The Proprietor's Daughter

by Lewis Orde

  Her father had called her Katherine! That alone disclosed just how upset he was with her. When was the last time he had used her full name instead of the diminutive, affectionate “Kathy”? Racking her brains, Katherine could not recall a single instance.

  The inside of the Porsche grew warm. She opened the window flicked off the heater, not needing it with the silver fox coat. She felt grubby wearing the same clothes since the previous afternoon, but a shower and a change would have to wait.

  Both Derek Simon and Heather Harvey were in the office when Katherine swept in like a destroyer at flank speed. She cut off any greeting, any surprise at her early return, with a curt “Would someone mind telling me what the hell happened last night? Why the scheduled program did not go out on the air? Why it was replaced by utter trash that had no business being on ‘Fightback’?”

  “Where were you yesterday when we tried to reach you?” Heather demanded. “We called your hotel in New York, but you weren’t there.”

  “Never mind where I was. All I’m concerned about is what happened here.”

  “If you’ll allow us to,” Derek said, “we’ll tell you. At six-thirty last night, half an hour before we were due to go on the air, Jeffrey Dillard informed us that the content of the program was being changed. He had a major story which he was going to present himself. He had film clips of Melvin Glassman, the membership director of the Grosvenor Sporting Club. He had taped interviews with clients who had been persuaded by sexual lures to switch their gambling business to the Grosvenor.”

  “You should have seen who some of those clients were,” Heather broke in. “Directors of major companies, foreign diplomats, a couple of Saudi Arabian princes.”

  “Dillard even had the name of Melvin Glassman’s contact at Scotland Yard, who checked out the license-plate numbers of the luxury cars and furnished the owners’ names and addresses. When we questioned Dillard’s authority to make the change, he brought Paul Hyde in as an ally. Hyde said he was in full agreement.”

  “I tried to telephone you at your hotel,” Heather said. “For a solid half hour I tried, but each time the switchboard operator rang your suite, there was no answer.”

  Six-thirty? That had been one-thirty in the afternoon in New York. She’d been out shopping, having lunch. And when she’d returned to the suite at two o’clock, she’d kept the telephone busy on her own. “Is Jeffrey Dillard coming in today?”

  “He said he’d be here at eleven,” Derek replied.

  Katherine sat at her own desk to wait out the fifteen minutes until Dillard’s arrival.

  Jeffrey Dillard entered the office at two minutes before eleven, accompanied by Paul Hyde. “Katherine!” A bright, professional smile lit Dillard’s face. “This is a nice surprise. I didn’t think you were coming home until tomorrow.”

  “What right did you have to alter last night’s show?”

  Paul Hyde stepped between Katherine and Dillard. “Let’s talk about this in my office. In private.”

  “I don’t mind Heather and Derek hearing what I’ve got to say. Or don’t you and Jeffrey want them to hear your excuses?”

  “Very well,” Hyde said. “Let them hear. Jeffrey came to me yesterday, to complain that the content of ‘Fightback’ wasn’t worth a damn. He also questioned your judgment, and your ability to control the show.”

  “Why? Because I would not touch the Melvin Glassman story? It was not our kind of piece.”

  “Jeffrey did not agree with you. Now that I know the facts, neither do I. You were being too soft, Katherine. You were allowing your father’s friendship with Melvin Glassman’s father to influence an issue. Jeffrey first told you about the story at the end of the summer. When you turned him down, he carried on researching it alone. Yesterday, when he had the entire story ready to go, and ‘Fightback’ was set to run with a handful of third-rate pieces, I gave my approval for the change. Obviously we were right, because this morning is the first time that ‘Fightback’ has ever made the front pages of the national press.”

  “How dare you alter the show without consulting me? Without . . . without even informing me?” The question died on Katherine’s lips as the truth asserted itself. “You didn’t decide all this yesterday, did you? You’ve been planning to do it for ages, and you were seeking an opportunity. No wonder you didn’t object to my taking a few days off. You and Jeffrey must have seen it as the perfect opportunity to slip in the Glassman piece.” She shook her head in mock admiration. “No wonder the pair of you are such good friends. You deserve each other . . .!”

  Without another word, she stormed out. As she started the engine of the Porsche, sending the tachometer needle swinging into the red, she thought about John Saxon, another of Dillard’s good friends. Had Saxon, also, been part of this plot? It had been his idea that she accompany him to New York. And hadn’t Saxon, after she had rejected Dillard’s first proposal, tried to persuade her to change her mind? Hadn’t he told her how important the story was to his dear friend?

  No! She thrust that idea from her mind. Whatever else John Saxon might be — arrogant, inconsiderate, even, by his own admission, jealous — he was not underhanded. What did it matter anyway? After the way she’d left him in New York, she’d probably lost him. Lost him, and lost the damned show!

  *

  Exhausted physically from the overnight flight, and mentally drained by the confrontation with Jeffrey Dillard, Katherine went to bed that evening within an hour of kissing the children good night. Her bedroom was in the front of the house, overlooking the forecourt. She always slept with the window slightly open, and some nights she drifted off to the modern lullaby of passing cars, reflections of their lights casting tiny patterns across the ceiling. Tonight, she needed no such help. She was asleep within thirty seconds of her head touching the satin pillow.

  She slept right through until nine o’clock, when Edna, who had kept Henry and Joanne from disturbing their mother, brought her in a cup of tea and the newspaper. Katherine sat up against the headboard, a bedjacket covering her shoulders. “No noise from the children, tea and the paper in bed . . . why is everyone being especially nice to me today, Edna?”

  The housekeeper, who had been told the previous night of the trouble at “Fightback,” fussed over Katherine. “You stay in bed as long as you like, Mrs. Kassler. Jimmy and I have some errands to run. We’ll take the children with us.”

  “Thank you.” Drinking the tea, Katherine skimmed through the newspaper. There was an article on Sidney Glassman, in which the elderly politician said he had been thinking of retiring anyway. His son’s troubles had just accelerated that decision. Katherine did not believe it for a second; shame and embarrassment had forced Sidney Glassman’s hand. Dropping the newspaper onto the carpet, she rolled onto her side and went back to sleep.

  Her eyes opened again at ten-thirty. She heard a car door close, and assumed that Edna and Jimmy Phillips had returned with the children. When she looked out of the window, she saw, instead of the Jaguar sedan, a maroon Rolls Royce Silver Shadow. Moments later, the doorbell’s chimes echoed through the house.

  Quite unhurriedly, Katherine slipped into a woolen robe, walked down the stairs, crossed the entrance hall, and unlocked the front door. Saxon, normally so well groomed, looked tired and rumpled. His clothes were creased. He needed a shave, and dark shadows underlined his eyes.

  “Hello, John. Did you sign all the contracts that needed signing? Do you own the building now?”

  “Don’t be facetious. I didn’t come here straight from the airport to be ridiculed. I came to see you, to talk about what happened in New York.”

  She looked past him. William, who had been waiting for Saxon at Heathrow, sat behind the steering wheel, watching. “I just discovered where I belong in your life, that’s all.”

  Saxon ignored the gibe. “How’s Joanne?”

  “Her arm’s in a cast, but she’s all right.”

  “And you got to Kennedy Airport all right?”

 
; “Yes. After the show, I returned to the Sherry-Netherland for my baggage, and took a taxi to the airport.” She didn’t tell him that Raymond Barnhill had accompanied her. Let Saxon think she had done it all on her own. “Did you hear about the show?”

  “Everyone in New York heard about the show, Katherine. It sounded like you were mad at the entire world, and that preacher and the antiabortion woman provided convenient targets at which to discharge all your anger.”

  Katherine considered that. Was Saxon right? When she had attacked the Reverend James Parker and Lucille Benoit, had she just been substituting them for Saxon? “Did you hear about the other show? About ‘Fightback’? Did you hear what your friend Jeffrey Dillard got up to while I was away?” Her earlier suspicion resurfaced. “Or was Thursday’s ‘Fightback’ topic old news to you?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Katherine.”

  For the first time, Katherine noticed the cold. She invited Saxon into the house, leading him through to the kitchen, where she put the kettle on the gas. While she made a pot of tea, she filled Saxon in on what had happened at “Fightback” while she’d been away.

  When she finished, Saxon said, “I asked you to New York simply because I wanted your company. I thought we would enjoy ourselves together. There was no ulterior motive.”

  Katherine poured two cups of tea. “The fact that I believe you doesn’t make Jeffrey any less of a slimy swine.”

  Saxon winced. “I don’t like hearing someone I love rip apart one of my best friends.”

  “Someone you love?”

  “That’s right. And that smart remark about where you belong in my life was totally uncalled for. If I had thought there was a real emergency, I would have walked right out of the most important meeting to be by your side. For a real emergency, I would have chartered a plane to get us back to England immediately. But a broken arm, Katherine . . .?”

  She stared down at the cup of tea in front of her. While she had been frantic, Saxon had been reasonable. He had tried to calm her down. He had persuaded her not to cancel her appearance on the talk show. While she had acted with her heart, Saxon had thought clearly with his head.

  “I never thought I’d see you again,” she said at last.

  “You were upset. I took that into account. All you’ve got to do now is resolve your differences with Jeffrey.”

  Katherine shook her head vehemently. “He compromised me by what he did. My name headed the credits, but I had nothing to do with the subject matter. As far as I am concerned, I’m finished with the show. I’ll take in a letter of resignation first thing on Monday morning.”

  Once more, Saxon pitted calm reason against Katherine’s heated action. “Before you sever the connection, why not talk with Jeffrey? He may have had what he considered a very good reason for what he did.”

  “How do you know what reason he might have had?”

  “Just talk to him. Then decide.”

  *

  Katherine talked to Dillard that evening, in a strained meeting that took place at Saxon’s London home in Marble Arch. When Dillard entered the formal front reception room, with its paintings of historical heroes, Katherine regarded him stonily.

  Saxon broke the ice. “Do you remember my telling you some time ago that Jeffrey had once run for Parliament?”

  When Katherine nodded, Dillard took up the story. “It was 1964, Katherine, the year Labour defeated the Tories by just four seats. Both sides knew it would be a close race, and all the stops were pulled out. A constituency in the East End of London was vacant — it was a Labour stronghold, but the incumbent wasn’t standing again. The Conservatives persuaded me, as a well-known television figure, to contest the seat. Labour, seeking to fight fire with fire — or show business with show business, if you prefer — put up Sidney Glassman, who, although a very wealthy man, had grown up in that district. It was a fight worthy of any American political contest, with mud slung in all directions. Sidney Glassman was better at it than I was. He painted me as a television creation, a man playing a role, who spoke lines he’d learned by heart. The voters believed him, and I was defeated by an embarrassingly large margin.”

  “You waited all this time for revenge?”

  “Sidney Glassman is a hero. His constituents idolize him. Anyone who attacked him personally would have risked being lynched. No, Katherine, I never planned revenge, but when a source told me of his son’s chicanery . . . well, it was too sweet an opportunity to pass up.”

  Katherine looked at Saxon. “You knew this all the time, didn’t you? You told me this morning that Jeffrey may have had good reason for what he did, so you were obviously aware of the background. And at the end of summer, you even tried to persuade me to accommodate Jeffrey on the Glassman story, didn’t you? You said he was questioning his existence.”

  “I knew, and I did try to influence you once, yes. When I saw how firm you were, I dropped it. But I did warn you that Jeffrey might use his friendship with Paul Hyde.”

  “You did.” She could forgive Saxon for trying to help his friend, but she could not forgive Dillard. “There is no way I could have reached where I am without your help. You got me onto ‘Fightback,’ and you guided me along. Without you, I would never have made it past my debut. But everything you’ve done for me does not excuse what happened on Thursday. If a libel action should be forthcoming —”

  “It won’t be,” Dillard interrupted. “The facts I presented are verifiable.”

  “Please allow me to finish. If a libel suit were to be brought, I might be liable because the content of the show is my responsibility. You placed me in an untenable position. But most of all, you used your power to shatter the life of a man who has done a tremendous amount of good. Sidney Glassman is a friend of my father, and a very decent man. You have ruined his remaining years.”

  “Are you saying you wouldn’t use any power you have to gain revenge on someone who’d got the better of you?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying, Jeffrey. A journalist’s power is supposed to be used for rectifying wrongs. It is not for pursuing vendettas.” She turned to Saxon, who had adopted the role of spectator. “I talked to him, all right? And my decision remains the same.”

  Dillard stood up, ready to leave. “I’m sorry that our association has to end this way, Katherine.”

  “So am I. But only one of us is to blame.”

  Saxon saw Dillard to the front door. When he returned, Katherine was staring at the painting of Wellington. “I hope this unfortunate incident has no effect on us, Katherine.”

  She turned away from the Iron Duke. “I don’t hold you responsible, John. You tried to help a friend, that’s all. But I’d never be able to face myself if I returned to ‘Fightback.’ I would not be able to face my father, either.”

  “That’s not an answer to the question I asked. Will what happened affect us?”

  “Why should it? But please don’t invite Jeffrey and me to the same party. I’m going home now. It’s been a very hectic week, and I need some rest if I’m to start looking for a new job on Monday. Good night.”

  As she walked toward the door, she realized that this was the first time she’d been in the front reception room without gazing nostalgically at the Aubusson rug in front of the hearth.

  *

  On Sunday morning, Katherine drove Henry and Joanne to Stanmore to visit their grandfather. The four of them went for a walk on the common, and while the children ran on ahead, Katherine told Roland of her decision to leave “Fightback.”

  “How do you feel about that?” Roland asked.

  “Self-satisfied. Righteous. And inordinately proud of myself. That’s today, of course. Tomorrow, when all the fleeting glory has faded, I’ll probably start worrying myself sick about being unemployed.”

  “Are you short of a bob or two?”

  “Would you help me out if I were?”

  “I’d offer to buy the children from you.”

  “Henry . . .! Joan
ne . . .!” The children stopped at the sound of their mother’s voice. “Your grandfather has just offered to buy you from me. How much are you worth?”

  “A billion pounds!” Henry shouted back.

  “We live in inflationary times,” Roland lamented.

  In the afternoon, Katherine typed out a formal letter of resignation, addressed to Paul Hyde. She hand-delivered it that evening to the “Fightback” offices. Afterward, she drove to Fleet Street, where she explained the reasons for her resignation to Lawrie Stimkin, who filled two pages of a notepad with shorthand symbols. It was not normal procedure for the editor to conduct an interview, but neither was it normal for the proprietor’s daughter to be the subject of a major story.

  The news of Katherine’s resignation from one of the country’s most popular television shows came out the next morning. No punches were pulled. She explained exactly why she had left the show. “As much as I respect Jeffrey Dillard professionally,” she was quoted as saying, “I cannot work with a man who uses his power to pursue a personal vendetta for something that happened sixteen years before. My integrity is worth more to me than any position.”

  At midday, Sally Roberts telephoned Katherine at home. “Heather Harvey and Derek Simon walked in ten minutes ago to ask Lawrie Stimkin for their old jobs back.”

  Katherine had hoped her assistants would quit the show and return to the Eagle. “I hope he said yes.”

  “Of course he did. We don’t like seeing good talent go elsewhere. Now what about yourself?”

  “I’d like some time to myself to think about it, Sally.”

  Other newspapers supported Katherine’s stance. Not because they were particularly sympathetic to her, but because Sidney Glassman had been a popular politician, who had done a lot of good in his sixteen years in Westminster. One editorial opinion described Dillard’s use of his media position as “a despicable example of absolute power corrupting absolutely.”