"Ah, distinctive?" Wary, Deanna tried to turn toward the mirror.
"No peeking." Marcie laid a firm hand on her shoulder. "It's like going into a cold pool," she explained. "If you try to ease it a little at a time, it's a hard, miserable experience. And sometimes you chicken out and back off before you get under. If you do it all at once, you have that one nifty shock, then you love it." She pursed her lips as she wielded the scissors. "You know, maybe it's more like losing your virginity."
"Holy shit!"
Marcie glanced up and grinned at CBC'S resident television chef. "Hiya, Bobby. Almost done here."
"Holy shit," he said again, and stepped inside to stare at Deanna. "What'd you do, Dee?"
"I wanted a change." Her voice was weak as she started to lift a hand to her hair. Marcie pushed it away.
"A cold pool," she said darkly. "It's a change, all right." Bobby stepped back, and shook his head. "Hey, can I have some of this hair?" Stooping, he picked up a handful. "I can have a toupee made. Hell, I could have half a dozen."
"Oh, God, what have I done?" Deanna squeezed her eyes tight.
"Dee? What's keeping you? We need to— oh, Jesus!" Fran stopped in the doorway, one hand covering her gaping mouth, the other pressed to her belly.
"Fran." Desperate, Deanna reached out. "Fran. Fran, I think I had a nervous breakdown. It's New Year's
Eve," she babbled. "Bobby's making toupees. I think my life is flashing in front of my eyes."
"You cut it," Fran managed after a moment. "You really cut it."
"But it'll grow back, right?" Deanna snatched a lock of hair from her bib. "Right?"
"In five or ten years," Bobby predicted cheerfully, and arranged some of Deanna's shorn locks atop his bald dome. "Not quite soon enough to honor the clause I imagine you have in your contract restricting appearance changes."
"Oh God." Deanna's already pale cheek went dead white. "I forgot. I just didn't think. I went a little crazy."
"Be sure to have your lawyer use that one with Delacort," Bobby suggested.
"They'll love it," Marcie said grimly. "She'll see for herself in a minute." Marcie fluffed and combed. Unsatisfied, she added a dab of gel, working it in, then styling with the concentration of a woman cutting diamonds. "Now you just take a deep breath, and hold it," Marcie advised, unhooking the bib. "And don't say anything until you take a really good look."
No one spoke as Marcie turned Deanna slowly toward the mirror. Deanna stared at the reflection, her lips parted in shock, her eyes huge. The long mane of hair was gone, replaced by a short, sleek cap with a saucy fringe of bangs. In a daze, she watched the woman in the mirror lift a hand, touch the nape of her neck, where the hair stopped.
"It follows the shape of your face," Marcie said nervously when Deanna only continued to stare. "And it shows off your eyes and eyebrows. You've got these great dark eyebrows with this terrific natural arch. Your eyes are a little almond-shaped and dramatic, but they kind of got lost with all that hair."
"I…" Deanna let out a breath, took another. "I love it."
"You do?" As her knees buckled in relief, Marcie dropped into the chair beside her. "Really?"
Deanna watched her own smile bloom. "I love it. Do you realize how many hours a week I had to devote to my hair? Why didn't I think of this before?" She grabbed a hand mirror to view the back. "This is going to save me almost eight hours a week — an entire workday." She picked up the earrings she'd discarded and put them back on. "What do you think?" she asked Fran.
"Not to diminish your time-saving priorities, you look incredible. The hip girl-next-door."
"Bobby?"
"It's sexy. A cross between an Amazon and a pixie. And I'm sure Delacort won't mind reshooting all the promos."
"Oh my God." As the idea took root, Deanna turned to Fran. "Oh my God."
"Don't worry, you'll dazzle Loren with it tonight. Then we'll work it into the next show."
"Post-holiday blues?"
"Sure, sure." Thinking frantically, Fran gnawed on her lip. "Ah — something as simple and frivolous as a new hairstyle can give you that quick lift after the party's over."
"I'll buy it," Bobby decided. "Now, if you ladies don't mind, I need to get into makeup. I have a trout to saut`e."
Early in the first light of the new year, with a video of Deanna's Hour playing on the TV, a single, lonely figure wandered a small, dark room. On the table where framed pictures of Deanna beamed into the shadowy light, a new treasure was laid: a thick tress of ebony hair wrapped in gold cord.
It was soft to the touch, soft as silk. After a last caress, the fingers wandered away, toward the phone. They dialed slowly, so that the joy could be drawn out. Moments later, Deanna's voice drifted through the receiver, sleepy, a bit uneasy, bringing with it a silver spear of pleasure that lasted long after the receiver was replaced again.
Chapter Thirteen
It was after two A.m. in Baghdad when Finn reviewed his notes for the scheduled live broadcast on CBC'S Evening News. He sat on the single chair that wasn't heaped with tapes or cable, dragging on a fresh shirt while his mind honed ideas and observations into a report.
He tuned out his surroundings, the noise of preparation, the smell of cold food and the chatter.
His crew was spread around the suite, checking equipment and tossing jokes. A sense of humor, particularly if it was dark, helped cut the tension. For the past two days, they had hoarded food and bottled water.
It was January sixteenth.
"Maybe we should tie some sheets together," Curt suggested. "Hang them outside the window like a big white flag."
"No, we'll send up my Bears cap." The engineer flicked a finger at its brim. "What red-blooded American boy's going to bomb a football fan?"
"I heard the Pentagon told them to hit the hotels first." Finn glanced up from his notes and grinned. "You know how fed up Cheney is with the press." Finn picked up the phone that connected him with Chicago and caught the byplay at the news desk between commercials. "Hey, Martin. How'd the Bulls do last night?" As he spoke he moved in front of the window so that Curt could get a video test of him against the night sky. "Yeah, it's quiet here. Nerves are pretty high — so's the anti-American sentiment."
When the director cut in, Finn nodded. "Got it. They're picking up the feed," he told Curt as he moved out onto the balcony. "We'll go on in the next segment. In four minutes."
"Bring up the lights," Curt demanded. "I got a bad shadow here."
Before anyone could move, there was a rattling boom in the distance.
"What the hell was that?" The engineer went pale and swallowed his gum. "Thunder? Was that thunder?"
"Oh, Jesus." Finn turned in time to see the searing glow of tracer rounds split the night sky. "Martin. You still there? Haversham?" He called to the director even as Curt shifted the camera to the sky. "We've got explosions here. The air raid's started. Yes, I'm sure. Get me on the air for God's sake. Get me on the goddamn air."
He heard the curses and cheers from the Chicago control room, then nothing but a statical hiss.
"Lost it. Fuck." Coolly, he eyed the violent light show. He didn't give a thought, at the moment, to one of those deadly lights striking the building. Every thought in his head was focused on transmitting the story. "Keep running that tape."
"You don't have to tell me twice." Curt was all but hanging over the railing. "Look at that!" he shouted in a voice that was tight with nerves and excitement. Air-raid sirens screamed over the crash of exploding shells. "We got ourselves a front-row seat."
In frustration, Finn held his microphone out to record the sounds of battle. "Get Chicago back."