Falling Star (30 page)

Bjorkman looked startled. "No, thanks."

Tony shrugged. Fine. More for him. He tore
off the wrapping and took a chomp, then threw the overnights in
Howard's direction. "What gives with the ratings?"

Bjorkman studied the numbers. He might be a
putz but he was good at this, Tony knew. He remembered every story
in every segment, which was useful for analyzing the ratings by
quarter hour.

Finally Howard looked up. "Well, we held our
own for the first half hour, then plummeted at ten-thirty."

"I got that, Bjorkman. What piece finished
right before we dropped?"

"Natalie's spot on DMV corruption. I thought
it was good," Howard added.

Tony was silent. He'd thought it was good,
too. Since he'd lit a fire under her pampered behind, Princess was
shaping up to be a good reporter. All of a sudden she was doing
research on the Web. Staking people out. And she did that shit
where she asked the bad guy the tough question and prearranged it
so the cameraman would shoot that part real close-up so you could
see the guy sweat. It made Tony look good, too, 'cause it made his
newscast look like
60 Minutes
.

But he didn't like it that viewers switched
away right after she got off the air.

He had an explanation, though. "This is the
summer doldrums," he told Bjorkman. Ratings always dropped in July
and August. People watched less TV because of repeats and because
they were outside enjoying the weather.

Howard nodded, then laughed. "But why are we
in the summer doldrums more than KYYR? It's the same season across
the street."

That wasn't funny. Then, just to add to the
nonhilarity, Ruth popped her head in. She was dolled up in a bright
pink suit with enough gold buttons to start another rush. She
cocked her head at the Nielsen overnights. "Having a pity party and
didn't invite me?" She came in and plopped next to Howard, pointing
at Tony's Snickers bag. "Didn't Mommy teach you to share?"

Grudgingly he tossed her a bar.

"We were just discussing the ratings," Howard
offered. Tony could've throttled him. He knew what Ruthie would
think about those.

"I hope neither of you is surprised. This is
what you get when you put a twit on the anchor desk." She focused
her beady blue eyes on Tony. "You can't fool viewers forever.
They're too smart."

He just stared at her. Ruth Sperry was damn
annoying. But he couldn't fire her because she was one of the few
people he had who knew what she was doing.

"Speaking of twits," she went on, "has Kelly
signed her contract yet?"

Bjorkman's eyes flew open. "You made Kelly a
formal offer for the anchor job?"

Damn both of them. And damn Kelly, too, for
trying to bully him into coughing up bigger bucks. She
was
a
twit if she thought she'd get them, especially now with the ratings
dropping like shit down a sinkhole.

"Outta here, both of you," he ordered.

"Oh, did I hit a sore spot, Tony?" Ruth
laughed. "Don't you want her to sign before Rhett Pemberley visits
in a few weeks? So you can formally introduce him to your new
prime-time anchor?"

By now be could've punched Ruth, except that
she was a woman. Instead he stood up, "Out." He herded both of them
out of his office, then hollered at Maxine to call Willa from
Promotions, pronto. He needed billboards—that was what he needed.
Now he'd launch the ad campaign, with Kelly front and center, so
it'd be in place before that pecker Pemberley rode into town on his
white horse.

Across the newsroom a bunch of staffers were
standing at the notice board reading the overnights, which every
morning Maxine posted for everybody to see. Tony walked right into
the group and tore down the sheet. He'd keep the ratings to himself
for a while.

*

"Of course, all of this is an exercise in
futility," Berta Powers declared. Natalie sat in Dewey, Climer's
sun-filled penthouse conference room and watched her attorney
produce a confident smile. That afternoon, in honor of the
so-called discovery meeting with Miles and his attorney, Berta's
dark frizzy hair was contained in a bun and she wore her signature
red: red suit, red pumps, red lipstick. She wore red for legal
battles like Tiger Woods wore red for tournament Sundays. "It will
all become moot"—Berta kept smiling—"when the prenup surfaces."

Either she's the best actress in the
world
, Natalie thought,
or she truly expects the thing will
pop up again, like Lazarus from the dead. By this point its
reappearance
would
be miraculous.

"Counsel, I advise you not to hold your
breath." Miles's attorney, Johnny Bangs, smiled, too, the sort of
smile a boa constrictor might sport if it had a human face. "You
might as well wait for the Titanic to resurface."

Berta chuckled. Natalie glanced around the
sleek glass-topped table. Except for her, everyone was smiling,
even Miles, even the male accountant whose name she couldn't
remember. All of them sporting big, fake, we're-going-to-win
smiles, while she had all she could do not to stand up and throw a
punch at Miles's lying, thieving, cheating face. It was painful
even to be in the same room with him.

Berta noisily slapped a folder on the
conference table. "The next order of business is the payment from
Heartbeat Studios to Mr. Lambert for executive producing
Forget
Maui
. In the amount of three million dollars."

"Not relevant." Johnny Bangs smiled
again.

"Of course it's relevant. You know as well as
I do that since Ms. Daniels and Mr. Lambert are not legally
separated, his earnings are marital property."

"It is not relevant because my client will
not receive the three million dollars during the marriage." Johnny
Bangs replied smoothly.

Berta flashed the
Hollywood Insider
that contained the item on Miles's
Forget Maui
deal. "It is
a matter of public record that Heartbeat will pay your client three
million dollars for executive producing the program this upcoming
season."

Johnny Bangs grinned lazily. "You believe
everything you read in the trades, Ms. Powers?"

"Your point?"

"My point is that Mr. Lambert has an
unorthodox deal with the studio. He is so confident that
Forget
Maui
will succeed, and be renewed next season, that he has
deferred compensation until this time next year. At which time he
will receive the fee plus a renewal bonus."

So he makes even more than the three million,
when the divorce will be final and the takings entirely his.
Natalie glanced at Berta and was disconcerted to see that her
attorney looked stunned. Miles, on the other hand, just looked
smug.

"I never heard of such an arrangement," Berta
said.

Bangs shrugged. "As I said, it's unorthodox.
It's also a tribute to my client's justifiable confidence in his
script writing."

Berta tapped a fingernail on the glass table.
"I expect written documentation of that studio deal, Johnny. And be
aware that this payment-delay tactic of yours will not magically
erase the three million dollars from the marital property. Your
client never obtained a legal separation, hence any money he earns,
or is contracted for, while legally married, still counts."

Bangs scoffed. "That's highly
disputable."

"I would dearly love to argue the point
before a judge." Berta's voice then took on the quietly threatening
quality mastered by the most fearsome nuns and schoolmarms. "And
unless you are forthcoming on this, I will subpoena Heartbeat
Studios for all paperwork relating to its so-called unorthodox deal
with your client."

"Be my guest." Johnny Bangs just smiled
again, that same loathsome smile. But Natalie noted with
satisfaction that Miles had paled a shade or two beneath his
salon-induced tan.
That's how it feels, bucko
, she
communicated to him silently across the table.
That's how it
feels to have somebody lay claim to half your income. Having
fun?

"Moving on to maintenance for my client,"
Johnny Bangs said.

Berta snorted. "You must be kidding. It's not
enough that Ms. Daniels supported Mr. Lambert for twelve years
while he waited in vain for his muse? Who very conveniently showed
up shortly before he walked out on his wife?"

"Save it for the judge, Berta." Miles's
attorney slapped open a file of his own, extracting a sheet of
paper and handing it to Berta. "This is what we require for monthly
expenses."

Berta barely glanced at the neat columns of
numbers. "This is outrageous."

"It reflects my client's reasonable
expenses."

"Only if your client were the Sultan of
Brunei. Forget it. We won't give you a dime without a judge's
order." She slapped the page dismissively. "And what is this seven
thousand dollars for window replacement on Mr. Lambert's
house?"

"Ask your client." Natalie refused to recoil
when Johnny Bangs turned his predatory gaze on her, though she felt
as though she'd encountered a barracuda in the deep. "I'm sure she
can fill you in."

Natalie met his eyes but held her tongue.
Berta had warned her that Johnny Bangs would bait her and
instructed her to keep her cool.

"Forget that, too," Berta said.

Johnny Bangs shook his head as if with
regret. "We'll get it sooner or later, Berta. Don't make me take it
to the wall. Last item." He turned to the accountant. "Do we have a
final figure for the value of the marital property?"

The man nodded. "We do," he declared in a
portentous tone. Then he produced two slips of paper on each of
which was typed a single figure, handing one to Johnny Bangs and
one to Berta Powers. Natalie noted that Berta did not look at hers,
but at the team opposite.

Natalie focused her gaze on her husband's
face. She knew him well enough to know that he was stunned at what
he was seeing. Not only did he pale another few shades, but when he
spoke, he stuttered.

"This is
it
?" he said. "This can't be
right!"

She felt a shiver of satisfaction.
That's
what's left after you spent my money on whatever the hell you
wanted all those years. That's what's left, Miles.

Perverse as it was, she couldn't help but
take some pleasure in her assets being as reduced as they were,
simply because it produced that stupefied expression on her
husband's face.

How can you be so surprised?
she
questioned him mutely, watching as he struggled to compose himself.
You were the one managing the money. Were you so lousy at it
that you had no idea how little would be left? Apparently
so.

Johnny Bangs held up a warning finger as
Miles opened his mouth to speak again. "Not now," Natalie heard him
mutter. Then he looked at Berta, plastering that same detestable
smile on his face. "I will of course need to run the numbers
myself." Bangs rose from his chair. "We're done here," he announced
and ushered Miles out.

Her husband hadn't met her eyes once during
the entire meeting, Natalie realized. He was a coward. That should
have been obvious to her long ago, but now it came as a
realization.

She looked at Berta. "How did it go?"

Her attorney smiled. "Pretty well. We got
them squirming."

*

Natalie went through her usual ritual when
she got to the station for her 3-to-11 PM shift. She stopped off in
the basement mailroom to pick up her latest load of correspondence,
then systematically dumped the viewer letters in an overflowing box
underneath her desk. So far they were going unanswered because she
hadn't yet composed a form letter response. What to say?
Thank
you for your concern. Let me be a lesson to you: either be like
Tinkerbell and don't grow old, or choose a profession in which
you're as valued when you're 40 as you are when you're 21.

One missive stood out: an invitation-size
parchment envelope with her address engraved in an elegant font. On
the reverse was the return address: Dewey, Climer, Fipton and
Marner. She studied it. No doubt an invitation to the firm's annual
yacht-club picnic, though this stationery was ritzier than usual.
She tore it open.

DEWEY, CLIMER, FIPTON AND MARNER invite you
to please join us on Thursday, August 15 at 6 o'clock in the
evening for a champagne reception to celebrate the engagement of
Geoff Marner and Janet Roswell. Regrets Only

Natalie stared at the stiff ivory-colored
parchment. The engagement of Geoff Marner? It didn't seem possible.
She slumped back in her chair, feeling as if she'd been steamrolled
on the railroad tracks by the noon express.

Geoff had asked another woman to marry him?
So soon after making love with her? Apparently he'd dismissed that
interlude as of no importance. He'd moved on, so much so as to get
engaged.

Now her back was up. What a coward he was. He
hadn't even had the balls to tell her.

Yet he had no obligation to, she realized
swiftly. Do she honestly think he went through his Palm Pilot and
methodically called every client? Or every woman he ever slept
with?
Get real, Natalie
.

She dropped the invitation on her desk
blotter yet the words continued to stare up at her defiantly. She
couldn't help it: she felt shoved aside. Passed over. She bent
forward and hugged herself around the waist. What was it about this
Janet woman? Natalie had never met her, though she'd seen that damn
photo. Which was enough to tell her that Janet Roswell was
beautiful. And young.

Which was apparently what it took to become
Geoff Marner's fiancee.

Natalie grabbed the invitation and tore it
into smithereens, which took some doing because the parchment was
so thick. But she felt no better when she was done. She stared down
at the shredded remains, remembering every damn bit of what it
said, the date and time, even the champagne reception. And knowing
full well that morbid curiosity would not allow her to stay
away.