PRIDE'S CHILDREN - a novel of obsession, betrayal, and love. Book 1

Chapter 1, Scene 2 - Meet Andrew O'Connell. He's late.

Andrew O’Connell scrambled after the WMRC-NY staffer, entourage at his heels. Damn meetings. Damn slippery night traffic. Last time he trusted someone else’s estimates of travel time. He was acutely aware the show had started. No way around that. Unprofessional, being late and not warmed up. A reputation I do not need.

 The corridor’s chessboard pattern—man-size black and white squares—keyed the memories of his other visit. Greenroom? To his left? There. Sharp girl, Dana, but fair, if memory served him. Will she treat me the same? The corner of his mouth curled. Cynic.

 “We’re ready for you, Mr. O’Connell,” the producer greeted him, peeling him away from his escort. She stole a quick glance at her watch. “Five minutes.”

 He heard relief under her briskness. Little bit of a thing. Wedding ring. Pity. New? Promised I’d be here, didn’t I? He knew that was dangerously disingenuous. “You’ll be wanting me in there?” He gestured towards the door. Wouldn’t do to worry about the lads—George’s bailiwick.

 “Too late. Dana needs you in the wings,” she said, as she hurried him past, down the short corridor to stage left. He caught a passing glimpse of a straight-backed woman, legs tucked under her in an armchair, her eyes closed. Cropped pale hair and soft gray sweater, flowered skirt wrapped about her. Dana’s other guest, the mysterious writer?

 The producer hustled him toward a chair at curtain’s edge.

 “Thanks. I’d rather be standing.” A knight on the back rank, surrounded by purposeful chaos: he liked having these few moments to himself. Anticipation tingled the backs of his hands, and his fingers itched to light a fag. Americans and their damned regulations. Maybe he’d quit when there was no stress in his life.

 The producer deserted him without a word, scurried into the fray. The smallish studio thrummed. Five tiers, sixty, a hundred people? College students, middle-aged couples, retirees. Packed house. All mine.

 The usual painful Klieg lights spot lit the magnificent Dana, in full monologue, striding about for the audience, milking them for delighted groans. Black lamé slit to the thigh and impossibly high heels, with one arm covered to the wrist and the other naked. No jewelry he could see, except for sparkles at her ears. Ah, Dana. Stunning—and aware of it. Too bad she was off-limits—a long-time live-in boyfriend. Now that he had more currency, he’d asked George to check; George gave him the look, said, in the irritating manner of nailed-down men, ‘You’ll only be in New York for one night, lad.’ So I should spend it alone?

 Dana must like living on the edge—Night Talk was one of a tiny minority of shows that didn’t pre-tape at a reasonable hour. Which wasn’t an excuse. He caught the exact moment she knew he was there—she drew herself taller, squared her shoulders. If she played hardball later, well, he deserved it. Her show, mate.

 His attention was distracted by a mouse of a hair-and-makeup girl apologetically interrupting him to dull whatever shine there might be on his face—he wished he’d had time for a shower and shave: scruffy was accidental, unless you believed the yellow sheets—and run a comb through what Bridget used to call his ‘shaggy blond mess.’ He wouldn’t find Bridget in the audience… Cut that line of thought off at the root. Makeup girl was followed by an equally meek microphone tech; by the time he looked up Dana dominated center stage, going to commercial with a mite of a lead-in: “Don’t go away—when we come back—Andrew O’Connell.”

 Dana’s gorgeous closeup was replaced on the studio monitor by a commercial plugging a cruise line. Without even a glance in his direction, Dana strode to the dais, assumed her throne, and, while worker bees surrounded her, crossed her lovely leg toward him as high as TV allowed. Curious how most male talk show hosts hid behind desks. The women universally flaunted themselves.

 He found himself evaluating the scene as a set before “Action!” Hell, still plenty of time. This was the first chance he’d had for a direct comparison of ‘before’ and ‘now’. Devil of a trick figuring out what had changed. Fifteen months ago, almost to the day, he’d been here doing promos for FAL, a week before its opening. Before the harrowing period for award nominations, small victories, smashed hopes. By industry reckoning, it was a reasonable success—and vanished, as most did. But there had been a camaraderie, a we’re-all-in-this-together feeling from staff on the shows where he plugged the film.

 They would never have left me alone before, put up with me being late. No, the producer wasn’t new—but her deference was. Shit. Same for makeup girl and mike tech. Now they wore masks. Shit. He’d been kicked upstairs. He’d craved fame—and the universe was slapping his face with it.

 His heart rate, which had been settling, ticked into high gear. It meant, subtly or no, that he’d lost the ability to take people at face value, trust his intuition. And it put the earlier meeting with the record label execs in a different light, their CD deal, the offered tour. He’d known they were interested in the band only because of him and his sudden notoriety, but he’d thought the execs sincere about the music: his lyrics, his and George’s quirky melodies, the band’s complex rhythms. So be it. The music had been first. He’d take one, then, for the band, for them tolerating his ‘day job’. If suckers came because of him—and stayed for the sound, he’d be well enough pleased.

 Now Dana was back from the break, and he readied himself. He willed his pulse, if not slow, somehow voluntary. He fisted his hands, then stretched his fingers as far back as they would go, twisted the signet ring on his right fourth finger around and settled it, expelled all the air from his lungs. They want entertainment? Well, he’d have to provide, wouldn’t he?

 A few more jokes, and then Dana clipped the arm of her chair with the edge of her hand, rose pneumatically, pivoted, and to rising applause and catcalls, gave them what they wanted. “Here he is—” dragged-out pause, “Andrew O’Connell!”

 Hell, it’s still good. He stopped trying not to grin, gathered himself up, launched himself across the stage. The audience went wild. He chose two red-headed women in the second row, waved. As he neared Dana, a wicked idea grew. Last time she’d granted him a no-fuss, no-muss air-kiss. Well, we’ll be seeing about that. He calculated angles to the TV cameras, bet himself she tangoed. Dana extended a welcoming hand.

 To hell with safe choices. He closed two steps, grasped her hand, pulled it up and around her to twirl her into the crook of his arm in a swirl of cooperative skirt. He bent her way back, leaned down to soft lips and a hint of ...Shalimar? An infinite second; he reversed, spun her upright, steadied her. When he released her, the crowd erupted.

 “Hey! I thought we were just friends!” Dana said, eyebrows raised, industrial-strength lipstick unsmeared. She patted her mane back into perfection.

 Good lass; it’d take more than that to rattle her. Shame the hair was so stiff. “That was just friends, luv.” He achieved the exact aggrieved hurt tone he was aiming for, pouted his bottom lip. Couldn’t possibly compromise her ratings.

 Her gaze assessed his measure. She gave him three slow claps. “You get the reputation you deserve.” She shook her head and chuckled, took her seat.

 He dropped into the guest chair, mugged for a front row bevy of college blondes in tight turtlenecks, let the moment stretch. Then he turned his attention to the host of Night Talk.

 Good enough for ye? “Grandmother O’Connell says I never get a lick amiss.”

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