Tangled Vines (5 page)

She had always known she wasn't pretty. At best, she was attractive in a plain sort of way. She had worked hard to achieve this trim and neat, studious appearance. It hurt to have him be so censorious of it. It hurt more than he could possibly know.

But hadn't she endured a lifetime of ridicule and snickering looks? The sounds of children in the schoolyard laughing and singing that horrible chant – “Fatty, Fatty, two-by-four, can't get through the kitchen door” – would be forever in her memory. But she didn't burst into tears and run anymore. Kelly had learned not to reveal she was hurt by something someone said.

Instead, Kelly brought her hands together, steepling her fingers and regarding Hugh Townsend coolly over the top of them. “My appearance has nothing to do with my competency as a journalist.”

He looked amused. “I beg to differ with you, Miss Douglas. Television is a visual medium. Appearance is everything. Therefore, it is important how you look.”

She desperately wanted to lash out at him, but she maintained an outward calm. “I am well aware that I am no beauty queen.”

“If you were, I probably wouldn't be talking to you now. A person's looks should never distract, or attract, a viewer's attention from the story.”

“This is sexist.” Kelly attacked out of pure self-defense.

“Hardly.” He laughed, a soft, dry sound all the more cutting for its brevity. “You have either forgotten or you are too young to remember the great debate that went on at Black Rock a few years ago over whether Dan Rather should wear a suit and tie or a sweater.”

“Black Rock?” She seized on the irrelevant in an attempt to divert the flow of the conversation.

“That's what we call the CBS Building.”

“I see.”

“I assure you, Miss Douglas, in this business men get called on their looks the same as women. Should he grow a mustache or shave it? Let his hair go gray or dye it? Should the tie be plain, striped, or paisley? There is always the problem of fleeing hairlines – should he wear a hairpiece or have implants? In all cases, the question becomes, Does it distract the viewer?” He gestured to her. “The glasses, the hair, the severe line of your clothes distract.”

She wanted to argue, to point out that Sally Jessy Raphael wore glasses. Even NBC's Bryant Gumble occasionally slipped on a pair of reading glasses. Sophia Loren wore glasses, as did Woody Allen, Steven Spielberg, and a dozen other personalities.

But she raised none of those points. Instead she simply said, “But viewers remember me.”

“A good journalist would want them to remember the story,” he replied, and Kelly found herself cringing inwardly from the gently administered verbal slap. “There happens to be an opening for a reporter at our affiliate station here in New York,” Hugh continued. “I've set up an interview for you tomorrow. In the meantime, I have arranged for an optometrist to fit you with contact lenses this morning. From there you will go to the stylist – Sigmund is one of the best in Manhattan. When Sigmund is finished with you, we'll meet at Saks and pick out more appropriate attire.”

“What is this?” Kelly broke in.

He merely smiled and said, “Consider it an assignment. A camera crew will be along to record the events. This evening you will have an opportunity to write your story, edit the tape, and put it all together. Tomorrow you can take the finished story with you on the interview as a demonstration of your journalistic skill. He paused, his smile deepening. “Well, Miss Douglas?”

She was being challenged. Kelly didn't like it:, she didn't like any of it. But she didn't see where she had a choice. She had to accept.

“What time is the appointment with the optometrist?”

“Thirty minutes from now. I have a car waiting downstairs for you.”

Less than two hours later, Kelly walked out of the optometrist's office wearing a pair of extended-wear contact lenses that could be safely left in around the clock. After a four-hour session with Sigmund, her hair was three inches shorter, leaving it slightly longer than shoulder length; a body wave had added fullness and shine to her hair, bringing out its natural, deep red lights; and her makeup had been thrown out in favor of a warmer palette containing brown and gold eye shadows, peach-toned blushes and lipsticks, and light beige foundation. At Saks, her pin-striped charcoal suit was replaced by a silk and linen pique jacket worn over an apricot silk dress with a matching suede sash.

When she saw her reflection in the boutique's full-length mirror, Kelly stared at the woman before her. She hadn't suddenly become a raving beauty. But to her the change was stunning. Her mahogany hair fell in full, thick waves about her face, a face that didn't look nearly so plain. The lines of the jacket and dress were still tailored, but softly so, the material loosely draping...her figure. And the colors were...flattering.

“You were right,” she told Hugh.

“Rare is the woman who can admit that to a man,” he observed dryly. To which she laughed and executed a slow pirouette in front of the mirror. “Are you comfortable with your new image?”

“Yes.” And strangely enough, she was.

The story proved easy to write, and the tape even easier to edit.

The interview went smoothly. Perfectly, Kelly thought. She was right. One week later she was offered the job. She gave the station in St. Louis two weeks notice and started packing.

That had been the beginning of her friendship with Hugh Townsend. She had come to trust his judgment and his instincts. Through him, she had met the right people and made the right contacts. Vital in a city like New York and in an industry as competitive as television.

It was the second time in her life she had had a male friend, someone to share her dreams with, someone to talk to – even if she had never been able to bring herself to confide to him the pain of her past.

The sommelier returned to the table with the bottle of wine Hugh has chosen to accompany their meal. Many times Kelly had observed the wine-tasting ritual, but she never ceased to watch, always both amused and fascinated by the rite.

First the wine steward presented the bottle, label to the front, for Hugh's inspection. At Hugh's confirming nod that the wine was as he had ordered, the bottle was uncorked with a subtle bit of flourish.

A small amount was poured in Hugh's wineglass, a snow white serviette wrapped around the bottle neck to absorb any stray drop. Kelly watched as Hugh picked up the glass by its base, a forefinger curled under it and a thumb on top, the mark of a true expert and a technique that Kelly hadn't mastered. He held the glass against the white of the tablecloth, assessing the depth of the wine's ruby red color.

Satisfied, he lifted the glass and swirled the wine with a cunning flick of the wrist, watching it ride up and seep down the sides of the glass, judging its viscosity – legs. Raising the glass, he thrust his aquiline nose into the glass and inhaled the wine's aroma – bouquet. Then he tasted it, slowly, rolling it in his mouth and letting it glide over the surface of his tongue into his throat. Finally he set his glass down, nodding his approval to the sommelier.

“Very good.”

The steward bowed at his pronouncement. “Shall I let it breathe and serve it later?”

Hugh shook his head. “Pour it now. It will open up in the glass.”

“As you wish.” He filled both glasses and left the bottle on the table, withdrawing with another retreating bow.

Hugh fingered the base of his goblet and quoted softly, “‘And when I depart from the earth to appear before my beloved Lord to account for my sins, which have been scarlet, I shall say to Him: “I cannot remember the name of the village; I do not even recollect the name of the girl, but the wine, my God, was Chambertin!'“ Hilaire Belloc,” he added, crediting the source.

“That is not very flattering, Hugh,” Kelly chided.

Rousing himself, he smiled. “Then I will offer other. ‘What though youth gave love and roses, age still leaves us friends and wine.' Thomas Moore, I believe.”

“Much better,” Kelly declared. “Although I still say you have memorized every reference to wine in Bartlett's.”

He laid a hand across his heart in a mock oath. “I shall never tell.”

“I didn't think you would.” She glanced at the bottle. “A Burgundy. What happened to the Bordeaux? An ‘eighty Margaux, wasn't it?”

“Very astute.” His dark head dipped in brief acknowledgement “You have not only an eye, but an ear, for detail. I had thought a Margaux, but I decided a Chambertin would better complement the roast duck.”

“Of course.” Kelly smiled, then sighed, suddenly feeling weary.

“Tired?”

She nodded. “It's been a long day. I had forgotten the pressure, the stress, and the exhilaration there is in the field when you're covering a breaking story. Basically I've spent the last two years as a newsreader and interviewer, doing the odd special series on rape or drugs or AIDS.” She remembered the sheaf of work notes and the book, weighting her shoulder bag. “I really should have gone straight home tonight. I have an interview tomorrow with an economics professor who has written a book that I still have to prepare for. Plus one with a heart-and-lung specialist on Melcher's condition.”

“I am glad you mentioned interviews. I meant to tell you Robert Mondavi will be attending the wine auction next week.”

“That's wonderful.” The wine auction, held every July to benefit charity, was a pet project of Hugh's. His efforts for this year's event had been directed at persuading as many as possible of the world's most renowned vintners to attend. Few names in California wine carried the elan of Robert Mondavi.

“More than that, Mondavi has agreed to appear on Friday's ‘Live at Five' report to promote the auction on Saturday.”

“Really. Maybe I'll get assigned to interview him,” she said, not really caring.

“You will,” Hugh informed her. “I've already arranged it.”

“Have you?”

“Yes. He has also agreed to come to the private reception Friday evening at my place. You haven't forgotten about the party, have you?”

“I have it on my calendar. Written in red.”

“I expect you to come.”

“With the list of luminaries you have coming, I wouldn't miss it. Besides, Friday's ‘Live at Five' will be my last newscast for the station. I'll be ready to kick up my heels a bit.”

“And let your hair down as well?” His glance flicked to the glossy coil of her hair, a few tendrils escaping to curl softly about her face and neck. “That is a combination I would like to see. You work too much and play too little, Kelly.”

“Probably.” Smiling, she lifted a shoulder, shrugging off his observation. “But what can I do? It's the old Iowa work ethic coming through, make hay while the sun shines and all that,” Kelly joked, then added, “Besides who has time to play in this business?”

Her day seldom varied. She was up by seven to catch the three networks' morning shows and the CNN coverage on the four television sets in her living room, and to scan the morning editions of the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, the Washington Post, and the Daily News, all of which were delivered to her door. Three times a week she was at the fitness center by ten for a torture session with her personal trainer, followed by a much-needed hour with the masseuse.

By two in the afternoon, she was in her office at the station, handling any phone calls or correspondence and preparing for a three o'clock meeting with the producers, editors, director, writers, their ranking assistants, and her co-anchor on the newscast to go over the day's stories, the lineup for the show, and the length of the reports. Then she returned to her desk to write her copy, then back for a final meeting before airtime, the five o'clock newscast. The process was repeated all over again for the news at eleven. Rarely did she return to her Gramercy Park apartment before midnight.

Sandwiched in between all that were business luncheons with her agent, special assignments that took her out of the studio, as well as various political, social, or media functions the station wanted her to attend.

She had a woman come in once a week to clean her apartment, but there were always clothes to drop off or pick up at the cleaners, hand-washing to do, groceries to pick up, monthly bills to write, dishes to wash, trash to take out, and a myriad of other tasks.

Her weekends were invariably filled with the things she had planned to do during the week and hadn't found time for. Any free hours she managed to squeeze out of her schedule, she usually spent trying to raise money and public awareness for neglected and abused children, the one thing outside her work she was passionate about.

Except for an occasional evening with Hugh, her social life was virtually nonexistent. A fact that didn't bother her very much.

Once, a few months ago, she had walked into the studio and caught the crew in the midst of a discussion about sexual habits. Sex and sports seemed to be the favorite topics of every crew she'd worked with.

“Hey, Kelly. Come on, tell us yours,” the light man, Andy Grabowski, had urged, to a chorus of hooted agreement from the others.

If their hope had been to make her blush, she had disappointed them. Instead Kelly had thrown them a frown of mock reproval and said, “Are you kidding? My only sexual habit is abstinence.”

They had laughed, but she had meant it.

“You need to schedule some playtime for yourself, Kelly,” Hugh stated.

“Speaks the man who scheduled a meeting bright and early on my first Monday morning I've had free in months.”

“We have a show to produce, stories to line out, future subjects to be considered.”

“I know.” She wasn't objecting. “Sometimes it doesn't seem real that I'm actually going to do ‘People and Places.' I honestly thought Linda James would get it.”