Private Scandals

without the call from Barlow James—Loren took at least a cursory study of anything that crossed his desk—but it was doubtful that he would have slotted time for it so quickly without the endorsement.
    “Attractive,” he said into his mini-recorder, in a voice as soft and cool as morning snow. “Good throat. Excellent camera presence. Energy and enthusiasm. Sexy but nonthreatening. Relates well to audience. Scripted questions don’t appear scripted. Who does her writing? Let’s find out. Production values need improvement, particularly the lighting.”
    He watched the full fifty minutes, reversing the tape occasionally, freeze-framing, all the while making his brief comments into the recorder.
    He took another long sip from the bottle, and he was smiling. He’d lifted Angela from minor local celebrity into a national phenomenon.
    And he could do it again.
    With one hand he froze Deanna’s face on the screen; with the other, he punched his intercom. “Shelly, contact Deanna Reynolds at CBC, Chicago news division. Set up an appointment. I’d like to have her come in as soon as possible.”
     
    Deanna was used to worrying about her appearance. Working in front of the camera meant that part of the job dealt with looking good. She would often discard a perfectly lovely suit that appealed to her because the cut or the color wasn’t quite right for TV.
    But she couldn’t remember agonizing over the image she projected more than she did when preparing to meet Loren Bach.
    She continued to second-guess herself as she sat in the reception area outside his office.
    The navy suit she’d chosen was too severe. Leaving her hair down was too frivolous. She should have worn bolder jewelry. Or worn none at all.
    It helped somehow to focus on clothes and hairstyles. Twinkie habits, she knew. But it meant she didn’t obsess about what this meeting could mean to her future.
    Everything, she thought as her stomach clutched. Or nothing.
    “Mr. Bach will see you now.”
    Deanna only nodded. Her throat tightened up like a vise. She was afraid any word that fought its way free would come out as a squeak.
    She stepped through the doors the receptionist opened, and into Loren Bach’s office.
    He was behind his desk, a sloped-shouldered, skinny man with a face that reminded Deanna of an apostle. She’d seen photographs and television clips, and had thought he’d be bigger somehow. Stupid, she thought. She of all people knew how different a media image could be from reality.
    “Ms. Reynolds.” He rose, extending a hand over the curved Lucite. “It’s nice to meet you.”
    “Thank you.” His grip was firm, friendly and brief. “I appreciate your taking the time.”
    “Time’s my business. Want a Coke?”
    “I . . .” He was already up and striding across the room to a full-sized, built-in refrigerator. “Sure, thanks.”
    “Your tape was interesting.” With his back to her, Loren popped the caps on two bottles. “A little rough on some of the production values, but interesting.”
    Interesting? What did that mean? Smiling stiffly, Deanna accepted the bottle he handed her. “I’m glad you think so. We didn’t have a great deal of time to put it together.”
    “You didn’t think it necessary to take the time?”
    “No. I didn’t think I had the time.”
    “I see.” Loren sat behind his desk again, took a long swig from the bottle. His hands were white and spidery, the long, thin fingers rarely still. “Why not?”
    Deanna followed his lead and drank. “Because there are plenty of others who’d like to slip into Angela’s slot, at least locally. I felt it was important to get out of the gate quickly.”
    He was more interested in how she’d do coming down the stretch. “Just what is it you’d like to do with Deanna’s Hour? ”
    “Entertain and inform.” Too glib, she thought immediately. Slow down, Dee, she warned herself. Honesty’s fine, but put a little thought into it. “Mr. Bach, I’ve wanted to work in television since I was a child. Since I’m not an actress, I concentrated on journalism. I’m a good reporter. But in the last couple of years, I’ve realized that doing the news doesn’t really satisfy my ambitions. I like to talk to people. I like to listen to them—and I’m good at both.”
    “It takes more than conversational skills to carry an hour show.”
    “It takes a knowledge of how television works, how it communicates. How intimate, and how powerful, it can be. And