Private Scandals

the suits and dresses. “Oh, hi, Jeff. They’ve got you making deliveries?”
    “I wanted a chance to come up and see the operation.” With a shy smile he glanced around. “We’re rooting for you downstairs.”
    “Thanks. How’s everybody in the newsroom? I haven’t had a chance to stop down for days.”
    “Pretty good. The heat brings out the loonies, you know? Lots of hot stories breaking.” He rocked the rack, loitering as Deanna began to go through the wardrobe. “Deanna, I was kind of wondering, if you—you know—get an openingup here. For somebody to pick up loose ends, answer the phone. You know.”
    Deanna stopped with her hand on a crimson blazer. “Are you kidding?”
    “I know you’ve got people who’ve worked this end of things before. But I always wanted to do this kind of television. I just thought . . . you know.”
    “When can you start?”
    He looked startled. “I . . .”
    “I mean it. We’re desperate. We need someone who can do a little of everything. I know you can from your work downstairs. And your editing skills would be invaluable. The pay’s lousy and the hours are miserable. But if you want a shot as an assistant producer—with on-screen credit and all the coffee you can drink—you’re hired.”
    “I’ll give my notice,” Jeff said through a grin that all but split his face. “I may have to work another week or two, but I can give you all my extra time.”
    “God, Fran, we’ve found a hero.” Deanna took him by the shoulders and kissed his cheek. “Welcome to bedlam, Jeff. Tell Cassie to fit you for a straitjacket.”
    “Okay.” Flushing, laughing, he backed out of the room. “Okay. Great.”
    Fran pulled out a plum-colored suit and held it up in front of Deanna. “General dogsbody?”
    “One of the best. Jeff can mow down a mountain of paperwork like a beaver taking out a tree. He carries all this stuff in his head. Ask him what won for best picture in 1956, and he knows. What was the lead story on the ten o’clock on Tuesday of last week? He knows. I like the red.”
    “For the promos,” Fran agreed. “Not the stills. What does he do downstairs?”
    “Editorial assistant. He also does some writing.” She pulled out a sunny yellow dress with turquoise sleeves and round fuchsia buttons. “He’s good. Dependable as a sunrise.”
    “As long as he works long and cheap.”
    “That’s going to change.” Her eyes darkened as she held Fran’s next selection up in front of her. “I know how much everyone’s putting into this. Not just timewise. I’m going to make it work.”
     
    To give their chances a boost, Deanna granted interviews—print, radio, television. She appeared on a segment of Midday and was interviewed by Roger. She took two days and visited all the affiliates within driving distance, and put in personal phone calls to the rest.
    She personally oversaw every detail of her set design, pored over press clippings for program ideas and spent hours reviewing responses to the ads for topic guests.
    It left little time for a social life. And it certainly provided a good excuse to avoid Finn. She’d meant what she’d said when she’d told him she didn’t want to get involved. She couldn’t afford to, she’d decided. Emotionally or professionally. How could she trust her own judgment when she’d been so willing to believe in Marshall?
    But Finn Riley wasn’t easily avoided. He dropped into her office, stopped by her apartment. Often he carried take-out pizza or white cartons filled with Chinese food. It was hard to argue with his casual comment that she had to eat sometime. In a weak moment, she agreed to go out to the movies with him. And found herself just as charmed, and just as uneasy, as before.
    “Loren Bach on one,” Cassie told her.
    It was still shy of nine o’clock, but Deanna was already at her desk. “Good morning, Loren.”
    “Countdown, five days,” he said cheerfully. “How are you holding up?”
    “By my knuckles. The publicity’s generated a lot of local interest. I don’t think we’ll have any problem filling the studio.”
    “You’re getting some interest on the East Coast as well. There’s a nice juicy article in the National Enquirer about the ‘All About Eve’ of talk shows. Guess who’s playing Margo Channing?”
    “Oh hell. How bad is it?”
    “I’ll fax you the article. They spelled your name right, Eve—ah, Deanna.” He chuckled, tickled with his own humor. “From one who