Belonging (3 page)

She fancied she could actually feel the silence of the offices in the building tonight. If she wanted, she could summon up the presence of any number of colleagues, even Carter, by slipping on an unedited working video- or audiocassette. But she needn’t indulge herself now; she’d have all the time in the world to be maudlin as the month progressed.

Behind her, outside her window, the city blossomed into night like a time-lapse photograph of a marvelous glittering electronic rose. She was encapsulated from the street sounds by the hushed humming of the building’s air-conditioning system. If she began to feel too lonely, she could call a friend, or she could simply remain here, where she felt most at home. She could sleep on the sofa, where she and Carter had made love, where she and Jake and Carter had earlier watched the Tennessee senator’s show.

She would be all right. She was fine. This imposed solitude could actually be good for her, she decided. It had been a long time since she had had the time to sit peacefully, alone. Kicking off her pumps, she put her feet up on a fat pile of folders on her desk, leaned back into the padded leather chair, and considered her life.

Two

All in all, she was glad to be where she was, a successful career woman, a “media personality” at the age of thirty-eight, with her own New York apartment and a substantial bank account. A few good friends. A rich, rewarding life. She’d never married, but then she’d never expected to. Because her parents had divorced, had never found “true love,” she’d calmly, if ruefully, assumed she wouldn’t, either. It had been the most wonderful surprise of her life, the miracle of adulthood, a completely unexpected bolt from out of the blue, that she loved her work, that she and her work fit so well together it had become a sort of marriage for her. Her deepest personal satisfaction, her sense of identity, even the most enduring visceral pleasures and deep abiding joys, came from planning and producing her television show.

It was an odd talent, she supposed, that she could immediately, instinctively, detect the core and strengths of other people’s homes when she had grown up without a home of her own. When she was younger, she had envied others their memories of home: a split-level ranch house or a backyard with a swing set or a bedroom filigreed by sunlight through a maple tree’s leaves or a kitchen table or the worn corner of a favorite chair. She hadn’t had any of that, not her own room with stuffed animals and curtains matching the bedspread, or a cat or a dog or a hamster, or even an apartment steeped with familiar, welcoming smells.

She was the only child of Erica and Vincent Jones, a handsome, charming, ill-matched, and finally irresponsible couple. When adorable Erica was a young woman at Vanderbilt, everyone told her she was gorgeous enough to work as a model; after she’d heard that enough and found herself bored with her studies, she moved to New York, visited the agencies, and actually worked on the runways in fashion shows for three months. During that time, at a nightclub, she met Vincent, who was just finishing his residency in plastic surgery. They fell in love, married, had Joanna, moved to Palm Beach, had affairs, got divorced.

Joanna’s father quickly became a popular, socially visible plastic surgeon, with offices in Palm Beach and New York. Her mother smoothly evolved into a professional optimist, always trusting that her ex-husband would come back to her or that one of the
many debonair men she loved would marry her. She was very pleased to live her life in transit, meandering around the country, staying with lovers, or in bed-and-breakfasts, or in the homes of friends, and, occasionally, briefly, in rented furnished apartments.

Erica—for her mother had insisted that Joanna call her by her “real” name—had been lighthearted, good-natured, frivolous, great fun. She always had so many friends that finding a place to stay for a week or a month or the holidays or the summer was never a problem, even with her little girl around. Erica had been loved by many people, people who worked hard and worried late into the night, who enjoyed coming home to Erica with her perfume and laughter, gin and tonics and nail polish, and her well-mannered, beautiful daughter.

Joanna’s father became a shape passing by, a check in the mail, a distracted voice on the telephone. Joanna was never able to separate who he truly was from the complicated Romeo dissected for her by his girlfriends. Whenever Joanna visited her father, he was living with a new woman who grudgingly designated some small space in her home for Joanna and her suitcase. As she grew older, many of the women confided in Joanna, hoping that she’d have the key to her father. But she had no key. And no female was permanent in her father’s life. He was always changing apartments and women, and along the way Joanna learned things about men in general that made her realize she should never depend on one financially or emotionally.

Both her parents had died within the past decade; her father from a heart attack, her mother from cirrhosis of the liver. They hadn’t lived to see Joanna’s success, and certainly they would have been puzzled, if they’d had any reaction at all, by her chosen profession.

Joanna had begun her career with accidental good luck when she was a senior at the University of Missouri at Kansas City. Needing money, she took a job on the
Kansas City Star
, assisting the social editor, who hired her as a favor to her mother. She was assigned to cover retirement parties, wedding showers, costume balls, but time after time her accounts contained brief mention of the guests and lavish descriptions of the homes where the parties were held. The social editor yelled, cut, rewrote, and complained to the features editor, and suddenly Joanna found herself writing a weekly column for the Home section. That eventually led to her move to New York to write for small magazines, then for a big magazine, and finally the leap to television, to the newly formed CVN cable network.

Two years ago while Joanna was an assistant writer/researcher for CVN’s morning news and entertainment show, she secretly worked up her idea for
Fabulous Homes
, and when she was ready, she made an appointment with Jake Corcoran, the all-powerful network programming vice-president. With a reputation for brilliance and always furiously busy, Jake Corcoran still found space for her in his schedule one day. Jake was so enthusiastic about her idea that he took the time to advise her in the preparation of her pitch, counseling her to work up a concise, vivid outline of the show, backed up by a fifty-page document detailing what the weekly half-hour show would encompass over a span of nine months, the proposed skeleton production staff, and a production budget estimate. Jake advised her to research and be prepared to discuss just what segment of the American audience would watch her show and what kinds of advertisers would support it. She did all that, as well as using her vacation time to search out, examine, and compile photographs and specs of the first eight houses she planned to show. She had letters of acceptance from the owners.

The more she actually dug into the details and shaped the show, the more excited Joanna grew. She could envision every shot, every room, every millisecond. She worked furiously, speeding through her duties for the morning news and entertainment magazine so that she’d have time to devote to her project, not bothering with regular meals or shopping for clothes or for dates with men or friends. Just slaving with a feverish, delicious, nearly maniacal determination. She’d never been happier in her life.

She’d also never been as frightened—or as proud—as she was the Monday afternoon when she was given fifteen minutes to present her idea to five of the network’s most terrifying executives. Jake Corcoran had called the meeting, and the sheer fact of his presence made it clear to the others that he approved of the show, and gave Joanna courage. Still she knew that her show—and it seemed now, the meaning and texture and zest of her life—hung in the balance.

At that point she didn’t have an agent to go to bat for her; at that time she didn’t need one and couldn’t have afforded one. But she was thirty-six, slender, a tall, broad-shouldered, honeyed blonde with her heavy hair sweeping down over one side of her face, giving her a sultry look that balanced out her businesslike demeanor. She wore a simple suit of creamy gray wool with a white silk blouse. She looked good in person; she’d look good on camera. She was comfortable with that, and she was confident of the worth of her idea.

Calmly Joanna made her pitch. She needed to get one of the five executives so excited about the show he’d take on the difficult job of arranging in-house production financing as well as exploring outside marketing and all the other various production tasks.

Ronnie Dantz, the network’s baby genius, yawned openly and picked at his dirty fingernails; he loved animation, science fiction, computers, and the future.

Sandra Mattlebury, the old cow who produced the afternoon tabloidesque talk show, watched Joanna suspiciously; obviously she’d come to this meeting only to watch out for competition.

Meticulous, nervous Phil Curtis with his hyena’s laugh and jerky mannerisms had been in Joanna’s mind the most likely possibility. He produced the network’s cooking and gardening shows and had made it known he was looking for a new challenge. Whatever he’d touched had turned to gold, so Joanna found herself aiming her pitch his way, and was relieved to see him take copious notes as she talked.

White-haired, red-faced Shamus Reilly, the network’s veteran, gnawed on an unlit cigar and popped Tums like candy into his mouth, nodding and grunting in what Joanna interpreted as positive reinforcements.

Carter Amberson was there, too. Joanna had heard about Carter and seen him across the room at network parties. At forty, he’d made a name for himself from the shows he’d produced. An almost chillingly handsome man, he was known for his abrupt, no-nonsense demeanor and his ability to work hard. As a coproducer he was, rumors went, fair but tough. But she could get no reading from him as she talked. His face was impassive.

Joanna talked for exactly fifteen minutes, then smiled and concluded, “That’s it. Thank you for your time.”

From the other end of the table, Jake nodded his curly black head in approval.

“What time slots are you thinking of?” Phil Curtis asked suspiciously. “Saturday afternoon is nicely packed already.”

“I’m thinking of Friday evening, around seven,” Joanna quickly responded, leaning forward eagerly. “The audience this would draw would be professional; they work hard, they make a lot of money, they want to know how to spend their money. They go out on Saturday nights, help the kids with homework on school nights. Friday nights they relax, watch TV, check out how the competition lives, see what they’ve been
working for.”

“Your show will make the audience envious. They love that. Can’t get enough of it.” It was Carter Amberson speaking. “I want the show. I’ll do it.”

Joanna’s eyes met his across the table and she felt an electric jolt zap between them so that her heart thumped loudly. Her knees went weak. It took all her determination not to collapse at the table. That was it? It was done? She was going to have her show? She could have rushed across the room and smothered Carter Amberson with kisses of gratitude if he hadn’t been so forbiddingly aloof.

So at once, in a tumbling, exhilarating, breathtaking rush of activity, an entire new phase of her life began. Joanna was busier than she’d ever been, and happier. The pilot went off beautifully and
Fabulous Homes
premiered its first three shows that spring. The network committed to a contract that summer, and the series began in late September. Within months
Fabulous Homes
was high in the ratings, written up in trade rags and popular magazines.

Joanna was so good at what she did she seemed to have been born exactly for
Fabulous Homes
. She could quickly spot the warm true center of any house; she could draw out the most laconic family member; she had a gift for knowing how long to linger on any subject or furnishing or architectural detail. On camera she discovered she was a natural, relaxed and efficient and quick and slightly humorous. The more shows she produced, the better she got. The fan mail began piling in. Celebrities approached her, wanting their homes to be spotlighted. The network asked her to sign a five-year contract. She found an agent to represent her both to the network and to the magazines who wanted to profile her, the charities who wanted her to donate her name or time, the talk shows on other networks who asked her for an interview. She was given her own office at the CVN building and her own secretary.

At first Joanna was concerned about collaborating with Carter, but immediately they discovered that their minds worked with the same speed: in brilliant, dense, rapid flashes that often left others behind. It was not merely that they thought the same way, agreeing on what was important; their minds ran in similar channels, arriving at point D from point A while everyone else was stumbling over point B. They had similar energies: on the way to one location they could spend an entire plane ride arranging the details for the next show; when problems arose, they didn’t panic or waste time tearing their hair but simply
grabbed hold and twisted the situation to their advantage. They loved their profession with a passion and recognized that in the other.

Her status and Carter’s were clearly spelled out in the myriad and complicated contracts they had signed with the network and with each other, but each show required hundreds of decisions. Joanna had heard that Carter was used to getting his own way. She knew the time would come when she would have to confront Carter, to fight him, and as she worked with him, she studied him in preparation. Carter Amberson was cool and contained, hard to read.

Early in their first year, the occasion she’d been expecting arose. Vern Cook, a young, capable, reliable assistant lighting technician, presented himself humbly in Joanna’s office one day. In spite of the constant praise and encouragement Mitch, the head lighting tech, showered on Vern, the young man was still painfully timid. Joanna knew it was something crucial that had forced him to come to her office by himself.