Alexandra Waring (19 page)

They were barely ten minutes into the material before Cassy Was on the phone in the back of the room; Denny, Kyle and Hex were talking cutaways or something; and Alexandra was sitting next to Jessica, firing questions at her about where Barnes was, how she had gotten to him, were there any limitations she had agreed to, had he signed a release, and on and on. Within the hour Jackson and Langley and some PR guy named Derek were in the screening room too, and everybody was talking a Jessica Wright interview special produced by DBS News that would air just as soon as they could work it out with the affiliates—which Cassy said could be very soon.

“But I don’t work for DBS News,” Jessica said to everybody over the sound of the tape.

“And DBS News doesn’t work for you either,” Alexandra said, “but we’d still like to see your special get on the air—so we’ll do you a favor and DBS a favor and ourselves a favor and produce it for you.”

“Now hold on,” Langley said, turning around in his seat to look at Alexandra.

“Hold on what?” Cassy said from the back of the room, covering the phone she had been talking into. “If we’re going to produce it, it’s going to be called ‘A Jessica Wright Interview Special—Produced by DBS News.’”

“And Alexandra will do the opening with Jessica,” Kyle said.

“She can’t do this, Jack,” Langley sputtered. “If we make it a DBS News production, Alexandra’s going to siphon money out of the ad revenues again with that damn contract clause.”

“Wow,” Jessica said, turning to Alexandra, “I’m impressed. Who’s your agent?”

“I’ll do it for my union minimum,” Alexandra called to Langley. “I’ll waive everything else.”

While Cassy and Langley started shouting back and forth about who would pay the overhead, Jessica nudged Alexandra. “So what kind of opening would we do?”

Alexandra looked at her. “Oh, just a little live interview in the studio, to introduce you and set up the background.”

“Ugh—live?” Jessica said. In recent years Jessica had insisted on taping her show ahead of time. Her nerves just couldn’t take the pressure of live.

Alexandra looked surprised. And then she recovered, smiled and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll lead you through it.”

Langley was yelling now, and then Cassy was yelling back; Jessica looked around, swallowed and then looked back at Alexandra. “I really hate live,” she whispered. “I mean, I really really hate it.”

“Then we’ll figure out something else,” Alexandra whispered back. “Don’t worry. I promise you, I won’t push for anything you don’t feel comfortable with.”

“Did you hear that?” Derek cried from the front row, pointing to the screen. “That crack about Capote is dynamite—you gotta keep that in. And the part about Hellman too. If I can use them in a release, we’ll get pickup in all the papers.”

“Take it or leave it, Langley,” Cassy called from the back of the room. “Let DBS News produce the special or we’re out of here.”

“I don’t have any objections,” Jessica called.

Kyle said something to Denny and he said something to Langley and Langley started yelling at Cassy, who started yelling at Jackson, who started yelling back at her.

“Money never brings out the best in people—ever notice?” Alexandra whispered to Jessica. “Come on—let’s get out of here until they’re finished.”

It sounded like a great idea to Jessica and so they excused themselves and fled to Darenbrook III. While Alexandra filled her in a little on the good points of DBS (i.e., the facilities) and the bad points (i.e., trying to get Langley to approve anything), she showed Jessica where she thought Jessica’s and Denny’s offices were on the first floor, and then they took the stairs up to the second floor.

Alexandra’s office was filled with green plants and trees. In front of the wall of glass there was a huge oak table with one chair pulled up to the middle of it and four wooden folding chairs stacked against the wall near it. There was a couch along one wall and a coffee table, and two chairs facing it. There was a whole load of electronic stuff built into the wall near the door; there were a couple bookcases filled with books; there were a few prints on one wall; and then, of course, there were all of these plants and trees, so many that it smelled a little like a greenhouse.

Alexandra asked what Jessica would like to drink, and after she said white wine, Alexandra’s assistant, Kate, was dispatched to look for some in Jackson’s office. Kate came back with a bottle and a crystal wineglass. Alexandra chose to drink grapefruit juice. (Silly me, Jessica thought, sitting in one of the chairs,
for supposing that Alexandra would be so wild and crazy as to have a glass of white wine at six forty-five at night.)

They had a pretty nice time, though. Alexandra kicked off her shoes and sat cross-legged on the couch with a pillow in her lap, and while Jessica sipped her wine, she listened to Alexandra explain her mixed reaction to DBS trying to sell them—”DBS News America Tonight” and “The Jessica Wright Show”—together. When Alexandra kept asking Jessica if she understood, that her doubts had nothing to do with the quality of Jessica’s show, but had to do with the different audiences of the programs, Jessica burst out laughing and poured herself another glass of wine.

“What is it?” Alexandra said.

“Whoever said
I
wanted
news
as a lead-in?” Jessica said, settling back into her chair with her refilled glass. “Listen, Alexandra, no offense, but the only reason why I’m going along with this is because, at least for the first week or so, everybody’s gonna be tuning in to see Brenda Starr who got shot, or Miss VaVaVaVoom who’s fooling around with Jackson.”

Alexandra’s mouth parted in astonishment and Jessica thought maybe she had gone too far.

But then Alexandra smiled and her eyes started to twinkle. “And I suppose the next thing you’re going to do is remind me that I’m the older woman at DBS.”

“You said it, not me, Alexandra Eyes,” Jessica said, smiling into her glass. But Jessica inwardly cringed, knowing that it was no longer possible to ignore the physical toll the past seven years had taken on her. Her face belonged to someone thirty-five, at least. Had it been the sun? The two years of cocaine? The parties? Gary? The show? The stress and pace of her life? Her own insanity? God only knew, but as proud of her success at twenty-eight as she was, it was ludicrous to think she looked younger than Alexandra Eyes here.
Oh, brother, just look at her over there. Miss Perfect.

“I love your cowboy boots,” Alexandra said.

“They’re cowgirl boots,” Jessica said.

Alexandra smiled. “Yes, of course.”

“Hey, that reminds me,” Jessica said, “I know a great friend of yours and I’m supposed to send you a big Denver hello.”

Alexandra only looked at her.

“Lisa Connors,” Jessica said.

“Lisa,” Alexandra repeated, nodding slightly.

Blond, lovely and some sort of a painter, Lisa Connors was the daughter of one of the richest and most corrupt land barons in the West.
(Is that it?
Jessica wondered, surprised at Alexandra’s minimal response.
Alexandra doesn’t want to be associated with the daughter of a crook?)

“How do you know her?” Alexandra said, turning to put the couch pillow back.

“She just waltzed into the studio one night, telling me how she simply
had
to meet me and express her admiration,” Jessica said, laughing a little at the memory, because they had all been so taken back by the kind of swirling glamour with which Lisa had made her entrance into the studio. Security hadn’t even stopped her. Security would have
given
her the studio had she paused ten seconds.

“And?” Alexandra said, patting the pillow in place.

“And she lassoed me into coming to Denver for some luncheon for the Western Foundation of Communication something-or-other,” Jessica said.

“For the Communicative Arts,” Alexandra said quietly, now reaching to the floor for her shoes.

Jessica hesitated and then said, “Do you not like her or something?”

“Oh, I like her,” Alexandra said, sliding her legs off the couch and leaning over to put her shoes back on. “I haven’t seen her in a long while, that’s all.” She sat up, face flushed from bending over.

What the heck was going on? When Lisa heard about Jessica going to DBS, she had carried on so about what a great friend of hers Alexandra was and how Jessica had to deliver a special hello for her. And Lisa was not the type to make up stuff like that.

As if Alexandra had heard her thoughts, she said, “Lisa lived in Kansas City for a little while. And she was a bit lost in her life, I think. We became friendly—and I do very much like her, Jessica—but
…
Well, do you know how people who are a little lost in their lives tend to—to
…
?” She was looking for the right word.

“Clingy?” Jessica offered.

“Exactly,” Alexandra said, nodding. “And I don’t mean it as a criticism, it was just that it made me feel a little uncomfortable.”

Clingy? Lisa Connors? Living in Kansas City?
This was all news to Jessica.

“She’s not like that now,” Jessica said. “As a matter of fact, I always thought she was the opposite. Very carefree.”

Alexandra smiled, but there was still something in her expression—in her eyes—that was not quite right and Jessica couldn’t figure it out. Lisa Connors
…
Lisa Connors
…
What could it be about Lisa Connors that so bothered Alexandra Eyes here?

“Listen, Jessica, I wish I could talk some more,” Alexandra said, looking at her watch, “but I really have to get back downstairs or I’ll be here all night.”

“Oh, sure,” Jessica said, starting to get up but then stopping. “Um, Alexandra? Would you mind if I stayed and made a few phone calls?”

“Please do,” Alexandra said, standing up and gesturing to the big oak table. She walked over to the door. “I’ll tell Kate not to disturb you.”

“Thanks,” Jessica said, standing up. “Oh, and could you tell Denny I’ll be down in a few minutes?”

“Sure,” she said, “I’ll see you in a bit.” And then she disappeared out the door.

Jessica stood there a minute, watching the door. When she was satisfied that Alexandra was really gone, she smiled to herself, scooped up the wine bottle and walked over to the table. She sat down in the chair, poured herself another glass of wine, put the bottle down, pulled the phone closer and picked up the receiver.

Goody. She’d call Lisa Connors.

11
What Happened That Night
Part I: Jackson Gives Alexandra a Ride Home

Damn, but he hated waiting. What was it? Almost nine? Cassy, Langley, Jessica, Denny, Dan, Hex—they had all left over an hour ago, exhausted after arguing over how to handle Jessica’s interview with Richard Barnes.

Hands deep in his pockets, Jackson walked across the newsroom to the AP machine to pretend to read the wire stories that were printing out.

“It’s just filler material,” the kid on duty said. Jackson swore that half his employees couldn’t be out of school yet, they looked so young.)

“Could be I’ve been in news a little longer than you,” Jackson growled at him.

The kid—whose name was actually Jimmy Hallerton—looked through the glass wall at Alexandra (who was sitting at the conference table with Kyle and a reporter from their new Cleveland affiliate) and then looked back at Jackson. “She should be through soon.”

Jackson shrugged, moving on to the Reuters machine. There were a few other people puttering around the newsroom and now all of them were looking at him. Geez Louise, they were
always
looking at him—as if he might suddenly shoot out all the clocks—London, pow! Moscow, pow! Peking, pow! Tokyo, pow!—and start in on the monitors—CNN, pow! CBS, pow! NBC, pow! ABC, pow! What were they all doing, anyway?

He walked over to one desk and looked over a young woman’s shoulder at her computer monitor. “What are you doing?”

“Um,” she said nervously, stopping typing, “I’m writing a follow-up story on the Aloha Airlines accident—the one where the fuselage ripped off—”

“I know, I know,” Jackson said, “I only read forty-seven newspapers a day.” Then he looked at her, sighed, and then smiled, patting her on the back. “Don’t mind me—what is it? Shelley, right?”

Her face lit up. “Right.”

“So tell me, Shelley, what sources are you writing from?”

“Uh,” she said, pulling some papers over, “the wire services, the Darenbrook Access”—she was referring to the electronic current event library, fed with stories from Darenbrook papers—”and then reports filed from a stringer out of Honolulu. The L.A. affiliate got someone out there, but late,” she added. “Still, I just checked in with him, the film is good and I’m writing a two-minute voice-over for Alexandra.”

“And this is for—what? Practice?” Jackson asked her.

She nodded, looking over at a guy across the newsroom. “And I’m being timed, Mr. Darenbrook, so if you’ll excuse me…”

“Oh, sorry! Gosh, really, I’m sorry,” he said, backing away. “Hey, you,” he called to the guy, “take a minute off her time.”

The guy shook his head.

“What do you mean, no?”

The guy shook his head again. “Bosses always want to talk to you while you’re on deadline. Goes with the territory.”

“Mr. Darenbrook?” Jimmy said.

“Would you stop calling me that?” Jackson said, turning around. “Creeping crickets, how old do you think I am, anyway?”

“It’s a term of respect—Jackson,” Jimmy said.

“You,” Jackson said, catching Shelley looking at him again. “Back to your story—pronto, let’s go, move it.”

“Jackson,” Jimmy Hallerton said again. “Cassy told me to call her if Alexandra wasn’t out of here by nine. She’d probably appreciate it if you could get her out of here.”

“Mrs. Cochran would appreciate it if I got Alexandra out of here.” He rolled his eyes. “Where have you been?”

“But she asked us to keep an eye on her. She was here until two last night.”

Jackson nodded, looking at her. Alexandra was sitting at attention, arms resting on the conference table, nodding, listening intently to the reporter who was sitting across from her. She did look a little pale, tired. “I don’t think Mrs. Cochran would appreciate anything I did, so let’s just not mention me and the fact I was here at all, okay?”

“Okay,” Jimmy said, twiddling a pencil. “But she does appreciate you.”

“Yeah, right,” Jackson muttered, eyes still on Alexandra.

“She does,” Jimmy protested.

“I can imagine,” Jackson said.

“She always says, if you were any different from the way you are, that none of us would be getting this chance.” When Jackson turned to look at him, Jimmy shrugged. “I’m only telling you what she tells us.”

“What else does she tell you? And don’t start laying it on, kid,” Jackson warned him, pointing a finger at him,
“
’cause I don’t have anything to do with your salaries down here.”

“Yeah, I know,” Jimmy said. “She says you’re a vanishing breed.” His eyebrows went up. “More?”

“More,” Jackson said.

“We’re supposed to take a good look at you to remember that it’s people who build the great institutions and it’s the corporations they leave behind that tear them apart. So we’re all supposed to hope you’ll live for an awful long time.”

“She said that?”

“Oh, yeah. And then she’s always telling us that we can either make DBS stand for something you’ll be glad you put your name on, or we can all go back to our old jobs and wait to be promoted in fifty-nine years into jobs none of us want.” The phone on his desk rang. “Excuse me,” he said, snapping it up. “Newsroom—”

Huh, so what Langley claimed was true, Mrs. Cochran did speak well of him to her people. Well, good, she should, it was his company. But it was interesting that he heard from the outside what she said about him too. He had taken Dexter Halloway, the chairman of Rogers, Dale—the parent company of WST—up to Boston for a Red Sox game recently as his guest. Dexter was still ticked off that Jackson had taken Mrs. Cochran away from them but admitted that, since they had backed away from taking WST national as a super station over cable, they didn’t have the opportunity to offer her.

Jackson had been fascinated by how proud Dexter was of Mrs. Cochran and how he tried to take credit for making her a station manager before there were women station managers. (Jackson knew Dexter had about as much to do directly with WST as President Reagan did with the Kalamazoo town meeting.) And, like Langley, he spoke so glowingly of her as a person that, like he did with Langley sometimes, Jackson had to wonder if old Dexter wasn’t a bit in love with her.

They had talked quite a bit about Mrs. Cochran over the afternoon and by the time Jackson returned to West End he felt he better understood this woman who yelled at him every time he went near Alexandra and chastised him constantly about interfering, but who also, according to Dexter, told industry people that he was an extraordinarily creative businessman whom she tremendously admired for his spirit and willingness to take risks.

As a matter of fact, in the course of the PR for DBS News, Mrs. Cochran seemed as determined to build Jackson’s reputation as she was Alexandra’s. In an article appearing last week in the Chicago
Sun Times
, she was quoted as saying:

Our immediate goal is a one-hour newscast, concentrating on breaking news within America, as witnessed and reported by local newsrooms around the country. As a network, DBS is responsible for providing a national overview to these stories, linking them into a clear, cohesive and compelling chronicle of the day. At DBS, you see, we have no doubts whatsoever about the role national network news plays in our country.

As the chairman of Darenbrook Communications, Jackson Darenbrook, has often pointed out, imagine what would have happened to the civil rights movement had there been only local news.

It was her way, he began to realize, of bolstering Alexandra’s credibility among her industry peers. With all of this innuendo about the two of them in the tabloids, about his reputation as a playboy, someone, somewhere needed to remind people of his own professional background in communications and point out that he had to spend a lot of time with Alexandra because he was so intimately involved with the development of DBS News (although Mrs. Cochran, in reality, tried to keep him out of the day-to-day operations). She also (or was it Langley? well, somebody) was stirring up a lot of interest in the DBS technological system as well, because Jackson was getting all kinds of friendly inquiries from outside about the possibilities of “renting” the Darenbrook transmission facilities.

Well, the technological system behind DBS was impressive, but then Darenbrook Electronics had never been a problem because Darenbrook Electronics had always made money. It was DBS News that was a problem because it would not make money for at least (and at best) four or five years and there was this matter of being almost forty-seven million short within DBS at the moment, and Jackson didn’t have the heart yet to upset poor old Lang further by telling him what had happened out in L.A. About how Little El had been out there, hounding and threatening Beau at the
Field Day
offices, grilling him about his debts and rumors of a pending lien against the magazines. Jackson had been able to chase Little El out of town, but Little El had called Cordelia and Cordelia had tracked Jackson down, getting him on the Gulfstream phone during his flight back East this morning.

“Jackie, money isn’t the point,” Cordelia had said (which, with Cordelia’s angry Last Stand of the South inflection, was more like,
Jaaa
-ckie,
mun
-nee
iz
ent
tha
po
-went”).

“What is your point, Cordelia?”

“I know our brother Beau is in a most grievous financial situation and it has been ascertained that you are intervening for him and may be using our magazines to do it.”

“Why, Cordie Lou,” Jackson had said, “what kind of story are you telling?” (When Cordelia was angry with him, Jackson tended to revert to the same strategy of denial that worked when he was a boy.)

“You listen to me, Jackson Andrew Darenbrook.”

(
Uh-oh
, Jackson had thought,
here it comes
.)

“You and I both know that you are no stranger to the playing of the shell game and that I have looked the other way on certain projects of which Little El, Norbert and Noreen would not approve, but which I knew were necessary to maintain the well-being of the company. But you listen to me, little brother—”

(When Cordelia got on her high horse like this, Jackson often imagined her sitting on their old gray mare, Bunky-Belle, with a mobile phone in one hand and the torch from the Statue of Liberty in the other.)

(Sigh. What he would give for a ride in the field with old Bunky-belle today.
Bunky-Belle, darlin; how are ya up there in horse heaven, anyway?
)

I will not stand for you jeopardizing any part of Darenbrook Communications to finance Beau’s gambling. And don’t bother trying to deny it! Good golly, any fool could have read that piece in the
Wall Street Journal
last week to know what he must have lost in the crash. Or how many Beauregard Darenbrooks do you suppose there are? Or do you think that down here in Hilleanderville Daddy and I need an arrow-plane and skywriter to get the message?”

“I have not used the magazines in any way to bail Beau out,” Jackson said. (It was true. He was using his own money. And the miniseries bailed out DBS News and Old Hardhead bailed out the miniseries and Jackson was sure Langley would straighten the whole thing out no later than next summer.)

“I’m sorry, Jackie Andy, I am truly sorry, but I do not believe you,” Cordelia said. “I know that DBS News has you tied up for at least seventy million—Daddy’s got the figures right here on the kitchen table—and I happen to know that even if you robbed your poor misguided children you still couldn’t be intervening for Beau on your own. You’ve done well, Jackie, but not that well. And Norbert says that you lost quite a bit of money on the market yourself last fall.”

(Uh-oh. Cordie’s on the wrong train, but she’s on the right track.)

“I think, Cordelia,” Jackson had said quietly, “maybe you and I ought to get together soon and go over everything, so I can put your mind to rest.”

“Oh, I’m going to put my mind to rest all right,” she snapped. “Because I’m going to send a team of auditors up there to get to the bottom of this. I’d sooner see Beau in jail before I allow Darenbrook Communications to finance his gambling sprees. It’s got to stop, Jackie! This family has been paying his debts since he was thirteen years old and bet that nasty Elmo Puddleton a dollar he couldn’t knock the twins off the porch swing.”

“Cordie, come on—”

“Come on nothing! And while I’ve got your ear, Mr. Big Shotthese stories about you and that, that—anchor-girl. The town is carrying on so—I cannot even wheel our father down the street without someone making a remark. ‘Why, that randy boy of yours, Mistuh Darenbrook, how he’s carryin’ on with that girl half his age.’ “

At this point Jackson had clapped the phone into the side of the plane and held it there, yelling, “I’m losing the signal, Cordie, I’ll have to call you tonight.”

“Jackson,” Alexandra said, coming in through the conference-room door.

Hi,” Jackson said, looking at his watch. “My car should just be arriving. I stopped down to see if you wanted a ride.” (Okay, so his car had been waiting outside for one hour and fifty-two minutes, which was also how long he had been waiting to ask her if she’d like a ride.)