John Kenney - Talk to Me

The initial response to that evening’s broadcast was positive. In Ted’s ninety-second apology at the end of the broadcast, he spoke of the women in his life. Of Claire and Franny. “I am not merely a newsman. I am a husband and a father to a daughter. My words were ill chosen, offensive, and I deeply regret them.”

Calls came into the network switchboard. Older women, mostly.

“I believe in Ted.”

“If he were my son I’d wash his mouth out with soap and then give him a good dinner.”

“We all make mistakes. My husband used to yell at me and we’ve been married forty years!”

But that small sampling wasn’t the audience that mattered, the coveted golden children. The millennials, who had never and would never watch an evening news broadcast at 6:30 p.m. They were too busy staring at their phones.

No one had thought to reach out to Natalia.

The end was already happening. Ted just didn’t know it yet.

A video had been posted on YouTube by “Dick Man 1989” that showed footage from the new Ted promos, except it had the music from the movie Doctor Zhivago and a spliced-together version of Ted saying, “You Russian whore… you Russian whore…” over and over.

“Bhutan, Ted.”

Diana was talking. Ted was fairly sure her name was Diana. She was the host of a charity event, an evening Ted did not want to be part of but which Claire had urged him to attend, in part to support her fund-raising leadership for the something or other, and, more important, Claire said, to put a good face on “us” and “you.” They had not gone public with news of the divorce yet.

A small group of photographers, alerted by Claire’s fund-raising committee (for the homeless, it turned out), had gathered at the head of the long driveway to Diana’s home in Westport, Connecticut. What better way to fete the generous donors and bring awareness to homelessness than by hosting an exclusive event at a ten-thousand-square-foot home on three acres of waterfront property hugging Long Island Sound?

“How bad is this going to be?” Claire asked Ted in the car service from Bedford to Westport.

They were each looking out their own window.

“The party?” Ted said.

Claire waited.

“They’ve got it under control,” he said finally, though he didn’t believe they did. “They” being the network’s PR team, working with external forces at blogs, websites, and news outlets.

Claire’s legal team (which Ted was paying for) felt the timing of Ted’s faux pas was ideal for their upcoming settlement hearing. “Goes to character, Claire,” said her lead attorney, an angry woman who fake laughed a lot. “If he verbally abused this makeup woman, what did he do to you?”

What had surprised Claire when she finally heard the news, listened to her voicemail messages, spoke with Franny, turned on the TV, scanned the web, was her own reaction. Defensiveness. A need to protect.

She knew exactly what had happened. She’d bet a dollar ($20 million, actually, when the settlement was done) that he was in a mood that evening and snapped at the poor girl. He was many things, her husband. Annoying, cold, inconsiderate. He was depressive, moody, and controlling. But a misogynist he wasn’t. She’d watched the video of his explosion and had never known him to use that word.

“Ted,” Claire said, looking at him. He turned. She saw it on his face. She saw that he didn’t think it was under control.

Claire’s hair was down. He preferred it down. She had on a simple black dress, sexy shoes that looked expensive. Her lips were tastefully glossed and she wore For Her by Narciso Rodriguez. It was a scent she had worn for years. Ted had bought it for her, a long time ago, at Franny’s suggestion.

“They’re working on it,” he said, looking out the window.

Ted sensed a softening in Claire. Maybe there was hope. Maybe her Englishman had disappointed her.

“You look very nice,” Ted said. He didn’t know he was going to say it.

“Thank you.” She turned back to the window, embarrassed by the compliment. “You should be receiving the divorce papers early next week. Hoping we can sign soon.”

Ted saw them as the car pulled closer to the long driveway. A police officer standing next to a motorcycle at the entrance. Maybe ten people, mostly women, holding signs, chanting.

“Ted must go!”

Ted and Claire watched, in a kind of slow motion, as the car turned into the driveway, the driver’s window lowering, the noise of the protestors entering the car (“Shame on you, Ted Grayson!”), the singsong chant, the police officer looking in back, seeing who it was, nodding them in, the driver’s window going back up, near silence, a look between Claire and Ted, Claire blinking fast, then back to their respective windows, not a word spoken.

“Bhutan,” Ted repeated, staring at Diana. She was so thin. “How do you mean, exactly?”

They were standing inside a large white tent, three sides of which were closed, the fourth open to the Sound. Space heaters kept the place warm. Black-suited waiters offered hors d’oeuvres.

“It’s the new ‘it’ place. Stunning. The people, the mountains, the culture. You and Claire should go. Everyone’s going.”

“Are you going?”

“I have no plans to, no. Why?”

“I just…”

“They have something called the Gross National Happiness. Isn’t that adorable? Measuring happiness. We have something similar here in Westport. It’s called Gross Miserable People.” Here Diana winked. “Do you read Departures , Ted?”

“I don’t know what that is.”

Diana laughed too loudly and hit Ted on the arm, nearly spilling his drink.

“It’s a magazine, you freak,” Diana said. “American Express publishes it monthly. Do you have an American Express Platinum card?”

“Yes.”

“Then you get it in the mail,” Diana said.

“Oh. Sure.” Ted still didn’t know what she was talking about.

“I know the editor.” Diana said this with the same gravitas she might have said, “I know Sting.”

Ted made the face he felt Diana wanted him to make, nodding appropriately.

Diana continued to speak about Departures magazine and its editor and the stories it told about the places and hotels and experiences available only to the very rich. Ted managed to mute Diana’s voice in his head and instead simply stared at her mouth moving.

Ted overheard snippets of conversation from different groups around him.

“A federal grand jury indictment… the man’s going to prison…”

“They found a tumor on his rectum.”

“He’s heir to a Dijon mustard fortune.”

He couldn’t spot Claire. They had walked in together, smiling, each looking away from the other, Claire stopping to say hello to someone, dropping Ted for what Ted knew would likely be the rest of the evening. Ted had gone for the bar, where Diana cornered him.

A casual perusal of the fifty or so guests showed a fairly uniform group: white, middle-aged, attractive, fit, well-dressed, smiling, sexually devious, deeply wealthy, unusually successful. They were members of an elite club, a club to which they were desperate to belong and yet, here, now, to which each felt like an outsider.

“I keep them,” Diana said.

Ted had forgotten what she was talking about.

“The magazines. I collect them. Keep them on the shelf. I think they’re a wonderful reference for travel, food, fashion. Very beautiful.”

Ted found this sad for some reason, a peek into Diana’s empty life. But then, Ted thought, who was he to judge her happiness? What was he but a worthless piece of shit? The story wasn’t going to be contained. This thought hit him full force, his brain releasing an array of chemicals causing him to feel mildly nauseated, cold, sweaty, tingly, afraid, and profoundly sad in a matter of seconds. He was getting texts from Simon. The initial small bump after the apology had worn off and now Ted was center stage on social media, naked, alone, and being beaten to death. No one was coming to his defense.