"It takes more than conversational skills to carry an hour show."
"It takes a knowledge of how television works, how it communicates. How intimate, and how powerful, it can be. And making the subject forget, while the light's on, that he or she is talking to anyone but me. That's my strong point." She shifted, her body edging forward. "I did some summer-interning at a local station in Topeka while I was in high school, and I interned for four years at a station in New Haven during college. I worked as a news writer in Kansas City before my first on-air job. Technically, I've been working in television for ten years."
"I'm aware of that." He was aware of every detail of her professional life, but he preferred getting his own impressions, face to face. He appreciated the fact that she kept her eyes and her voice level. He remembered his first meeting with Angela. All those sexual spikes, that manic energy, that overpowering femininity. Deanna Reynolds was a different matter altogether.
Not weaker, he mused. Certainly not less potent. Simply… different.
"Tell me, other than fashion shows, what sort of topics did you plan to do?"
"I'd like to concentrate on personal issues rather than front-page ones. And I'd like to avoid shock television."
"No redheaded lesbians and the men who love them?"
She relaxed enough to smile. "No, I'll leave those to someone else. My idea is to balance shows like the demo with more serious ones, but to keep it very personal, involving the audience-studio and the home audience. Topics like step-families, sexual harassment in the workplace, how men and women cope with middle-age dating. Issues that target in on what the average viewer might be experiencing."
"And you see yourself as a spokesperson for the average viewer?"
She smiled again. Here, at least, she could be confident. "I am the average viewer. I'm certainly going to watch a special on PBS that interests me, but I'm more than happy to pull up a bar stool with the gang at Cheers. I share my first cup of coffee in the morning with the Chicago Tribune and Kirk Brooks on Wake
Up Call. And unless I have an early call, I go to bed with The Tonight Show — unless Arsenio looks better that night." Now she grinned and sipped again. "And I'm not ashamed of it."
Loren laughed, then drained his Coke. She'd very nearly described his own viewing habits. "I'm told you moonlighted for Angela."
"Not moonlighting exactly. It wasn't as structured or formal as that. And I was never on her payroll. It was more of an… apprenticeship." Deanna screened the emotion from her voice. "I learned quite a bit." "I imagine you did." After a moment, Loren steepled his hands. "It's no secret that Delacort is unhappy about losing Angela's. And anyone involved in the business would know that we don't wish her well." His eyes were dark as onyx against his Byronically pale skin. Yes, an apostle, Deanna thought again, but not one who would have gone cheerfully to the Roman lions. "However," he continued, "given her track record, she should continue to dominate the market. We're not ready to go head to head with her, nationally, with another talk-show format."
"You'll counter-program," Deanna said, making Loren stop, raise a brow. "Go against her with game shows, high-
rated reruns, soaps, depending on the demographics."
"That would be the idea. I had considered spot-testing a talk-show format, in a handful of CBC affiliates."
"I only need a handful," she said evenly, but gripped the soft-drink bottle with both hands to hold it steady. Sink or swim, she decided. "To start."
Perhaps it was personal, Loren mused. But what of it? If he could use Deanna Reynolds to take a small slice out of Angela, he could afford the cost. If the project failed, he would write it off as experience. But if he could make it work, if he could make Deanna work, the satisfaction would be worth more, much more than advertising revenue.
"Do you have an agent, Ms. Reynolds?" "No."
"Get one." His dark, mild eyes sharpened. "I'd like to welcome you to Delacort."
"Tell me again," Fran insisted.
"A six-month contract." No matter how many times she said it aloud, the words still echoed gleefully in Deanna's ears. "We'll tape right here at CBC, one show a day, five days a week."
Still dazed even after two weeks of negotiations, she wandered Angela's office. All that was left were the pastel walls and carpet and the steely view of Chicago. "I'll be able to use this office, and two others in accordance with CBC'S end of the deal, during the probationary period. We'll be carried by ten affiliates in the Midwest — live in Chicago, Dayton and Indianapolis. We have six weeks to put it together before we premiere in August."
"You're really doing it."
With a half laugh, Deanna turned back. She wasn't smiling like Fran, but her eyes were glowing. "I'm really doing it." She took a deep breath, grateful that none of Angela's signature scent remained in the air. "My agent said the money they're paying me is a slap in the face." Now she grinned. "I told him to turn the other cheek."
"An agent." Fran shook her head and sent her cowbell earrings dancing. "You've got an agent."
Deanna turned toward the window and grinned out at Chicago. She'd chosen a small, local firm, one that could focus on her needs, her goals.
"I've got an agent," she agreed. "And a syndicate — at least for six months. I hope I've got a producer."
"Sweet pea, you know—"
"Before you say anything, let me finish." Deanna turned back. Behind her, the spears and towers of the city shot up into the dull gray sky. "It's a risk, Fran, a big one. If things don't work out, we could be out on our butts in a few months. You've got a solid job at Woman Talk, and a baby on the way. I don't want you to jeopardize that for friendship."
"Okay, I won't." Fran shrugged, and because there was no place to sit, settled on the floor, grateful for the give of elastic over her expanding waist. "I'll do it for ego. Fran Myers, Executive Producer. Has a nice ring." She circled her knees with her arms. "When do we start?"
"Yesterday." Laughing, Deanna sat beside her, slung an arm over her shoulders. "We need staff. I might be able to lure in some of Angela's who got pink-slipped or didn't want to relocate. We need story ideas and people to research them. The budget I have to work with is slim, so we'll have to keep it simple." She stared at the bare, pastel walls. "Next contract, it'll be a hell of a lot bigger."
"The first thing you need is a couple of chairs, a desk and a phone. As producer, I'll see what I can beg, borrow or steal." She scrambled to her feet. "But first, I have to go tender my resignation."
Deanna caught her hand. "You're sure?" "Damn right. I already discussed the possibility with Richard. We looked at it this way: If things go belly-up in six months, I'd be ready for maternity leave anyway." She patted her stomach and grinned. "I'll call you." She paused at the doorway. "Oh, one more thing. Let's paint these damn walls."
Alone, Deanna pulled her knees up to her chest and lowered her head. It was all happening so fast. All the meetings, the negotiations, the paperwork. She didn't mind the long hours; she thrived on them. And the realization of an ambition brought with it a burst of energy that was all but manic. But beneath the excitement was a small, very cold ball of terror.
It was all going in the right direction. Once she adjusted to the new pace, she'd get her bearings. And if she failed, she would simply go back a few steps and start again.
But she wouldn't regret.