The First Wife Read online

  “Any way at all,” Jane answered, wondering if Grace had suddenly found her attractive.

  She balanced the paper coffee cup down the carpeted aisle of the business department, which was really the heart of her newspaper. Trapped between The New York Times and The Boston Globe in an area blanketed by cable and satellite news, the Southport Post had little hope of breaking big stories. Its front page was copied from the wire services with a focus on state and local issues. Inside, the editorial content was devoted to soft news from the immediate area—local politics, school-board issues, and meetings of the Rotarians. The business department, on the other hand, was rudely aggressive in selling ad space to the local car dealers, furniture stores, culinary boutiques, and dress shops. It did a great business with advertising inserts for shopping malls and supermarkets. Taken together, the business departments of the eight papers in the New England Suburban Press organization sold more space than the Times and Globe together and racked up sales figures that matched either one.

  The carpet disappeared when Jane reached the editorial offices at the back of the floor. There were two rows of desks flanking the center aisle and fabric-covered cubicles along the walls. The desks were for the classified people who wrote ads of twelve words or less, using abbreviations for every noun and eliminating most of the verbs. Classified took in nearly as much money as display ads, at about a tenth of the cost. The cubicles housed the reporters, giving their telephone conversations a sense of privacy even though their voices carried over the walls. The rear offices, sealed off with glass barriers, were for the senior editors for news, business, sports, and society. Their rewards included windows, carpeting, and side chairs across from their desks.

  Jane went straight to her office and sat hunched over her coffee. She barely forced a smile when Jack Dollinger, the news editor, sauntered in and settled into her side chair. “Bad night?” he asked. Dollinger was twice her age, old and foolish enough to think that Jane found him attractive. He masked his romantic heat, stoked by her recent divorce, under a pretence of professional patronage.

  “Bad morning,” she answered.

  “I just read your latest piece on William Andrews. Quite interesting …”

  She cut him off with a trembling hand gesture. “Give me a minute, Jack. If I can get this coffee down, there’s a good chance that I’ll regain my hearing and my eyesight.” She sipped without raising the cup from her desk.

  “A really bad morning.” He chuckled.

  She lifted the cup and gulped. Then she managed a nod. “As bad as it gets!” She told him about leaping out of bed to escape the onrushing train, the spilled water, and the coffee explosion that had wiped out her kitchen.

  “That’s your first cup?”

  “The very first of the day. It’s a wonder I made it here alive. And then who did I find in the parking lot, waiting to greet me, but my ex. I hoped it was all part of the nightmare.”

  “But it was real?”

  “Too real. Art thinks that even though we’re divorced, I’m still responsible for his laundry.”

  “Any luck with his new play?” Jack feigned interest in her husband’s work while secretly enjoying Arthur’s ineptitude.

  “He hasn’t finished it. Still rewriting the third act. The wife has a few redeeming qualities that he’s trying to get rid of.”

  He stood up slowly. “Let me take you to lunch. Maybe you can salvage the second half of your day.”

  She dropped her paper cup into the wastebasket. “Let’s see how it goes.”

  He paused in her doorway, staring at her for a moment. “Something the matter?” she asked.

  “No … oh, I almost forgot. Roscoe wants to see you.”

  Jane looked up at the mention of the managing editor, whose summonses usually meant criticism rather than praise. “What did I do now?”

  “Something to do with your William Andrews series. At least I heard him mention Andrews several times during a phone call.”

  She frowned. “I went too far, didn’t I?”

  “A bit emotional,” Dollinger allowed. “But overall, I think you were completely fair.”

  William Andrews was better suited as a subject for Fortune or Business Week than for a suburban daily like the Southport Post. Beginning in his twenties with a small investment in a cable franchise, he had created a communications and media empire that reached around the world and connected with satellites in space. He controlled broadcast networks on three continents, major newspapers and magazines in a dozen countries, Internet services, and even a film studio. It was difficult for a thinking person to get through a day without making contact with one of Andrews’s properties. Jane had made him the subject of several of her business columns because he had begun buying up chains of small-town newspapers, extending his reach even further into society’s roots.

  “Morning, Jane,” Roscoe Taylor said, making a show of checking his watch. “Nice of you to join us.”

  “Don’t bait me, Roscoe. It’s been a bad morning and I just had an unscheduled meeting with my former husband. I’m still in a rotten mood.” She sat across from him.

  He studied her for a moment. “I like it,” he decided. “Bold, unconventional, but certainly memorable. It reminds me of an ad campaign for a shirt manufacturer that ran many years ago. A great ad campaign because I still remember the name—Hathaway.”

  “What in God’s name are you talking about?”

  “Your new one-eyed look. One brow outlined and the other unadorned. The Hathaway man always wore a black eye patch.”

  Jane reached to her face as if she hoped to feel the difference in color. “Oh hell! I did it in traffic. I finished only one eye.”

  “Well, don’t tell anyone it’s a mistake. Take full credit. It’s a bold initiative.”

  She got up and started for the door. “Excuse me, Roscoe. I feel like such an ass.”

  He laughed. “You look like you’re winking at me. I’m amazed your husband didn’t think you were inviting him back.”

  “Arthur wouldn’t notice if I had only one ear. My eyebrows never made it onto his radar. But now I understand why I thought Grace was coming on to me.” She had the doorknob in her hand when she remembered what had brought her into the managing editor’s office. “Oh, what did you want to talk to me about?”

  “Your William Andrews articles.”

  She winced. “Was I too rough with him?”

  Roscoe shrugged innocently. “I hope not. He’s our new boss. He just bought the Suburban chain.”

  Her knees weakened. “He what?”

  “Bought the New England Suburban Press. Us included. We’re now part of the Andrews Global Network. And you’re interviewing him in Manhattan this afternoon.”

  2

  Jane walked in a trance back to her office, retrieved her handbag, and headed for the ladies’ room to restore her missing eyebrow. She mentally scanned each of the three articles she had written, running through them one paragraph at a time as she tried to remember exactly what she had said about her new boss. Damn! She was staring at unemployment.

  She had started the series when Andrews Global Network picked up two small television stations in the central part of the state. Her theme was that one company shouldn’t have such far-ranging control of communications. News and public opinion shouldn’t be filtered through one person’s preferences, and advertising opportunities shouldn’t be monopolized. Then, with a little digging, she was able to give a national picture of how many editorial sources had effectively been silenced and how many jobs had been lost to the Andrews juggernaut. It was dull economics, but Jane had spiced it up with the image of Andrews as a spoiled kid who simply wanted more toys to play with.

  The articles had been picked up by the wire services and then run in regional papers across the country, a genuine coup for the editor of a small suburban paper. One syndicated column had even referred to J. J. Warren as the David bold enough to stand up to Goliath.

  Damn, she thou
ght again as she remembered some of her better lines. Citing an ad contract between his new station and a national fertilizer company, she had written, “Andrews already dictates national and state policies and preferences. Now he is reaching into small-town America to help us with our lawn care.” When his network had picked up a reality show that featured contestants eating worms and lice, J. J. Warren had accused him of “bringing his own abominable taste to the nation’s dinner table.”

  Now he was her boss, capable of finding her in his vast organization and crushing her like a bug. Which was exactly what he would do if his reputation as a ruthless egomaniac was to be believed. Her only hope, she decided, was that in the global affairs of his enterprise, William Andrews had never taken notice of even a word that she had written. What she needed to do was drop out of sight for a few months, let her J. J. Warren byline die a natural death, and then re-emerge as just Plain Jane. It would be suicide for her to walk into his office that afternoon and interview him about his latest acquisition.

  She had to get out of the assignment! Roscoe Taylor would certainly understand that confronting William Andrews would be a career-ending move. Why in God’s name would he have set up the interview, anyway? Did he think he could cozy up to the predator who had just devoured him?

  Oh God! Jane knew the answer as soon as she asked herself the question. Roscoe didn’t ask for the interview. William Andrews did! He had seen the J. J. Warren articles and he was summoning her to his castle for a public execution. Suddenly it was perfectly clear. Her words had angered the media king and he had made it a point to find out which of his peasants was responsible. Then he had bought the entire newspaper chain just to bring her under his control. Now he was awaiting the arrival of the offender, while his headsman was sharpening the ax.

  She charged back into the managing editor’s office. “Roscoe, who set up this interview with Andrews?”

  “I did. With his PR people.”

  She looked at him skeptically. “Why me?”

  “It seems appropriate. You’re our expert on the man who just took over our company. Who better to tell our readers what this is going to mean to them?”

  “Andrews didn’t set it up?” Her suspicion was obvious.

  “No, although his press guy jumped at the idea.”

  “Did they ask for me … by name?

  Roscoe got the drift of her questioning. “You mean because they want to get even with you for sticking pins in the great man?”

  She slipped into the chair across from him. “Yes. Something like that.”

  He rolled his eyes. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I’m totally serious! I write some articles he doesn’t like, so he buys my paper and gets to fire me in front of a gathering of business reporters. Wouldn’t that be a convincing way to tell the press to be careful what it says about him?”

  Roscoe was even more amazed. “You think that Andrews Global Network bought our chain just so William Andrews could have the pleasure of firing one obscure reporter?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past him,” Jane answered. “I’ll bet his ego is more important to him than the pocket change he spent buying us out.”

  He laughed.

  “I’m serious,” she insisted, jumping to her feet. “I think I’m going to be the guest of honor at a lynching.”

  “Jane, get real! Much as I hate to put a dent in your ego, they didn’t ask for you by name. I set up the interview. And when I told them that J. J. Warren would be our reporter, they said, ‘Mr. Warren should come right up to the penthouse.’ They think you’re a Jim, not a Jane.”

  She slumped back into the chair, thoroughly chastised. “Oh …” She sounded disappointed that she wasn’t worth a public hanging.

  “Now, why don’t you get into your best boardroom attire and get into the city early. Go shopping so that you’re in a better mood. And get there on time to make a good impression. You’re the first citizen he’s going to meet from his newly conquered country. I’d like him to think that he’s getting his money’s worth.”

  She nodded.

  “And go back to that one-eyed look. It really was distinctive.”

  She dragged herself back to her desk, glanced at the phone messages that had come in, and decided that they could all wait. Jack Dollinger stuck his head in. “Lunch?” he asked, reminding her of his earlier offer.

  “I’m booked,” she answered. “I have a meeting in the city with the great man himself.”

  “William Andrews?”

  “The same.”

  Dollinger was stunned. “My God! You better read back over your articles and come up with some damn good explanations.”

  “Roscoe says Andrews doesn’t have any idea who I am.”

  Jack grimaced. “Maybe he doesn’t now, but I’ll bet there’s someone on his staff who’s paid to brief him by the time you get there.”

  She gathered up her laptop, a few floppy disks, and her car keys. There was no point in hanging around. Jack Dollinger wasn’t making her feel any better.

  She spent the drive home trying to convince herself that Roscoe was right. A man of global affairs who had gone falconing with Saddam Hussein and had danced with Queen Elizabeth probably had no interest in the petty complaints of a suburban reporter. More than likely he had never heard of J. J. Warren and wasn’t aware of any of the stories she had written. He probably didn’t even know that there was such a newspaper as the Southport Post. Odds were that the only thing he had seen was the balance sheet for the suburban chain and that he had bought the earnings rather than the publications.

  But while that line of reasoning was comforting, it didn’t hold up well against Jack Dollinger’s logic. Good public relations executives hired services to find every mention of their employers in every kind of media. Every morning William Andrews was probably handed clippings of every article in which his name was taken in vain. Her hints at megalomania and accusations of bad taste couldn’t have gone unnoticed.

  But would he make the connection? Even if Andrews had seen the pieces, he probably wouldn’t link them with the Southport Post. More unlikely was that he would remember the name J. J. Warren. And even in the event that he did, would he connect Plain Jane with the obnoxious J. J. who had offended him?

  Art’s car was in her parking space. Damn again! Wasn’t anything going to go right today? Rather than wait for the elevator, she raced up the stairs to her second-floor garden apartment. Typical of her former husband, the door had been left unlocked; equally typical, her home office had been trashed.

  He raised his hands defensively as soon as he saw her. “Don’t worry! I’ll put everything back where it belongs.” Then he went on the offense. “Do you have any idea how many unlabeled disks you have? How do you ever keep track of anything?”

  “I’m not the one who lost a play,” Jane countered. “I have no trouble keeping track of my things.”

  He went on with his complaints. “I’ve had to open twenty or thirty disks just to find out what was on them. I’ve read enough of your dreary stories to make me sick.”

  “Did you find your disks while you were ransacking my things?”

  “Jane, I can’t find anything in this chaos. Will you just take a few minutes and help me?”

  “I can’t. I’ve got to be in the city this afternoon,” she answered as she crossed over the mess he had created. “And I want you out of here before I leave.” She went into her bedroom and slammed the door behind her.

  “I can’t leave without my disks,” he called after her.

  She opened the door a crack. “Don’t bother to pick up. Just leave everything where it is and lock the door behind you.” Then she added, “I mean it, Art. I don’t have time for this nonsense.”

  She was in the shower when he skulked into her bedroom. His voice startled her. “You know, we don’t have to fight all the time. We can still be friends.” He went to the bathroom door and leaned against the jamb.

  “What are you doing in her
e?” Jane screamed. She turned her back to him even though she was scarcely visible through the rippled glass of the shower door.

  “I’m asking for a little help. Those disks are important to me.”

  “Will you get out of here so I can get dressed?” She was boiling slowly into a rage.

  “Like I’ve never seen you with your clothes off,” he grumbled. He turned and shuffled out of the room.

  He was still there, slouched in a soft chair, when she emerged from her bedroom, now dressed in a pinstripe suit over a plain white blouse. “Please, Art. I have an interview with William Andrews, and I can’t be late. I promise I’ll look for your damn disks as soon as I get home.”

  “I don’t think they’re here,” he admitted.

  She stood in front of the hall mirror while putting on her stud earrings.

  “William Andrews?” he went on. “That’s the guy you hammered in some of your stories. …”

  “The very one! And he’s just taken over our whole chain. He’s my boss now, so I can’t keep him waiting.”

  Art snickered. “He owns the chain? Boy, are you in deep shit!”

  “Not as deep as I’ll be if I’m late for the interview.”

  He eased out of the chair and walked up behind her. She handed him the earring back, a gesture that had become automatic during their years together. He pulled at her earlobe and locked the back onto the pin. “Maybe I should move back in,” he contemplated. “You’re not much good on your own.”

  She studied herself in the mirror, pulled down her jacket, and straightened the collar of her blouse. “I’d rather give up wearing earrings,” she told him.

  They walked out together and rode down the elevator in complete silence. Then they split as each walked to a car. “I’ll call you about the disks,” he promised.

  “Do that,” she said, climbing into her car.

  When she turned the key, there was nothing more than a click. Her small SUV had decided not to start.

  3

  Jane reached the receptionist’s desk at the stroke of three, exactly the time scheduled for her interview. She tried to hide her anxiety and shortness of breath. “Jane Warren of the Southport Post,” she said. “I have an interview with Mr. Andrews.”