Private Scandals

“Angela called your agent about your coming on my show?”
    “The day after your people contacted him.” Rob took a long sip. “She said a little bird had told her that I was considering a stop in Chicago.”
    “Sounds like her,” Deanna muttered. “But I don’t know how she could have found out so quickly.”
    “She didn’t say.” Watching Deanna’s face, he rattled the ice in his glass. “And she didn’t bring it up when she spoke to me, either. Two days later. With my agent she used charm, reminding him that she’d booked me on Angela’s when my career was floundering, and that if I agreed to go on with you, she wouldn’t be able to welcome me to New York as she’d hoped to. She wanted me for her next special, and guaranteed that she would use her influence to add weight to my Oscar nomination. Which meant talking the film up in public and in private and contributing to the ad campaign.”
    “Some not-so-subtle bribery.” Her voice tightened with anger held under strict control. “But you’re here.”
    “I might not have been if she’d stayed with bribery. I want that award, Deanna. A lot of people, including me, thought I was washed up when I went into rehab. I had to beg for money to make this film. I made deals and promises, told lies. Whatever it took. Halfway through production, the press was saying that the public was going to stay away in droves because nobody gave a shit about an epic love story. I want that award.”
    He paused, drank again. “I’d just about made up my mind to take my agent’s advice and give you a pass. Then Angela called me. She didn’t use charm, she threatened me. And that was her mistake.”
    Deanna rose to refill his glass. “She threatened not to support the film if you came on my show?”
    “She did better than that.” He took out a cigarette, shrugged. “Do you mind? I haven’t kicked this vice yet.”
    “Go ahead.”
    “I came here because I was pissed.” He struck a match, blew out smoke. “My little way of telling Angela to get fucked. I wasn’t going to bring any of it up, but there’s something about the way you handle yourself.” He narrowed his eyes. “You’ve just got to trust that face of yours.”
    “So I’m told.” She managed a smile, though bitterness was bubbling in her throat. “Whatever the reason you came on, I’m glad you did.”
    “You’re not going to ask me what else she threatened me with?”
    Her smile fluttered again, more easily. “I’m trying not to.”
    He gave a short laugh and set the Pepsi aside. “She told me you were a manipulative, scheming monster who’d use any means necessary to stay in the spotlight. That you’d abused her friendship and trust, and that the only reason you were on the air was that you were screwing Loren Bach.”
    Deanna merely lifted a brow. “I’m sure Loren would be surprised to hear it.”
    “It sounded more like a self-portrait to me.” He took another drag, tapped his cigarette restlessly in the ashtray. “I know what it is to have enemies, Deanna, and since it seems we now have a mutual one, I’m going to tell you what Angela held over my head. I’ll need you to keep it to yourself for twenty-four hours, until I get back to the coast and arrange a press conference.”
    Something cold skittered up her spine. “All right.”
    “About six months ago I went in for a routine exam. I was worn out, but then I’d been working pretty much around the clock for more than a year, doing the film, overseeing the editing, gearing up for promotion. I’d been a pretty regular customer of the medical profession during my drinking days, and my doctor is very discreet. Discretion aside, Angela managed to get wind of the test results.” He took one last drag on the cigarette, crushed it out. “I’m HIV-positive.”
    “Oh, I’m sorry.” Instantly she reached out and gripped his hand hard in hers. “I’m so sorry.”
    “I always figured the booze would get me. Never figured it would be sex.”
    He lifted the glass. The ice rattled musically when his hand shook. “Then again, I spent enough time drunk that I didn’t know how many women there were, much less who they were.”
    “We’re finding out more every day—” She cut herself off. It was so trite, she thought, so pathetically useless. “You’re entitled to your privacy, Rob.”
    “An odd statement from an ex-reporter.”
    “Even if Angela leaks this, you don’t have to confirm.”
    He sat back again,