Melinda Wells: The Proof is in the Pudding

“Well, yeah. The national story I sent out doesn’t just mention your TV show, I also promoted that mail-order fudge business you started up-Della’s Sweet Dreams. A second release went out to the local outlets that also mentions you teach cooking classes in Santa Monica.”

Two vertical frown lines suddenly appeared between Phil’s eyebrows. “Jeez, this came up so fast I forgot to check. You still teach cooking, don’t you?”

“Yes, on weekends.”

“That’s a relief.” Phil’s face relaxed, but he didn’t look happy. “Not making sure about the classes first-that was careless of me. I pride myself on the fact that anyone can take a Phil Logan press release right to the nearest bank.”

Take a press release to the bank… Hearing another of those semi-metaphors I’d come to think of as Logan-isms made me smile with affection for Phil.

Seven months ago Mickey Jordan, owner of the Better Living Channel, out of desperation, had hired me as a replacement host. The desperation was both his and mine. He’d fired the previous host and had to fill vacant time on his cable network, and I was on the verge of drowning in debt trying to keep my little cooking school going. Now I was probably on the second-lowest rung of the “celebrity ladder,” but the fact that I was known to anyone at all beyond my immediate circle of family and friends was because of Phil Logan’s passion for his work.

Phil pulled a folded sheet of paper from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to me. “Details about what criteria you’re supposed to use for judging, and how many points you can give any particular dish. When you show up Wednesday night you’ll each be given your judging cards and a clipboard. Hey, this’ll be the easiest gig in the world. All you’ll have to do is walk around in an evening gown and watch other people cook.”

Perhaps remembering my notorious lack of interest in fashion, his eyes narrowed and he frowned at me. “Do you have an evening gown?”

“I used to… but it’s been years since-”

“Never mind. I know some designers-I’ll get you a loaner. Try not to spill anything on it.”

Phil started to leave, but stopped after taking a single step. When he turned back to me I saw an expression on his face that I’d never seen before: embarrassment.

“Look,” he said, glancing down at the ground, “you know by now that I don’t get involved in other people’s sex lives, but I think in this case a kind of warning is necessary.”

Instantly on the alert against criticism of my relationship with Nicholas D’Martino, I bristled. “Hold it. We’re not going to discuss my personal life-”

His head came up and he met my eyes. “Not you -it’s your friend I’m worried about.”

Nicholas? “Oh, Phil, what in the world do you think I could do to a grown man?”

That produced a sly little smile. “I’ll bet you could do plenty, and I’m sure ol’ Nick wouldn’t mind a bit, but that’s not what I mean.”

“Then what are you talking about? Do I need a translator?”

I saw comprehension dawn in Phil’s eyes. “You don’t know, do you?”

“Apparently not.”

“It’s your fudge partner, Eileen O’Hara. I know she’s kind of your unofficial daughter, but do you know who she’s been having a thing with?”

“No.”

“It’s one of your fellow Celebrity Cook-Off judges, Keith Ingram. Della, when it comes to women-especially the kind that are young and haven’t been around much like your Eileen-this is a bad dude.”

I’d met Keith Ingram once, four months ago, when he interviewed Eileen and me in order to do a story in his syndicated food column about our just-launched mail-order sweets business. “I think you’re mistaken, about her being involved with him,” I said. “Since the day the article about us came out she’s never mentioned him to me.”

“Do you think she tells you everything?”

She used to, when I wasn’t so busy…

“The piece he wrote was so over-the-top favorable, especially to Eileen-‘the beautiful UCLA business major with a great idea’-I suspected he had the hots for her,” Phil said, “but then I forgot about it.”

“How do you know they’re seeing each other?”

“I hear things… which leads me to the reason I brought this up. I know you’re a mother figure to her. She’s going to need you to be there for her when he dumps her.”

“But if he and Eileen actually are involved, what makes you think-”

“When I was at the charity’s PR office signing you up for the Cook-Off gig, I found out Ingram’s getting it on with that flaky heiress who’s the tabloids’ flavor-of-the-month.”

“Tina Long?”

“That’s the one. A few years ago she couldn’t make the grades to graduate from a fancy private high school, so her father bought it. Suddenly Tina’s the co-valedictorian. Poppa Long hired a novelist to write her speech for her, but the guy forgot to tell her how to pronounce some of the words.”

Photographs that I’d seen of Tina Long on gossip magazine covers flashed into my mind. She was a generically pretty girl with blonde hair arranged in a dizzying number of styles, but beneath each new coif there was always the same vapid expression on her face.

Phil’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “Ingram’s making money with his column and his TV guest shots, but he likes to live big. You know how I got him to do the column on your business?”

In a tone full of irony, I said, “Because we make really good fudge?”

He snorted. “I wish that’s what it took. I had to arrange a free trip to New York for him on Warner Brothers’s private jet.”

“Phil, I know you mean well, but I’m not comfortable talking about Eileen behind her back.” Sensing that it was getting late, I checked my watch. “It’s four o’clock. In a few minutes I’ve got to start taping the last of today’s three shows.” I whistled for Tuffy. He looked up from his explorations and came trotting back toward me.

Phil escorted us to the door to the studio and opened it.

I said good-bye and was about to go inside, but the touch of his hand on my arm stopped me.

“What is it, Phil?”

“Publicity is a very personal job,” he said. “And I usually love it. Seven-day weeks, twenty-hour days-I thrive on building or enhancing careers. But we try to protect our clients, too. The people I work with are family to me. Better, really, because we’re close by choice, not an accident of blood. I told you about Ingram because I feel an obligation not to let you get blindsided. Eileen’s going to be hurt, but the facts are that her father is a cop. Tina Long’s father is a billionaire, and she’s his only child. You do the math.”

I tried to put worry about Eileen aside in order to concentrate on the show I was about to tape, but she had been entrusted to me for most of her life, and my maternal feelings for her were strong. I had never been blessed with a biological child, and thus Eileen O’Hara had been my only shot at motherhood. But there was nothing I could do for Eileen at this moment, and I had a professional obligation to fulfill.

After giving a quick touch-up to my TV makeup in the tiny backstage dressing room, I led Tuffy out onto the studio’s TV kitchen set. He trotted over to his padded dog bed next to the refrigerator and settled down to watch me cook for the cameras.

We should have finished for the day an hour ago, but technical glitches during the first two shows had put us behind. Unless this one went off smoothly, we’d run into the time scheduled for taping the auto repair show, Car Guy.

The repair shop’s standing set was next to mine at the west end of the cable network’s no-frills broadcast studios. No one wanted to upset the temperamental mechanic who’d had his name changed legally to Car Guy. Car, as we called him, had turned a surly on-air disposition and a penchant for smashing things when agitated into the highest rated program on the BLC. Although no one mentioned it when Car was around, according to the latest figures, my show was now running a close second to his.