Private Scandals

scrounging around for a two-minute spot on the late news.” She was trembling now, her temper pricked and pecked by needles of insecurity.“People want me. They admire me. They respect me.”
    “I certainly did.”
    Both Finn and Angela turned to the doorway, where Deanna stood, pale under her camera makeup. She noted, with no surprise, that Angela had salvaged most of the rose blooms and had set them prominently on her desk.
    “Deanna.” Tears swimming in her eyes, Angela started across the room. “I don’t know how I can ever apologize.”
    “Please don’t. I think, since it’s only the three of us here, we can be honest. I know you planned the whole episode, that you arranged to have me walk in just when I did.”
    “How could you say such a thing?”
    “I saw your face.” Her voice hitched, but she steadied herself. She would not lose control. “I saw your face,” she repeated. “I’m not sure whether it was because you wanted to prove that I was wrong about Marshall, or if it was because I couldn’t accept your offer. Maybe it was a combination of both.”
    Hurt, every bit as genuine as the pearls at her throat, shuddered through Angela’s voice. “You should know me better.”
    “Yes, I should have known you better. But I wanted to believe in you. I wanted to be flattered that you befriended me, that you saw something in me. So I didn’t look past the surface.”
    “So.” Blinking at tears, Angela turned away. “You’re going to toss our friendship aside because of a man.”
    “No, I’m tossing it aside because of me. I wanted you to know that.”
    “I gave you my time, my help, my affection.” Whirling, Angela pounced. “No one turns me down.”
    “Then I guess I’m the first. Good luck in New York.” Good copy, Deanna told herself as she walked out. Damn good copy.
    “Don’t forget to look over your shoulder,” Finn said as he closed the door quietly behind him.

Chapter Nine
ANGELA TRADES WINDY CITY FOR BIG APPLE
TALK SHOW QUEEN TO REIGN IN NEW YORK
MULTIMILLION - DOLLAR DEAL FOR
CHICAGO ’ S FAVORITE BLONDE
    T he headlines gloated over the news. Even staunch vehicles like the Chicago Tribune, The New York Times, The Washington Post carried the banner. For one sunny day in June, stories of Angela’s record-breaking deal overshadowed the troubled economy and unrest in the Middle East.
    She was in her element.
    With the graciousness of royalty, she granted interviews, welcomed a team from People into her home, chatted with Liz Smith over the phone. She had a quote for Variety and agreed to a layout in McCall’s.
    Finally, through hard work, blind ambition and sheer guts, she had attained what she’d always craved. Undivided attention.
    She was canny enough to have nothing but the highest praise for CBC, for Delacort and for Chicago. She even worked up a few tears on Entertainment Tonight.
    And her clipping service captured every word, every inch of print that revolved around her.
    Then, amidst the uproar, she delivered the coup de grace. She would be taking the last six weeks on her contract as vacation.
    “She knows how to turn the screws, doesn’t she?” Fran rolled a pair of mismatched socks into a ball and tossed them into a laundry basket.
    “That’s not the worst of it.” Deanna paced the tiny living room of Fran’s downtown apartment. “Half her staff got pink-slipped. The others have the choice of pulling up stakes and moving to New York or looking for a new job.” She hissed through her teeth. “There aren’t any damn jobs.”
    “Obviously you don’t read the papers. The administration says we’re not in a recession. It’s all in our minds.”
    Unamused, Deanna picked up a book of baby names and slapped it against her palm as she roamed the room. “I saw Lew McNeil’s face when he left the building yesterday. God, Fran, he’s been with her almost six years, and she cuts him loose without a thought.”
    Fran chose another pair of socks, one navy, one black. Close enough, she decided, and bundled them together. The heat made her purple tank top stick to her skin. “I’m sorry, Dee, for all of them. Everybody in television knows the game usually stinks. But I’m more concerned about you. Is Marshall still calling?”
    “He stopped leaving messages on my machine.” She shrugged. “I think he finally figured out I wasn’t going to call back. He still sends flowers.” With a bitter laugh, she tossed the baby book back onto the coffee table.