Star Time (30 page)

Chris was just zipping up the black silk dress she had chosen when her husband arrived home. The Senate had adjourned for the weekend earlier than usual, and he had caught the first shuttle back to New York, hoping they could have a quiet dinner.

"I would much rather be with you," she told him frankly as they kissed hello, "but I have to go to Carl's. A meeting with a network head who wants me to anchor their nightly news."

"That sounds like what you've been looking for."

She frowned as she looped the belt about her waist.

"Unhappy with the dress or with the meeting?" he asked.

"The dress is fine."

"What network is it?"

"FBS."

"Barnett Roderick just had a heart attack," he remembered. "I had my assistant send him a get-well letter."

"This is the man taking over for him, Greg
Lyall
."

Chris waited for Ken to ask about him, but perhaps because he did not recognize the name, thought him a stranger to her as well. Only Marian was aware of her affair with Greg, which had long been over before she met Ken. She could have told him, of course—she could tell him anything, she knew, and he would still love her—but there was no need. Both of them acted on the premise that their lives started fresh, anew, and unhindered on the day they met.

Ken was studying her. "You aren't happy that it's FBS."

"Not very.
Its news operation isn't very good, and the ratings are abysmal. I'd start with a lot going against me."

"It would be nice to wake up next to you in the morning again and have breakfast together and be able to stay out till a normal hour at night." He hid his other concerns.

She smiled back at his reflection in the mirror. "And not have me fall asleep over dinner. That would be lovely."

She took a last glance at herself. Like many women born beautiful, she felt confident about her appearance and did not usually fuss much over it. Now, however, nothing seemed quite right. She reached down for her handbag and turned around to kiss her husband good-bye.

In his smile she could read his love and admiration. "I'm sure you'll knock this
Lyall
guy dead."

"I'm sorry he called."

Ken lifted her chin to meet his lips. "I think you're worrying needlessly. He's giving you exactly what you always wanted."

"Is he?" she mused. "That sounds like somethin
g you find in a fortune cookie.
"

As an agent for many of the highest-paid newscasters and producers in their contract negotiations, Carl Green had been a pivotal figure in the escalation of TV
newspeople’s
salaries. His sense of an adversary's strength was tuned like a fine instrument he played for his clients’ advantage. A wiry, driven man, proud of the luxuries his success had brought him, he spent nearly as much time trying to relieve their anxieties as he did negotiating for them. Lately, the anxieties had been his. 

Chris's network needed her drawing power for its morning show,
Starting
the Day
. Yet, as time passed with no concessions from the president of its News Division, he had become increasingly certain that the accounting types who now ran her network and her show’s bullying executive producer, Ron Skelly, believed they could sit tight and make the deal on their terms. Carl had put out feelers at the other networks, trying to spur competition for her talents. All had been eager to hire her, but not in the slots she wanted. Their own high-priced newscasters had long-term contracts and were firmly ensconced in sought-after positions. And
her own
network knew it. They were sure Chris would have to re-sign with them

and on their terms.

“That phone call from Greg
Lyall
was like a goddamn desert bush bursting into flames, a miracle," Carl recounted to his agency colleagues at their morning meeting. "Now, we can get some competition going here. She'd be crazy to go to FBS, with those weak ratings, but her network will have to play ball in our court now. Have any of you ever dealt with this guy?" he asked.

None had.

"I was introduced to him once," Carl recalled.
"Just a hello.
Hardly remember him—I was trying to get Roderick alone to make a pitch." He pondered for a moment. "The way I see it, we've got a real amateur here. He’s a dumbass son-in-law who doesn't know dipshit about news or much of anything else, but who's just been put in charge of the candy store. He's a patsy. How does five million a year sound?"

By the time seven o'clock came around, the number glittered in his mind in rainbow hues. He had advised Chris to be late, to keep this Greg
Lyall
off balance so that he himself could make a hard pitch without her there, but she arrived punctually.

He seated her in the living room for a quick meeting to outline his strategy. Women network news anchors were no longer a novelty or a risk: Katie Couric was presently at CBS and Diane Sawyer appeared to be ABC's heir apparent. But Green could understand why
Lyall
had
reached out to Chris
Paskins
: She was two decades younger than they. The average age of evening-news viewers was 53. Chris could draw younger viewers back to network news, boosting her broadcast’s ratings and its ad rates, traditionally higher for that demographic, even if older viewers failed to switch over.

"Just let me do the talking," he cautioned Chris when the doorbell rang. He had sensed her disquiet during their conversation, but ascribed it to a slight case of nerves before the big meeting.

Greg entered to find Chris sitting in the large armchair in front of the mantel. She wore a chic black silk dress with a single strand of large pearls dipping a couple of inches below her neckline. Her blond hair was shorter than in 1981. He halted in the archway. Having seen her innumerable times on television since then—and thought about her often—he should not have been surprised by anything about her appearance, but he was.

"You look beautiful," he said almost involuntarily.

Chris angrily jumped to her feet. "This meeting was a big mistake. I figured you could keep it on a mature, businesslike level, but I should have known better." She turned to Carl. "That's it. Please get me my coat."

"Oh, Jesus," Carl moaned under his breath. For some reason he could not fathom, this meeting had spun out of his control and was about to crash before it had begun.

"Chris, honey," he said soothingly, "why don't you just sit down and we'll have drinks and get to know each other."

He flashed a warning glance at her. She had to understand how important this meeting was. Even if this guy was Adolf Hitler, they needed some kind of an offer from him to be able to induce her present network to up the ante.

Unmollified
, Chris resumed her seat. The maid entered with a tray of drinks, and Carl engaged Greg in a conversation about FBS and its prospects.

By the time they went into dinner, Chris had regained her self-control. She had resolved to treat Greg like any other television executive with whom she might deal, but he had immediately vaulted the business barrier and resorted to what he must mistakenly have assumed was the attraction she still harbored for him. His behavior confirmed the ruthlessness he had revealed when he left her. He was devious.
Totally lacking in character.
She had agreed to hear him out, but there was no way she would work for that bastard.

Greg remarked favorably on both the salmon-mousse appetizer and the veal-
tournedo
main dish. Carl was pleased that an elegant society
guy like Greg
Lyall
was impressed—it was worth every penny the cook was costing him.

Time for business, he decided. "Chris said you offered her the anchor job. Ray
Strock
is an institution at FBS."

"That's my problem," Greg pointed out.

"You're talking sole anchor here, right? No co-, no partner."

Greg nodded.

Carl relaxed; he had the ball now, no question about it. "Well, Chris is very happy where she is. We're maybe this close to signing a new contract with them." He held up a thumb and forefinger a millimeter apart. "It would take a huge mega-deal for her to consider leaving a place where she's so happy."

Greg's gaze swung to Chris. "I told you on the phone that you'd be our star, not only our anchor for the nightly news, but for election night and every important event and crisis, the personification of news at FBS."

Carl was astonished at Greg's openness—no jabbing or weaving; the guy's chin was wide open. "I hope you're prepared to pay what a great talent like Chris is worth, what it's going to take to win the bidding with the other networks
who
are after her."

Greg's eyes were still on Chris. He wanted her to believe his sincerity. "I'm making one offer. It's what the job is worth. No bargaining. Do you want me to spell it out here or wait until I'm alone with Carl?"

He knew Chris was too straightforward and her curiosity too great for her to wait.

"How much?" she asked.

"Chris," Carl interceded, "this is just a get-acquainted meeting."

She nodded at Greg for an answer.

"Three million dollars a year," he said. His intelligence report had been extensive and specific. "That's three times what as
you're
making now. I want a seven-year contract."

Chris did not react.

"That's almost insulting," Carl declared. "It's ridiculous. We're not prepared to even start the conversation at less than four million. And we've never given more than two years."

"It can go to four million after the fourth year, but we'll need seven years. We want to be sure that the symbol of our network doesn't run off somewhere else with our audience. It works to your advantage, too. Chris gets security."

Carl shifted to a different approach. "She may turn out to be so unhappy at FBS that she'll want out after a few years. She should have that right."

Greg glanced at Carl. "So you can hold us up for more money? Let's confine our conversation to this particular galaxy. Seven years with a cost-of-living increase based on the CPI after five.

“Five and three.”
The agent had purposely allowed himself room to descend.

“Agreed, but I’m firm on the starting salary. I’m offering Chris the one job she's wanted all her life

at three times what she’s making now."

"You're insufferable!" Chris suddenly declared, her eyes blazing.

"Now, Chris—" Carl interjected. It was beginning to dawn on him that for his client and Greg
Lyall
this might not be a get-acquainted meeting after all.

"What part's insufferable?" Greg asked her. "Three million dollars a year or that it's the job you want?"

"That you seem so smugly sure I'll jump at the chance to become FBS's news anchor and work for you."

No matter how sincerely Chris might deny her desire for the spotlight and ascribe her motivation to wanting to make a difference, wanting to be heard, Greg knew intimately how compelling, if unacknowledged, was her ambition for prominence. It had already propelled her to nationwide recognition. He was proposing to lift her even higher, to the height of journalistic stardom.

"Chris, we both know this job has always been your dream: the most prominent newscaster at a major network, a person America relies on to deliver honest objective news. I'm offering it to you."

Her face was a thunderhead.
"You son of a bitch!
You crawled and kissed ass and betrayed whatever is decent and fine between two people, and now that
it s
finally paid off for you, you’re trying to buy me, too."

"Let's not make this personal. I'm here because you're a great broadcast journalist. I saw that the first day on your very first story, remember? FBS needs what you can bring it."

"That's really the point, isn't it?" Carl said to her, confused by the byplay, but frantic for her to concentrate on the chance being offered.

She ignored him.

"I know you too well, Greg," she declared hotly. "Oh, do I know you! I would want everything spelled out in the contract, especially how much control I'd have to pick stories and the people working with me."

"Within reason you'll have all the control you'll ever want," Greg promised. "Chris, I want to remake FBS's nightly news program from top to bottom. The kind of news broadcast we always hoped we could create but never had the clout to. Now we do."

Chris was still ablaze. "I don't intend to take a job where I'm going to have to knuckle under to some nincompoop psycho of an executive producer."

Greg smiled slightly. "Like Ron Skelly? Whatever you think of me, you have to know that more than any person on God’s earth I know what a great newswoman you are. I want to give you the status and the opportunity you deserve."