A Ruling Passion Read online

  No wonder the ratings were up. People would watch out of curiosity, if not belief

  Within the control room there was constant movement. Sybille or her assistant talked on their telephones; the director called instructions; the technical director hummed a Sousa march as his fingers flew over the control board; the voices of "World Watch" came loudly from the studio; reporters in remote locations, shown on screens as they waited their turn to go on, stood and sat, combed their hair, picked their noses, rehearsed their scripts... and "World Watch" raced along. No story was given more than three minutes; most had two or less. There were no pauses between background films and live reports. Maps appeared and disappeared as if from outer space. The commercials seemed louder than usual to Nick, and faster. He shook his head in wonder as the images sped past. Not even time to go to the bathroom, he thought.

  A few minutes before the end of the show, the door to the control room opened and Nick watched a large gray-haired man walk in, crossing behind Sybille. As he did so, his fingers touched the back of her neck in a small grasping motion. It was very quick; it was very possessive. Enderby, Nick thought; president, owner of the station, and obviously more than that to Sybille. He felt a sharp, perverse admiration for her. She'd found the main chance. Again. She got out of Palo Alto by marrying me, he thought; she got to New York by divorcing me; now it looks as if she might get a piece of the television industry by hooking up with Quentin Enderby. He's too old for her, but then, I was too young: not experienced enough or ruthless enough

  to get to the point without pausing for friendship or companionship. Or love.

  He wondered, suddenly, how much Sybille really had known about the Ramona Jackson story. She might have thought that was a main chance, too, until it blew up in her face.

  Enderby stopped and greeted him, his eyes sliding incuriously over Chad. "Enjoying yourself?" he asked.

  Nick stood, holding Chad. "Very much. I've never seen a television production from the inside. It was good of you to—"

  "Sybille did it; you can thank her. This is her turf when we're on the air. You're visiting from California, I hear."

  "For a few days," Nick said, answering Enderby's unasked question. He saw Sybille glance at them before turning back to the screens, her fingers constandy moving over the buttons that were her connection to the world.

  "Things are in flux around here," Enderby said. "We're revamping the station. There's a lot at stake, for Sybille and all of us. In case she didn't tell you."

  In other words, Nick thought, don't bother her, don't distract her. Keep out of my territory.

  "She did tell me," he said. "I wished her well. I know how good she is at building audiences."

  Enderby turned to look at Sybille. Nick was stunned by the greed and possessiveness in his face. "She knows a lot," Enderby said. "Needs a strong hand to keep her in line, but she learns fast. Have a good trip back." He took a chair at the long desk, his back to Nick, who was left standing, with Chad weighing heavUy on his arm.

  Sybille was concentrating on the end of "World Watch," but Nick felt her awareness of Enderby, sitting a few feet away, watching her. She never looked at him, but every move she made was for him, every word was spoken so he could hear it. Her seductiveness, and Enderby's devouring gaze, made Nick feel like a voyeur, and he was glad to leave a few minutes after the program ended, thanking Sybille and telling her he would see her the next day for their Christmas dinner.

  But the next morning, she telephoned him at the Algonquin to say she could not, after all, have dinner with them. She and Enderby were going to his country home in Connecticut, to be married.

  Chapter 10

  ongratulations," Valerie said, raising her champagne glass. "You must be very happy."

  Sybille touched her glass to Valerie's. "But you thought I shouldn't do it."

  "I thought somebody younger... But it doesn't matter what I thought; you got what you want. Tell me where you're living now; I don't know how to reach you."

  Sybille took a small case from her purse and handed her a card with "Sybille Enderby," and her address and telephone number, embossed in gold script.

  "We're neighbors!" Valerie exclaimed. "Ifs wonderful up there, isn't it? About as private as you can get in town."

  "It's too quiet, as if we're not really in New York. I want to move farther down, but Quentin won't do it."

  Valerie smiled. "It's not bad, now and then, to feel as if you're away from New York; it can be positively restorative. Where did you go after your wedding?"

  "Nowhere. We stayed overnight in Connecticut, at an inn, and then

  came back; Quentin doesn't like the country and I had my show to do."

  "You didn't even take a few days? Sybiile, what about a honeymoon?"

  "Oh, I suppose sometime we'll go somewhere; I didn't want to leave the station..." She saw amusement and curiosity in Valerie's eyes. "What difference does it make? I'll do my traveling later. The most important thing right now is World Watch,' and the other shows I'm working on. It's not enough just to be married; I need a lot more than that, and until I train people to take care of what I'm doing I can't go anywhere. But I will. All those places you went after college: I wrote them down. I'll get to every one."

  Valerie nodded. "I'm sure you will." There was a brief silence.

  Sybiile watched the waiter refill her champagne glass, bubbles breaking the surface in tiny sprays. Glancing up, she saw her image in a gilt-framed mirror across the narrow room, and Valerie beside her. Two polished women, both wearing soft wool dresses, Valerie with a necklace of gold links at her throat, Sybiile with five gold and pearl chains of varying lengths, a gift from Quentin on their wedding night. They sat in a velvet booth, Valerie's beauty a little subdued beneath the soft lights, Sybille's darkness more dramatic, and Sybiile hated Valerie with a force that made her breathless.

  They were sitting in Valerie's private club; New York was Valerie's Qxy the wealth and freedom and power that drove the city like an engine belonged to Valerie and her friends; it was Valerie's Fifth Avenue neighborhood into which Sybiile had moved, not on her own, or through her family, but because of Quentin Enderby.

  "What about Chad?" Valerie asked. "Did he come to your wedding? And for Christmas?"

  "No. He had the flu and they canceled their trip at the last minute."

  "I'm sorry. I thought I might get to see him."

  "Who?" Sybille's eyes challenged her.

  "Chad." Valerie said, smiling faintly. "I told you I hoped I'd meet him."

  "He won't be coming to New York. Quentin doesn't like children. I'll go to California to see him."

  "Then I won't get to know him. I'm sorry. He looks charming in his pictures, smart and ftmny and lovable..." They were silent. "You'll go on working ftill time?" Valerie asked.

  "Of course. What else would I do?"

  "Play. You've always been so serious, Sybille, working, studying, writing in those notebooks you told me about... why don't you take off once in a while and just have a good time?"

  "I am having a good time."

  "Okay, you love your work, but you have to take time just for yourself too; think about yourself and nobody else. None of us can work all the time—"

  'Work? You? At what?"

  "Whatever I work at," Valerie said calmly. "I know you think I don't do anything, Sybille, but I do keep busy. And I play a lot because I'm good at it and it's the way I like to live. Look, I'll give you a hst of places. You should use them now that you can afford it, and it's a good way to get to know New York." She took from her purse a small leather-bound notebook and began writing with a gold pen. "Sandra's," she murmured. "You have to meet Sandra. She keeps your dress form in her shop, and her own fabrics, and whatever she makes for you, you'll be the only one wearing it. And Bruno... a lovely man... Madison around Eighty-first, I think; he makes models of your feet; nobody makes shoes and boots the way he does. And Nellie at Les Dames; she knits the most wonderful sweaters. Let's see
. Salvatore is the best masseur in town; he comes to you, and he'll fit you in at the last minute if you use my name. And Ormolu, it's a cosmetics shop that mixes up incredible creams; I don't suppose they really do a lot for your skin, but they're great for the soul; they make you feel polished and loved, and that has to be good." She wrote a few more names. "Alma's my shopper in New York, so you don't have to spend your life in stores, which would be very dull." She looked up and smiled at Sybille. "The best thing about New York is that it's filled with people whose entire job is to make you happy. And they're very good at it. You'll have a wonderful time with them." She added a few more names. "A lot of these people won't take you without a personal introduction. When you call for appointments, use my name."

  The hell I will, Sybille thought. I've got my own name. If she thinks I'm going to go around this city like a beggar—please, sir, please, ma'am, let me into your shop, I'm really quite respectable, Valerie Shoreham will vouch for me—if she thinks I'd use her fucking name—

  "Sybille?" Valerie was staring at her. "Are you all right? You're so flushed; maybe you have a fever."

  "No, I'm fine." Sybille drank from her water glass. "Ifs a little warm in here. Or maybe it's the champagne."

  "Do you want to go outside and get some air?"

  "No. I'm fine. Really." She folded her hands in her lap. Don't be a fool, she thought. Use her.

  Valerie signaled the waiter and ordered tea and another plate of finger sandwiches.

  "I appreciate what you're doing," Sybille said. She put her hand on Valerie's arm. "It means so much to me to have you care about me, and it's such a help..."

  "You don't sound too sure of that," Valerie said.

  "I am; I'm just not sure I can do anything with it." Sybille's voice faltered. "I'm not good at going into strange places alone and asking for help; I'm always afraid people will laugh at me because I don't know how to choose the right clothes or makeup or shoes..."

  "Laugh at you? Why would they? They want you to spend money, not run away with hurt feelings. Anyway, what do you care what they think? The only thing you should care about is whether they give you what you want. Sybille, I can't believe you're worried about this; you're absolutely sure of yourself when you talk about your work."

  "That's different. It's when I get away from work that I feel lost." She shrugged slighdy. "It's silly to talk about it; it's my problem, not yours. I'll just have to work on it. You're right about that: I've gotten as far as I have by doing things alone, and I'll do this too."

  "Oh, for heaven's sake, you don't have to do everything alone. Why don't you just ask for help? If you're afraid of starting out by yourself, I'll go with you. All right?"

  "No, I can't ask you to do that. I shouldn't need you to hold my hand; I'll work it out myself"

  "You'll let me take you around, that's what you'll do. Four or five mornings will do it; you can arrange that, can't you? No arguments, Sybille, I'm glad to do it. Things have been dull lately; this will be fiin."

  "Well, if you're sure... I really would like it; it would be almost like a treasure hunt." She looked at Valerie with a kind of innocent eagerness. "I've had this feeling that most of New York is invisible, at least to me. Sometimes I walk part of the way home, after work, and I know there are hidden places on the upper floors of buildings or on little streets that I don't know anything about, and I don't know how to find them..."

  "Well, now you've made sure you will." Sybille shot her a look. There was nothing on Valerie's face but her open smile, and warmth in her eyes, but Sybille knew that she understood exacdy how she had

  been maneuvered into offering her help. I don't suppose she's always a fool, she thought.

  The waiter was arranging their tea and sandwiches, and Valerie sat back. "I meant what I said: you shouldn't wait until I offer. If you want something, ask me. I know how hard you work, and you've had a rough time, and New York is a tough place to feel at home without somebody to show you around; there's too much of it and it hits you all at once. Quentin can't do it all for you; he doesn't know what you need. By the way, I have some good antique galleries, too—you'll be redecorating his apartment, won't you.>"

  "Not if he has his way. I'm working on it." They exchanged a smile. "He's very lovable and of course I'm crazy about him, but he's so

  stubborn He's been living alone too long—three years, since his

  last divorce—but I don't suppose he ever was much good at taking advice. Did you do your apartment?"

  'With Sister," said Valerie. She saw Sybille's blank look. "Sister Parish. She's the perfect decorator; she uses lots of prints in combinations you'd never think of, and they always work. You saw my apartment; you know what she does. Let me call her for you. Quentin couldn't possibly object."

  "No," Sybille said flatly. She was flushed again, and silendy furious. Bitch. Tripping her up so she'd show her ignorance. How was she supposed to know somebody named Sister.^ How was she supposed to know any decorator? She bit her Up. But how could she learn, without Valerie or someone to teach her?

  "I'm sorry," Valerie said. "Of course you don't know Sister; how could you? You've been living in California. Think about it, though; I'd be glad to introduce you to her. And we'll have our treasure hunt; let me know your schedule so we can arrange it." She smiled with faint mockery. "It'll give me something to do to fill my days." She gathered up the wrapped packages on the seat beside her. "I have to go; ifs Kent's birthday and he's invited two hundred intimate friends to help celebrate. You and Quentm must come for dinner; just the four of us so we can get acquainted. I'll call; we'll set a date. I haven't bought you a wedding present; is there something you want, or shall I choose?"

  'Tou choose." Sybille stood, arranging her new sable coat around her shoulders. It was a mild February day, not nearly cold enough for fur—^Valerie wasn't wearing one—but she'd just bought the sable that week and she was going to wear it until she got tired of it, or until summer came.

  Valerie's limousine was waiting at the front door. "Can I give you a lift?" she asked.

  Sybille shook her head. "I'm meeting Quentin." They touched cheeks in a parting embrace and Sybille waited a few minutes before hailing a taxi. I need a limousine, she thought. Then, when Valerie spends her mornings leading me to her litde boutiques, she'll be the one to ride behind my driver.

  But even in a taxi she felt the thrill of going uptown to go home, the traffic thinning slighdy as the street numbers got higher, the atmosphere more rarified, the shops tinier, the prices more stratospheric. I've got to get used to the prices, Sybille thought. I won't feel wealthy and happy until I stop thinking ridiculous prices are ridiculous and start thinking they're perfecdy reasonable.

  And I will, she told herself as the taxi drew to a stop at Quentin's— no, her —building and her doorman came to open her door. He called her Mrs. Enderby as if that had been her name for generations, and took her in her elevator upstairs to her private foyer and waited while she found her key, to see if she needed anything else. It's just a question of experience. And I'm learning to get that where I need it.

  Quentin was not there, and she relished being alone in the large rooms. She walked to the front windows and gazed at the dark reservoir as if it were her private lake, then turned back to the brightly lit living room with its marble fireplace and heavy fiirniture sitting squarely on an Oriental rug, wondering how Sister would decorate it. She drifted into the library, turning on lights, and sat at Quentin's desk. She thought of Nick. She always thought of Nick after she'd been with Valerie. She hadn't talked to him in a while. On impulse, she picked up the telephone and called him.

  He was at work, and impatient, but there was a note of alarm in his voice. "Is something wrong?"

  "I just felt like calling," she said. "I forgot about—"

  "That's all? You just felt like calling?"

  "That's what I said; what are you snapping at me for? I forgot about the time difference. It's six o'clock here."

 
"And three o'clock here. Is there anything else you want to know?"

  "You never used to be mean, Nick. You could tell me how Chad is."

  "You could call him and find out. He'd love to hear from you. He's at home now if you want to call."

  "I tried. There was no answer."

  "No answer? He has a cold; Elena said they'd be in all afternoon.

  Unless he was worse and she took him to the doctor—^"

  "How sick is he?" Sybille asked.

  "I thought it was just a cold. Sybille, I'm going to call home; he must be worse. We'll talk some other time."

  "Maybe I called the wrong number," she said quickly, and read off his home number, deliberately changing one digit.

  "Four, not five," he said, his voice light with relief. "Try again; you'll find him there. Tell him I'm bringing him a new book; I haven't had a chance to call him today."

  "Tou must be busy. It sounds noisy there."

  "Sybille, I'm swamped. What is it you want?"

  "Just to talk! To say hello! Why shouldn't we, now and then?"

  "We should. It's probably a good idea. But not in the middle of the day. Call in the evening; you can talk to both of us."

  "But you're out every night—aren't you?—with all your lady friends."

  Nick frowned. She sounded jealous. What was wrong with her? And where was her husband? "I'll call you tonight, when I go home for dinner," he said. "Or later, when I'm back here. Call Chad, Sybille; he'd love it."

  He hung up before she could say anything else, and immediately forgot her in the rush of work just beyond his door. Omega was growing so rapidly it seemed like a new place each day; sometimes Nick was not sure how many engineers and technicians and assemblers were working there. Once, at dinner. Pari had asked, "Do you feel you're losing control of it?" and he had nodded. "If we could go a litde slower..." "Ah, but if you were the type to go slowly, then I would not have invested in you," she said, her hand on his. "And neither would the others."