A ruling passion : a novel (30 page)

"Mind? I'm delighted," Sybille said. "It's not my kind of dancing."

"Nor anyone else's, thank God," laughed Valerie. "But he's irresistible, you know: like a little boy having the time of his life and not afraid to show it."

"Irresistible," Sybille echoed, leaving it unclear whether she was agreeing with Valerie or sweeping the word out of sight.

"I suppose he's able to show it because he doesn't care what the rest of us think," Valerie said shrewdly, "but he's fun to dance with, anyway. And it's nice to find a man who's willing to let us see the litde boy inside him. Most men don't remember what it felt like to be one or they really are little boys who've never grown up."

Sybille followed her gaze and saw Kent, in the middle of the crowded dance floor, kissing the hand of a willowy black-haired beauty. Valerie turned suddenly. "No, it's not what it seems. He's absolutely faithful. Poor Kent; he hasn't grown up enough even to go through with an affair."

Sybille stared at her. "Is that what you want him to do?"

"I did once. It doesn't much matter now."

"Why did you?"

"Because then something would have been happening." She sat back in her chair, ignoring the plate a waiter set in front of her, and contemplating Sybille. The music had stopped so everyone could eat the

next course, and in the sudden quiet, with only murmured conversations on ail sides, it was easier for Sybille to hear Valerie's low voice. "You don't understand that, do you? You're always busy with your programs, and Quentin is busy running his station, and you have your visits with Chad... I admire you, Sybille. You're always doing things and making things happen. You're very lucky."

She's playing some kind of game, Sybille thought. Valerie Shoreham doesn't envy people; people envy her. "But you're always busy," she said. 'Your board meetings and your horses, and shopping, and whatever you do on television..."

'You know perfectly well what I do on television," Valerie said, and it infuriated Sybille to see that she was amused. "But you're right; I'm so busy there's never enough time for everything. I've even taken up hunting, did I tell you? I haven't decided whether I like it or not, but at least it's something different." Her eyes grew thoughtful. "The trouble is, I can't always figure out at the end of the day what I've done with my time. It just seems to be gone, and nothing to show for it." In an instant, the thoughtflilness vanished and she was smiling gaily. "Isn't it dull to hsten to people complain? Anyway, I don't let myself think about it very much; it doesn't lead anywhere."

"What does Kent do?" Sybille asked. "Besides the bank."

"He's getting very good at his crossword puzzles. Poor dear, he's fi"antically bored, but the world seems so overwhelming to him he's afraid to go out there and tackle anything."

"He married you," Sybille said bluntly.

"Oh, his father and I worked that out." Valerie smiled. "Goodness, you look so shocked. That sort of thing is done more often than you think. His father thought if Kent had a family he'd have enough confidence to take hold at the bank, and I was feeling at loose ends after all that traveling, and Kent and I were friends, and I wanted to make a home. So his father and I suggested it to Kent, and he was very relieved and very happy. It couldn't do any harm and it seemed like a good idea at the time."

"And?" Sybille asked.

"It wasn't a good idea and ifs about over. And poor Kent thinks he's failed again, even though I keep telling him it's my fault."

"Is it?"

"Oh, who knows? I tell him it is, because he's miserable about not being good at anything and you can't let someone feel that way if you can help it. He wants to believe I'm right, and he's happier when he does, and what do I care? Life is full of things that go wrong. You

can't wallow in them; you just pick yourself up and do something else. So we decided to finish the season, show our happy faces at the balls and parties and little dinners we'd accepted, and then go our own ways. Haven't you noticed Kent stalking attractive women these last few weeks? He doesn't want to be alone and he's getting nervous because it's June, and our last dinner party is next week, and he hasn't found anyone he wants."

"He should commission his father to do it for him," said Sybille. Valerie's eyebrows went up. "That's very nasty." "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be. I couldn't ever be nasty to you; you've been so good to me. But it does seem odd..."

"Perhaps it does. It all seemed perfecdy natural at the time." "And then you've been dancing and looking as if you were having the most wonderful time... are you glad you're getting rid of him?" Valerie shot her a look. "Were you glad you got rid of Nick?" "I didn't get rid of him; we had a terrible time saying goodbye. We hated being apart, but we couldn't figure out any other way; we just had to be in different places to do what we wanted to do. Nick kept trying to find another way, he wanted to come to New York, but we both knew his business was in California and he had to be there."

Valerie was watching her keenly. Then she smiled, almost to herself "That sounds like Nick. He's a very constant person." Sybille said nothing.

The musicians began to play, and the dance floor filled with swaying figures. A revolving ball on the ceiling sent pinpoints of red and white light whirling about the ballroom. "When will you go to California again?" Valerie asked.

'T don't now. July, maybe. I was there in March, for Chad's birthday. We went to San Francisco." "Just you and Chad?"

"No, Nick came along. Three-year-olds are totally unpredictable, you know, and absolutely exhausting. They want to run off everywhere and pick up everything and talk to everybody... one person couldn't possibly keep up. It was a nice weekend, but I can't go back for awhile; I can't leave New York. We'll be making some decisions about my show and I won't let them do that without me." She paused. "What do you think of it?"

"Of what? Your going to California?"

"No, of course not. 'Financial Watch.' You said you'd seen it." "I've seen 'World Watch'; I like it. I don't watch money shows; I'm not interested in finance."

"Not interested?"

"Why should I be? Men in gray suits are always trying to make it more complicated than it is, probably so the rest of us will feel ignorant and they'll sound like experts, and I'm just not interested. I have advisers who take care of my money and we talk a couple of times a year, and thafs enough for me. Why should I do more than that?"

"Because that's whaf s between you and disaster," Sybille said. And if I could take it all away from you, you arrogant bitch, I would; you need a few lessons in whafs really important.

"I'm sorry," Valerie said gendy. "I know it depends on where we're coming from. I've been lucky; I've never had to think about money. I know some people do and I understand it; it's just not the way I live. Tell me about 'Financial Watch'; you'll be back next fall, won't you? The ratings must be good; most people aren't like me, they're fascinated by money."

Enderby came up, saving Sybille from having to talk about ratings. He made a brusque excuse to Valerie, who was claimed by a dance parmer, and he took her empty chair. "Remember Stan Durham? You met hmi a while back—"

"January," Sybille said. "The cancer benefit. He owns a nothing cable network in Washington, he has a mousy wife and he can't keep his hands to himself"

Enderby gave a bark of laughter. "You never told me that."

"Why would I? I took care of it."

"I'll bet you did. He's here tonight, somewhere over there"—he waved vaguely across the ballroom—"and I'm bringing the two of them back for drinks as soon as we can leave this shindig."

"To our place? Last time we had to pry them loose and that was only in a bar."

"Did we? I don't recall that. Well, thafs your job, then; you're good at it. Flash one of your sincere sparkhng smiles and get 'em the hell out after an hour. I may be doing some business with him, so I'm being a gendeman, but I don't have to overdo it."

"What business? We don't have anything to do with cable."

"We will if I buy his network."

She stared at him. "There's nothing there. He told us about it; he puts together packages of programs and almost nobody buys them."

"Then somebody^s got a chance to build it up." He took her wine glass and drained it, and looked around for a waiter. "Staff used to be better here. What are you surprised about? You've been hocking at me to do something... be bigger, better, braver, bolder... WEBN isn't

enough for you. I thought you'd be jumping up and down with joy. Doesn't your httle heart go pitty-pat at the idea of owning a network? I may put you in charge of it. CEO of the Enderby Broadcasting Network; that sound good to you?"

Sybille looked at him through narrowed eyes. "I don't know anything about cable."

"Don't worry about it; I do." He glared at a v/aiter who approached to refill his glass. "Took you long enough." He turned back to Sybille. "I'll teach you everything you need to know."

She shook her head. Panic was welling up inside her. The slow music had given way to something harder and she was deafened by the pounding of the bass. The dancers were jumping and hopping like puppets gone wild; they made her dizzy. "Something's happened. This is a bone to keep me quiet. What have you done?" When he was silent, her voice rose. "What the hell are you up to?"

"Keep your voice down! You want us to be in the morning papers? I'll tell you about it tomorrow, in the office where this belongs."

"Not tomorrow! Now! It's my show, isn't it? You've done something with my show." Once again she waited. "Quentin? You didn't take me off my show!"

He puffed out his cheeks. "It was discussed."

"It was discussed," she mimicked. "Who discussed it?"

"Everything was discussed," he said and abrupdy pushed back his chair and stood. "You know what the ratings are—so low }'ou could walk over 'em in a dark room and not even trip—and you know we've gotta do something; that's not a secret or a surprise or a sellout. We'll talk about it at the meeting tomorrow. Nobody's trying to screw you, Syb, you know that."

"A lot of them \\'ould love to."

He shrugged. "You made that bed. Remember once you said something about not being in a popularity contest? You just wanted 'em to know you were there. Well, they know it. You turned us around with 'World Watch' and the other stuff you're producing; you got us terrific ratings, and everybody in town knows it was you who did it. Do you want to dance?"

"No."

"Well..." He stood indecisively, watching the dancers, one foot tapping the rhythm, heel and toe. "Lefs go, then. Durham's waiting. You going to be okay with them?"

Sybille looked up at Enderby, her mouth tight to keep from screaming at him. He^ll die any day. Tomorrow maybe. And then Fll have it all.

"Of course. They're easy to handle. Let me know when you want them gone and I'll take care of it."

"Good girl," he said, his voice rich with satisfaction, and when she stood he gave her rear a little pinch as they walked away.

That summer, the new host of "Financial Watch" prepared for his fall premiere. His name was Walt Goddard, he had hosted newscasts in St. Louis, Phoenix and Seattle, and he had broad shoulders and shrewd eyes and a handsome, rugged face that polls had shown was trusted by women and men alike. Sybille barely spoke to him. She turned him over to her assistant producer and then walked out of the station and rented a house in the Hamptons for two months. "You can come along if you want," she told Enderby, "but I'm going, whether you do or not."

"We're going to Maine," he declared. "The way we always do."

"I've left my address and phone number on your desk. If you want to come out, you don't have to let me know in advance; your bed will always be ready. And I'll be alone. I hope you have a pleasant summer."

She left him roaring at her and drove out to Long Island, ftiry and shame like a hard knot inside her. She'd tried so hard, harder than she'd ever tried in her life. She'd wanted it more than anything else. Every time she faced the camera, knowing she was appearing in thousands of people's homes, it didn't matter that nervousness clutched at her stomach; she still felt a rush of excitement and ecstacy, and for the thirty minutes she was on the air there was nothing else she wanted.

But they took it away from her. They kicked her out. Damn them, damn them, damn all of them who took things away from her. No one had defended her. No one had argued that she should be given another six months to learn how to talk to a camera as if it was a good friend, or a lover. No one was on her side.

The traffic had thinned and she speeded up. The farther out she drove, the more open the landscape became; now and then she caught a glimpse of sunlit water, a boat pulling a water skier, a stretch of beach. Nobody at the station was on her side. She'd been working with them for over two years, but not one of them came to her defense. It had nothing to do with friendship—she'd never cared about friendship—it had to do with professional respect and standing together when one of them was under attack. They were that way with each other, but not with her. They're all against me, she thought. No one wants me to succeed. They're jealous and hostile.

She reached Amagansett and drove slowly, looking for the address die rental agent had given her. They kicked her off her own show. And left her with nothing. Except a husband who danced as if he planned to live for another seventy-eight years, and a job as a television producer. There has to be more. More, more, more. Pll think of something; thafs why I came up here, to be alone and to think about what Fll do next.

Her maid and houseman had gone ahead, and the house overlooking the ocean was ready when she arrived. She was there at the height of the social frenzy that grips the Hamptons every summer. There were lunches every day and three or four parties a night with people who invited her because she was Quentin's wife and the host of her own television show and no one yet knew that the show had been taken from her. There was no one to bother her in the cool privacy of her bed, and there were riding lessons and hours spent at perfecting her skeet shooting. "What I really want to do is hunt," she told her instructor. "Fm going to do that this fall."