Private Scandals

could make it work.”
    Fran blew out a breath, tapped her fingers on her flat belly. “It’s off the wall, all right. And I love it.” Letting her head fall back, she laughed at the ceiling. “It’s just screwy enough to fly.”
    “I’ll make it fly.” Deanna came back to crouch in front of Fran and grip her hands. “Especially if I have an experienced producer.”
    “You can count on me. But the cost of the studio, the techs, even a trimmed-down production staff. It’s a lot to risk.”
    “I’m willing to risk it.”
    “Richard and I have some put away.”
    “No.” Touched, grateful, Deanna shook her head. “Absolutely not. Not with my godchild on the way. I’ll take your brain, your back and your time, but not your money.” After patting Fran’s belly, she stood again. “Believe me, the first three are more important.”
    “Okay. So what’s your format, what’s your topic, where’s your audience?”
    “I want something simple, comfortable. Nothing issue-oriented. I want to do what I do best, Fran. Talk to people. Get them to talk to me. We get a couple of deep, cozy chairs. God knows I need new furniture anyway. Keep it chummy, intimate.”
    “Fun,” Fran said. “If you’re not going for the tears and angst, go for the fun. Something the audience can get involved in.”
    Deanna pulled at her earlobe. “I thought I might draw on some of the guests I’ve had on ‘Deanna’s Corner.’ Sort of a woman-in-the-arts thing.”
    “It’s not bad, but it’s tame. And it’s lofty. I don’t think you want talking heads for a demo, especially arty ones.” Fran thought over the possibilities. “We did this makeover thing on Woman Talk last year. Went over big.”
    “You mean a before-and-after sort of thing?”
    “Yeah. Makeup, hair. It’s fun. It’s satisfying. But you know what I’d like?” She curled her legs up, leaned forward. “A fashion show sort of thing. What’s new for summer? What’s hot? What’s now? You get, say, Marshall Field’s involved. They get to show off some of the summer styles. Career stuff, evening stuff, casual wear.”
    Eyes half closed, Deanna tried to visualize it. “Right downto shoes and accessories, with a fashion coordinator. Then we choose women out of the audience.”
    “Exactly. Real women, no perfect bodies.”
    Warming to the idea, Deanna reached for her purse and took out a notebook. “We’ll have to have chosen them earlier. So the fashion coordinator has time to find the right look, the right outfit.”
    “Then they get, say, a hundred-dollar gift certificate from the department store.”
    “How to look like a million for a hundred dollars or less.”
    “Oh, I like it.” Fran rocked back. “I really like it.”
    “I’ve got to get home.” Deanna scrambled up. “Make some calls. We’ve got to move fast.”
    “Sweet pea, I’ve never known you to move any other way.”
     
    It required eighteen-hour days, the bulk of Deanna’s savings and a surplus of frustration. Because she was able to wrangle only a week off from her duties at CBC, she did without sleep. Fueled on coffee and ambition, she pushed the project forward. Meetings with the promotion people at Marshall Field’s, phone calls to union reps, hours of searching for the right set accessories.
    The first Deanna’s Hour might need to be produced on a shoestring, but she didn’t intend for it to look that way. Deanna oversaw every step and stage. A loss or a victory, she was determined that it carry her mark.
    She bargained. A set of chairs for on-screen credit. She promised. A few hours’ labor for a full-time position if the pilot was picked up. She begged and she borrowed. Fifty folding chairs from a local women’s group. Floral arrangements, equipment, bodies.
    On the morning of the taping, the small studio she had rented was in chaos. Lighting technicians shouted orders and suggestions as they made last-minute adjustments. The models were crammed into a bread box-size dressing room, jockeying for enough space to dress. Deanna’s mike shortedout, and the florist delivered a funeral wreath instead of the baskets of summer blossoms.
    “ ‘In loving memory of Milo.’ ” Deanna read the card and let loose with a quick, hysterical laugh. “Oh, Christ, what else?”
    “We’ll fix it.” Firmly, and perhaps frantically, in control, Fran gave her a brisk shove. “I’ve already sent Richard’s nephew Vinnie out for baskets. We’ll just pull the flowers out