“Anything really good?” Amanda asked, starting to leaf through the stack of items, each on a page to itself. They would need twenty-five to thirty for tomorrow’s column.
“Three high-profile pregnancies that together might make a good lead,” Barry said. “They’re on top.”
“Good; I like to start with good news,” Amanda replied. She held up a page and frowned. “Ivana Trump is buying a yacht? Why would anyone care?” She crushed the page in her long fingers and tossed it into a wastebasket. Her people knew she had little time for the Trumps.
“I got a call,” Helen said. “The Infiltrator is starting in again on Michael Andress; this time they’ve got a waiter from some drive-in restaurant in Long Beach who says they’ve been sleeping together for three years.”
“The boy’s straight as an arrow,” Barry said. “I have it on good authority, and anyway, I can always tell. How many children does he have to father before they leave him alone?”
“And his wife is one of the pregnancies on the list,” Helen said.
“Good chance to stick it to the Infiltrator,” Amanda mused, marking the item. “Say something about the unjust pursuit of the boy; you know how it should go.” She went rapidly through the stack of items, keeping some, tossing others out. “That’s it, I think,” she said, tossing the good ones onto the desk. “I’ll have my lead for you in half an hour.” She glanced at her watch.
Helen and Barry left, and Amanda turned to her computer to compose the paragraphs that would lead the column. She had planned to enthuse about St. Bart’s and what a wonderful time she had had on her weekend, but the incident of the wee hours was still on her mind, and until she found out what it was all about, she would hedge her bets. She had been writing for ten minutes when she looked up and saw Martha standing at the door. She had turned pale, and she had a sheet of paper in her hand.
“Martha, what’s wrong, dear?” she asked.
Martha approached the desk slowly and put the paper on the desk. “This just came in on the fax machine,” she said.
A death, Amanda thought, but she was wrong. She picked up the sheet of paper and saw a photograph of herself, taken early that morning. The sheet was set up like the front page of a tabloid newspaper, and the lead story was:
DIRT
Greetings, earthlings! Look who we caught with her knickers down and her forked tongue erotically engaged in a love nest in a chic East Side hotel. None other than gossip’s high bitch, Amanda Dart, who, after revealing others’ peccadilloes for years, has revealed remarkable appetites of her own. She checked into the elegant hostelry last Friday night after having concocted an elaborate ruse to make the world at large (you and I) believe that she was lolling at the St. Bart’s beachfront compound of the Duke of Kensington. (Write this down should you ever want to disappear for a couple of weeks.) Dear Amanda set up an answering machine to receive calls from those who were clever enough to get her holiday number, then she phoned the machine daily for her messages. When she returned her calls, she no doubt had a wave machine running in the background to lend verisimilitude. What a hoot!
Her companion in bed was a prominent out-of-towner whose wife will, no doubt, have a few questions to ask him on his return home. Certainly, after servicing the indefatigable Amanda for a whole weekend, he’ll not have much energy left for the wronged lady in question.
Just how great are dear Amanda’s appetites? Enough to last until late Sunday night, when we snapped the pics above. Will she ever show her neatly carved face in the Big Apple again? We should know tonight when she’s promised to appear at a book party for her pal Norman Barton of the Times at Mortimer’s, the East Side boite, where tout le monde of Gotham journalism will gather to honor dear Norm and get his scribble in their very own copy.
Will dear Amanda show? I certainly will! I wouldn’t miss this one for a million-buck advance on my no-holds-barred bio of the delectable Dart!
Amanda put down the fax and looked at Martha. As she did, every phone in the office started ringing. Barry appeared, breathless, at the door. “Amanda, there’s apparently some sort of fax being sent to half the town. Do you know anything about it?”
“Half the town?” Amanda asked, appalled.
“Apparently. We’re hearing from every columnist in the city, and some from L.A. asking for a comment.”
“Tell them to read tomorrow’s column,” she said. “Martha, will you excuse me for a few minutes? I have to rewrite tomorrow’s lead.”
Martha vanished.
Amanda turned back to her computer, stunned, and deleted what she had written. She sat, staring at the screen, wondering what to write. She had only twenty minutes until deadline.
Chapter 5
Amanda got into the back seat of the spanking new Mercedes S600 and settled herself. She found the switch for the rear seat air-conditioning, and cool air flooded the rear passenger compartment. She touched the glassy surface of the burled walnut trim on her door and squirmed on the leather seat; she asked Paul for music, and the sounds of Bobby Short’s singing materialized around her. She might have been sitting at ringside at the Cafe Carlyle, she thought. “Mortimer’s, please, Paul,” she said. Then she settled back into the soft, two-toned leather and tried to compose herself.
She could not remember the last time
she had felt such anxiety; in fact, she could not remember the last time she had been so vulnerable. Amanda had conducted her life for a very long time in such a way that no one could have any ammunition to fire at her. She was the soul of discretion, especially where her own personal life was concerned, if not that of others. Outwardly, she was always charming, concerned, sweet, or grateful, whichever the circumstances called for. Inwardly, she was well aware that the scandal sheet’s reference to her as a “high bitch” was entirely justified. Half the satisfaction of being a bitch was to be sure that no one could ever prove it of her.
Tonight, though, there were allegations in the air. She had, over the past ten years, been slyly critical of any prominent woman with a well-known sex life. Now she herself would be subjected to a great deal of unwanted scrutiny and, probably, a very messy divorce.
She had decided to press on with her column’s lead about her time in St. Bart’s; all she could do now was brazen it through. After all, though the sheet had been entirely factual, proving the allegations would be quite another thing. With computer-generated photographic editing available to almost anyone who desired it, she could claim doctored pictures, in the hope that whoever was doing this would not want to reveal himself in order to provide further evidence. If it came up in court – well, she’d cross that abyss when she came to it.
“Lovely car, Miss Dart,” Paul said. He rarely spoke unless spoken to, but Amanda received the compliment gratefully. It added another whit to the confidence that would be needed to face the crowd at Mortimer’s.
“Thank you, Paul,” she replied. “I hope you will enjoy driving it.”