Private Scandals

I’ll take care of the rest.”
    “He wants your word, Angela.”
    “Honey, you give him whatever he wants.” She laughed; Lew’s headache sprang into full-blown agony. “Don’t be such a worrier.” She leaned forward to pluck a cigarette from the pack of Virginia Slims on the dressing table. She flicked on a gold monogrammed lighter, a gift from her second husband. She blew out one thin stream of smoke.
    Lew was getting soft, she mused, personally as well as professionally. Though he wore a suit and tie, as dictated by her dress code, his shoulders were slumped as if pulled down by the weight of his expanding belly. His hair was thinning out, too, she realized, and was heavily streaked with gray. Her show was known for its energy and speed. She didn’t enjoy having her producer look like a pudgy old man.
    “After all these years, Lew, you should trust me.”
    “Angela, if you attack Deke Barrow, you’re going to make it tough for us to book other celebrities.”
    “Bull. They’re six deep waiting for a chance to do my show.” She jabbed her cigarette in the air like a lance. “They want me to hype their movies and their TV specials and their books and their records, and they damn well want me to hype their love lives. They need me, Lew, because they know that every day millions of people tune in.” She smiled into the mirror, and the face that smiled back was lovely, composed, polished. “And they tune in for me.”
    Lew had worked with Angela for more than five years and knew exactly how to handle a dispute. He wheedled. “Nobody’s denying that, Angela. You are the show. I just think you should tread lightly with Deke. He’s been around the country-music scene a long time, and this comeback of his has a lot of sentiment behind him.”
    “Just leave Deke to me.” She smiled behind a mist of smoke. “I’ll be very sentimental.”
    She picked up the note cards that Deanna had finished organizing at seven that morning. It was a gesture of dismissal that had Lew shaking his head. Angela’s smile widened as she skimmed through the notes. The girl was good, she mused. Very good, very thorough.
    Very useful.
    Angela took one last contemplative drag on her cigarette before crushing it out in the heavy crystal ashtray on her dressing table. As always, every pot, every brush, every tube was aligned in meticulous order. There was a vase of two dozen red roses, which were brought in fresh every morning, and a small dish of multicolored coated mints that Angela loved.
    She thrived on routine, at being able to control her environment, including the people around her. Everyone had their place. She was enjoying making one for Deanna Reynolds.
    Some might have thought it odd that a woman approaching forty, a vain woman, would have taken on a younger, lovely woman as a favored apprentice. But Angela had been a pretty woman who with time, experience and illusion had become a beautiful one. And she had no fear of age. Not ina world where it could be so easily combated.
    She wanted Deanna behind her because of her looks, because of her talent, because of her youth. Most of all, because power scented power.
    And for the very simple reason that she liked the girl.
    Oh, she would offer Deanna tidbits of advice, friendly criticism, dollops of praise—and perhaps, in time, a position of some merit. But she had no intention of allowing someone she already sensed as a potential competitor to break free. No one broke free from Angela Perkins.
    She had two ex-husbands who had learned that. They hadn’t broken free. They had been dispatched.
    “Angela?”
    “Deanna.” Angela flung out a hand in welcome. “I was just thinking about you. Your notes are wonderful. They’ll add so much to the show.”
    “Glad I could help.” Deanna lifted a hand to toy with her left earring, a sign of hesitation she’d yet to master. “Angela, I feel awkward asking you this, but my mother is a huge fan of Deke Barrow’s.”
    “And you’d like an autograph.”
    After a quick, embarrassed smile, Deanna brought out the CD she was holding behind her back. “She’d love it if he could sign this for her.”
    “You just leave it to me.” Angela tapped one perfect, French-manicured nail along the edge of the CD. “And what is your mother’s name again, Dee?”
    “It’s Marilyn. I really appreciate it, Angela.”
    “Anything I can do for you, sweetie.” She waited a beat. Her timing had always been excellent. “Oh, and there