Authors: Carol Rose
Mr. Personality (32 page)
Undeterred by her grumbling, it continued to ring.
“Hello?” she said ungraciously as the square foam box holding her dinner settled upside down onto the kitchen table.
“Hey!” Claire said in a breathless rush. “Have you watched
Johnna!
yet?”
“No, I just got in.” Stretching the phone cord across the room, Nicole put her bag of school work next to the chair in front of the television. “Jason Calloway and Mark Gee got into a fight in my eighth period class and we had blood and insults all over the place. I stayed late to talk to their parents.”
“Oh. So you just got home.”
Nicole frowned. “Yeah. Why do you sound so funny? What’s up?”
“I’m on my cell phone, driving toward your place. You still tape the show, don’t you?” Claire’s words had an odd energy.
“Yes,” Nicole said patiently, walking back across the kitchen to flip her box of Chinese take out right side up. “Why? What’s up? Is it a really good show or something? I envy you law students your opportunity to watch daytime television, but you don’t watch talk shows—what’s up?”
“Nothing! So you haven’t seen
Johnna!
yet,” Claire said half under her breath.
“No,” Nicole said, her patience exaggerated now. “I’m just about to sit down to some noodles with pea pods and watch the show. You’re acting weird. Are you sure nothing’s up?”
“Nothing’s up. I just wondered…uh, how your day went.” Claire paused, her words echoing a little as the cell phone faded in and out. “You haven’t heard from Max again, have you?”
Stopping in the act of retrieving a fork from the drawer, Nicole tried to block the shaft of pain that lanced through her.
“No.”
Claire said quickly, “Listen, you’re probably frazzled and you need to sit down and relax. Why don’t you get comfortable before you turn the television on. You know, change into sweats or something. I’ll be there in two minutes and we’ll watch the show together,” Claire said in a rush.
Nicole lifted the phone away from her ear a moment, staring at the receiver before putting it back to her head. “Who are you and what have you done with Claire?”
“Don’t be silly,” her friend said in the same hurried voice.
“You do remember that you think all talk shows are silly?” Nicole asked, refusing to register that it was one rare thing her best friend and Max had in common.
“Yeah, but I was walking through the student union and caught a little of the show on the big screen there. It looked interesting,” Claire said quickly. “Wait for me. Don’t start without me. I’ll be there in a minute, maybe thirty seconds.”
“You’re nuts,” Nicole stated.
“Wait for me.”
“Okay, whatever. But get over here quick.”
“Fine.”
The line was disconnected.
Nicole walked across the kitchen to hang up the phone. As was usual these days, she didn’t feel like company. She just wanted to watch some mindless television, grade her papers and crawl into bed.
Grief was exhausting. Her head ached with the effort of not thinking about Max all day.
Had he found someone to finish typing his manuscript? Had he torn the beauty out of the book and turned it into a hollow story of the uselessness of love? Was he even now screwing the brains out of one of his casual bedmates?
Nicole closed her eyes against the thought. She couldn’t deal with it, couldn’t keep hurting herself thinking about him and couldn’t stop it, either.
Going into her bedroom, she changed into comfy sweats and her somewhat grimy fluffy slippers. The take-out container on the kitchen table emitted smells that made her stomach growl. Returning to the living room, Nicole set up a tray in front of the television and lifted the remote to click on the news and rewind the video.
She just needed to eat, watch the show and go to bed. If Claire didn’t get here soon, she’d have to make do with seeing three-fourths of the show.
A stream of images lit the television screen as Nicole’s finger accidentally hit “play.”
Max.
His beautiful face, caught in a serious moment, flashed in front of her.
Startled and flustered, she tried to make herself look down, tried to click the tape on so she didn’t have to witness some stupid news magazine show running another gossipy piece on the “reclusive” author.
But her fingers fumbled. Glancing down at the remote, Nicole realized the tape was running. It wasn’t live television, after all. Max was on her video tape? Had she mistakenly videoed the wrong channel?
Upping the volume, she stared at the television in disbelief.
“On
Johnna!
today,” an announcer trumpeted, “award-winning, best-selling author, Maxwell Tucker. He talks about his writing, his reclusive life and gives us the scoop on the woman who taught him to love.”
A buzzing rose in Nicole’s ears and she sank blindly into the closest chair.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The show cut away to commercials just as Nicole’s doorbell rang.
Going to open the door, she glanced over her shoulder as if she could still see Max’s face on the television screen. Instead, a cheerful young woman announced a new development in feminine protection. Distracted, Nicole unlocked and opened the door without checking the peephole.
“Hi,” Claire said breathlessly, “have you started it yet?”
“Max is on
Johnna!”
Nicole said numbly, returning to pick up the television remote. “Did you know?”
“Yes,” Claire admitted, closing the door behind her. “Look, it’s back on.”
Applause faded into the background as the camera zoomed in on Johnna.
“Today, we are very excited to welcome best-selling, mega-author, Maxwell Tucker, to the show,” Johnna said, gazing into the camera. Anywhere between the ages of twenty-five and forty-five, she managed to look cozy and friendly despite being a very attractive blonde.
Standing in front of the television in shock, Nicole was barely aware of her friend next to her.
Johnna went on with her introduction, saying, “A powerful force in the publishing industry, Max Tucker has been credited for giving voice to characters who share our own angst and meet the same challenges we do. He is a prolific, media-shy author and we’re very pleased he chose to speak with us today.”
Her supper forgotten on the table across the room, Nicole stared at the television screen, the world seeming to tilt on its axis.
“Why would Max do an interview on a talk show?” she asked, not expecting her friend to answer. “It blows my mind.”
“Yeah.” Claire shifted from one foot to the other. “Really weird. You want to sit down or something?”
“What?” Nicole barely heard her.
“Sit down?”
“Oh, okay.” Not taking her eyes off the screen, she groped her way to a chair.
On the television, a warmly smiling Johnna turned to Max. “Welcome to the show.”
“Thank you.” Max looked a little uncomfortable, but, surprisingly, he didn’t seem hostile. Although it was almost too level, his restrained voice still came across strong.
“Why this unprecedented interview?” Johnna asked, her manner both direct and pleasant.
Max looked into the camera and said, “I’ve come to see the foolishness of isolating myself from the world.”
Feeling a jolt go through her, Nicole stared, the television remote still clutched in her nerveless fingers. “My God.”
“You don’t generally give interviews,” Johnna said, “In fact, I believe this is the first television interview you’ve ever done.”
“Yes.”
He wore a dark turtleneck with an equally dark suit and, to Nicole, he looked both severe and very desirable. She hugged her arms around herself trying to contain the ache of hopeless love welling up inside her. God, how she missed him.
“He looks beautiful, doesn’t he?” she half-whispered.
“Yes.” Claire’s voice still held a kind of pent-up excitement.
Johnna asked, “But you now feel you’ve been too withdrawn from the press and the reading public?”
“Not merely withdrawn,” he responded wryly. “Reclusive would be a better term.”
“Let me read some quotes about you,” Johnna said, looking at note cards in her hand. “’Max Tucker is as brilliant as he is difficult. He combines the gifts of genius with the challenges of the same.’ ‘With rare acumen, Tucker weaves worlds the average reader wishes to adopt.’ And this one, ‘He can best be described as a prodigy who has mined a vast pool of intelligence without missing an opportunity to disappoint those who feed him.’”
Smiling, Johnna looked up at him, waiting for a response.
“He’s very talented,” Claire commented, slanting a glance at Nicole. “Are you sure he hasn’t called you again?”
Nicole stared numbly at the television, still in shock at seeing him there. “What? No! Not after I hung up on him last week. It’s not something I’d forget!”
“Okay,” Claire said, glancing back at the television.
“Thank you for choosing those particular quotes,” Max told Johnna, a rueful sincerity in his voice. “The press has had other, less…worshipful…things to say about me.”
The talk show host smiled, responding to his honesty. “Less enthusiastic?”
“No,” he corrected swiftly. “Some of them are very enthusiastic…in their negativity.”
Claire and the audience in the television studio laughed, the sound a gentle ripple. Despite her shock at seeing him on television actually giving an interview, Nicole found herself chuckling with them. He was so damned smart. What had made him think he couldn’t communicate with people personally?
“You’ve had a very tumultuous relationship with the press,” Johnna commented, pausing to read a brief bio from the note cards.
The camera shot tightened on Max’s face as he listened to her description of his youthful publishing debut, his many accolades and a passing reference to his having been legally emancipated from his parents at the age of sixteen.
“…and eighteen of his twenty books have gone on to be bestsellers.” Johnna smiled at Max. “Do you still blush when you hear people describe your career?”
“I sure the hell would,” murmured Claire from her seat on the couch. “I’d love to be a tenth the writer he is.”
“No, Johnna, I’ve never been a blusher.” Max shook his head, a self-deprecating smile on his lips, “but I
am
sitting here wondering what I did wrong with the two that didn’t make the list.”
Laughter echoed through the studio.
Only half-hearing Claire’s snort, Nicole stared at the television set, a piercing sadness gathered in her throat. Why was he so damned perfectionistic?
“You say that like you’re kidding,” Johnna said with perceptivity, “but you’re not, are you?”
“No.” A somber expression gathered on his face.
Nicole swallowed a sob, tears blurring her vision. Why couldn’t he see himself the way she did? Yes, he was an arrogant son-of-a-bitch sometimes, but he never seemed to really comprehend how talented he was, how his words could move people to tremendous emotion.
“For someone who never gets interviewed, he’s doing a great job, isn’t he?” Claire commented.
“Yes.” Nicole forced the word out.
“I’ve heard you’re a perfectionist,” Johnna told him, “and that you’re too hard on yourself.”
Max shrugged. “It depends on who you’re talking to—some people want me to be much harder on myself—but, no, I’m not striving for perfection. I do, however, feel I owe it to the reading public to turn out the best product I can.”
“Of course, you’re striving for perfection, you idiot,” Nicole told the television set, her words angry and choked.
“You tell him,” Claire said.
“I hear you’re hard to work for,” Johnna ventured with another smile, clearly not tiptoeing around the big author.
Max’s rueful smile reappeared. “I hear that, too.”
“Is it true?”
“Oh, boy, is it true,” Claire answered for him.
“Only if you’re human,” Max responded with irony, a grin flashing briefly on his face. “Then I can be a real bastard.”
Along with the studio audience, Nicole began laughing. Claire joined in.
“I suppose,” he went on, “I have occasionally been a decent boss, but not often and not really with much deliberate intent. I’m told I’ve lacked personal growth and I’ve come to realize the truth of the accusation.”
More laughter rolled through the room.
“Is it true you’ve had dozens of office staff, firing one after another?” Johnna queried in amused disbelief.
“Until recently,” Max said, “I employed someone to type my manuscripts. I’d write in long hand and then need it to be transcribed.”
“You don’t like to write at the computer,” Johnna concluded.
Max smiled, a self-deprecating expression. “It wasn’t merely an artistic preference. I couldn’t type, but I’ve just finished a manuscript and am now doing my own typing.”
“My God. He’s typing.”
Just then a knock sounded at Nicole’s door, but she hardly heard it.
Bouncing off the couch, Claire said swiftly, “I’ll get the door. Keep watching. I’ll get rid of whoever it is.”
“Okay.” Nicole hardly glanced away from the screen.