Chapter 2
The alarm went off at four o’clock, just as it did every morning. Without opening her eyes, Blaise reached her hand out and turned it off. She lay there with her eyes closed for a few minutes and forced herself to get up. It was still dark outside, and on Fifth Avenue, you could already hear the rumble of cars and trucks. She loved knowing that New York never fully slept. There was always someone awake. She found that comforting as she walked into her bathroom, pulled up her bright red hair, and held it with an elastic so she wouldn’t get it wet. She had washed it, as she always did, the night before. The hairdresser on the set would do it when she arrived, and the makeup artist she always used did her makeup every morning, as she took a last look at her research.
She slipped into the enormous bathtub with the view of the park, and sat relaxing for a few minutes in the warm water, before she had to rev up her engines and start the day. This was usually the last moment of peace she had, and that night she would be on a plane.
At a quarter to five, she was in the kitchen, and put on water for tea. She went to the front door and got the newspapers. She always tried to get a good look at The New York Times and Wall Street Journal before she went to work. And then she checked online for anything that might have happened since. Anything even more recent than that would show up on her desk at work before the morning news, and Mark would make sure that she saw it if it was breaking news.
The shooting at UCLA was on the front page, and she saw as she read it that Pat Olden was still alive. The article said that he was on a respirator, clinging to life by a thread. She couldn’t help wondering, if Pat survived, how severely he would be impaired. It seemed inevitable that wounds like the ones he had sustained would take a serious toll. And she wondered how his wife and children were. The shooting was going to be the main focus of her morning editorial, followed by a financial piece that she had carefully researched about a recent upturn in the stock market and what it meant.
She ate a single piece of whole wheat toast, along with her tea. It was too early to eat anything else. And there was fruit and a spread of breakfast food she didn’t eat when she got to work. There was always food for the on-air talent, and for the guests on morning shows. But Blaise was restrained about what she ate. She had worn a dark blue blazer, and white silk shirt, gray slacks, and high-heeled shoes. She liked a more casual look when she did the morning news. She saved her more fashionable clothes for her interviews and specials. She had already picked a good-looking black suit to wear for her interview with the British prime minister in London the following day. She had packed the night before, and her two small bags were in the front hall. She was going to pick them up after work when she came home to change. When she took overnight flights, she wore slacks and comfortable clothes. It was all routine to her.
It was twenty to six by the time she finished reading both papers. She went to brush her hair, made sure her outfit looked right, picked up her handbag and briefcase, put on a coat, and at five minutes to six she was downstairs. Tully was already waiting for her, and he smiled broadly when she got in.
“Morning, Miss McCarthy. Did you sleep well?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you, I did. How about you?”
“Pretty good. I stayed up too late, watching one of those old films.” He told her it was Casablanca, and they both agreed it was a good one. And until recently, when the season ended, baseball had been their main topic. Blaise was an ardent Yankees fan, and so was Tully. She gave him baseball tickets whenever she could, and Tully loved it. She had even gotten him tickets to the World Series.
He dropped her off at the network a few minutes later. There was no traffic at that hour, and it was a straight shot downtown. And by six-twenty she was in her office. Mark was waiting for her with the highlights for the morning news. She glanced over them and saw with relief that Pat Olden hadn’t died. If he had, Blaise would have dedicated the segment to eulogizing him, and she was prepared for that too, just in case. But with the incident at UCLA, the main theme of her editorial that morning was about violence on college campuses, and untreated mental illness. There had been too many incidents recently like the one at UCLA the day before, with students who had been identified as mentally ill earlier and managed to shun treatment, with dire results later on. It was both tragic and frustrating when it happened. She put the finishing touches on her editorial and left for hair and makeup, where she spent forty minutes under bright lights getting camera-ready and bantering with the two women she saw every morning. Both women were young and had small kids at home. Once in a while they asked about Salima, and she said she was fine. Blaise was very private about her daughter. She asked about their children too, and as always, she looked terrific when they finished.
She was ready at seven-fifteen, and at her desk on the set at seven-twenty, looking competent and serene, and like a woman in control of every situation. Blaise McCarthy was every inch a star. She was serious as she went on the air, as soon as she got the signal, and then smiled, wishing her viewers a good morning.
“I know we are all shocked around the country, at the tragedy at UCLA yesterday, and I would like to express our sorrow and deep sympathy to the families of the victims of the shooting. And it’s even more distressing to note that this is a theme we’ve all heard before. A troubled young man, exhibiting signs of mental illness, who then falls through the cracks of whatever system, and manages to avoid treatment. And then suddenly, tragedy occurs. I would like to ask each of our universities what they are doing to prevent situations like this from happening again. How can we protect other students from mentally ill students among them? What can we do to insist on treatment, for their sakes as well? What are we doing about better security? Why was there no metal detector at the door to the auditorium at UCLA yesterday, and if there was, what did they miss? The shooter was armed when he walked in. Which of course brings us to how I feel about gun control, and many of us do.
“I honestly believe that those who are against it are misusing our Constitution to support their position. This isn’t a matter of civil liberties, but of keeping our citizens safe. Freedom of speech will not kill you. The right to bear arms will. We need to make that distinction and not be afraid to limit rights that once made sense but no longer do. If you doubt it, take a good look at what happened yesterday, at what happened to Pat Olden, what his life will be like now, if he recovers, and the life of his wife and kids. Yesterday countless lives were forever changed. Not just the people who were killed and injured, but their families, their loved ones. We can’t let this happen again, and again, and again. And above all, we must find a way to treat mentally ill students, once identified, and not let them slip through the cracks in our system. We owe them more than that, and the people they may ultimately injure. And yesterday proves once again that what we are doing now is not working. We need better fail-safe systems for treatment in place.”
There was a moment’s pause as she let her message sink in, and then she went on to discuss the stock market upturn, which had been worrying many knowledgeable people on Wall Street. Was it happening too fast and too soon after a recent slump, and what did it mean? Blaise put forward several theories that were quoted from experts. She always touched on a variety of timely topics. She had a full twenty minutes on the air, and then with a slow smile, which they showed in close-up, she looked into the camera and wished everyone a good day. You had the feeling when she said it that she was speaking just to you. The piercing green eyes looked straight at the viewers, and she spoke to each of them, and then they cut to commercial as she took off her mike, stood up, and left the set. Several of the producers told her the segment was very good. She had made her point on all the relevant issues in a provocative and practical way, not to panic viewers but to inform them and encourage them to think. She had touched on violence, mental illness, and Wall Street that morning, all key issues in the news. Blaise’s pieces and editorials were always interesting and geared to both women and men. T
hey were intelligent, but she also respected her viewers and gave them credit for having a brain. Her comments were aimed at anyone who was willing to think. And her interviews and specials were even better, because the choices she made of interview subjects were so good, and the questions she asked, gently but probingly, were on topics everyone wanted to hear. And she made her viewers feel they were right in the room with her. She had a knack for making her subjects relax and open up. She had an easy style and wasn’t afraid to make them laugh. It put everyone at ease, and she got a lot more out of them that way. And then she’d move in on some controversial angle and pin them down. She wasn’t just good at what she did, she was great.
“Good job,” Charlie Owens, the executive producer, said as he whizzed by Blaise on the way to a meeting, as Blaise headed to her office to check her e-mail and the research for the interview with the prime minister for a last time. And when she did, it was all there. She spent the rest of the day working on an interview she would do in Dubai, and requested more research right up till the last minute before she left. She was meticulous and thorough, which were among the many reasons why both network and viewers loved her.
“Do you have everything you wanted?” Mark asked as she put the last file in her briefcase.
“I’m all set,” she said as she put on her coat and smiled at him. He was as detail-oriented as she was, which was why they got along. He didn’t find her annoying, he thought she was brilliant. It was six o’clock. It had been a long day, the usual twelve hours, which seemed normal to her. Mark worked overtime every day, and was happy to do so. “See you in three days,” she said, smiling at him. “I’ll call you if anything comes up.” They were using a British cameraman for the interview with the prime minister, and he was flying to Dubai with her, with a soundman and crew, for the interview there.
“Try to sleep on the plane,” Mark said with a solicitous look. He worried about her. She pushed herself too hard, harder than anyone he knew, but she seemed to thrive on it. The more she worked, the more energy she had. She had noticed it too. It was one of the secrets of her success, that and the fact that she didn’t need much sleep. When people scolded her for how little sleep she got, she always reminded them that Margaret Thatcher had slept three hours a night, which shut them up. She loved doing what she wanted and staying up late at night, which was one of the reasons she liked living alone, and said she was “single by choice.” And by now, she was convinced that was true. She was lonely at times, but she didn’t want a relationship anymore. Occasionally, she missed having someone to talk to at night, particularly if something good happened at the office, or something very bad. But other than that, she was fine.
“I always sleep on the plane,” she reminded Mark. “In fact, it’s harder to stay awake.” The flight from New York to London was seven hours, and she had to be fresh the next day so she would be sure to sleep for most of the flight. She was meeting with the prime minister three hours after she landed, just enough time to go to the hotel, bathe and dress, and be at 10 Downing Street for the interview. There wasn’t a minute to spare.
“Don’t forget to eat,” he admonished her, knowing that she often did. Blaise ate and slept little when she was excited about a project.
She waved at Mark as she headed for the elevator, grateful for all his help before she left. He was incredibly efficient. Traffic was heavy, and it took her forty-five minutes to get home, unlike the morning. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the seat, as Tully expertly threaded his way through the other cars, and she thanked him when she got home. “See you at eight-thirty,” she reminded him. She had to be at the airport at nine-thirty, for an eleven-thirty international flight.
“I’ll be here,” he promised, and she went upstairs to the silent apartment, turned on the lights, and glanced at the park. It was nearly seven, and she wanted to shower and change, and have something to eat. She wanted to call Salima before she left, but she knew Salima would be having dinner then, so she waited till after her bath. Salima answered the phone on the first ring. An electronic ID system told her who was calling by voice, so she could hear it anywhere in the room and know who was on the line. She beamed the moment she heard it was her mother, and bounded across the room to pick up the phone.
“Hi, Mom,” Salima said, sounding happy. Much to Blaise’s amazement, there was never a tone of reproach in her voice for the many times her mother hadn’t called, only pleasure when she did.
“Hi, sweetheart. What have you been up to?” Blaise said, smiling when she heard her.
“Just school,” Salima said, sounding even younger than she was. And the timbre of her voice was very much like her mother’s. People often got them confused on the phone when she was home for vacation. “Are you going to L.A.?” She was hoping her mother would do more on the UCLA story, but Blaise still felt it wasn’t ripe for her. It wasn’t time for an on-location editorial, only news. She had an unfailing instinct for that, for doing a story at the right time. And she knew this was premature for her.
“No, I’m going to London tonight, to interview the new prime minister.”
“That’s cool.” She sounded disappointed. She thought that the UCLA piece was better, and the piece on the prime minister seemed dull to her.
“And I’m going to Dubai tomorrow night, to interview a Saudi prince who is a major oil company executive. He’s supposed to be a very interesting guy. There’s a rumor that his brother is a terrorist, but no one knows for sure.”
“Are you going to ask him?” Salima loved the idea and laughed at the thought.
“Probably. I’ll see how it goes. I’ll be back after that. I’ll just be gone for three days.”
“I’m fine, Mom,” Salima reassured her. It was she who always reassured Blaise, not the reverse.
“I’ll come see you when I get back. How’s school?”
“Boring. I’m trying to get all my required classes out of the way. They’re awful. I only have one elective this term.”
“What is it?”
“History of Italian Renaissance music,” she said, sounding delighted, and her mother groaned.
“Oh my God, now that sounds awful. I’d rather take math,” Blaise said with feeling, and Salima laughed.
“I love it. And the music is gorgeous. I keep humming it when I get home.”
“Only you,” Blaise said, smiling. Salima loved to sing and could sing almost anything. She had a beautiful voice, and an incredible memory for music. It was a gift she’d had even as a child.
They chatted for half an hour, about the school shooting, her other classes, some gossip she’d heard about two of the teachers at her school having an affair. She didn’t know who, and there were rumors like it from time to time, but it was always intriguing to hear. Her source had been vague. Salima was easy to talk to, and it made Blaise feel guilty again, talking to her, thinking she should call her more often. But Salima was busy with her own life, and always in good spirits. She was very independent and didn’t sit around waiting to hear from her mother. And Blaise had always been busy. Salima was used to it.
“I’ll call you as soon as I get back,” Blaise promised. “I’ll try to come up this weekend.”
“I’m fine, Mom,” she told her again. “Don’t come up if you’re too tired after the trip.”
“We’ll see.” She loved visiting her at that time of year anyway. The turning of the leaves in New England always thrilled her. But it was a bigger thrill to see her daughter. Even though she didn’t see enough of her, Blaise loved her. And Salima understood the priorities that governed her mother’s life.
“Fly safe,” Salima said as they hung up, and Blaise sat thinking of her for a minute, and then went to get dressed. She had just enough time to grab something out of the fridge and make her flight.
Tully was waiting for her when she got downstairs. He looked a lot more tired than Blaise, whose day had been just as long, and she had been busier. And she was quiet on the way to the a
irport, thinking of Salima again. She was determined to go to Massachusetts now on the weekend. She hadn’t seen her in a month, since Labor Day weekend, right before school started. It was time for a visit. She tried to get up to see her once a month, or if she was traveling a lot, every six or eight weeks. Sometimes it was the best she could do. It was always fine with Salima, she made that clear to her mother. She was nineteen now after all, not a baby. But even when she had first gone away to school, she had been very brave about it, and never begged her mother to visit or take her out of school. She was just happy when Blaise came to see her. She was completely undemanding. It would have been easier for Blaise if Harry visited her occasionally too, but he rarely did. Only Blaise. He was a good man, but a lousy father. Once Salima went away to school at eight, he hardly saw her, and they had no relationship to speak of now, and never had.
Two officials from British Air met Blaise at the airport and escorted her to a private VIP room, where they let her relax until it was time to board the flight. According to her preference, she was the last one to get on the plane, in first class, and there was a small stir as she walked down the aisle and people recognized her. There was almost no one in the world who didn’t know who Blaise McCarthy was, and she was easy to spot with her distinctive looks and bright red hair.
A Perfect Life: A Novel Page 3
