Falling Star (12 page)

Good, keep talking. Look, the producer girl's
running after the script pages . . .

"—is an offshoot of the one—"

Charlie screamed. "Fuck! Again! I can't
believe it!"

This can't be happening.
"—which
caused so much—"

"Stop! Stop!" The producer girl waved her
hands frantically, again pressing her headset against her ear,
again running toward Charlie. He'd resumed his stance half inside
the ENG truck, only his denimed posterior protruding. By now the
bystanders were laughing at these buffoons from KXLA, like they
were a comedy team serving up the biggest joke of the season.

Only the joke's all on me.

Natalie stood, immobilized by the high-tech
umbilical cords that attached her to the camera. She watched
helplessly as her script pages took off like kites, or were
plastered by the wind against cars and fences and tree trunks, or
blew like crazy winged creatures down the street toward Our Lady
Victory Catholic Church.

"We're back!" The producer girl pointed
frantically at Natalie.

No. Oh, no.
Out of the silence she
heard clicks in her ear, then program, sputtering—was that Ken's
voice?— then no program, then program again, then none . . .

Dave frowned. "They're telling me we're back
in five."

"I am not hearing program!" The words spilled
out of her, breaching the wall of her training, breaking the
cardinal rule.
Be very careful what you say when you're miked
and possibly on air ...

Dave held up a hand. "False alarm . . .
Wait."

Does anybody have the slightest clue what
they're doing?

It was going to hell, all of it.

And Tony Scoppio and hundreds of thousands of
Angelenos were watching.

"Goddammit!" she heard herself yell. "Are we
up or not?"

All the frustration of the last days burst
out of her like a volcanic flow, filling the air with her rage. The
surreal scene around her suddenly went quiet and slow. People
turned and stared, their faces a blur.

And then it wasn't quiet anymore because she
heard her own voice in her ear—
oh, no
—she heard her own
voice on program, and knew as she stood paralyzed on the little red
duct-taped X that her irate voice was blaring from hundreds of
thousands of television sets across southern California.

Tuesday, June 25, 12:08 PM

"At least you're above the fold." Ruth sat on
the plump white sofa in Natalie's living room, bifocals sliding
down her nose, inspecting the
Hollywood Insider
, an
entertainment industry daily. "And they spelled your name
right."

Natalie turned away from her morose
reflection in the paned window to glare at Ruth. "Very funny."

"You've got to find humor at times like this.
Otherwise—"

"Otherwise what? You slit your wrists? Or put
your head in the oven? Or jump out the window?"

"Don't jump out the window. You won't kill
yourself. You'll just land in the
Insider
again."

"I cannot believe this is happening." Natalie
stared through the glass, the canyon dull and gray under an
overcast sky. LA's famed marine layer, the bane of summer, had set
in with a vengeance, creating a scene of unrelieved dreariness.
Probably the sun wouldn't break through all day. She sighed and let
her head drop forward.

It was past noon and she was still in her
bathrobe. Unshowered. Refusing to answer the phone, which had rung
a few dozen times. Refusing to read the
Insider
piece, which
she'd glanced at briefly, then flung aside. All morning, she'd
ricocheted between fear and humiliation, her embarrassment
ballooning from painful to grotesque.

Ruth fiddled with a loose thread dangling
from her suit du jour, a collarless lime-green rayon blend with
gold buttons set with military precision across the square-cut
jacket. "You think the article's worse than it is because you won't
read it." She shook out the paper noisily. "I'll read it to you.
But you're going to have to look at the picture, and in my
never-to-be-humble opinion, that's the worst part."

Natalie was silent. She hadn't let herself
give the picture more than a cursory glance, but she couldn't fail
to note that in it she was crying, and her features were contorted,
and she was holding up her hand ineffectually to block her
face.

"You know, this photo was pulled from the
aircheck," Ruth observed. Airchecks were videotaped copies of
programming that broadcasters were required by law to save. One was
made of every newscast and stored in Archives. "I wonder how they
got a copy of it. I'll check that out. Anyway, headline." Ruth
cleared her throat. " 'KXLA Anchor Blunders On Air.' "

Natalie girded herself. She could just
imagine what glee Tony Scoppio must have felt reading the piece.
He'd probably already ordered Maxine to post it on the newsroom
notice board.

" 'Natalie Daniels, long-time anchor of
The KXLA Primetime News
(Channel 12, 10 PM weeknights), made
TV-news history last night by swearing and crying live on air
during a report from the portion of the 210 freeway at Sierra Madre
Boulevard that collapsed in last week's earthquake. The newscast
had been marred, and Daniels's performance apparently affected, by
problems with the satellite linkup. The incident followed a similar
snafu last week, when Daniels repeatedly misreported the magnitude
of the quake's most serious aftershock. A source at KXLA says that
morale at the station has been sinking—'"

"What? What 'source within KXLA'?"

"The famous 'unnamed.'" Ruth peered at
Natalie over her bifocals. "You cannot seriously expect not to have
enemies, Natalie. Not in your position."

"I don't expect not to have enemies. But I do
expect to know who they are." She frowned. "Of course I know who
one is."

"Don't we all." Ruth returned her eyes to the
paper. "Blah, blah ... 'Morale has been sinking with Daniels's,
quote, "lackluster" performance since the breakup of her
twelve-year marriage to sitcom scribe Miles Lambert. Lambert is the
creator and executive producer of the fall season's highly touted
new comedy
Forget Maui
. KXLA News Director Tony Scoppio,
brought in recently from top-rated KBTT in Dallas, also owned by
KXLA parent Sunshine Broadcasting, would not comment beyond saying,
"I anticipate making some long overdue changes, but it's too soon
to say what they will be."'" Ruth threw down the paper. "Wonder
where I can get concrete galoshes for that guy."

Natalie stared out the glass. So it was war.
And her news director was using every weapon in his arsenal.
Undermining her psychologically. Jibing at her in the press. Even
more appalling was that she was her own worst enemy. In the last
week she'd flubbed both an in-studio interrupt and a remote
newscast. The Natalie Daniels of old never made on-air mistakes.
But now she was handing Tony exactly the ammunition he needed to
shoot her down.

Ruth spoke up. "Have you spoken with
Geoff?"

Natalie nodded. She'd called him. It had been
awkward, the first time they'd spoken since their botched Saturday
dinner. He'd reacted calmly, though both agent and client knew how
seriously Natalie's reputation had been marred. "He put in another
call to Tony. For all the good it'll do. Tony's been dodging him
all week."

Ruth rose from the sofa. "I gotta get back to
the salt mines. Can I do anything for you?"

"No, thanks."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

Natalie watched Ruth let herself out. Then
she walked with deliberate steps out of the living room and across
the foyer to the wood-paneled study, pulling open the big double
doors to a storage cupboard filled with the only thing that could
help her now.

Boxes. White and brown cardboard shipping
boxes, battered and bruised from age and handling. A dozen at
least, though she hadn't counted them lately. The Stash, she called
it privately, which was unknown to everyone in Natalie's life, like
an alcoholic's hidden cache of forbidden liquor. She pulled out the
most accessible box—when it came down to it they were all the
same—and laid it on the worn navy-and-crimson Oriental rug,
kneeling beside it. Already she felt better.

She opened it up. It was full to the brim
with letters, as all the boxes were: letters to Natalie Daniels or
Miss Natalie Daniels or Ms. Natalie Daniels, whatever the viewer
deemed the most appropriate form of address for a beloved news
personality. She pulled out a letter and opened it up.

Dear Ms. Daniels, I've been watching you so
long and I just had to write! You are such an elegant newscaster
and I just love ...

As she read, letter after letter after
letter, a smile came to her lips. Though she didn't even
notice.

*

Her hair newly washed, Kelly stood at her
closet in her bra and thong, going through her wardrobe. No. No.
No. The metal hangers clanged as they collided with one another,
her hand slapping one into the next as she rejected outfit after
outfit. No. No. She paused on a clingy black sheer top that served
as her standard first-date outfit. It was transparent enough that
her bra showed through, to spectacular effect. Reluctantly, no.
Then, two hangers down, yes. Perfect for what she had to do that
day at work.

Out it came: a long-sleeved U-necked black
lace-up top with what could safely be described as extreme
decollete. Leather, no less. She could pair it with a simple black
skirt: nobody would notice her south of the border, anyway. The top
made her look like a beer-slinging Heidi ready at any moment to
drop her steins but so be it. Men loved that shit. With a jacket,
she could get away with it on air.

But no need to wear the jacket when she was
chatting with Scoppio. Kelly chuckled and dropped the top on her
unmade bed. With Natalie practically self-destructing on air, the
timing for this conversation could not be more perfect.

A thought occurred to her. Kelly ran to the
heavy oak armoire in the living room that had served in college and
the few years since as an entertainment center. Decrepit TV and VCR
on top; videotapes, mostly work-related, in the cabinet below. She
knelt down to rummage for the tape she needed: KPSG PALM SPRINGS
CHANNEL 8 / / KELLY DEVLIN.

Her resume reel from her first job in TV
news, complete with its precious footage of her substitute
anchoring. She pulled it out and slapped it against her hand. She'd
gotten to fill-in anchor only once.

But Scoppio didn't know that.

The phone rang.

She dropped the tape and crawled across the
carpet to answer. "Yup?" She leaned back on her ankles, absently
running her hand down the back of her thong. The crawling had
gotten it badly wedged.

"Yeah, it's Grant from the Insider."

Immediately she rose on her haunches. "Good
morning, Grant. How are you?"

"It's afternoon."

She forced herself to laugh lightly. "I'm
working the three to eleven today and it's easy on that shift to
lose track of the time. What can I do for you?"

"I want to know how to get the aircheck back
to you."

She thought quickly.
The Insider
, as
she'd known they would, had used a frame from the prior night's
aircheck—which she, of course, had provided—to generate the photo
of Natalie that had appeared in that morning's edition. Pilfering
airchecks was a major no-no. So far she was safe: nobody had seen
her take it. She certainly didn't want anybody to catch her putting
it back. Or to see her at
The Insider
's editorial offices
picking it up.

But all in all, it was better to have it back
at the station.

"How about mailing it back to me at my home
address?" she suggested. "In an unmarked envelope?"

The guy laughed. "I can do that. Good
thinking." He laughed again. "Keep that up and you'll go far."
After Kelly gave him her address information, and made him recite
it back, he hung up.

She rose to amble over to her bedroom.
Keep that up and you'll go far.
She eyed the leather top
lying tantalizingly on the bed.
No shit, Sherlock
.

*

Berta Powers was a formidable woman, Natalie
decided for the umpteenth time. Natalie sat on a damask sofa in
Berta's sleek ivory-colored office, watching her attorney tear into
some poor bastard over the phone. She looked like she was having a
fine time doing it, too. Everything about Berta seemed wired for
action. Her bright red suit. Her Manhattan-style, mile-a-minute
patter. Even her dark hair, frizzy but contained in a professional
bun.
If I have to get divorced
, Natalie thought,
I want
this woman on my team.

As Tony would say.

"Sorry about that." Berta hung up and crossed
her expansive office to rejoin Natalie in the east forty, where the
upholstered seating was tastefully arranged beneath a huge de
Kooning. "Cream?"

Natalie nodded and Berta expertly poured a
dollop into her porcelain cup. She then pressed the RECORD button
on the dictaphone that perched between them like a nosy relation.
"You were telling me about discovering that the prenup was gone
from the safe-deposit box," Berta prompted.

"Yes, last week." Natalie returned her cup to
its saucer. "The bank clerk confirmed that Miles had been inside
the box."

"But the clerk didn't actually see him remove
anything?"

"No."

"It was your only copy?"

"Yes."

"You're sure the prenup was in the box prior
to that day?"

Natalie frowned. "Fairly sure. I went into it
from time to time, to put something in or take something out. I
vaguely recall seeing it on occasion."

Berta bit her lip and scribbled in a
spiral-bound notebook. Natalie felt a rush of humiliation, as
though a more competent person would have taken notes after every
foray into her safe-deposit box.