‘I’ve now triple-checked with her,’ he was yelling into the phone. I pictured him leaning back in his leather chair chomping on his omnipresent cigar. Like a mafia don, he would be flicking some cigar ash off one of his hideous suits with a bold white stripe and too much sheen. At this point the networks were in an all-Theresa-all-the-time, full-on media feeding frenzy. The talk shows dissected the ramifications for Hartley’s political future, the prime-time magazine shows did profiles of her background – though they weren’t able to get anywhere near her – and the syndicated entertainment news shows just tried to blow as much steam into the story as they could. However, none of them advanced the story at all because the two principal players weren’t talking. ‘Most importantly, she knows you know what’s on the tapes and she’s going to confirm that while your cameras are rolling. Meaning the whole ass thing.’
Goodman and I had been negotiating the exact parameters of the interview with Leon Rosenberg: where it would be held, how much of the telephone tapes we could use, and, most importantly, that she understood she would need to verbally detail the sex – which Leon had just confirmed. Goodman would be so psyched. I punched my fist in the air.
‘And on the other details,’ said Leon, ‘Theresa’s ready this week to go ahead …’
At this moment, Peter opened the HOUSEHOLD EMERGENCY MEDICINE Tupperware box and pulled out three huge plastic bags: a lifetime’s supply of potassium iodide, Cipro and Tamiflu. He began reading the laminated card I had put inside for Yvette and Carolina about what to do in case of a dirty bomb explosion, anthrax attack or avian flu outbreak.
‘That’s great, Leon.’
‘Although she was hoping for a big-city extravaganza, she understands you will pay only for the hotel room and eighty-five dollars per diem for the two days she is in the city. But she needs to look good. She wants a spa day, facial, pedicure, manicure and other stuff.’
I pulled the other Tupperware box away from Peter and put it on the floor next to my feet. It was filled with EpiPens for peanut allergies and asthma inhalers and Benadryl – all for play date guests, not my kids. It seemed like half my kids’ friends had life-threatening nut allergies, and some of their moms were totally blasé about it. Sometimes they even forgot to remind us about it. I could see Peter thinking I was completely neurotic. Not that I wasn’t.
‘Leon, again please make clear to her this is not some syndicated entertainment show or a British tabloid. This is a top news division of a major network. We will pay for hair and make-up, period. We can’t pay cash for interviews or appear as if we’re delivering favours, like facials, to interview subjects. We have news policy standards to uphold.’
Leon guffawed and slammed something down hard on his desk. ‘Get off your high horse for a second and listen to yourself, sweetheart.’ He laughed again. ‘Oooooo weeeee. All high and mighty like Walter fucking Cronkite and you and I know the only thing you’re interested in is the ass-fuck thing.’
I winked at Peter to let him know this call was going to take a few moments. He stood up and leaned against the windowsill looking down on Park Avenue, then headed towards the other end of my living room, which opened up with pocket doors into Phillip’s study. Reaching into one of the bookcases on either side of the doorway, he pulled out How to Raise Children in an Affluent Environment, a book Phillip had read while I was pregnant with Dylan. I was horrified, but he was all the way across the room, so I couldn’t grab it from him.
‘All right, Leon. We’re talking about a guy who used to run a Christian television network, a guy with four children who’s been married for thirty years to a June Cleaver lookalike, a guy who’s in bed with Focus on the Family, the Christian Coalition, and even the Promise Keepers. So there’s a little bit of hypocrisy here that is the main thing. But you are right, the, uh, exact sexual manifestations of this hypocrisy are quite interesting to us. Especially with the irony involving the anti-sodomy laws. That is kind of delicious. I won’t deny that. But, remember, we cared a lot about this story before we had that little item.’
‘That’s a twenty-five-million-dollar item, baby.’
‘It is. And let’s just leave it at that.’
‘OK, sweetheart, while you’re leaving it at that, one more thing.’ I breathed deeply and deliberately into the phone while awaiting his umpteenth request. I mouthed, ‘So sorry!’ to Peter. He shook his head and mouthed, ‘Don’t worry.’ He closed the book and walked over to the large box next to the coffee table.
‘And Goodman understands that he is to mention her lawyer …’
Peter was now riffling through the HOUSEHOLD EMERGENCY SUPPLIES box. Out came a Department of Homeland Security pamphlet, which he glanced at and threw back in the box. Next, he pulled out an Israeli gas mask, took it out of its protective plastic bag and started reading the instructions.
‘Yes, Leon, we will mention you by name and have the rolling video of you that you like, not the one on the windy day where your hair looks like Don King’s …’
Peter put on the gas mask. Then he pulled out a full-body, orange bio-terror fall-out suit, checked the label, held it up against his shoulders and anchored it down with his chin pushed into his neck.
The front door slammed. It was only two o’clock in the afternoon. I knew Carolina was in the kitchen, Yvette was still in the park with both younger children, and Dylan was in school. No one usually came through the door unannounced. I stretched my head around to the front hall while Leon began explaining exactly which video of himself he wanted us to use.
Phillip’s overcoat flew across the foyer. Shit. Just after lunch and Phillip is home? I knew he wasn’t travelling and he had never once come home like this in the middle of the day without calling. He walked into the living room with a man I’d never seen before only to find Peter with a gas mask on and the orange suit.
‘Jamie, what in God’s name is …?’
Peter pulled the gas mask off. His turn to have Don King hair. He politely put his hand out to Phillip.
‘No, no!’ I screamed at him.
Peter stopped dead in his tracks and gave me a ‘What the hell, lady? I’m just introducing myself here!’ look.
From my cell phone: ‘You don’t have that shot, baby? The one I mean?’
‘No. I mean not you, Leon. I do, Leon. I know exactly what you mean. I was just …’ I waved my hand for Peter to come sit down right here, now, young man! I pointed to his chair. ‘You want your hair flat like in the shot where you’re wearing the trench coat and yellow silk scarf and matching silk socks – not like the one where it looks like a huge Frisbee. I remember. Is that all?’
Phillip shook his head and walked down the hall with his guest. Then the doors of his study closed behind him.
‘All right, Leon. Thanks for the confirmation on Theresa. Goodbye.’
I hung up the phone and breathed out deeply.
‘I’m sorry,’ Peter said. ‘I was just trying to be courteous …’
‘No. I’m the one who has to apologize. It’s just this big story again, and I wanted to introduce you to my husband in calmer circumstances.’
‘I see.’
‘So sorry to interrupt again, Peter.’ I stood up. ‘I just need to check on him. Excuse me just for a second.’ I tiptoed across the living room and put my ear against the sliding doors.
‘Damnit, Allan. I left the papers here to keep them out of the office. Obviously.’
‘So where are they now? If you kept them here, they better be here.’
Allan who? I knocked on the door and heard a lamp smash on the floor. The pocket doors slid open a notch and my normally composed husband put his face through the minimal crack he had opened.
‘Yes?’