Any Given Moment (The Alexandra Chronicles Book 3)

by Laura Van Wormer

  "Are you comparing Creighton Berns to AI Capone, Mr. Smith?" the reporter asked.

  Monty continued to smile into the camera. "I am merely re­marking on the fact that in this country even the most powerful gangsters eventually fall. If you wish to somehow connect that state­ment with Creighton Berns and the people who have allowed him to take over ICA, I can't help that."

  "Careful," Elizabeth murmured.

  "They're going absolutely bonkers up here," Patty whispered to Josh from the ICA offices. "The phones are ringing off the hook, everybody's running around screaming at everybody else. Nobody's allowed in or out of the building."

  "It is a new morning in America," Claire Spender Holland was saying. "And integrity and decency in business are the order of the day. Creighton Berns has the opportunity to mend a very bad sit­uation, and we are asking him to please step forward and do so. Immediately."

  The doors of the ICA building opened and security guards and policemen came out. Cameras went on. Behind the uniformed en­tourage were Marion Ballicutt and James Stanley Johnson. Marion asked for a microphone and had several thrust at her. Taking one, she looked into the cameras with a sad, compassionate face, and read, "ICA made a fair and substantial offer to acquire the Hillings & Hillings agency here in New York City, an offer which they accepted. Of the over four hundred clients who have been repre­sented by Hillings & Hillings, I think it important to point out that these thirteen people you see here today are the only ones who are displeased. And may I add, with the greatest respect, that the ma­jority of these writers have not produced any new work for many years."

  "Yeah, right, Ballicutt!" Monty bellowed across the crowd. "I've got fifteen million listeners and a book that's been on the best-seller list for two years. Why am I here?"

  She ignored him and continued to read her statement. "ICA entered the agreement in good faith but when Hillings & Hillings failed to meet the transition date, we were forced to make an at­tempt to obtain the client records from the firm so we could re­sponsibly represent the many people who need us. Mr. Hillings is almost seventy-seven years old, and Mrs. Hillings is seventy and in ill health. In our judgment, it was in our clients' best interest to act responsibly and we did."

  "Ms. Ballicutt?" a reporter from ABC said. "Do you mean to say that the clients protesting today are of no concern to you?"

  "I am concerned that the truth be presented here today," she said coolly. "We have every reason to believe that the Hillingses are using these clients to divert attention from the fact that they have broken their agreement with ICA, so they can turn around and sell the company to their very old friend Ben Rothstein."

  "And you deny any wrongdoing on the part of ICA?" the NBC reporter asked.

  "I vehemently deny it," she said, "and in addition I am trying very hard to restrain myself from protesting—protesting against the shoddy representation Hillings & Hillings clients have been forced to endure for too many years, because two old people refused to retire years ago."

  "How dare you!" Elizabeth exploded from the back of the crowd, pushing her way forward. "How dare you impugn the integrity and expertise of two individuals whose talent is of a magni­tude that someone like you could never even grasp!"

  The crowd and the cameras turned to her.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," Elizabeth said, "the woman who has just spoken, Marion Ballicutt, was formerly with the law firm that jointly represented Hillings & Hillings and lCA on various media projects. You're listening to a common turncoat, the kind of de­spicable sycophant, bribed to jump ship and lead—"

  "Professor Robinson is a well-known biographer," Marion Bal­licutt said, laughing sarcastically. "You remember her—she's the one who's made her fortune depicting the tawdry sex lives of some of history's more despicable characters. A remarkable teacher, for all the wrong reasons!"

  "You, madam," Monty shouted in his native Floridian accent, "are nothing but a common corporate ho-wah!"

  The crowd gasped, the cameras swung.

  "As you can see," Ballicutt said to the crowd, "for every hun­dred happy clients, we have one severely distressed—if not mentally ill-person who does not, cannot, see things the way normal people do. I have nothing more to say." She abruptly wheeled around and went back into the building.

  Reporters were running for phones, photographers were chas­ing Ballicutt and Monty and Elizabeth. The other authors rather dejectedly put down their signs and stood there, looking at each other. Only Pookiesnips kept prancing about in circles, showing off his little sign.

  "Good God," Henry murmured, standing behind Millicent in her beautiful study in Bridgehampton, eyes on the TV. The evening news was showing a clip of everyone at the demonstration scream­ing insults at each other. "They've made us out to be senile," he said in amazement.

  "Well, you're not and everyone who knows you is aware of that."

  "We certainly don't come off as very effective representation," Henry said.

  "Well, you are," Millicent said firmly.

  "I must say, Millie, I could use one of those," Henry said, sitting on the sofa next to her and nodding to the sherry decanter on the table in front of them.

  "Of course." She quickly and adeptly poured two glasses. "That's why I brought this tray out before the broadcast. I thought we might need something."

  "We need something all right," Henry sighed, throwing back his sherry in one swallow.

  "Well, I do not understand this at all," Dorothy said, standing in the upstairs study of the Water Mill house with her hands on her hips. "The television was working perfectly fine a month ago—I remember watching Charlie Rose the last time we were here."

  "I'm sorry, Mrs. Hillings," Bernadette said helplessly, fiddling with the set.

  "You don't think we've suffered some sort of short circuit, do you?" Dorothy asked her. "The radio doesn't work either—oh, but the microwave wouldn't work then, would it?"

  "I don't know, Mrs. Hillings," Bernadette said.

  She sighed. "I wish Henry would come back with the newspa­per." Suddenly she looked at Bernadette sharply. "This isn't an accident, is it?"

  "I think you should rest now, Mrs. Hillings," Bernadette said, walking over. "Mr. Hillings said you might enjoy this." She handed her a handsomely bound copy of Last Chronicle of Barset, by An­thony Trollope.

  "Ah, more Trollope, yes," Dorothy said, accepting it. "Did you know that during World War One the British government issued copies of his novels to soldiers in the trenches? They found that Trollope was the only writer who could take their minds off the horrors around them."

  "No, Mrs. Hillings, 1 didn't," Bernadette said.

  "That fact alone tells me the state of mind my poor husband is in," she sighed. She reached for the telephone. "No, my dear," she told Bernadette, when the aide started to protest, "not a word. I simply must find out what is going on." She started dialing. "Hon­estly, that poor man, to think he thought I wouldn't notice that the television and the radios have been dismantled." She smiled. "You'd think yanking the wires out of the back of my TV at the hospital would have been enough."

  "Mrs. Hillings," Bernadette said seriously, "perhaps Mr. Hill­ings has good reason to want to protect you. Perhaps the stress on Mr. Hillings will only be increased if you are involved. Perhaps Mr. Hillings should be protected from any more stress."

  "Oh all right!" Dorothy said, annoyed, putting the telephone down with a clang. "I'll wait a day or two." She pointed at the aide. "But that's it, I tell you. After that, all bets are off."

  35

  "Lady Georgiana!" Cachi, her housekeeper, called out the back door.

  Georgiana had instructed her a hundred times not to call her that, but in private Cachi refused. She said Georgiana should be addressed with respect. Georgiana pointed out that not only was it an incorrect form of address, but it would mortify and disgrace her if anyone ever heard Cachi calling her that. Her father was only a viscount. He was Lord Hamilton-Ayres: she was The Honorable Georgiana Hamilton
-Ayres. Cachi insisted that her employer was a great lady, but promised not to mortify and disgrace her in public.

  "Lady Georgiana!" Cachi called again.

  "Yes!" Georgiana answered, standing up. Although the house was a rental and she had the gardener do all of the heavy work, Georgiana could never resist doing some of the lighter gardening herself. It was a passion she had been born with, and one she shared with Mrs. Hillings. If there was one thing Georgiana had to thank her father for, it was the gardeners at Ayres House who increased her knowledge ten-fold every time she visited. They teased her mer­cilessly, however. They said Miss Georgiana was nigh to cheating by living in California, since most anything grew there, unlike the sharp salty soil and air of Inverness.

  "Mr. Berns's office is calling. They say it is urgent," Cachi said. Georgiana sighed, took off her gardening gloves, and wiped the hair off her forehead with the back of her hand. She walked up to the terrace, tossed the gloves down, and picked up the portable phone. "Hello?" she said.

  "Ms. Hamilton-Ayres?"

  "Speaking."

  "Please hold for Mr. Berns."

  "Georgiana," he said, coming on. "I need a favor from you."

  "And what kind might that be?"

  "To appear at a press conference here today and issue a state­ment on the Hillings & Hillings fiasco," he said.

  Georgiana looked at her watch. Yes, the time was about right. The demonstration must have gone very well in New York.

  "What kind of statement?"

  "I've already gone over it with Marty," he said. Marty was Georgiana's press agent. "Just a statement to the effect that there has been a misunderstanding. That you know the Hillingses per­sonally, that you know some of their clients have taken action with­out their knowledge, and that you're represented by ICA and expect everything to be cleared up very quickly."

  Pause. "You just told me on Thursday you thought the Hill­ingses were behind the protest, Creighton—that they were using their clients to back out of the deal."

  "And I still believe that," he said. "But right now we need to calm the waters and if it means caving in to new talks, I might have to consider it. In the meantime, it's gotten out of hand in New York and the only way to stop it is for us to issue a statement out here."

  Silence. Georgiana was thinking, looking out at the bushes. "May I call you back?"

  "Within five minutes?" he said.

  "Within five minutes," she said.

  She couldn't get hold of Elizabeth or Monty or Josh in New York, so she called Water Mill, but Henry wasn't there either. "Would you like to leave a message?" Bernadette asked.

  "No, no, thank you," she said, hanging up. She started dialing. "Hi, its Georgiana calling, is Alexandra there? It's rather impor­tant." She lowered the receiver. "Cachi!" she yelled.

  "Yes?"

  “Go in my office and get David Aussenhoff's phone number off the Rolodex and see if you can get him on the phone. Now. It's important. Aussenhoff—

  A-u-s-s-e-n-h-o-f-f."

  "Georgiana?" Alexandra's voice said. "What's wrong?"

  "I guess the author protest went well in New York," she said, "because Creighton Berns just asked me to come down to the ICA offices and issue a statement at a press conference with him."

  "Careful, Georgiana, careful," Alexandra said. "And you're right, the protest did go well—so well that every film crew in town got Montgomery Grant Smith and Elizabeth Robinson screaming at the head of the ICA legal department."

  "Really?" Georgiana said, starting to laugh.

  "What does Berns want you to say in the statement?"

  "That the Hillingses are personal friends of mine, that I know they personally have nothing to do with the protest, that the clients are acting on their own, and that ICA has assured me, as one of their clients, that everything will be straightened out very quickly." Pause. "What do you think?"

  "I think you should realize that if you appear with Creighton Berns at a press conference, no matter what you say, the press is going to perceive you as a character witness for him."

  "Oh, God," Georgiana said.

  "On the other hand, Creighton Berns is a very powerful person right now, and I can't imagine that it will do you any good to refuse him."

  "Why, what could he do?"

  "Probably nothing—right now," Alexandra said. "But his type tends to have a long-festering memory."

  "Yes, well, I do too," Georgiana said, wishing she felt a little more confident of her own power. Like any wise actress, she knew the power of mere actors in this town was fleeting at best—regard­less of how many successful movies they'd been in.

  "Can you issue a statement without appearing with Berns at the press conference?" Alexandra asked. "It will make a difference—at least in how the press will interpret your affiliation."

  "That's a thought," Georgiana said.

  "Lady Georgiana!" Cachi called. "I have David Aussenhoff on the other line."

  "Lady Georgiana?" Alexandra said. "Are you holding out on me?"

  "Even the help's gone Hollywood," Georgiana said. "All that's missing are the trumpets. Anyway, I'd better go—thanks for the advice."

  "Let me know."

  "Will do." She punched to the other line. "David?"

  "Hi."

  "Thank heavens I got you. Listen, Creighton wants me to go down to lCA to issue a statement at a press conference with him."

  "Me, too," David said.

  "Really? What are you going to do?"

  "I'm sitting here trying to figure that out."

  "So your inclination is no," Georgiana said.

  "My inclination is to continue working in this business, and, at the moment, the possibility seems highly unlikely if I tell him to go fuck himself."

  Georgiana paused. "I've been advised to offer to make a state­ment, but not to actually appear at the press conference with Creighton. I've been warned that if I do, the media will perceive me as a character witness for him."

  "So do you want to have character or a career, Georgiana?" David said wearily.

  Georgiana frowned. "I have to say, I'm rather surprised at your attitude, David—knowing what you know, and knowing the Hill­ingses and what's been done to them."

  "Yeah, well, I'm sure as hell not sure I want to blow up my whole life over this situation. Creighton's already threatened to put my movie into turnaround."

  "Can he do that?" she asked him.

  "Maybe I don't want to find out."

  "Have you spoken to Elizabeth?"

  "Oh, fuck, what is this?" he said, angry. "What do you want from me?"

  "I don't want anything from you, David. Not a thing. Good­bye," she said, hanging up. She tossed the phone on a chair cushion and walked back to where she had been planting. She had to think, to hell with the five minutes Creighton had given her. She bent over and picked up a handful of earth in her bare hand, squeezing it, bringing the rich earth to her nose and inhaling deeply. Sometimes she desperately wished she were like everyone else.

  She was long past the point where she felt any obligation to produce offspring for the financially disastrous Hamilton-Ayres es­tate. Her father's title would go to her male cousin, anyway, not to any child of hers. So instead she sent checks every month to three different banks in Scotland to help keep the estate afloat during her father's lifetime. Georgiana was also long past feeling that she had to be her mother's psychiatric nurse, running to her side after every suicide threat or hospitalization.

  No, Georgiana's only obligation in life, as the Hillingses and her old therapist had told her over the years, was to grow up and build herself a life in which she could live comfortably and be herself.

  She had always known the difference between right and wrong, and she had always known it was wrong for her to get married, but she had gone ahead and done it, early on, giving in to her insecurity over being singled out as yet another dysfunctional actress from a most famously dysfunctional family. Too, she had been anxious to rid herself of a
possible sexual preference that some people would perceive as dysfunctional at best.

  When Georgiana had told her father she had decided to marry an American, he had been very upset. But after she told him she had no intention of having children, at least not for a decade or more, her father had looked at her strangely and dropped all objections to the marriage. In fact, he came to heartily endorse it.

  Attractive life that had been—after being married only a year and two months, she knew without a doubt that she had fallen head over heels in love with a woman in a way she never had with a man. She would always remember lying in bed with her husband and coming to the frightened realization that if she could have this woman, be with this woman, she would gladly give up sex with men forever.

  Not a particularly productive realization for an ambitious ac­tress who was evolving into an international sex symbol.

  And so Georgiana had called Dorothy Hillings late one night, after several glasses of wine, to share her secret with the only person she felt she could tell. "And so, I think I'm gay, what do you think about that?"

  "I think all young girls should be gay," Dorothy had said, and laughed. "Particularly when there is so much unpleasantness in the world."

  Clearly the older woman had missed her meaning.

  "I think I'm in love with a woman, Dorothy."

  "Yes, I know, darling, and I am very pleased for you. It's a very wonderful thing to be in love."

  Georgiana had thought maybe she wasn't hearing correctly. "I just got married a year ago. Aren't you upset?"

  "No, darling. I have seen far too many people force themselves into roles which only lead to a great deal of unhappiness for every­one."

  "Mrs. H, do you think I like women because Mother is so messed up?"

  "Well, I can't say that your father has ever been a terribly good role model either, quite frankly, so if your theory has any validity, your father would even things out, wouldn't you say?"