for producing the most on-target, error-free, and intellectually exacting perfor­mance of all.

  Sitting in the control room with Cassy, watching as the newscast began—the set aglow in the hushed, eerie cavern of the darkened studio—Georgiana wondered how Alexandra could do this five days a week, month after month, year after year. After all, the woman had just gotten off a plane from Iraq this afternoon.

  No wonder she seemed so much older.

  After a quick post-newscast wrap meeting, Alexandra offered to drop Georgiana at the Regency on her way home. They climbed into Alexandra's limo and tried to make small talk, but they were both a little shy now. The foundation of their friendship had been forged over the phone, not in limousine jump seats.

  "Could we go to your apartment for a bit?"

  Alexandra hesitated. "Aren't you tired?"

  "Yes," Georgiana said, "but I'm also so glad to see you."

  Alexandra looked at Georgia
na, smiled, and slid open the glass partition to tell the driver to go directly to Central Park West.

  Alexandra's apartment overlooked Central Park. The living room was traditional, with a gorgeous down-filled sofa, some pretty wing chairs, pastel drapes, and several landscape paintings. The big, lovely—though windowless—kitchen looked as though it belonged in some huge old country farmhouse. There was a large guest room with striped wallpaper and twin beds separated by a Martha Wash­ington table. Alexandra's bedroom also overlooked the park. A king-­sized bed with a handmade quilt on it was against one wall, while a couch and chair formed a sitting area by the window.

  The most telling room, however, was Alexandra's office: a tow­ering mess of videocassettes, computer terminals, VCRs, TV screens, magazines, reference books, and torn-apart newspapers. "My life," Alexandra said, gesturing to the entire apartment. "Vast neatness confining a small area of rampant turmoil and disorder."

  Georgiana liked that. And she suspected it might apply to Al­exandra herself.

  Alexandra poured them each a glass of sparkling water and they went into the living room. Georgiana chose the couch and Alexan­dra slipped off her shoes and curled up in a chair, demurely tucking her legs under her.

  "I liked Cassy a lot," Georgiana said.

  "She's great," Alexandra agreed, sipping.

  "But for the life of me," Georgiana said, "I do not understand how you can do what you do for a living without being addicted to tranquilizers.”

  Alexandra laughed. "It takes years of practice and a rare form of mental illness, I think."

  She was lovely, Georgiana thought. So warm and lovely, but capable, too. This was a woman who could handle anything.

  "You know how much I'm attracted to you, don't you?" Geor­giana heard herself say.

  Alexandra jerked forward, trying not to spill water in her lap.

  Georgiana smiled weakly. "Sorry."

  "No, that's all right," Alexandra said quickly, straightening up, smoothing her dress, and doing a good job of avoiding Georgiana's eyes.