Christopher Nicole: Her Name Will Be Faith

“You are one hell of a wife,” he declared. “Talk about supporting your husband. Listen. I am your husband, right? You are my wife, right? And a selfish bitch who just wants to do her own thing. Now I want you to come to the Club and then out to lunch, and you are goddamned well going to do it, right?”

He was shouting, and she prayed the children couldn’t hear, because suddenly she was angry too, and wanted to shout back. She had made sufficient allowance for his tantrums in the past, knowing all the time that they were caused by little things, little failures, little blows to the ego. Just as this one, she knew, was a residue of his unfortunate first race of the season. He had been waiting for an opportunity to sound off, let himself go — with her, as usual, as the target.

She exploded as she pushed him aside and reached for her towel. “You dare!” she snapped. “Selfish? You bloody bastard. You have the right to take off on your fucking plastic bathtub every goddamned weekend and you accuse me of being selfish for trying to do a job of work?”

“You…”

“No, you!” She jabbed a forefinger at his chest. “You are the most selfish, irresponsible, self-opinionated bastard who was ever born. You never wanted a wife and children; you just wanted ornaments to show off when the occasion arose, and someone to organize your home — for in case you ever need to use it.” She paused, gasping for breath.

“Have you finished?” Michael asked, eyes narrowed, his face flushed with anger. “Well, then, this is the only possible answer to that sewage,” and he swung his arm, the flat of his hand hitting the side of her face and sending her reeling across the bathroom to cannon into the wall.

The stinging blow brought moisture to her eyes — but she wasn’t crying: she was too angry. She had fallen on to the toilet seat. Now she got up, wrapped herself in her dressing gown. “The usual answer from a brainless fool.” She went into the bedroom and began to dress. “Not the first time you’ve hit me, is it, Michael? But I promise you it will be the last.” She tucked her blouse into her skirt, brushed her hair, and picked up her purse; make-up could wait until she was in the car. “I am going straight to my attorney.”

“Now, Jo…”

“I have nothing more to say, at the moment. My next communication with you will be through Tom Wilson’s office.” She left him standing there, open-mouthed, and closed the door quietly behind her. “I’ll drop the children off today, Florence,” she said.

All three of them gazed at her, apprehensively. They had heard the raised voices, and her cheek was still red from the blow. But not a word was said, even on the drive to school. She kissed them both. “See you this afternoon,” she said. “We’ll do something together, shall we?”

Was she already preparing for a love tug over the kids? She couldn’t be sure.

Tom Wilson was not in his office; he was in court. “Would you like to make an appointment, Mrs Donnelly?” the receptionist asked. Jo had been in two minds whether actually to come and see him or not. The anger in which she had made her threat to Michael had cooled sufficiently for her to wonder what she was going to tell Tom. He was an old friend. He and his wife dined with Michael and herself from time to time, and the previous January they had all gone skiing in Vermont. Was she going to tell him she wanted to split with Michael? No, that was stupid; she didn’t want to break up her marriage — she still hoped to make it work. But she did want to frighten Michael, make him realize that she wasn’t taking any more of his impossible behavior. Just telling him had got her nowhere.

The woman behind the desk was looking at her, probably knowing damned well what was in her mind, having seen innumerable other women standing there, vacillating…

“Er… I guess I’ll leave it just now. I’ll call him sometime. It’s not important,” she smiled.

Ed Kowicz, Managing Editor of Profiles, peered at her. “You don’t look so good. That a bruise?”

Ed had hawkish eyes, and could see the discoloration even through the pancake make-up she had applied. “I walked into a door.”

“Happens all the time,” he agreed. “You ready to take on Connors?”

“Of course I am. Are we supposed to wrestle?”

“He’s something of a lady killer, I hear. But he knows his job. He’s also an expert on tropical storms, I believe. And the hurricane season down south has just opened. Could be an angle.”

“Why, yes,” Jo agreed. Like everyone who holidayed in Florida or the Bahamas she was always happy to talk about hurricanes. But not everyone holidayed in Florida or the Bahamas. “Do you reckon anyone in New York is interested in hurricanes?”

“Why not, after Gloria’s near miss? Anyway, everyone is interested in hurricanes, even if they don’t ever expect to be hit by one. Besides, we don’t only sell Profiles in New York, you know. It’s a good angle. But don’t let him snow you.”

“Let me tell you something,” Jo said. “Right this minute there isn’t a man in the world could snow me, Ed. Not even you.”

Manhattan shimmered. Even on the shaded side of the street heat bounced off the walls and up from the sidewalk. A few sensible matrons held parasols over their heads, but even they mopped their faces and gasped for breath. Traffic fumes hung in the streets without a whisper of breeze to shift them, and the sunny side of the street was almost deserted as pedestrians avoided the blistering solar rays.

Jo stumbled as she walked down Fifth Avenue, and tugged impatiently to free the heel of her sandal from the melted tar on the sidewalk, then sighed with relief as she passed through the doors into the air-conditioned cool of the NABS building. She had never been here before; she had interviewed a good many TV personalities, but always in hotel lobbies or at their homes. Now she was shown into a small waiting room and left to herself for some fifteen minutes, which did not improve her mood. But finally Richard Connors appeared.

If he was flattered to have been selected for a prestigious interview, he didn’t show it. Nor did he help matters by his opening remark: “Now, what can I do for you, Miss… er…?”

Jo felt herself bristling, but controlled the retort on the tip of her tongue, smiled sweetly, and said, “My name is Josephine Donnelly, Mr Connors, and I would like you to talk about yourself.” With which request she thought he would be happy to comply; she’d met this type before, smooth, suave, sophisticated, too damned good-looking for real, and boy, was he arrogant. “Do you mind if I tape our conversation?” She produced a small recorder from her purse.

“As a matter of fact I do,” Connors said. “I find those things terribly inhibiting. Can’t you make notes to assist your memory?”

It was an awful let down, after watching the handsome, charming face on TV. She managed a crooked smile as she put the gadget back and withdrew a notebook instead. “You’re quite sure this won’t paralyze you as well?”

His head jerked up; he really looked at her for the first time, and slowly his mouth widened into an apologetic smile. “Of course not. I’m sorry if I sounded rude. I guess my mind just wasn’t in gear. So…” he leaned back in his chair. “What about me do you wish to know?”

Another act, she decided, as though he had just pressed an ‘on with the charm’ button, and again had to suppress her irritation with his artificiality. Not that she wasn’t used to it. Most interviewees were stiff and artificial at first — it was her job to break through that barrier and reach the real person — but she hadn’t expected it of Richard Connors. “You’ve come to NABS from WJQT in Miami, right? Have you always lived there?” A usual type of opening question.