Once in a Lifetime (1982)

by Steel, Danielle

  "What do you want me to tell them, Daff? Do you want to go to Chicago tomorrow?" They had been bugging Barbara all morning and she had to give them an answer.

  "In a word?" She grinned, rubbing her neck. She had worked late the night before on her new book and this morning she was tired. But it was a kind of tired she liked, the book was going well, and there was a sense of pleasure she always had with what she did. She didn't mind the ache in her back, or the inevitable pains in her shoulders. "No, I don't want to go to Chicago. Call George Murdock at Harbor and ask him if he thinks it's important." But she already knew the answer. Even though they were between books just then, publicity was always important, and The Conroy Show in Chicago was a biggie.

  Barbara came back five minutes later with a rueful smile. "Do you really want to know what he said?"

  "No, I don't."

  "I figured." Barbara watched her sink into a comfortable chair with a sigh as she lay her head back against the soft white cushion. "Why do you work so damn hard, Daff? You can't run away forever." She still looked like a little girl as she sat there, but there was an undeniable aura of womanhood too, no matter how determined she was to deny it. She was kind to everyone who entered her life, her publishers, her agent, her secretary, her few well-chosen friends, her son, the people at the school, the other children. She was kind to everyone but herself. Of herself she demanded murderous goals, and almost unbearable standards. She worked fifteen hours a day, was always patient, interested, warm. The only warmth denied was to herself. She never really let anyone near her. There had been too much pain in her life, too much loss, and now the walls were around her forever. Barbara thought it again as she watched the still form in the hospital bed, and the echo of Daphne's words rang in her head.

  "I'm not running away, Barb. I'm building a career, that's different."

  "Is it? Looks the same to me."

  "Maybe so." With Barbara she was usually honest. "But it's for a good cause." She was building up a fortune for Andrew. He would need it some day and she wanted his life to be easy. Everything she did seemed to center around Andrew.

  "I've heard that story before. But you've made enough for Andrew by now, Daff. Why don't you think of yourself for a change?"

  "I do."

  "Oh, yeah? When?"

  "For about ten seconds when I wash my face in the morning." She smiled at her confidante and friend. There were some things Daphne didn't like to talk about. "So they want me to go to Chicago, huh?"

  "Can you get away from the book?"

  "If I have to."

  "So we go?"

  "I don't know." She frowned and looked out the window before glancing back at Barbara. "I'm worried about that show. I've never been on it, and I don't really want to."

  "Why?" But Barbara suspected the reason for her answer. Bob Conroy threw a lot of curves, and he was a prober. He had an extraordinary research team, and he had a knack for digging up bits and pieces of people's pasts, and confronting them with them on national television. She knew that Daphne was afraid that would happen. She had gone to great pains to keep her own story private. She never talked about Jeff, or Aimee, and she was violent on the subject of Andrew. She never wanted him subjected to idle curiosity or gossip. He lived a happy secluded life at the Howarth School in New Hampshire, and he had no idea that he had a famous mother. "Are you afraid of Conroy, Daff?"

  "Honestly? Yes. I don't want a lot of old stuff to come out." Her eyes were huge and blue and sad as she looked at Barbara. "It's nobody's business what happened in my life. You know how I feel about it."

  "Yes, but you can't keep everything a secret forever. What if it did come out, would that be so awful?"

  "For me, yes. I don't want anyone's pity, and neither will Andrew. We don't need it." She straightened her back and sat up in her chair, looking nervous and defiant.

  "All it would probably do is make your readers love you more." She knew better than anyone how much they already did. She answered all of Daphne's fan mail. Daphne had a way of pouring out her soul in her books, so that her readers felt they knew her. In fact, they knew her better than she liked to admit, the secrets of her soul were what made her books real, but she passed them off as fiction.

  "I don't want them to love me more. I want them to love the books."

  "Maybe there's no difference."

  Daphne nodded silently from where she sat and then she stood up with a sigh. "I guess I have no choice. If I don't go, I'll never hear the end of it from George Murdock. They've been trying to get me on that show for the last year." She looked at Barbara then with a smile. "Want to come? They have some nice shops in Chicago."

  "Do you want to spend the night?"

  "Sure." She had a favorite hotel now, as she did in. almost every major city. They were always the quietest, most conservative and yet always the most elegant hotels in each city. Hotels where dowagers wore sable coats, and people spoke in hushed whispers. She ordered room service in her room, and enjoyed the comforts of what her work brought her. She had grown into it well, and she had to admit that there were aspects of her success that pleased her greatly. She no longer had to worry about money, she knew Andrew's future was secure. She had invested well, and she bought expensive clothes and antiques, and paintings she liked whenever she had the opportunity. But at the same time there was nothing showy about Daphne. She didn't use her money to flaunt her success., she didn't throw lavish parties, or try to impress her friends. It was all very quiet and simple and solid. And in a funny way, she knew that it was exactly what Jeffrey and John would have expected. She had grown up well, and knowing that pleased her.

  "You're on the show at ten o'clock. Do you want to go in the morning or in the afternoon? You should rest for a while and have dinner before we go to the studio."

  "Yes, Mother."

  "Oh, shut up." Barbara jotted some quick notes on her pad and disappeared as Daphne went back to her desk with a worried frown and stared at the keyboard. She had told Barbara that she had an odd feeling about doing the show, a strange, unhappy premonition. And Barbara had told her she was being silly. She remembered it now as she sat watching Daphne's face, so battered by the car that had hit her. It seemed a thousand years since they had been in Chicago.

  Daphne and Barbara arrived at the studio at exactly nine thirty. Daphne was wearing a simple beige silk dress and her hair was coiffed in a quiet, elegant chignon. There were pearl earrings in her ears, and a large, handsome topaz ring she had bought earlier that year at Carrier's. She looked elegant and successful, but not opulent and showy. It was typical of Daphne. As usual, Barbara was wearing one of her navy blue suits. Daphne always teased her that she had fourteen that all looked alike, but she looked neat and trim and her straight black hair fell in a smooth, shiny sheet to her shoulders. She looked younger now that she had left her mother. And in the past year Daphne had noticed that she had become increasingly attractive. She looked more like the photographs of the girl who had been at Smith, and there was laughter in her eyes now as she looked at Daphne.

  She leaned over and whispered as they were ushered into the standard waiting room, with comfortable chairs, a bar, and a maid to attend to their needs. "Don't look so uptight. He's not going to bite you."

  "How do you know?" But she always got nervous before she went on talk shows. It was part of why she took Barbara with her. It was also nice to have a friend along, to chat with on planes, and help sort things out at hotels when things got loused up with their reservations. And Barbara had a marvelous ability for keeping everything in control. With Barbara around, the luggage never got lost, the meals arrived in Daphne's room on time, there were magazines and books and newspapers to read, the reporters were ushered to the door when she'd had enough, and her clothes were always pressed before she had an interview. She made everything seem miraculously easy.

  "Do you want a drink?"

  Daphne shook her head. "That's all I need, to go on half bombed. Then I'll really tell him a thi
ng or two." They both grinned, and Daphne settled into a chair. Even at times like this she wasn't really a drinker.

  "Miss Fields?" A production assistant stuck his head in the door. "You're on first."

  "Oh, Christ."

  "Mr. Conroy didn't want to keep you waiting."

  That was always the hardest spot, she didn't have time to relax about the show, and watch how the others handled themselves, but she also knew that tonight she had star billing. "I wish he wouldn't do me such a big favor," Daphne whispered to Barbara, feeling her palms begin to sweat, but Barbara whispered something reassuring.

  "You'll be fine."

  "How long will I be on?" It was like setting an internal time clock for having a tooth filled at the dentist ... twenty minutes ... I can stand twenty minutes of pain ... or can I? And at least at the dentist they gave her Novacain so she wouldn't feel the pain. This was cold turkey.

  "They didn't tell me. I asked yesterday. The girl said he just wants to 'let it flow.' But I don't imagine it'll be more than fifteen minutes." Daphne nodded, gearing herself up, and a moment later the production assistant reappeared and signaled for her to come with him.

  "So long, kid." She glanced over her shoulder at Barbara, thinking of the old saw "We who are about to die salute you."

  "You'll be great."

  She rolled her eyes and disappeared and Barbara settled down with a glass of wine to watch her on the monitor.

  The production assistant led Daphne to the set, indicated which chair, and clipped a microphone to the neck of her dress, as a makeup artist ran up and dusted her face with powder. Her hair was perfectly in place, and the rest of her makeup was fine. The woman nodded and disappeared and the production assistant nodded and adjusted his headphones before whispering to Daphne. "Mr. Conroy is coming out now. He'll sit there." He indicated a chair. "He'll do the first ninety seconds alone, then he'll introduce you." She nodded, noticing her last two books on the low table. Usually she was given some indication of what they'd talk about, but Conroy didn't work that way. It was precisely because of that that she was worried. "Do you want a glass of water on the set?"

  "Thank you." Her eyes felt too large in her face, her mouth felt dry, and she could feel little rivers of perspiration rolling slowly down her sides as Bob Conroy appeared in a dark suit and a pale blue shirt and red tie. He was in his late forties and undeniably handsome. But there was something very cold and sharp in his eyes, something too glib and terribly plastic about him.

  "Daphne?" No. Mata Hari.

  "Yes." She smiled, trying not to feel dizzy.

  "Nice to have you on the show. How was the weather in New York?"

  "Fine."

  He sat down and glanced out to see the angles on the camera. But before he could say anything more, the assistant producer began counting, a'red light went on, and a camera moved in on Conroy's face as he smiled the sexy smile that turned American womanhood on, and told his viewers who they could expect on the show that evening. It was exactly like all of the other shows Daphne had been on. One was brought out like a dancing dog, asked to do one's act, and sent off the set with scarcely a thank you, while the host did his egocentric pirouettes to enchant his viewers.

  "And our first guest this evening is a woman whose books most of you have read, certainly you ladies"--he stopped to smile into the camera, and then picked a book up off the coffee table and then looked back into the camera--"but I suspect that most of you have read very little about her. From all reports, Daphne Fields is a very private person." He smiled again and turned slowly to Daphne as the camera included her and a second camera moved in slowly on casters. "It's nice to have you here with us in Chicago."

  "It's nice to be here with you, Bob." She smiled shyly at him, knowing the camera would cover her full front without her having to turn toward it. That was always the case except on shows in backwater towns where the only angle they ever shot was the host. She had spent an entire hour on a show in Santa Fe once, without realizing that all the viewers saw was the back of her hairdo.

  "You live in New York, don't you?" It was a typically innocuous question.

  "I do." She smiled.

  "Are you working on a book now?"

  "Yes, I am. It's called Lovers."

  "Now there's a title for you." He looked deep into the eyes of his female viewers. "Your readers will love that. How's the research going?" He gave a suggestive little laugh and Daphne blushed softly beneath her makeup.

  "My work is generally fiction." Her voice and smile were soft, and there was something wonderfully delicate about her, which made him look brash and sound harsh with his question. But he would get her for that, they always did. It was his show, and he planned to be on for a long time. Daphne was just a one-night stand. It was his ass on the line, not hers, and he never forgot it.

  "Come, come, a pretty lady like you ... you must have an army of lovers."

  "Not lately." This time there was mischief in her eyes and she didn't blush. She was beginning to think she might survive it.

  But the humor faded from Conroy's voice as he turned toward her. "I understand, Daphne, that you're a widow." It was a line she didn't expect, and for a moment she almost gasped. He had done his research well, and she nodded. "That's a great pity. But"--his voice oozed sympathy and compassion-- "perhaps that's why you write so well. You write a great deal about surviving loss, and you certainly have. I'm told you lost a little girl, too." Her eyes filled with tears at the shock of hearing him discuss Jeff and Aimee, and she sat there, with her guts on his cocktail table.

  "I don't generally discuss my private life in association with my work, Bob." She was struggling to regain her composure.

  "Maybe you should." The face was earnest, the voice helpful. "It would make you more real to your readers." Zap. He had gotten her.

  "As long as my books are real--"

  He cut her off. "But how can they be, if they don't know who you are?" Before she could answer, he went on, "Am I right in saying that your husband and daughter died in a fire?"

  "Yes, you are." She took a deep breath, and as Barbara watched on the monitor, tears filled her eyes. What a stinking thing to do. The son of a bitch ... Daphne had been right to be afraid to come here.

  "Was your husband the man you talked about in Apache?" She shook her head. It had been John. And with a sudden wave of panic she wondered if he knew about him, too, but there was no way he could have. "What a striking character that was. I think every woman in America fell in love with him. You know, the book would make a marvelous movie."

  She began to recover then, praying for the interview to end. "I'm awfully glad you think so."

  "Any prospects on the horizon?"

  "Not yet, but my agent thinks they will come."

  "Daphne, tell us, how old are you?" Shit. There was no way around him, but she laughed softly.

  "Do I have to tell the truth?" But she made no secret of her age. "I'm working my way toward thirty-three."

  "Good Lord"--he looked her over appraisingly-- "you don't look it. I would easily guess you for twenty." It was the charm that so delighted his female viewers. But as Daphne smiled he moved in on her again with that same sympathetic look she had come to distrust, and she was right again. "And you've never remarried. How long have you been a widow?"

  "Seven years."

  "It must have been a terrible blow." With a look of innocence now, "Is there a man currently in your life?" She wanted to scream or reach out and slap him. They never asked questions like that of male writers, but women were fair game, somehow it was assumed that a female writer's personal life was part of her work, and hence public property. A man would have told him to go to hell, but he would never have asked the question.

  "Not at the moment, Bob," with a gentle smile.

  He smiled sweetly. "I'm not sure I believe that. You're much too pretty to be alone. And then there's that book you're working on now ... what was it, Lovers?" She nodded. "When will that be out? I'm sure
all your readers are waiting breathlessly for it."

  "Not too breathlessly, I hope. The book won't be out until next year."

  "We'll be waiting." They exchanged another plastic smile as Daphne waited for her reprieve, she knew it would come soon, and she could hardly wait to get off the set, and away from his questions. "You know, there's something else I've been wanting to ask you." She waited, almost expecting him to ask her bra size. "Our next guest is also a writer, but not in your field. His book is nonfiction. He's written a marvelous book about autistic children." Daphne felt herself grow pale as she saw him coming ... but surely he couldn't ... "A good friend of mine in New York, at Collins where you used to work, tells me that you have an autistic child. Maybe, from a parent's point of view, you could shed some light on this subject, for us." She eyed him with open hatred, but she was thinking of Allie ... how could she have told him a thing like that? How could she?