by Janet Dailey
Within minutes the car arrived at an upscale address off Park Avenue. Sighing in vague irritation, Kelly cast a distracted glance at the canopied entrance to the elegantly understated French restaurant, then gathered her things and stepped from the car.
Inside it was cool and quietly pastel, precisely the sort of restaurant that would appeal to Hugh Townsend. Subtly chic without being trendy, the lighting subdued, the walls covered with pate florals, the atmosphere was one of polish not glitz. She breathed in the scents of French cooking – burgundy, thyme, sage.
The maitre d’ recognized Kelly. “Good evening, Miss Douglas. Mr. Townsend has been expecting you. This way, please.”
From his chair at a corner table, Hugh Townsend watched her cross the room, his attention drawn to the way she walked. There was nothing particularly sexy or flirtatious about it, yet it was the kind any man would notice. Her strides were long and graceful, the swing of her hips subtle, her head up and her eyes ahead.
Kelly Douglas had changed considerably from the first time he’d seen her. That had been on tape. Actually he’d heard her before he saw her. He’d caught the rich, mellow sound of her voice as he was passing the editing room. His curiosity and interest aroused, he had looked in.
His initial reaction to the female on the monitor had been totally negative – dark, lank hair falling straight past her shoulders, tortoiseshell glasses, strong yet rather bland features, a mannish jacket. But that voice – he had stepped into the room and listened to her speak intelligently about the plight of the homeless, becoming impatient when other people and voices took over the screen.
Gradually he had noticed the hint of red in her hair, the dark green of her eyes behind the corrective glasses, a complexion that was the delicate porcelain of a true redhead, the slim figure beneath that severely tailored suit, and the energy – the intensity – that crackled from her. He had been intrigued by the potential he saw, even if she did look like some repressed librarian.
“Who’s the girl, Harry?” he had asked the editor.
“Kelly – something or other.” He had reached over and checked the cassette box. “Yeah, Kelly Douglas. She’s with our affiliate in St. Louis. She sends her pieces regularly. Wants to break into network, I guess.” The editor had paused then and flashed Hugh a grin. “Helluva voice, eh?”
“Indeed,” Hugh had murmured thoughtfully, then said, “Mind if I take the tape? I’d like to review it later.”
“Be my guest.” The editor had punched the eject button and handed him the cassette.
Hugh had been between projects at the time, and bored. After playing the tape several times, he had found little to fault in her journalistic skills, and he had remained captivated by her voice, its warm, calm pitch and subtly authoritative ring. But her appearance had offended his own innate sense of taste and his producer’s eye.
Countless times in the past he had advised his paramour of the moment on clothes, hairstyle, makeup, to the resentment of some and the gratitude of others.
In the end, he had called and arranged for her to come to New York, ostensibly for an interview. A week later she had been in his office at NBC while a part of him had stood back and mocked him for playing the role of Henry Higgins.
Ah, but the result of his efforts had stilled the laughter. Permanently.
As Kelly neared the table, Hugh stood up and waited until she sank into the chair opposite him, her oversize shoulder bag sagging to the floor.
“What’s the latest?” He resumed his seat.
“Melcher is out of surgery. In critical condition but stable.” She picked up the menu and laid it aside, putting temptation out of her path. “The woman has been identified as one Delia Rose Jackson. Formerly Sister Mary Teresa and recently under psychiatric care after being arrested for trashing an abortion clinic and stabbing a nurse. No known association with the pro-life group.”
“‘Thou shalt not kill,”’ he murmured.
“The sixth commandment.” Kelly picked up her water goblet and paused, holding it in midair. “You saw the broadcast.”
“No. But I would have been disappointed if you hadn’t referred to it.”
“I used it over a family photo of her taken in a nun’s habit.” She took a sip of water and lowered the glass, staring at the cubes of clear ice. “A police officer slain by a former nun. Ironic, isn’t it?”
“And tragic.”
“Very tragic,” she said, barely containing a sigh. With an effort she lifted her head and mentally shook off the thought. Violence, tragedy, death – she dealt with such stories every day. She had learned not to let them touch her, not to let her feelings become involved. She glanced around the restaurant. “This is nice. I’ve not been here before.” The other patrons, she noticed, seemed to be from the after-theater crowd.
“The food is superb. And the wine list” -- He paused for effect, a smile curving the line of his mouth. “- is excellent.”
“The deciding factor in your choice, no doubt.” Kelly lifted her water goblet in a mock salute. Hugh Townsend had long been a wine connoisseur, a confirmed oenophile. Another irony.
“No doubt.” The corners of his mouth deepened with his growing smile. “We can order now if you’re hungry.”
“Famished,” she admitted. A juice and bagel for breakfast, a spinach salad for lunch, and three spoonfuls of yogurt before the eleven o’clock newscast to ward off the shakes had been the sum total of her food intake in the last twenty-four hours or so. Which was just about,average.
Hugh signaled to their waiter, who came promptly to their table. “We’ll order now.”
“Very good, sir,” he replied and turned to Kelly. “What would you like this evening, madam? I can highly recommend the rack of lamb. It’s prepared with -”
“No, thank you.” She cut him off before her resolve weakened. “I’ll have a green salad, no dressing. Broiled cod with lemon only, no sauce.” She ignored his pained look. “Coffee later. Decaffeinated, please.”
“You will ruin the wine.” Hugh arched her a look of sharp criticism, then addressed the waiter. “Bring Miss Douglas the coq au vin.”
“Hugh -“
He raised a hand, cutting off her quick protest. “We are here to celebrate. You can work off the extra calories tomorrow during your morning session with Rick,” he said, referring to her personal trainer.
As part of a strict regimen to keep her weight under control, Kelly went to a fitness center three times a week. In St. Louis she had run ten miles every day; in New York that was unthinkable. So Kelly routinely subjected herself to a series of grueling exercises, carried out under the supervision of her personal trainer, Rick Connors.
“The man is a sadist,” she said under her breath and raised no further objection to the change in her food order. Coq au vin was, after all, only chicken cooked in wine.
For himself, Hugh ordered the duck a l’orange, then asked for the wine steward. The sommelier arrived, wearing his chain and tastevin. With half an ear, Kelly listened while the two conferred on the wine list.
Wine was an obsession with Hugh.
Three years ago when he had asked her to come to New York, she had been eager – desperate – to make a favorable impression. Wine had proved to be the means....
From the background material she had read on Hugh Townsend, his office at NBC was what Kelly had expected it to be – leather chairs, a spotless oak desk, oil paintings on the wall, a definite air of understated elegance. The grainy photographs of him, however, had not done the man justice. They had captured his sharp features but missed the patrician fineness of them, just as they had failed to register the charming arrogance of his smile and the warm gleam of his eyes.
“Welcome to New York, Miss Douglas.” He came around the desk to shake hands.
Kelly was nervous, and equally determined not to let it show. “Thank you, Mr.
Townsend. It is truly a pleasure to be here.” She paused a beat, then reached in the small shopping bag she carried and removed the boxed gift. “This is forward of me, perhaps, but I grew up in Iowa. We have this custom of always bringing a little something to our host.”
An eyebrow shot up. “A gift?”
“A way of thanking you for the interest you’ve shown in my work,” Kelly replied.
He waved her to a seat. “May I open it now?” he asked, his curiosity plainly piqued.
“Please.” She sank onto the leather chair and forced herself to appear relaxed.
There was no careless tearing of the wrapping paper and encircling ribbon. Instead he used a knife-sharp letter opener to slice through the ribbon and securing tape, freeing the box from the tissue. She watched while he opened it and lifted out a wine bottle. When she saw his hand glide over the bottle in a near caress, she allowed herself one deep, sweet, long breath.
His glance ran to her, sharp with question and interest. “This is an historic wine.”
“I know.” Confident now, Kelly settled back in the chair. “The ‘seventy-three Stag’s Leap cabernet sauvignon was the first California wine to outscore Haut-Brion and Mouton-Rothschild in a blind tasting held in Paris in 1976. Many, though, consider the ‘seventy-three Rutledge Estate cabernet to be superior to Stag’s Leap, but it was unfortunately not entered in the competition.”
Thoughtfully he set the bottle on his desk and cocked his head. “How did you know I enjoyed fine wine?”
Kelly smiled. “I did my homework.”
“Obviously,” he replied and waited for a further answer.
“One of your biographies mentioned you were a member of a distinguished wine society,” she explained. “I took the chance that you were not one of those total wine snobs who turns his nose up at our premier California wines.”
“You took quite a gamble, Miss Douglas.” He negligently leaned a hip against the desk and folded his arms, regarding her with frank interest.
“You took a gamble on me, Mr. Townsend,” she countered.
“Perhaps we shall both be winners,” he said. “Tell me, how do you know so much about the Stag’s Leap wine? More homework?”
“In a way. I was born in Napa Valley,” It had been years now since the day she left the valley had she admitted any connection to California. She had created a new past for herself, one that held none of the embarrassment pain, and humiliation of her real one. But this time her place of birth could be a definite asset.
“Really? For some reason, I thought you were born and raised in Iowa.” Hugh glanced at his desk top, clear of all papers, as if to recheck her resume.
“Few people grow up in the same community where they were born. Moving from place to place seems to be an American trait. In my case, the move was to Iowa.” Kelly thought she had handled that very effectively without actually lying. “Years ago, when I was in high school, I became curious about my birthplace and wrote an article about the wine country of Napa Valley for the paper. I think you’ll admit, wine – the making of it and the drinking of it -has a certain cachet that fascinates everyone.”
“Indeed,” he agreed. “I would be curious to read that article of yours.”
“I’ll dig out my scrapbooks and send you a copy,” she lied. She didn’t have the article, and even if she had, she wouldn’t have sent it to him. “But I warn you, the writing is very amateurish. It was done back when I had aspirations of becoming a print journalist.”
“That was before you discovered television, of course.”
“Of course.”
“What are your aspirations now?”
“My goal is to become a national correspondent by the time I’m thirty,” Kelly replied.
“How old are you now?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“You still could make it. Nodding, he straightened from the desk and came around it to face her, his arms still folded in front of him. “If you throw out those glasses, do something with your hair, and trade that mannish business suit for something more stylish. Your schoolmarm look may play well in St. Louis, but it will never make it on network.”
Kelly stiffened, stung by his sudden and blunt criticism. She curled her fingertips into the chair’s leather arms to keep her hands from flying defensively to her tortoiseshell glasses and the big black – sophisticated, she thought – bow that held her long hair together at the nape of her neck.
She had always known she wasn’t pretty. At best, she was attractive in a plain sort of way. She had worked hard to achieve this trim and neat, studious appearance. It hurt to have him be so censorious of it. It hurt more than he could possibly know.
But hadn’t she endured a lifetime of ridicule and snickering looks? The sounds of children in the schoolyard laughing and singing that horrible chant – “Fatty, Fatty, two-by-four, can’t get through the kitchen door” – would be forever in her memory. But she didn’t burst into tears and run anymore. Kelly had learned not to reveal she was hurt by something someone said.
Instead, Kelly brought her hands together, steepling her fingers and regarding Hugh Townsend coolly over the top of them. “My appearance has nothing to do with my competency as a journalist.”
He looked amused. “I beg to differ with you, Miss Douglas. Television is a visual medium. Appearance is everything. Therefore, it is important how you look.”
She desperately wanted to lash out at him, but she maintained an outward calm. “I am well aware that I am no beauty queen.”
“If you were, I probably wouldn’t be talking to you now. A person’s looks should never distract, or attract, a viewer’s attention from the story.”
“This is sexist.” Kelly attacked out of pure self-defense.
“Hardly.” He laughed, a soft, dry sound all the more cutting for its brevity. “You have either forgotten or you are too young to remember the great debate that went on at Black Rock a few years ago over whether Dan Rather should wear a suit and tie or a sweater.”
“Black Rock?” She seized on the irrelevant in an attempt to divert the flow of the conversation.
“That’s what we call the CBS Building.”
“I see.”
“I assure you, Miss Douglas, in this business men get called on their looks the same as women. Should he grow a mustache or shave it? Let his hair go gray or dye it? Should the tie be plain, striped, or paisley? There is always the problem of fleeing hairlines – should he wear a hairpiece or have implants? In all cases, the question becomes, Does it distract the viewer?” He gestured to her. “The glasses, the hair, the severe line of your clothes distract.”
She wanted to argue, to point out that Sally Jessy Raphael wore glasses. Even NBC’s Bryant Gumble occasionally slipped on a pair of reading glasses. Sophia Loren wore glasses, as did Woody Allen, Steven Spielberg, and a dozen other personalities.
But she raised none of those points. Instead she simply said, “But viewers remember me.”
“A good journalist would want them to remember the story,” he replied, and Kelly found herself cringing inwardly from the gently administered verbal slap. “There happens to be an opening for a reporter at our affiliate station here in New York,” Hugh continued. “I’ve set up an interview for you tomorrow. In the meantime, I have arranged for an optometrist to fit you with contact lenses this morning. From there you will go to the stylist – Sigmund is one of the best in Manhattan. When Sigmund is finished with you, we’ll meet at Saks and pick out more appropriate attire.”
“What is this?” Kelly broke in.
He merely smiled and said, “Consider it an assignment. A camera crew will be along to record the events. This evening you will have an opportunity to write your story, edit the tape, and put it all together. Tomorrow you can take the finished story with you on the interview as a demonstration of your journalistic skill. He paused, his
smile deepening. “Well, Miss Douglas?”
She was being challenged. Kelly didn’t like it:, she didn’t like any of it. But she didn’t see where she had a choice. She had to accept.
“What time is the appointment with the optometrist?”
“Thirty minutes from now. I have a car waiting downstairs for you.”
Less than two hours later, Kelly walked out of the optometrist’s office wearing a pair of extended-wear contact lenses that could be safely left in around the clock. After a four-hour session with Sigmund, her hair was three inches shorter, leaving it slightly longer than shoulder length; a body wave had added fullness and shine to her hair, bringing out its natural, deep red lights; and her makeup had been thrown out in favor of a warmer palette containing brown and gold eye shadows, peach-toned blushes and lipsticks, and light beige foundation. At Saks, her pin-striped charcoal suit was replaced by a silk and linen pique jacket worn over an apricot silk dress with a matching suede sash.
When she saw her reflection in the boutique’s full-length mirror, Kelly stared at the woman before her. She hadn’t suddenly become a raving beauty. But to her the change was stunning. Her mahogany hair fell in full, thick waves about her face, a face that didn’t look nearly so plain. The lines of the jacket and dress were still tailored, but softly so, the material loosely draping...her figure. And the colors were...flattering.
“You were right,” she told Hugh.
“Rare is the woman who can admit that to a man,” he observed dryly. To which she laughed and executed a slow pirouette in front of the mirror. “Are you comfortable with your new image?”
“Yes.” And strangely enough, she was.
The story proved easy to write, and the tape even easier to edit.
The interview went smoothly. Perfectly, Kelly thought. She was right. One week later she was offered the job. She gave the station in St. Louis two weeks notice and started packing.
