A Ruling Passion

by Judith Michael

  "We'll do it. We'll have someone out this afternoon. Have them ready for us, will you?"

  He hung up and sat still, his body tense. He could hear telephones ringing in the other offices.

  '^^Don^t worry about the testing; Fll talk to Ed about it."

  "I can set up the whole thing, thafs what Fm paid for."

  ".. .you butt in and take over something thef re doing, including things you shouldn^t be bothering with."

  "Ifsyour baby."

  He felt sick. What have I done?

  Ted was standing in the doorway, his face ashen. Behind him, the production room was in an uproar. The telephones kept ringing.

  "How many have called?" Nick asked.

  "Fifty-three; I can't believe all of them will, but..."

  The production manager was behind Ted. "I just checked the ones we kept here. It's the printer IC."

  Nick nodded. "I thought so." He fought to keep his churning stomach steady. "What have you told them.>" he asked Ted.

  "That we'd pick them up and fix them."

  "That's what I told Darrel. Emerson School. We need trucks. I'll call—" He stopped and met Ted's eyes. "Mary should line up trucks to go to the local customers. Everyone else who calls should be told to return the units collect."

  "Right. And die ICs?"

  "We'll find the right ones, have them shipped overnight. The likeliest places..." He scrawled a few names and handed the paper to Ted. 'Whatever it costs. I blew the chance to save money. Time, too. Can you call them?"

  Ted gave a grin and a small salute and left. And while the noise level rose higher in the production room and all the telephones rang, with customers calling to report the failure of their systems, the chief engineer, the testing supervisor, the technical supervisor and the foremen crowded in. 'What the ftick's going on.>"

  Nick told them, not sparing himself "Busy week ahead," said the chief engineer, and that was all he said; everyone knew that recriminations would have to wait until the crisis was past. Nick, almost numb, kept his voice level as they plotted a scenario of repairs and returns. And the telephones kept ringing.

  Omega's major distributor called while they were still planning. "I heard you got a little problem, Nick. They don't work? We got a thousand units sitting in the warehouse and they don't work? Whaf m I supposed to do, Nick? Sell 'em to kids for Christmas?"

  "We're working on it. I'll call you this afternoon or tomorrow. We're taking care of it."

  "You better, Nick. This is a lot of space I got tied up here with your goodies; cost me money if I can't ship 'em to my customers, and I got no time to ship 'em back to you and get 'em back again and stack 'em up again and hope they work. You figure it out or I send 'em all back and cancel the order. Kapeesh?"

  "Look, wait a minute." Nick paced behind his desk, dragging the telephone cord behind him. He put his hand over the receiver and told the technical supervisor to pick up the extension on his secretary's desk. "I've got our technical supervisor on the phone," he said to the distributor. "I want him to verify this. If this is a simple fix—I don't know if it is yet, but if it is—we'll send a crew to your warehouse and

  fix them there." He shot a questioning look at the technical supervisor, who made a small circle with his thumb and third finger. "You wouldn't have to do anything but let us in and stay out of our way," he said to the distributor. "Would that do it for you.>"

  "Fix 'em here.>"

  "Right."

  "You can do that.> We got no equipment."

  "I don't know what we'll need. If we can do it with what we can carry, we will."

  "Huh. Well. I don't see anything wrong with that. You'll know— when?"

  "I hope this afternoon. I'll call you. You won't do anything until then, right?"

  "Right. Okay. You call me."

  As Nick hung up, Ted stuck his head in the door. "Two days on the chips, air-shipped from Boston. Don't ask the price; only one of us at a time should have a heart attack."

  "I'll ask later. Can you talk to Wilt about setting up an extra testing station? And line up people to do it all night."

  "Right." He left, then peered around the edge of the door again. "Nick, we'll get out of it. Worse could have happened. They could have self-destructed the first time somebody hit 'enter.' That would've been a problem."

  A chuckle broke from Nick. "Thanks, Ted." He turned back to the group around his desk. "Where were we?"

  "Deftising the distributor," said the technical supervisor. "You did good, boss."

  "Thanks," Nick said, loving them all for their generosity. "What else do we have?"

  "Who does what in assembly," said the foreman. "If ifs a simple exchange of parts, we could get them out of here the same day. Logis-tically it's a nightmare, but everything else ought to be a piece of cake."

  The others laughed. They went around the room, each one assigning himself a task, then reviewed the schedule once again until they felt they were ready to move as soon as the chips arrived. When they left, Nick, taking a quiet moment, sat down and stared again at the wall. What did I do to this company?

  Almost destroyed it.

  I built it—Ted and I built it, worked our asses off"—and then I almost blew the best chance we've had.

  He knew they would repair the damage, all of them, working to-

  gether, knocking themselves out to do it; they'd fix fifteen hundred computers and get them back to the customers, and no one outside the company would know how damaging it had been. But Nick knew it would cost a fortune to make all those smooth, swift repairs and get out of the mess he'd made with their reputation intact. That meant money wouldn't be available to develop the 2000 as early as he'd hoped, and that could hurt them in the ftiture, perhaps more than anything else.

  Even more painftal, at least to himself, he was learning things about Nick Fielding he didn't much like. For all his talk of the spirit they'd shared in building the company, he hadn't fully trusted anyone. You're stepping on people's toes. That was putting it mildly. He'd always tried to be in control.

  Afraid of failure, he thought. Afraid of losing, the way I lost Valerie. The way I might lose Chad. So damned afraid that I went haywire and put the whole company in jeopardy. And did damage in other ways too. I let Pari slip away in this crazy summer; I haven't talked to my other friends in months; I haven't spent as much time with Chad as I should. As I want to.

  We'll get out of this bind, he promised himself, and then I'm taking off. Chad and I are going to take a vacation for at least a month. Well, maybe two weeks. He laughed at himself, still afraid to let go. He'd have to work at that. Anyway, he could be working on the 2000 on his vacation, after Chad went to bed.

  "Nick," his secretary said. "Sybille is on the phone. I told her you were busy, but she insisted."

  He picked it up, alarm flicking through him. "Hi," he said casually.

  "I'm going to have a show, Nick; I'm going to be on camera."

  He tried to make sense of what she was saying. It seemed to have nothing to do with anything, especially in the midst of all that had happened that morning. "That's what you called to tell me?"

  "What do you mean? This is important to me, Nick; I called because I want you here when I have my first show."

  "Why?" he asked.

  "Because I want you to watch me! Why are you being so insensitive? I've wanted this all my life, you know that. And I thought Chad would be excited to see his mother on television."

  Nick threw down his pencil. "Fine. We'll try to be there. When will it be?"

  "I'm not sure. I'll let you know. A couple of months, probably."

  "A couple of—"

  "I just heard about it today." Sybille heard her voice grow defensive and she became angry; why should she defend herself to him? "I wanted you to know about it. I'll call you as soon as I know the date. How have you been.>"

  "Fine. I have to go, Sybille; I'll talk to you—"

  'Tou know I hate to bother you at work, Nick; I was just so e
xcited... Are you very busy?"

  'We're always busy. And we've got a small crisis this morning."

  "Oh. I'm sorry. A serious one?"

  "No worse than disastrous. I'll talk to you soon."

  "Nick—!" But he was gone. Sybille stared at the receiver, then slammed it down, disgusted with herself. She shouldn't have called him. But she and Quentin had been at Valerie and Kenfs apartment the night before for one of their big parties, and then today Quentin had told her she could be the host of "Financial Watch," the latest program she had created, and she couldn't wait to tell someone and of course it had to be Nick. She had no other friends, except for Valerie, and she didn't confide in her. Anyway, she had to tell Nick. She had to make sure he knew how happy and successful she was; that all it took was getting away from him for her to get exacdy what she wanted. He had to understand how wonderful her life was in New York, and how small and dreary his was in San Jose.

  Well, he knew. So, once again, she could forget him in the busy hours of her days. She was producing 'World Watch," working on two new programs she had created, and going every day to her voice coach and body coach, to prepare for her debut on camera. In August she and Quentin had gone to Maine, and when he insisted on staying for the whole month to play golf, she came back alone to continue with her coaching. She had scheduled "Financial Watch" for mid-September, when all the new shows were premiering, but when Quentin came back from Maine at the end of August he said they weren't ready.

  "Why not?" she demanded. They were in her gold and silver bedroom, redecorated from a guest room connected by a dressing room widi Quentin's bedroom, and Sybille was fastening bracelets on her arm. "I've been working on this show since June; ifs ready, and you know it."

  "It may be; you're not," he said.

  "How do you know? You have no idea what I can do."

  "I watched your tape yesterday; your coach sent it over after you finished. You don't think I'd put you on the air without knowing what you look like, do you?" He gazed blandly at the anger and alarm in her

  eyes. "There's no rush with that show; our surveys say it'll be a hit and it'll be a hit whenever it gets on. But not if you can't carry it. And you've got a ways to go yet."

  'Walter said—"

  'Walter's a coach, a tepid toady of a teacher, not a tycoon of television." He grinned broadly, pleased with himself "It'll come, it'll come; you just calm down. I'm right about this, and you probably know it. If you don't, don't tell me." He put his arm around her and pulled her close. "Let's come home early tonight."

  "Fine," she said.

  "Where are we going for dinner .>"

  "I told you three times: Cote Basque with the Giffords."

  "Did you tell me.> I don't remember." He bent his head, and Sybille lifiied her face to his. "You look very pretty tonight," he said and kissed her with a hunger as great as the first time, more than a year earlier, when he had pulled her across his lap in his limousine. "Nuts about you," he murmured, his lips against her cheek. "Bitchy, sexy, ambitious dame. As good as a three-ring circus. I figured you'd be like that. We'll come home early tonight."

  "Fine," she said again. "When can we schedule that show?"

  He chuckled. "Can't let go, can you? I told you: when you're ready."

  "That's not good enough, Quentin." She stayed in his arms, looking up at him. "We've been doing publicity on it; I have to know how to keep it going. I've got to have a date."

  "January," he said after a pause.

  "January! I don't need another four months!"

  "You probably need more," he growled, suddenly peevish. "I'm tired of talking about it; aren't we supposed to be going out tonight? Where are we going, anyway?"

  Sybille opened her mouth to snap at him, then closed it. He's seventy-eight, she thought. He'll die soon. I have to find some new ways to get around him, but it won't be for long. And then the station will be mine, the money will be mine; whatever show I want will be mine.

  That's when Valerie and Nick and all of them will see what I can do. That's when my life will really begin.

  Chapter 11

  a,

  I M M inancial Watch" premiered the second week in Jan-

  v^^^^/^ uar)^. For all her preparation, when she sat at the

  ^. ^^^^^KM desk a few minutes before airtime, Sybille froze.

  W ^W Her heart was racing and she was sure it was miss-

  I ing beats. I'm going to have a heart attack, she

  thought; I'm going to die before Quentin. But I can't; thafs not the way I planned it.

  Someone came up with her microphone and she took it from him, threading the cord beneath her suit jacket and clipping the microphone to her lapel by herself; she couldn't stand it when people put their hands on her. Someone else gave her an earplug, which she fitted into her ear; he taped the wire to the back of her jacket, out of sight. "Three minutes," said her assistant producer through the speaker in her earplug, and Sybille nodded, clasping her clammy hands. Her teeth felt locked together and her mouth was dr}'.

  Then the music came up and she saw on the monitor the logo she had designed for the show, with a fat, black, masculine Mont Blanc pen, held by an invisible hand, scrawling "Financial Watch" across the screen. The floor director held up five fingers so she could see them as

  he counted off the last seconds; the announcer introduced the show; the red light on her camera lit and Sybille Enderby was on the air.

  She kneaded her hands in her lap, hidden beneath the desk, and looked straight at the camera, reading the scrolling script on the Tele-PrompTer and smiling at the lens, trying to think of it as a friend. Valerie said you had to make love to the camera. After more than six months of coaching, Sybille still had no idea what that meant.

  It was the longest half hour of her life. Later she could remember none of it. She knew she had interviewed, by satellite, an embezzling financier who had fled the country for a sumptuous mountain chalet in Yugoslavia; she knew her panel of experts had given their opinions on which stocks and bonds to buy or sell; she knew the film clips of financial news from around the world had appeared and disappeared exactly on time as she read the text that accompanied them; but the minute the half hour ended all of it vanished from her mind.

  "Wonderful, Sybille!" exclaimed the floor direaor as the screen went to black and a commercial came up. Sybille felt a wave of exhilaration surge through her. She'd done it; she'd proved herself "Won-derflil!" said the floor director again. He fussed over her, removing the wire taped to her back. "I never saw so much news crammed in one program; it never slowed down, never got dull; terrific idea to have whafs-his-name in Yugoslavia; how you managed to do that..."

  Sybille's exhilaration began to seep away. "Good show," said one of the cameramen as she undipped her microphone. "Really zipped along," said another cameraman as she walked past him, feeling cold now, none of her exhilaration left. "Great format," said the film editor as she walked down the corridor. "You really put it together," said her assistant producer, meeting her outside the newsroom. "Not too bad for the first time," said Enderby as she entered her office.

  "What was wrong with it?" she demanded.

  "You tell me."

  "I don't know; it's all a blur. But everybody's been telling me what a great show it was and nobody says one word about me.^^

  "That so.>" He crossed his legs. "Well, I guess they all saw something wrong."

  "What? What did diey see?"

  "That you got a ways to go yet."

  "Damn it, what does that mean?"

  "What it says. Come off" it, babe; you know what I'm talking about. You haven't got it, not yet an)^way, and you'd be the first to say so, only louder, if somebody wanting an anchor job read like you."

  "Like what? Read like what}''

  "Like somebody reciting to a convention of cooling corpses. Like a teacher who got saddled with misfits and morons. You explain, you don't chat. You want it straight.^ You're getting it straight. You don't connect with an au
dience. You act like there isn^t an audience. You smile, but it doesn't get to your eyes. You come across hard and cold, not sexy. Shit, Syb, all that coaching—"

  "Don't call me Syb. I've told you not to."

  He shrugged. "Sometimes you warm up an inch or two and then you're not bad. That's what you'll be working on, starting tomorrow. You might still get it. If not, we'll find somebody else."

  "When?"

  Again, he shrugged. "No time limits, babe. You work on it some more, we'll see what happens."

  "When?"

  "Six months. That's more than you'd give somebody you hired. I don't need a star in my bed, you know; I like you whether you're on camera or not. Seems a damn-fool thing anyway, a producer as good as you screwing around with an anchor job; damn-fool thing."

  "Not to me." Her voice dropped. "I'll work on it. I'll fix it."

  Enderby stood and enveloped her in his arms. "You make me feel all worn out—all that ambition and greed—but other times you make me feel damn good. Young and sexy, like you. Like I could live forever. Lucky for you you found me; not many men with the stuff to handle you."

  "Not luck: skill." Sybille tossed it off, making it a joke. "I was looking for a strong man and I found him." She extricated herself, forcing herself to do it gently. It was Nick's fault, she thought. She'd practically begged him to come to New York for the premiere of the show, but he'd said he was too busy. If he'd been there to give her support, she might have done better; she needed friendly faces. He'd let her down. He and Valerie: they always let her down.

  "Now what?" asked Enderby impatiendy. 'Tou get that faraway look on your face and I never know what you're thinking, but it's usually not good."

  "I was thinking we'd better go home and change. We're meeting the Durhams at the Plaza at nine."

  "Durhams? Who the hell are the Durhams?"

  "I have no idea. You made the date; you said we'd sit with them. It's the Cancer Fund Ball."

  "Oh, that thing. She's on the committee giving it; he owns a litde

  cable network in Washington. Damned deadly dull, but she's a devilish little dish. We'll come home early."

  "Fine," Sybille said, as she always did. "Just as long as we stay late enough to get the early editions of the papers and see if there are any reviews of the show."