While I was waiting for my coffee, a skinny man with a nearly threadbare brown suit hanging on his bones came in and pestered Sally for a minute of Vanessa’s time. He whispered to begin with and kept raising his voice a few decibels higher with every refusal. “But I’ve got to see her, Sally. She promised!”
“She’s behind by thirty minutes, Mr. Newman. And her next appointment is here, as you can see.” Newman gave me a glance that tried to wither me, but it fizzled. Newman turned back to Sally.
“I’m not asking, Sally. I need this minute with her.”
“Sorry, Mr. Newman. Perhaps after lunch.”
“Come on, Sally. I may not be able to get up here again. You know how it is. I need this favour. Do I have to beg?” Sally gave me a look, soliciting sympathy. I glanced at the flowers on her desk. How could she be so hard on Newman, an apparent old acquaintance, when she was so generous to me, a perfect stranger? The difference in our cases immediately became clearer. I was a newcomer, on my way up, in the good graces of Vanessa Moss, a first-magnitude star; I guess Newman was just the opposite. From the look of him he had no friends at court; he was reduced to begging.
Suddenly something clicked: Newman was Hy Newman, the ballet and opera director. I hadn’t seen many of his TV shows, but was awake enough to be aware that he was known to be a national treasure. He’d won umpteen different awards over the years with his Aïda and Carmen. His Nutcracker was an annual Christmas institution. He was a wearer of the Order of Canada rosette in his lapel. How could this young woman be giving him a hard time? Hadn’t his past work earned him sixty seconds of Stella’s precious time? I got up and leaned over to speak to the secretary.
“Miss, I know I’m booked to see Ms. Moss at 1:30, but I’m not in that great a rush. I’m sure that Ms. Moss will spare the time for someone like Mr. Newman here.” Newman looked at me as though I had just spoken blasphemy; Sally, as though I’d just let my dog make doodoo on her carpet. Neither was amused. Of course, then it hit me. Sally wasn’t being considerate of my time, it was Stella she was worried about. What I wanted was not much different from what Newman wanted. Newman’s wants and mine were of no consideration to Sally, ever protective of her boss-beyond the offer of morning coffee to those temporarily in favour at court. Just let me try getting in to see good old Stella after I left the payroll. Newman and I could both die of old age trying to get in. I glanced over at Hy Newman, who was rubbing his chin. The flame that used to reduce the likes of me to stains in the bottom of ancient ashtrays had long ago burned out.
Stella-now even I could believe she was Vanessa Moss and not my dear Stella-exploded into the outer office like a thunderbolt. My Stella would never wear a charcoal grey pinstripe over a magenta blouse. The men with her, like chips around a newly calved iceberg, pocketed their notes and backed up to the elevator, nodding. “I want to see something on paper by next Friday, Len. Len! Mr. Cook! Are you listening?”
“You’ll see it, Vanessa, I promise. You’ll get it if I don’t go crazy like poor Bob Foley,” Len quipped. The others paused in their retreat to the elevator to laugh. It was a cautious laugh, controlled and as far from hearty as Buffalo. Sally didn’t smile because Sally was Sally.
“This network can’t afford one Bob Foley, Len. Don’t even think of going crazy. It’s not in your contract,” Vanessa said, moving away from the group.
While Vanessa was still talking, she caught sight of Hy Newman and me in the waiting area. “Hy, darling!” she said. “How are you? How is Phyllis? I was thinking about you only yesterday. We really have to do something new and exciting with the Nutcracker for Christmas. I keep getting the same old garbage fed me. You know what it’s like. What I need is the Hy Newman touch. Will you promise to call Philip Rankin this afternoon? Tell him you were talking to me. Promise, now.”
Newman stood dumb. He was disarmed and laid out. A touch of colour leapt to his cheekbones. Meanwhile Vanessa moved past his swaying body to grab me by the arm. I could feel her strength as she pulled me into her office and closed the door by leaning on it. “Give me a second, Benny,” she called, scooping up the phone. “Sally? If I see Hy Newman up here again, we are going to have that unpleasant conversation that’s been pending. Do I make myself clear? I feel sick enough today without having to run into the Ghost of Christmas Past on the way to my desk. You understand?” Now it was Vanessa’s cheeks that were burning. Her usually warm grey eyes were on fire. “I don’t give a sweet fuck what you tell him. That’s your department. You be the heavy in this or I’ll find someone who can.” She slammed down the phone again and sat, or rather collapsed, into the big executive chair behind her large desk. It was probably Louis Quatorze the Fifteenth or something, but I couldn’t tell.
The office of the head of Entertainment was everything it should be: windows on two walls, relentless interior decorating and hardly any paper visible on a flat surface. Labelled portraits of the founders of NTC, large and suitably framed in gold leaf, stood out on one wall, with smaller ones showing the founders of NBC and CBS for good measure. A portrait of Edward R. Murrow hung on one panelled wall and the familiar golden statuette given annually by the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences stood at attention in a niche. I wondered when she had had time to be in the movie business. A flotilla of golden and silver European and Canadian television awards shared another shelf. I noticed that with a respectable handgun I could get off a couple of good shots at the chair behind Vanessa’s desk without moving too far away from the elevator. I wanted the desk shifted, just to make it harder for the opposition. If there was an opposition, of course.
“Benny, why do times get complicated and short? I’m late now for a taping. You’ll have to come with me. It’s a historic event: it may be our last in-house production. I’ve cut off people like Hy Newman because we are no longer producing our own series of entertainment shows. We’ve cut back to the late-night stuff, like Vic Vernon After Dark. Come on. We can talk on the way.” She grabbed a big blond-leather bag and a buff suede coat and headed for the door without looking back to see if I was coming. People in the outer waiting room scattered. Sally held the door as we disappeared into the burgundy elevator. Here she reached into the bag, produced a compact and began adjusting her makeup. She knew exactly how much time she had before we arrived at the main-floor lobby. When the doors opened, the compact had been returned to its zippered compartment in her bag and Vanessa Moss, her smile in place, walked directly to the revolving doors.
Vanessa’s custom midnight-blue Range Rover had been brought around, and a young man in a T-shirt and jeans pulled his forelock as he held the door open for her. “Get yourself a suit, George, and I’ll see if I can move you up a notch or two before I’m out of here.”