Alexandra Waring (58 page)

“Did you hear that, Christopher dear?” Mrs. Twickem said. “Your father has chosen the Dorchester Hotel for us. Do you remember what your mother told you about the Dorchester Hotel? What is so special about it? About who was there during the war?”

Christopher nodded, nuzzling the side of his father’s arm with his head.

“Can you tell your father?” Mrs. Twickem asked him.

(“He’s so cute,” Betty was sighing, sitting in the seat opposite them in the car.)

Christopher nodded, taking a breath and sitting up. “Grandfather was there,” he said. “With the gen’rall.”

Gordon looked at Mrs. Twickem in amazement. He himself had forgotten all about it—how his own father, when he was in the Army during World War II, had worked out of the Dorchester when General Eisenhower used it as his headquarters.

“Has concreek,” Christopher added, twisting his father’s finger.

Gordon looked to Mrs. Twickem.

She laughed. “Concrete. When we are here, in London, every time we pass by the Dorchester, Mrs. Ruvais tells Christopher the story about his grandfather being there during the war. And she always explains to him that the Dorchester was chosen for the general’s headquarters because it had reinforced concrete walls.”

“Grandfather was a tennent,” Christopher told Betty.

“A lieutenant?” she exclaimed. “Why, I bet he was a very brave man.

Christopher nodded with an expression of some seriousness.

“Julie liked him,” Gordon said to Betty. “My dad. They got along.”

“Dad,” Christopher repeated, giggling, trying to stick his foot in his father’s hand.

The four of them had had a ball thus far. Mrs. Twickem and Christopher, for propriety’s sake, had a suite to themselves next to Gordon’s, and Betty had a double room to herself down the hall. The way it had worked out was that Christopher would come in and breakfast with his father in the morning, and then Gordon and Betty would go off to work while Mrs. Twickem took Christopher to a little summer school play group. Sometimes they got back early enough to take Christopher out somewhere special, but usually they got back in time for an early dinner with him, a walk (run) in Hyde Park, roughhousing in Daddy’s room, a bath as supervised by Mrs. Twickem, and then jammies and a story from Daddy and sometimes from Betty too.

They had gone on two weekend jaunts thus far, giving Mrs. Twickem the time off and giving Betty what Gordon freely admitted was the majority of the responsibility, but she said—and it was clear that it was true—that she loved doing it. They were great pals, these two, Christopher and Betty, and it was unclear if it was a personality mix or the fact that Betty seemed to have the mind of a four—year—old.

At any rate Gordon was spending almost every day and night with Betty. She was a pleasure to work with, as always (she was so funny she had Lord Hargrave practically on the floor the other day with the history of her love life to date and the current dating scene in New York City), but what was so much fun about her all the time was how excited she was about everything. She took nothing for granted in London—all of it seemed fascinating, wondrous to her, a source of multiple and sometimes inexplicable joys.

She was just plain happy over here and it was contagious.

And it
was
a happy time, this mix of hard work in a strange country and the strange work of trying to be a father to his son. At night, after Christopher was in bed, Gordon and Betty would usually walk over to the May Fair to see the dailies, check on people, hear the gossip, and then walk the streets, stopping for a beer or for coffee and dessert. They certainly talked a lot, about work, about Christopher, about whatever had happened that day. And as the days went by, they had so much to talk about, they never got to it all.

It worried Gordon a little—for Betty, he worried—that maybe all of this might just be a little too romantic, all of this time they were spending together. In London. And so much of the time they were acting like parents, like married people, and certainly as dear friends which they were now, no doubt about that—and as colleagues in a way they had never been before. She shouldn’t be his assistant anymore, he knew that. He could make her a producer tomorrow for the level of work she was doing. But she didn’t seem any more eager for changes while they were here than he was.

But he had started getting pretty itchy for a release. Somewhere safely out of range of his domestic setup, somewhere safely away from the prying eyes of the cast and crew, somewhere safely out of everyone’s eyes save his own. And that’s why this Canadian producer had appealed to him so. To take this edge off—find a release, a safe one so that he need never do something stupid, like sleep with Betty.

Now why did he think of that?

Because he knew he could have her. In five minutes he could. If he wanted. He knew it.

Gordon thought poor Betty might be a little in love with him.

Flying back to London that same night of the day he had flown to New York to be with Alexandra, it made him feel angry and hurt to think about the fact that all the things he was doing in London that was giving him so much pleasure—with Christopher and Betty and even Mrs. Twickem—were things that he and Alexandra had never done, and would probably never do. And Gordon wondered what kind of a father would he be—or could he be—to Christopher after he married Alexandra. And then he wondered if he would ever have another child, and then he wondered how it was that he had never really pinned down Alexandra about her intentions in that regard. Alexandra loved children, he knew, but would she ever have time for them?

Would she ever have time for him?

He knew he loved Alexandra. Oh, God, he had loved her for so many years, there was no doubting that. And he felt it—yes, he knew he loved her because of how much it hurt sometimes. And when she called him this morning and told him what had happened, he had at first panicked, but then felt guilty, but then felt elated when he realized that she needed him. And despite their fight over the phone, about her insistence that he not come, he had never doubted that she would be glad to see him once he got there. And in the back of his mind, flying home, he had imagined that this trip would be just like the last time she nearly died. That the phone call had come just in time, just before he was going to betray her, and that he would race back to New York and find her at home and he would stay with her, holding her, reassuring her, protecting her, feeding her, making sure that she would be all right again.

Making sure she knew how much he loved her.

Making sure she experienced what it could be like between them. As partners. That he really could take care of her if she let him. That they could spend hours together, not doing anything in particular, having no goals for once, and yet never being bored.

He wanted it to be like those weeks in Washington.

But Alexandra had not been there.

Alexandra hadn’t been there in a lot of ways recently.

Or ever, maybe. He just didn’t know anymore.

And so Gordon completed his one—day whirlwind six—thousand—mile trip and was back at the Dorchester by ten o’clock. Betty had left a note for him with the porter, saying that she and some of the DBS gang were over at Shepherd’s Tavern on Hertford Street and suggested he come over. So he did, wondering, as he walked along Curzon Street under the streetlights, listening to the sound of his footsteps echo off the buildings, how he could explain to Betty what had happened without making his trip sound like the complete and utter waste of time and money it had been.

When he arrived at the tavern, the DBS gang had pretty much taken over the place, a big crowd of talking and laughing and chatting Americans, hurrying their drinking as closing time approached. Gordon said hellos, nodded several times, making his way through the crowd to the bar to get a mug of ale, and then pushing his way through to the tables, looking for Betty.

(“What kind of city is this?” the director’s assistant said. “The streets are clean, cab drivers know where they’re going, bars close at eleven and nobody carries a gun. It’s got no character.”

“And don’t you wonder what they’re like in bed?” a production secretary giggled. “Pardon me,” she mimicked, “but would it be possible for you to move your leg? Would that be too much trouble? Oh, marvelous, thank you, that’s quite good, thank you, thank you very much indeed.”

“I was in Hyde Park today,” a unit manager said, “sitting in a chair. And this gal’s coming over to me—in jeans with the knees torn out? So I think, finally, a homeless person asking for money—but she says, ‘Good afternoon, your ticket, please, sir.’

“So I said,” an actor said, “‘Listen, ducky, Green Park bean park, back home we can play whatever we want in our parks and I’m telling you, we’re playing croquet.’ And so we set up some wickets and then I knocked one of her balls up the hill and under the fence and it rolled out onto Piccadilly and the next thing I know, a whole battalion of big—and I mean big—guys are riding up through the park toward us. So I thought, Oh great, the whole fucking Army’s after me!”

So they asked us if we had reservations,” the locations manager said, “and I said no, and so they said they were sorry but they couldn’t seat us for tea because they were booked. But then I said, ‘Excuse me, but we’re visiting from New York and Lord Gregory Hargrave suggested we come over for tea—and it was the Ritz he recommended especially.’ Well, let me tell you, the Palm Court was ours in a minute. We’re going to try it at Brown’s tomorrow and see what happens.”

“He can’t get the hang of the cars being on the other side,” the art director said, “and so at intersections he sort of—well careens into the side of them and then falls over backward on the traffic islands. It’s too bad in a way, because if we were back home, the cars would just run him over and finish him off—which is what anyone who’s ever had to work with the son of a bitch wishes would happen.”)

Gordon spotted Betty. She smiled and waved, pushed some guy out of the seat next to her and waved Gordon down into it. “Hi,” she said, smiling, clearly delighted to see him. “When the front office said you were coming back, I figured you might want to get out and stretch your legs.”

“You mean get drunk?” he said, sampling his ale.

“No,” she told him. Then she said, “Well? Aren’t you going to tell me how she is? If she’s all right?”

“Yeah,” he said, putting his mug down on the table. “She’s fine. She’s going on with the tour. So I decided to come back.” He looked at his watch, saying to himself, “It’s still today, right?”

“And?” Betty said.

“Hmmm?” he said, looking at her. She was wearing new earrings.

“And?” she repeated.

He shrugged, picking up his mug and taking another sip. Swallowing, “And they say she’s going to break all kinds of rating records tonight.”

“Good for her,” Betty said, picking up her glass. “That will make her very happy.”

Gordon looked at her. “Hey.”

“Okay, okay,” Betty said. “So we’ll toast to me, okay?” She raised her glass. “Here’s to me being very happy that you’re back tonight.” And then she leaned over and gave him a quick kiss on the mouth. And then she sat back and sipped whatever she was drinking, smiling at him.

“You’re drunk,” he said.

“Not at all,” she said. “Just happy.”

42
Alexandra Across America—Again

The newscast from Indianapolis Tuesday night, the night following Alexandra’s near shooting in Detroit, went on the record books at the Association of Independent TV Stations in Washington, D.C., as the highest—rated “collaborative network” program in American history. Up against summer reruns, “DBS News America Tonight with Alexandra Waring,” with an exclusive eyewitness account by the near victim herself and footage from the WXA studio, scored a 17.4 Nielsen rating —and on an affiliate system of less than half the size of the Big Three. And at that time of the year the some fifteen million viewers were enough to push “News America Tonight” to number twelve in the national ratings for the week.

A shocker for the industry.

“How do you think I feel?” Alexandra was quoted as saying after the overnights had been announced. “I’m thrilled people are watching us, I’m very grateful to be alive—and I’m horrified by the whole thing.”

“I’m sorry,” Alexandra said to Derek Wednesday night over a speakerphone in an office at WMI in St. Louis, ‘but I couldn’t help it. It
is
horrifying. I mean, Derek, am I going to have to get shot at every six months to get people to watch the news?”

On the other end of the phone, Derek was laughing. On her end, Alexandra was hunched over her portable makeup mirror, just finishing her makeup for the newscast.

“Listen, sweetie,” Derek said, “you’re all set with the new schedule, right? I’m sorry we had to switch things around—”

“Minneapolis tomorrow, Chicago on Friday,” Alexandra said, tossing her mascara into the bag. “Will’s got the schedule.”

“Right,” Derek confirmed. “And it really is worth it. ‘Morning, Chicago’ is the biggest thing in town and I think you’ll have fun on it. Then you’ve got two newspaper interviews, plus
Chicago
magazine—”

“Derek, I gotta go,” Alexandra said, checking her watch and standing up. “Let’s talk tomorrow, okay?”

“Wait a minute,” Derek said. “Alexandra?”

“Make it fast,” she said, hand on the speaker switch.

“Listen, I wanted you to hear it from me first—before you saw it.”

“Saw what?”

“You’re not going to be the cover story after all for—”

“Not even when 1 got shot at again?” she said, straightening up and laughing. “Well, give them ten points anyway for wanting to do a story on me a month ago. Don’t worry about it, Derek,” she said, reaching for the switch again. “I don’t much want to be in a magazine that wants pictures of me sitting on my bed in my apartment watching TV news anyway.”

“Oh, no, you’re still in next week’s issue,” Derek told her. “But, sweetie, listen—the cover
…
” Derek sighed. “They’re going with John Darly on the cover, with the line, ‘America’s Affluence Goes Haywire—Preppie Assassin John Darly.’ And then there’s a little picture of you up in the corner.”

Silence. Alexandra slowly sat back down.

“I’m sorry, Alexandra,” Derek said. “Cassy and Langley and Jackson —we all called over there today when we heard, but they’re not going to change it.” A moment later, “Sweetie, are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she said, swallowing. And then she gave her head a quick shake, blinking a couple of times, sat forward on the desk and said, “But listen to me, Derek—carefully. John Darly is not a PR piece. John Darly is news. The guy tried to shoot me. That’s news. So if you guys ever try to interfere with the way someone else covers the news, I will personally come back to New York and break your legs—do you understand me? And I want you to tell the mighty triad that—and that they, of all people, should know better.”

Derek laughed. “I’m not laughing, Derek,” she told him, switching off the speaker phone.

“Good morning, this must be Minneapolis,” Alexandra said into the phone.

“Hi, sweetheart!” Cassy said. “How are you?”

“Fine. I just got your message as I walked in,” Alexandra said, holding it—on top of several other messages—in front of her. She was standing by a desk in the corner of the newsroom of their Minneapolis affiliate, WLS. “Boy, it sure makes my day—my year—and my life, I think,” she said, laughing. “It’s wonderful news. Tell Langley and Jackson I’m ecstatic. I can’t believe it, can you? We’ll have real international desks now, right? I mean, like London, Paris, Milan—”

“Well, not for a couple months yet,” Cassy said. “But soon. And Langley’s going to the board meeting this weekend to see if we can expand to seven days a week. Speed the whole schedule up by a year.”

“Oh, wow,” Alexandra sighed, sinking down on the edge of a desk. “I can’t believe it, can you?”

“Just wait,” Cassy said, “you haven’t even heard the best yet. Are you sitting down?”

“Yes,” Alexandra said, squinting slightly.

“Come Monday morning,” Cassy said, “DBS will have one hundred thirty—three affiliate stations across America.”

Alexandra dropped the phone and screamed. For joy.

“No, I’m right in the middle of the Mississippi River,” Alexandra said, sitting in a chintz—covered wingback chair, looking out the window at the night sky. “It’s lovely, really lovely.”

“What’s it called?” Jessica asked her.

“The Nicollet Island Inn,” Alexandra said. “Will’s room looks over at downtown Minneapolis—I look straight out over the river. I wish I could stay another night, it’s so lovely—but Chicago calls.”

“What time do you have to get up?”

“Six,” she said, sighing.

“Why don’t you just come home for a week?” Jessica said. “You need some rest. You looked tired tonight.”

“I’ll catch up on sleep this weekend,” Alexandra said. “At home. Kansas—home, I mean.”

Silence.

“I’m looking at Central Park,” Jessica told her. She laughed then. “Oh, you should have seen me this afternoon, Waring. It seemed like such a great idea to take everybody roller—skating after the show. It was beautiful out, Wollman rink was practically empty, and we just got the word on my ratings—By the way,” she added, her voice dropping, “did I ever thank you? Didn’t I always say the surefire lead—in to a talk show was an hour—long boring newscast? Haven’t I always said that?”

Alexandra laughed, sliding off her shoes and bringing her legs up into the chair with her. “So how was the skating?”

“Oh, brother,” Jessica groaned. “I thought, what could be so hard about skating? You know, I only did it my whole childhood and then it was a big thing in Tucson. Well, forget it! You would have thought I’d never done it before. I looked like Grandma Moses walking across a wet kitchen floor.”

Alexandra roared.

“Oh, it was awful,” Jessica said. “I tell ya, Alexandra Eyes, it’s terrible being somebody who
used
to know how to do everything. I always hear these guys in AA talking about how they stopped doing stuff when their drinking increased, and I always think,
Not me!
But then, whenever I stop and think about it, I realize I haven’t done
any
thing except work, talk, drink and fuck for years—and I haven’t even done the last two with people I like in a long time.”

“Now, now,” Alexandra said, “I’m sure that’s not true.”

“Oh, it’s true,” Jessica assured her. “Skating, skiing, tennis, golf, sailing, even bike riding—I don’t even know how to ride a bike anymore. Talk about the youngest has—been.”

“But now you can start again,” Alexandra said gently, smiling.

Pause. “I guess I can, can’t I?”

“Sure. My bike’s in the basement,” Alexandra said. “Ask the doorman and he’ll get them to bring it up for you whenever you want. And listen, on the refrigerator is the number of my tennis club. Why don’t you ask Cassy if she’d like to take a couple lessons with you? She keeps saying how she’d like to start again. And the club’s right—”

“Forget it,” Jessica told her. “Cassy’s up to her kazoo in work with the new affiliates. Besides, it’s you she’d want to play with. She misses you a lot, you know.”

“I miss all of you,” Alexandra said.

“And I gotta ask you something, Waring,” Jessica said. “How is it everybody thinks you’re their best friend? Cassy, Kyle, little Alexandra, Jr.—all of those guys have been moping around ever since you left. And they all talk about you and they all look at me, like, ‘Scat, you’re a mess, get out of here—you’re no substitute for our best friend.’ “

“That’s not true,” Alexandra told her. “They’re all just nervous about the board meeting this weekend. Oh, hey, before I forget—Jackson’s sister, Cordelia, she called me this morning to see how I was.”

“The guiding light of the family, I hear, the Divine Miss Cordie Lou,” Jessica said. “I told Jackson if he insists on me serving corn bread to his kooky family—and did you hear that? We’re having a
cookout
in the square Saturday night? A kooky cookout?”

“Yes, I heard.”

“And that Jackson and Langley want
me
to kiss up to his family? How you got out of this, Waring—”

“I didn’t get out of it,” she said. “I went to the Darenbrooks’ house, didn’t I?”

“And now Cordelia thinks you’re her best friend too, right?” Jessica asked her.

“Listen,” Alexandra said, “let me give you a word of advice about Saturday, okay?”

“I mean, why else would she call you?” Jessica continued. “But then, why not? Everybody likes Alexandra Eyes. Everybody calls you—even Cordelia Paine, who hates everybody in secular TV. Alexandra, are you a mere mortal or what?”

“Would you listen for one second,
please?
”

A sigh. “Okay. What is it?”

“Wear something jazzy, but don’t show a lot of your—your—”

“My bust?” Jessica asked her.

“Yes, your bust,” Alexandra said. “I’d wear that black dress of yours, the one with the gray. It’s very pretty and you look wonderful, and it’s still sexy in a way but doesn’t
…
,”

“Strut my stuff?” Jessica asked her.

Alexandra laughed softly. “Exactly. Because I’ll tell you, Cordelia Paine is one tough cookie—and she’s not real high on some of the topics on your show, although she did seem encouraged when I told her you changed your cocktail party shows to a coffee hour. She’s not as different from you and me as you’d think. She’s very bright, has lots of energy, is a mover and a shaker—”

“That’s what we are?” Jessica said. “And here all these years I thought I was a hopeless wretch.”

“Only she’s very, very conservative,” Alexandra continued. “But if you keep that in mind you’ll do fine with her.”

“Jackie says she’s so right-wing her plane only flies in circles,” Jessica said.

“Jessica?” Alexandra said.

“Yes?”

“Just pay a lot of attention to her, okay? She’s a very important member of the board. And be yourself—but please, don’t drop any four-letter words.”

“I’m much better about that,” Jessica told her.

“Right,” Alexandra said. “Didn’t you just tell me you haven’t fucked for years with anyone you liked?”

“Made love with,” Jessica said. “That’s what I said.”

“Okay, so you understand me,” Alexandra said.

“Operation Beguile Cordie Lou,” Jessica said. “Got it.”

Alexandra sat up in bed and turned on the light. 2:06
A.M
, the clock said.

She reached for the phone, listened for a dial tone, pushed a button for a long-distance line and then punched in a number. She sighed, closing her eyes, bringing the phone to her ear.

Her eyes opened. “Is this the answering service?” She frowned slightly. “Um
…
” She looked at the clock again. “I guess she doesn’t want to be disturbed.

Well
…
I was going to leave a message for Cassy Cochran, but I changed my mind. Thanks. Bye.”

She reached over and hung up the phone. She turned off the light and lay back down on the bed, looking up at the ceiling. After a while she Sighed, murmuring, “Oh, God, what am I doing?” rolled over on her side and curled up around a pillow.

MORNING CHICAGO
Transcript p. 12

7-22-88 Guest: Alexandra Waring Host: Martin Hailer

HAILER:

Before you leave, Alexandra, I’d like to ask you your opinion about the recent biography of anchorwoman Jessica Savitch. Have you read it?

WARING:

Yes. I found it very painful.

HAILER:

And the allegations of drug use? Bisexuality? How do you feel about that?

WARING:

About the allegations?

HAILER:

Yes.

WARING:

Um… I feel—I feel sick at heart, really. Because Jessica Savitch will always be a hero to me and hearing these kind of things—well—hurts. Because, you see, she was the one I watched, the one who made me think, gosh, maybe I could anchor the news someday.… No—no doubt about it, watching Jessica Savitch anchor the news changed my life. And so to hear these things about her is painful—because my admiration for her runs very deep.

HAILER:

Pardon my astonishment, but you, who pride yourself on being a journalist, openly admire a woman who people say merely cashed in on her looks—

WARING:

Did you ever see her in person?

HAILER:

No.

WARING:

I didn’t think so.

HAILER: