“How did television get to be so cut-throat? Why would anybody want to work in such an industry?”
“It’s something you understand, Benny, or you don’t. You either get off on the noise, the power games and the practice of cracking heads and breaking balls, or you get out. It’s like mountain climbing and skydiving, you have to have a head for it.”
“And you have?”
“Sure I do. One of the best in the business. Trouble is that I’m surrounded by memo-writers and buttoncounters. Like Ted Thornhill, the president and general manager. Ted’s the big cheese around here. The CEO. He controls people by tripping them up with paperwork. He breaks up viable working teams because he has nightmares about them riding into power on a wave of public popularity. He dreads the idea that a newsreader or sitcom producer could replace him. What he really wants isn’t big ratings or prize-winning programs, but quiet, drab, hide-in-the-corner schedules that nobody blasts or praises in the papers, the sort of programming the business community feels safe with.”
I nodded, trying to reconcile this voice with the Stella of old. Who would have thought that under that tightly buttoned blouse of a former high-school girl beat a heart of such unfettered ambition. The thought made it hard for me to sort out material she was feeding me. I attempted to weigh the threat to Vanessa in what she said about her professional colleagues and adversaries. At the same time, I was getting a better picture of the background of the world she inhabited. What I didn’t understand was “why?” Why did anybody put up with this kind of nonsense for thirty seconds? All the efforts of all these people came out the boob tube. So far I hadn’t seen anything to convince me that that was a misnomer.
“You never did finish about Hy Newman, Vanessa. A burnt-out producer with a chip on his shoulder might be just the sort of villain we’re looking for.”
“Hy certainly could get frustrated enough. I hadn’t thought of that. I don’t see him making a mistake like that, though. He’s so meticulous. He’d look first and then shoot. We’re searching for someone who shoots without looking.”
It was quiet in the car, which was filling up with smoke from the cigarette interposed between Vanessa’s scarlet lips. When I rolled down my window, she shot me a look. “This isn’t a criticism, Vanessa, it’s just a need for air. Ever since I gave up the habit, I’ve become supersensitive.”
The sharp look mellowed, and she grinned at me in a lopsided way that only Stella could carry off. “Benny, I always could talk to you. I’m glad to have you with me while this is going on.” She patted my knee for a moment and then abruptly removed her hand to bang on her horn. “That son of a bitch! Did you see that?” A green Volkswagen I thought I’d seen before was still behind us after we’d been on the road for ten minutes. It distracted me from seeing a Japanese compact come up on the inside and pass Vanessa just as she began to move into the inside lane herself. It had been a near thing. The other driver looked scornfully over his shoulder and took the next right-hand turn.
This moment of excitement interrupted the beginning of a sobering reflection: in the past, Stella Seco had had so little to do with me that the idea of her always being able to talk to me, while flattering, was plainly untrue. But, as I said, the thought was interrupted and I didn’t get back to it for some time.
“Tell me about your life, Vanessa. Away from the bright lights, I mean.” She seemed to slouch over the wheel as though the helium in her balloon was leaking.
“My life, if you can call it that, is not much of a life. My everlovin’ husband, Jeff Cutler, is effectively estranged, loving it and living in Vancouver. He takes time out in La Jolla because he adores the mussels at George’s at the Cove on Prospect. He can’t stand my company. That’s not fair. He didn’t see enough of me to decide that. And, as with most modern married women, my ambitions will never be satisfied by a lifetime of lowering toilet seats. Jeff never did understand this crazy business. Or the insane hours involved. Since he left, I live alone. The place is cleaned by Lydia, who also buys my groceries. She leaves cooked meals behind her in the freezer. She also looks after my laundry and sends the bills to the miracle accountant who makes my life possible. He handles all of my business affairs: taxes, parking tickets and charity. There’s a woman at Holt Renfrew, Benny, who puts clothes on my back and looks after me in that department. If I say a word against her taste, I’m afraid she’ll quit. She holds me hostage.”
“She’s doing a good job.” I said it because Vanessa had paused to take a breath in her monologue. I meant it, too. She was well turned out for her job. But then, Vanessa provided the building blocks for Holt Renfrew to work with. And the accountant paid the bills at the end of the month.
“All that sounds organized and shipshape, Vanessa. Are there any complications in this arrangement? What about your family? Is all well there?”
“Poppa and Momma are both dead. Even with me newly back from the grave, my sister still isn’t speaking to me. She thinks I did it to frighten her. We haven’t spoken since Momma’s funeral six years ago.”
“I should get her name, just to check her out.”
“Benny, you must be kidding! You think Franny’s out to get me?”
“I’m just looking at the possibilities. Could you give her number to Sally for me? Anything I’ve left out? What about your private, unscheduled activities?”
“Are you asking me if I have sexual encounters, Benny?”
“Those aren’t the words I would have picked,” I said, feeling my collar growing smaller.
“Why, Benny, you’re blushing!”
“Damn it, I have to know it all if I’m going to do my job. What’s the use of telling me all this other stuff if you’re withholding this … this other stuff.” I was tripping over my words in some confusion. Vanessa kept her eyes on the traffic, but she was smiling at my awkwardness.
“You met that boy who brought the car around?”
“Yes,” I said. “George, the animator.”
“Doesn’t he look a threat?”
“Ask me when I know him better. Does he come with a last name?”
“Brenner. Doesn’t that ripple with muscle tone?”
“How serious is it?”
“He’s ambitious and young, I’m well placed and not unattractive. It works out for both of us. Believe me, I have no long-term interest in George Brenner. We keep it simple. He really is a very talented computer animator, you know.”
“But he won’t gain anything at the network if you … uh, leave, one way or another?”
“No, he’ll go on parking cars and making out until his looks go. He dreams of surfing in San Diego. Isn’t that sweet? He is a dear, though, and very thoughtful.”
“Could he be reporting to one of the heavies in your life?”
“About what? I don’t discuss programming with him. We don’t even watch TV together.”
“Who’s your boss, Vanessa? Who are you responsible to?”
“That’ll have to wait, Benny. Here we are.” She drove between the fat granite pillars on the curved driveway and the young animator was there to take the car underground. Vanessa slipped him a golden smile as he moved his lithe, athletic frame behind the wheel and was gone in a squeak of brakes and a belch of exhaust.
“Rule one,” Vanessa told me, was “never talk in the elevators. They’ve got them wired. One reporter was fired on the spot for talking about the Blue Jays’ selling a third baseman before it was announced.”