Eve looked up at Marti, standing over her, and began to cry helplessly, hopelessly.
"Oh, God," she said, hearing the defeat in her own voice. "Oh, God! What am I going to do?"
But in the end it was all decided for her. Her future, and her chance to break with the past.
Just a week later, Eve found herself on a plane bound for New York, her mind still reeling. Even when they were halfway across the continent, she kept staring sightlessly at the same page she'd turned to in Mainliner magazine, listening to piped-in music through her headset while she tried to reconstruct how it had happened. The sheer, pure lu
ck of it—the chance she had dreamed about and waited for without quite realizing it. She hadn't really had time to think too much during the past few hectic days, spent in packing and last-minute arrangements. Perhaps because she hadn't wanted to think.
Now—God, if she could only relax! Be calm, remember Peter's last bit of free advice, handed out when he'd seen her off at the airport.
"You're a lucky girl, Eve. Just try to look forward from now on, luv. And—you'll put me on your show, won't you, when I get that book of mine published?"
Marti had helped her pack, but she'd had to fly down to LA "to talk to a man about a movie, darling." Did that mean that Marti was finally over Stella?
Stella, who'd been responsible for her first meeting David— Forget David! He was a part of the past, too. She'd left her telephone unplugged all of last week, and he hadn't come over. So that was that. She was better off remembering that other telephone call to the studio, which had everyone wildly excited for her. But at first, when Ernest Meckel had called her into his office, she'd wondered sickly if he'd heard something, if he were going to fire her.
"Sit down, babe." His face had been red with suppressed excitement. "You'll need to be sitting down when you hear what I just heard."
She'd almost fainted. It couldn't be true. It was a cruel joke, a hoax.
But Ernie was saying, "I have the official letter right here, signed by the president, no less. You know that since Babs Barrie left the 'Going On' show they've been looking around for a replacement, huh? Someone they'll groom to be the next Barbara Walters? Well, sweetheart, someone caught our show and thought you'd do just great! Of course we'll be damn sorry to lose you, but—"
A telephone call from one of the vice-presidents of the network had confirmed it, though. They wanted her for "Going On This Morning," and they wanted her right away. Could she leave within the week?
That was why Eve hadn't had time to think, and why she was traveling—first class, no less—to New York.
She put her seat back, leaned her head against the headrest, and closed her eyes, refusing the drink that the flight attendant offered her. Two more hours, and they'd be landing at Kennedy Airport. There'd be a limousine to meet her and take her to her suite at the Plaza Hotel. A cocktail party two hours later, where she'd meet everybody.
And for the first time, Eve began to feel that it was true, it was all really happening and not some fantasy she'd dreamed up. New York, new life—here I come!
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
BY THE END OF THE WEEK, Eve felt weak from a combination of exhaustion and excitement. She'd had to have vitamin Bi shots to keep her going.
She'd had experience, sure; but San Francisco, the tiny, bare studio at KNXT hadn't really prepared her for New York and its racing pace. From the moment she'd walked into the big gray building on her first morning, it was as if she'd been chained to a treadmill and couldn't get off. Photographs, interviews, publicity —and learning in between; meeting people and encountering their curious, measuring eyes. Learning to get up at 2:00 A.M. every morning to be rushed to the studio. Just observing everything that went on at first, getting the feel of it. Then a couple of days of actually sitting in on the show itself, making ad lib conversation with Randall Thomas, whom she was still a little bit in awe of. Her evenings were equally busy. A few hours' sleep with the sun still shining outside the windows of her hotel suite, and more parties to go to—she had to meet everyone and be charming to everyone. Being a person wasn't enough. They were going to turn her into a Personality.
Eve called Marti—or had Marti called her? She couldn't remember.
"How's everything going? You're a big celebrity already, you know that? The Record gave you a great write-up. And KNXT is doing reruns of some of your earlier shows, even the 'Our Girl on Location' interviews you used to do. Are you coming back to pick up your stuff or staying on?"
"I don't know!" Absently, Eve had started to massage her temples to ward off a headache she felt coming on. "My God, I haven't even had time to ask, you know? I'm—at least I haven't had time to think, which is good." She heard Marti's patient sigh and hurried on, "What happened with the picture deal in LA? Did you—"
"I told them I'd think about it—very seriously." Marti's voice sounded cautious, and Eve wondered if Stella had anything to do with her hesitation. Poor Marti!
Marti was saying, "Shit, I really think I'm going to do it in the end, why not? And if you're going to be moving out— Anyhow, I have a month or so in which to make up my mind while they're raising the bread for the production. I'll let you know—you might give us some publicity!"
"Did—were there—" Damn her own weakness!
"No calls, baby. He might have tried, but I just unplugged your telephone. And by now he knows the big news, I'll bet"
After she had hung up, Eve could feel her hands shaking. Oh, God, would she ever be completely over David? She was crazy-stupid to think about him at all, after the things he'd said—his rejection of her when she'd needed him most. She could never go back to him again.
She stood in front of the mirror and started putting on her makeup. She had to hurry. The limo would be waiting downstairs for her in exactly fifteen minutes. Her face stared back at her. She practiced smiling, and turned the smile into a grimace of self-disgust. She was turning into a commodity, that was what. Plastic doll image of the successful woman, smiling, intelligent, witty, never at a loss for words. They liked the way she wrote her copy; they liked the way she could ad-lib easily. She had made it—why wasn't she happy?
"That's a good question." Randall Thomas looked at her rather owlishly over his famous hornrims. They had gone to see Chorus Line, had had dinner at the Four Seasons with the rest of the crowd. Eve had been surprised when Randall suggested they might have a drink at the Oak Bar before she went up to bed—just the two of them. He'd been nice to her all these days, of course, but rather aloof, weighing. Now, after three drinks, he seemed relaxed and friendly, asking her questions about herself. She felt she'd like to have him as a friend.
He put his cigarette out, still watching her, and shrugged. "I suppose we all ask ourselves that. We all work our asses off to get what we want and where we want to be, and then suddenly—no more goals to strive for? It's an empty feeling in the beginning, but then you learn, as you will learn, my dear Eve, that you have to keep fighting and striving to stay on top. You have to keep on being good, hoping you're better than the competition, and praying like hell that the Nielsens keep you where you are. Scared?"