When the red light blinked on, Deanna was seated on set. She smiled, slipping easily, comfortably into thousands of homes.
"Do you remember your first love? That first kiss that made your heart beat faster? The long talks, the secret glances?" She sighed and had the audience sighing with her. "Today, we're going to reunite three couples who remember very well. Janet Hornesby was sweet sixteen when she had her first romance. That was fifty years ago, but she hasn't forgotten the young boy who stole her heart that spring."
The camera began to pan the panel, focusing on giddy, nervous smiles as Deanna continued to speak.
"Robert Seinfield was just eighteen when he left his high school sweetheart and moved two thousand miles away with his family. Though a decade has passed, he still thinks of Rose, the girl who wrote him his first love letter. And twenty-three years ago, college plans and family pressures separated Theresa Jamison from the man she'd thought she'd marry. I think our guests today are wondering, What if? I know I am. We'll find out, after this."
"God, great show." Fran, Aubrey snug in a baby saque at her torso, marched out on the set. "I think Mrs. Hornesby and her fellow might have a second chance."
"What are you doing here?"
"I wanted Aubrey to see where her mother works." Nestling the baby, she looked longingly around the set. "I've missed this place."
"Fran, you've just had a baby."
"Yeah, I heard about that. You know, Dee, you should think about a follow-up show. People love the sentimental stuff. If any of those three couples get together, you could do a kind of anniversary thing."
"I've already thought of that." Deanna stepped back, hands on hips. "Well," she said after a minute. "You look good. Really."
"I feel good. Really. But as much as I love being a mom, I hate being a homebody. I need work or I'm liable to do something drastic. Like take up needlepoint."
"We couldn't let that happen. Let's go up and talk about it."
"I want to say hi to the crew first." "I'll be up in the office when you're finished." Smiling smugly, Deanna headed to the elevator. She'd won her fifty-dollar bet with Richard. He'd been positive she'd last two full months. On the ride up to the sixteenth floor, she glanced at her watch and calculated time. "Cassie," she began, the minute she stepped into the outer office. "See if you can reschedule my lunch meeting for one-thirty."
"No problem. Great show, by the way. Word is the phones were going crazy."
"We aim to please." With her schedule in mind, she dropped down behind her desk to study the mail Cassie had stacked for her. "Fran stopped by downstairs. She'll be up in a few minutes — with the baby."
"She brought the baby? Oh, I can't wait to see her." She stopped, disturbed by the expression on Deanna's face. "Is something wrong?"
"Wrong?" Baffled, Deanna shook her head. "I don't know. Cassie, do you know how this got here?" She held up a plain white envelope that carried only her name.
"It was already on your desk when I brought the other mail in. Why?"
"It's just weird. I've been getting these notes on and off since last spring." She turned the paper around so Cassie could read it.
""Deanna, you're so beautiful. Your eyes look into my soul. I'll love you forever."" Cassie pursed her lips. "I guess it's flattering. And pretty tame compared to some of the letters you get. Are you worried about it?"
"Not worried. Maybe a little uneasy. It doesn't seem quite healthy for someone to keep this up for so long." "Are you sure they've all been from the same person?"
"Same type of envelope, same type of message in the same type of red print." Distress curled loosely in her stomach. "Maybe it's someone who works in the building."
Someone she saw every day. Spoke with. Worked with. "Anyone been asking you out, or coming on to you?"
"What? No." With an effort, Deanna shook off the eerie mood, then shrugged. "It's stupid. Harmless," she said, as if to convince herself, then deliberately tore the page in two and tossed it in the trash. "Let's see what business we can clear up before noon, Cassie."
"Okay. Did you happen to catch Angela's special last night?"
"Of course." Deanna grinned. "You didn't think I'd miss my toughest competition's first prime-time program, did you? She did a nice job."
"Not all the reviewers thought so." Cassie tapped the clippings on Deanna's desk. "The one from the Times was a killer."
Automatically Deanna reached into the stack and read the first clipped review.
""Pompous and shallow."" She winced. ""By turns simpering and sniping.""
"The ratings weren't what they expected, either," Cassie told her. "They weren't embarrassing, but they were hardly stellar. The Post called her self-aggrandizing."
"That's just her style."
"It was a little much, doing that tour of her penthouse for the camera and cooing about New York. And there were more shots of her than her guests." Cassie shrugged, grinned. "I counted."
"I imagine this will be tough for her to take." Deanna set the reviews aside again. "But she'll bounce back." She shot Cassie a warning look. "I've had my problems with her, but I don't wish hatchet reviews on anyone."
"I wouldn't either. I just don't want you to be hurt by her."
"Bullets bounce off me," Deanna said dryly. "Now let's forget about Angela. I'm sure I'm the last thing on her mind this morning."
Angela's initial tantrum over the reviews had resulted in a snowstorm of shredded newspaper. It littered the floor of her office. She ground newsprint into the pink pile as she paced.
"Those bastards aren't getting away with taking a slice at me."
Dan Gardner, the new executive producer of Angela's, wisely waited until the worst of the storm had passed. He was thirty, built like a middleweight with a compact, muscular body. His conservatively styled brown hair suited his boyish face, accented by dark blue eyes and subtly clefted chin.
He had a shrewd mind and a simple goaclass="underline" to ride to the top on whatever vehicle could get him there the fastest.
"Angela, everyone knows reviews are crap." He poured her a soothing cup of tea. It was a pity, he thought, that their strategy of allowing no previews of the first show had failed. "Those jerks always take cheap shots at whoever's on top. And that's just where you are." He handed her the delicate china cup. "On top."
"Damn right I am." Tea slopped over into the saucer as she whirled away. Fury was better than tears, she knew. No one, absolutely no one would have the satisfaction of seeing how hurt she was. She'd been so proud, showing off her new home, sharing her life with her audience.
They had called it "simpering."
"And the ratings would have proved it," she snapped back, "if it hadn't been for this damn war. The goddamn viewers just can't get enough of the fucking thing. Day and night, night and day, we're bombarded. Why don't we just blow the damn country off the map and be done with it?"
Tears were close, perilously close. She battled them back and sipped the tea like medicine.
She wanted a drink.
"It's not hurting us. Your lead-in to the six o'clock news has come up in five markets. And the viewers loved your remote at Andrews Air Force Base last week."
"Well, I'm sick of it." She hurled the teacup at the wall, sending shards flying and drops splattering over the silk wallpaper. "And I'm sick of that little bitch in Chicago trying to undermine my ratings."
"She's a flash in the pan." He hadn't even jolted at the explosion. He'd been expecting it. Now that it was done, he knew she could begin to calm. And when she'd calmed, she'd be needy.
He'd been seeing to Angela's needs for several months.
"In a year she'll be old news, and you'll still be number one."