Her Name Will Be Faith Page 4

  Jo mixed up a glass of Alka-Seltzer, handed it to him.

  “Ugh.” He sighed. “Meet me at the Club at 11.30, will you?”

  “Eh?” About to step into the shower, she turned in surprise.

  “I’m taking an out-of-towner to lunch, and he’s got his wife with him. So I reckon it’d be good to make up a foursome; he’s quite well heeled. I’ve booked a table at the Four Seasons, but we’ll have a drink at the Club first.”

  “I’m sorry.” Jo shook her head. “I can’t.”

  “Eh?” It was his turn to be surprised.

  “I can’t meet you at eleven. I have an appointment at 11.15.”

  “Cancel it.”

  “Now you know I can’t do that, Michael. It’s an interview. You should have told me sooner.”

  “I didn’t goddam well know until yesterday.”

  “And you never thought to tell me last night. I’m sorry, but this interview was set up by the magazine. Tell you what, though: I might be able to join you at the restaurant at about one…”

  “Fucking hell,” he said. “What’s the good of that? Do you think I want these people to know my wife works for a living?”

  Jo sighed. Her going back to work had always been one of the several bones of contention between them; Michael felt she should just sit at home being a mother and twiddle her thumbs until he required her for some purpose or other.

  “Okay,” she said. “Then I won’t come to the restaurant.”

  She stood beneath the shower, allowing the water to bounce off her flesh, and opened her eyes as the stall door was jerked wide. One look at his face told her that he was in one of his moods. He had them from time to time, fits of depression when his mind descended into some private black hell, and when he would seize on any controversial aspect of their relationship as a reason to quarrel. Often enough it was their different religions. Michael was not a serious Catholic — none of the Donnellys were, although they went to confession and attended mass from time to time — and although she, as an Anglican, had had to agree that the children would be brought up in the Roman faith, the point was never belabored — when he was in a good mood. But too often, when he lost his temper, criticism of the way she was educating Owen Michael and Tamsin would be hurled at her. Thus usually she preferred it when he carried on about her job — but this morning there was an added bite to his aggression.

  “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.”

  National American Broadcasting Service Offices, Fifth Avenue — Mid-Morning

  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 thro
ugh 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.

  “No. I was born in San Francisco. My father was a pharmacist there.”

  “What made you move to Florida?”

  “I answered the advert for a weatherman, got the job. Simple as that.”

  “I really meant, what made you go in for forecasting? I…” she bit her lip, because he was grinning again. No doubt it had been suggested to him before that, with his looks and background, he could have done much better for himself. “I would say you were an athlete, once upon a time.”

  This time his grin was more genuine, and even a trifle cynical. “I played football, once upon a time. But never up to draft standard. And a guy has to major in something. I was always interested in TV — since I was a kid in short pants. And also an older cousin of mine was dead keen on sailing — and therefore weather. He’d take me out sometimes as crew — dead boring slopping about waiting for wind, but he was always looking at the sky and forecasting what was coming… and I guess I got involved myself.” He paused to grin at her doubting smile. “Being a forecaster gets to be quite fun, you know. There are a lot of spin-offs, like doing commentaries from helicopters and getting involved in local organizations: you’d be surprised how many people in this country are really interested in the weather, even if they don’t talk about it all the time as they do in England. You get to meet a hell of a lot of interesting folk.”

  “And presumably forecasting is a rung on the ladder up,” she suggested.

  Another grin. “To becoming a TV personality? You’d better believe it. I don’t intend to stay in forecasting forever.”

  She realized she had found the real Richard Connors, a man just trying to work his way into his true place in society, the same as anyone else. She made notes on his college football career, his first job interviews, and his varied progress before moving into the world of television. But when she came to his personal life, his mood suddenly changed. “I shouldn’t think that will interest anyone,” he said.

  “You couldn’t be more wrong,” she protested. “That’s what it’s all about.”

  He glanced at her ring finger. “Sorry, Mrs Donnelly. My private life stays private.”

  They stared at each other, and she realized that he meant what he said. Which left her projected article in tatters. She might as well get up and leave and scrap the idea right now. Then she remembered what Ed had told her. “Then talk to me about the job,” she said. “Weather forecasting. And hurricanes,” she added.

  He frowned at her. “Hurricanes? You interested in hurricanes?”

  “Sure I am. My parents-in-law have a holiday home in Eleuthera.”

  “Is that a fact? Say, would you really like to see how it all works?”

  “Yes, I would.” She followed him down endless corridors, past open office doors where typewriters rattled, computers bleeped, and coffee dispensers were in constant use.

  “Would you like a coffee?” he asked.

  “Not right now, thanks.” She had never tasted anything drinkable from one of those machines.

  The studio was like any other television center, somewhat bare except for the various backdrops against which Richard would stand while making his forecasts, and a large and elaborate desk behind which he sat as each program commenced, and dominated by the three cameras, presently unattended.

  The control room was far more interesting. Richard introduced her to the news and weather program director, who, even now, was sitting gazing through a soundproof glass wall at three rows of screens showing various pictures, from newsreels and interviews to plain tuning screens. The unit in front of his chair was solid with dials, knobs and switches, microphones and telephones.

  “This is where all the mistakes are made,” Richard said solemnly. “As when the anchorman introduces the President’s state visit to France and you’re shown a college quarterback haring down the pitch.”

  “Or the met man is left pressing his control button for his next chart and absolutely nothing happens,” the director cut in, laughing.

  Richard’s office, on the other hand, was a relaxed place of comfortable furniture, just untidy enough, with piles of paper and reports scattered about, to look lived in. He showed Jo to a very comfortable armchair, seated himself behind his desk, introduced and dismissed his pretty secretary — she had been filing — and then smiled at her. “Now?”

  “Well, tell me something about your job. How do you forecast weather?”

  “You observe,” he said. “There is really nothing much more to it than that. Anyone can forecast weather, and as I’m sure you know, most people do, constantly. However, the accuracy of the forecast does depend on the number of observations you can get hold of, which rather puts looking out of the window every morning at the bottom of the list. It also depends on the interpretation you put on what you see and learn; that last part can be pure experience, but it helps if you’ve been taught something about meteorology. For instance, a hundred years ago it was difficult to forecast the weather more than twenty-four hours ahead, because then it really was a matter of how much you could see from your window, and relating that to your barometer. The barometer is one of the most important of weather forecasting instruments, providing, that is…” he grinned. “That it’s an accurate barometer.”

  “Why is a barometer so important?”

  “Because it records the atmospheric pressure around you.”

  “But why is pressure important? I thought we were all under pressure? About 15 lbs per square inch of our bodies. Correct?”

  “Correct. But that isn’t to say pressure is uniform all over the world. Or even all over the state. The variations, thought of in terms of pressure per square inch of the human body, may not amount to much, although if you think about it, just before a storm, for instance, when it’s all hot and muggy, everyone feels out of sorts. That’s caused simply by a lowering of the pressure. The important thing, from a meteorologist’s point of view, is that pressure controls the flow of wind. Wind flows from high-pressur
e areas to low-pressure areas, or down the pressure gradients, as we call them, just as water runs downhill. Actually, winds flow round centers of pressure, but always downhill. In the northern hemisphere, it does so in an anti-clockwise direction if it’s a low-pressure system, a depression, and a clockwise direction if it’s a high-pressure cell, an anti-cyclone. South of the equator, the reverse obtains. But a glance at the isobar lines always tells you the direction of the wind, and just about how strong.”

  “What’s an isobar?”

  “Very simply, it is a line drawn, as a result of reported barometric observations, through all the places on the earth’s surface which have the same pressure at the same time. This is the most important duty of a weather observer, reporting quickly and accurately on the exact conditions wherever he is. In addition to recording the actual cloud formations and precipitations and temperature, all of which are necessary to the forecaster, he will record the barometric pressure. Here in the States we use inches, but in the rest of the world pressure is recorded in millibars. Then, when all those observations are received, the forecaster — or nowadays, the computer — joins all the lines of equal pressure together, making up what we call a synoptic chart.”

  “And that tells you what the weather is going to do?”

  “Sure. Obviously, if Station A, five hundred miles away, reports heavy cloud and rain at, say, 8.00 am in the morning, and Station B, three hundred miles away, reports blue skies at that hour, and then at ten o’clock Station A reports clearing skies and Station B increasing cloud, you can assume a rain storm is approaching from A to B. If at ten o’clock Station A still reports cloud and rain, when it is also being reported from Station B, then it is obviously a pretty big storm system. That’s pure observation. But the isobars tell us what wind speeds to expect. When the different lines are well spaced, a shallow gradient, we know the wind flow will be light. When the lines appear close packed, a steep gradient, strong winds are indicated. This is very important to ships at sea, which may be travelling down a pressure gradient themselves. It is an axiom, for instance, that if a ship’s barometer drops as much as three millibars in any hour, the crew should prepare for a gale. In the sub-tropics, where there is very little pressure movement at all, a drop of three millibars in one hour can very well indicate a hurricane in the vicinity. But nowadays, of course, we have many more sophisticated ways of telling the weather…”