Chapter 2
THE ALARM WENT off at four o’clock, just as it did every morning. Without opening her eyes, Blaise reached her hand out and turned it off. She lay there with her eyes closed for a few minutes and forced herself to get up. It was still dark outside, and on Fifth Avenue, you could already hear the rumble of cars and trucks. She loved knowing that New York never fully slept. There was always someone awake. She found that comforting as she walked into her bathroom, pulled up her bright red hair, and held it with an elastic so she wouldn’t get it wet. She had washed it, as she always did, the night before. The hairdresser on the set would do it when she arrived, and the makeup artist she always used did her makeup every morning, as she took a last look at her research.
She slipped into the enormous bathtub with the view of the park, and sat relaxing for a few minutes in the warm water, before she had to rev up her engines and start the day. This was usually the last moment of peace she had, and that night she would be on a plane.
At a quarter to five, she was in the kitchen, and put on water for tea. She went to the front door and got the newspapers. She always tried to get a good look at The New York Times and Wall Street Journal before she went to work. And then she checked online for anything that might have happened since. Anything even more recent than that would show up on her desk at work before the morning news, and Mark would make sure that she saw it if it was breaking news.
The shooting at UCLA was on the front page, and she saw as she read it that Pat Olden was still alive. The article said that he was on a respirator, clinging to life by a thread. She couldn’t help wondering, if Pat survived, how severely he would be impaired. It seemed inevitable that wounds like the ones he had sustained would take a serious toll. And she wondered how his wife and children were. The shooting was going to be the main focus of her morning editorial, followed by a financial piece that she had carefully researched about a recent upturn in the stock market and what it meant.
She ate a single piece of whole wheat toast, along with her tea. It was too early to eat anything else. And there was fruit and a spread of breakfast food she didn’t eat when she got to work. There was always food for the on-air talent, and for the guests on morning shows. But Blaise was restrained about what she ate. She had worn a dark blue blazer, and white silk shirt, gray slacks, and high-heeled shoes. She liked a more casual look when she did the morning news. She saved her more fashionable clothes for her interviews and specials. She had already picked a good-looking black suit to wear for her interview with the British prime minister in London the following day. She had packed the night before, and her two small bags were in the front hall. She was going to pick them up after work when she came home to change. When she took overnight flights, she wore slacks and comfortable clothes. It was all routine to her.
It was twenty to six by the time she finished reading both papers. She went to brush her hair, made sure her outfit looked right, picked up her handbag and briefcase, put on a coat, and at five minutes to six she was downstairs. Tully was already waiting for her, and he smiled broadly when she got in.
“Morning, Miss McCarthy. Did you sleep well?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you, I did. How about you?”
“Pretty good. I stayed up too late, watching one of those old films.” He told her it was Casablanca, and they both agreed it was a good one. And until recently, when the season ended, baseball had been their main topic. Blaise was an ardent Yankees fan, and so was Tully. She gave him baseball tickets whenever she could, and Tully loved it. She had even gotten him tickets to the World Series.
He dropped her off at the network a few minutes later. There was no traffic at that hour, and it was a straight shot downtown. And by six-twenty she was in her office. Mark was waiting for her with the highlights for the morning news. She glanced over them and saw with relief that Pat Olden hadn’t died. If he had, Blaise would have dedicated the segment to eulogizing him, and she was prepared for that too, just in case. But with the incident at UCLA, the main theme of her editorial that morning was about violence on college campuses, and untreated mental illness. There had been too many incidents recently like the one at UCLA the day before, with students who had been identified as mentally ill earlier and managed to shun treatment, with dire results later on. It was both tragic and frustrating when it happened. She put the finishing touches on her editorial and left for hair and makeup, where she spent forty minutes under bright lights getting camera-ready and bantering with the two women she saw every morning. Both women were young and had small kids at home. Once in a while they asked about Salima, and she said she was fine. Blaise was very private about her daughter. She asked about their children too, and as always, she looked terrific when they finished.
She was ready at seven-fifteen, and at her desk on the set at seven-twenty, looking competent and serene, and like a woman in control of every situation. Blaise McCarthy was every inch a star. She was serious as she went on the air, as soon as she got the signal, and then smiled, wishing her viewers a good morning.
“I know we are all shocked around the country, at the tragedy at UCLA yesterday, and I would like to express our sorrow and deep sympathy to the families of the victims of the shooting. And it’s even more distressing to note that this is a theme we’ve all heard before. A troubled young man, exhibiting signs of mental illness, who then falls through the cracks of whatever system, and manages to avoid treatment. And then suddenly, tragedy occurs. I would like to ask each of our universities what they are doing to prevent situations like this from happening again. How can we protect other students from mentally ill students among them? What can we do to insist on treatment, for their sakes as well? What are we doing about better security? Why was there no metal detector at the door to the auditorium at UCLA yesterday, and if there was, what did they miss? The shooter was armed when he walked in. Which of course brings us to how I feel about gun control, and many of us do.
“I honestly believe that those who are against it are misusing our Constitution to support their position. This isn’t a matter of civil liberties, but of keeping our citizens safe. Freedom of speech will not kill you. The right to bear arms will. We need to make that distinction and not be afraid to limit rights that once made sense but no longer do. If you doubt it, take a good look at what happened yesterday, at what happened to Pat Olden, what his life will be like now, if he recovers, and the life of his wife and kids. Yesterday countless lives were forever changed. Not just the people who were killed and injured, but their families, their loved ones. We can’t let this happen again, and again, and again. And above all, we must find a way to treat mentally ill students, once identified, and not let them slip through the cracks in our system. We owe them more than that, and the people they may ultimately injure. And yesterday proves once again that what we are doing now is not working. We need better fail-safe systems for treatment in place.”
There was a moment’s pause as she let her message sink in, and then she went on to discuss the stock market upturn, which had been worrying many knowledgeable people on Wall Street. Was it happening too fast and too soon after a recent slump, and what did it mean? Blaise put forward several theories that were quoted from experts. She always touched on a variety of timely topics. She had a full twenty minutes on the air, and then with a slow smile, which they showed in close-up, she looked into the camera and wished everyone a good day. You had the feeling when she said it that she was speaking just to you. The piercing green eyes looked straight at the viewers, and she spoke to each of them, and then they cut to commercial as she took off her mike, stood up, and left the set. Several of the producers told her the segment was very good. She had made her point on all the relevant issues in a provocative and practical way, not to panic viewers but to inform them and encourage them to think. She had touched on violence, mental illness, and Wall Street that morning, all key issues in the news. Blaise’s pieces and editorials were always interesting and geared to both women and men. They were intelligent, but she also respected her viewers and gave them credit for having a brain. Her comments were aimed at anyone who was willing to think. And her interviews and specials were even better, because the choices she made of interview subjects were so good, and the questions she asked, gently but probingly, were on topics everyone wanted to hear. And she made her viewers feel they were right in the room with her. She had a knack for making her subjects relax and open up. She had an easy style and wasn’t afraid to make them laugh. It put everyone at ease, and she got a lot more out of them that way. And then she’d move in on some controversial angle and pin them down. She wasn’t just good at what she did, she was great.
“Good job,” Charlie Owens, the executive producer, said as he whizzed by Blaise on the way to a meeting, as Blaise headed to her office to check her e-mail and the research for the interview with the prime minister for a last time. And when she did, it was all there. She spent the rest of the day working on an interview she would do in Dubai, and requested more research right up till the last minute before she left. She was meticulous and thorough, which were among the many reasons why both network and viewers loved her.
“Do you have everything you wanted?” Mark asked as she put the last file in her briefcase.
“I’m all set,” she said as she put on her coat and smiled at him. He was as detail-oriented as she was, which was why they got along. He didn’t find her annoying, he thought she was brilliant. It was six o’clock. It had been a long day, the usual twelve hours, which seemed normal to her. Mark worked overtime every day, and was happy to do so. “See you in three days,” she said, smiling at him. “I’ll call you if anything comes up.” They were using a British cameraman for the interview with the prime minister, and he was flying to Dubai with her, with a soundman and crew, for the interview there.
“Try to sleep on the plane,” Mark said with a solicitous look. He worried about her. She pushed herself too hard, harder than anyone he knew, but she seemed to thrive on it. The more she worked, the more energy she had. She had noticed it too. It was one of the secrets of her success, that and the fact that she didn’t need much sleep. When people scolded her for how little sleep she got, she always reminded them that Margaret Thatcher had slept three hours a night, which shut them up. She loved doing what she wanted and staying up late at night, which was one of the reasons she liked living alone, and said she was “single by choice.” And by now, she was convinced that was true. She was lonely at times, but she didn’t want a relationship anymore. Occasionally, she missed having someone to talk to at night, particularly if something good happened at the office, or something very bad. But other than that, she was fine.
“I always sleep on the plane,” she reminded Mark. “In fact, it’s harder to stay awake.” The flight from New York to London was seven hours, and she had to be fresh the next day so she would be sure to sleep for most of the flight. She was meeting with the prime minister three hours after she landed, just enough time to go to the hotel, bathe and dress, and be at 10 Downing Street for the interview. There wasn’t a minute to spare.
“Don’t forget to eat,” he admonished her, knowing that she often did. Blaise ate and slept little when she was excited about a project.
She waved at Mark as she headed for the elevator, grateful for all his help before she left. He was incredibly efficient. Traffic was heavy, and it took her forty-five minutes to get home, unlike the morning. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the seat, as Tully expertly threaded his way through the other cars, and she thanked him when she got home. “See you at eight-thirty,” she reminded him. She had to be at the airport at nine-thirty, for an eleven-thirty international flight.
“I’ll be here,” he promised, and she went upstairs to the silent apartment, turned on the lights, and glanced at the park. It was nearly seven, and she wanted to shower and change, and have something to eat. She wanted to call Salima before she left, but she knew Salima would be having dinner then, so she waited till after her bath. Salima answered the phone on the first ring. An electronic ID system told her who was calling by voice, so she could hear it anywhere in the room and know who was on the line. She beamed the moment she heard it was her mother, and bounded across the room to pick up the phone.
“Hi, Mom,” Salima said, sounding happy. Much to Blaise’s amazement, there was never a tone of reproach in her voice for the many times her mother hadn’t called, only pleasure when she did.
“Hi, sweetheart. What have you been up to?” Blaise said, smiling when she heard her.
“Just school,” Salima said, sounding even younger than she was. And the timbre of her voice was very much like her mother’s. People often got them confused on the phone when she was home for vacation. “Are you going to L.A.?” She was hoping her mother would do more on the UCLA story, but Blaise still felt it wasn’t ripe for her. It wasn’t time for an on-location editorial, only news. She had an unfailing instinct for that, for doing a story at the right time. And she knew this was premature for her.
“No, I’m going to London tonight, to interview the new prime minister.”
“That’s cool.” She sounded disappointed. She thought that the UCLA piece was better, and the piece on the prime minister seemed dull to her.
“And I’m going to Dubai tomorrow night, to interview a Saudi prince who is a major oil company executive. He’s supposed to be a very interesting guy. There’s a rumor that his brother is a terrorist, but no one knows for sure.”
“Are you going to ask him?” Salima loved the idea and laughed at the thought.
“Probably. I’ll see how it goes. I’ll be back after that. I’ll just be gone for three days.”
“I’m fine, Mom,” Salima reassured her. It was she who always reassured Blaise, not the reverse.
“I’ll come see you when I get back. How’s school?”
“Boring. I’m trying to get all my required classes out of the way. They’re awful. I only have one elective this term.”
“What is it?”
“History of Italian Renaissance music,” she said, sounding delighted, and her mother groaned.
“Oh my God, now that sounds awful. I’d rather take math,” Blaise said with feeling, and Salima laughed.
“I love it. And the music is gorgeous. I keep humming it when I get home.”
“Only you,” Blaise said, smiling. Salima loved to sing and could sing almost anything. She had a beautiful voice, and an incredible memory for music. It was a gift she’d had even as a child.
They chatted for half an hour, about the school shooting, her other classes, some gossip she’d heard about two of the teachers at her school having an affair. She didn’t know who, and there were rumors like it from time to time, but it was always intriguing to hear. Her source had been vague. Salima was easy to talk to, and it made Blaise feel guilty again, talking to her, thinking she should call her more often. But Salima was busy with her own life, and always in good spirits. She was very independent and didn’t sit around waiting to hear from her mother. And Blaise had always been busy. Salima was used to it.
“I’ll call you as soon as I get back,” Blaise promised. “I’ll try to come up this weekend.”
“I’m fine, Mom,” she told her again. “Don’t come up if you’re too tired after the trip.”
“We’ll see.” She loved visiting her at that time of year anyway. The turning of the leaves in New England always thrilled her. But it was a bigger thrill to see her daughter. Even though she didn’t see enough of her, Blaise loved her. And Salima understood the priorities that governed her mother’s life.
“Fly safe,” Salima said as they hung up, and Blaise sat thinking of her for a minute, and then went to get dressed. She had just enough time to grab something out of the fridge and make her flight.
Tully was waiting for her when she got downstairs. He looked a lot more tired than Blaise, whose day had been just as long, and she had been busier. And she was quiet on the way to the airport, thinking of Salima again. She was determined to go to Massachusetts now on the weekend. She hadn’t seen her in a month, since Labor Day weekend, right before school started. It was time for a visit. She tried to get up to see her once a month, or if she was traveling a lot, every six or eight weeks. Sometimes it was the best she could do. It was always fine with Salima, she made that clear to her mother. She was nineteen now after all, not a baby. But even when she had first gone away to school, she had been very brave about it, and never begged her mother to visit or take her out of school. She was just happy when Blaise came to see her. She was completely undemanding. It would have been easier for Blaise if Harry visited her occasionally too, but he rarely did. Only Blaise. He was a good man, but a lousy father. Once Salima went away to school at eight, he hardly saw her, and they had no relationship to speak of now, and never had.
Two officials from British Air met Blaise at the airport and escorted her to a private VIP room, where they let her relax until it was time to board the flight. According to her preference, she was the last one to get on the plane, in first class, and there was a small stir as she walked down the aisle and people recognized her. There was almost no one in the world who didn’t know who Blaise McCarthy was, and she was easy to spot with her distinctive looks and bright red hair.
The two airline officials left her at her seat, and the purser on the flight took over, offering her magazines, newspapers, and champagne, and she declined all of it politely, and took out her research, to prepare for the interview the next day. She had brought her own cashmere blanket and a small pillow and continued reading after they took off. She declined the meal, but asked for a cup of tea. She didn’t like eating on late-night flights, and never understood how people could, but she supposed that people felt they had paid for it and wanted their money’s worth. Blaise preferred sleep to indigestion. And when she finished reading, she turned off her light, had the steward turn her seat into a bed, which was why she traveled first class, put on a sleep mask, and was asleep in five minutes, with her cashmere blanket around her. She had asked them to wake her up, half an hour before they landed, so she could brush her teeth and comb her hair and have a cup of tea before the descent. She was being met by a VIP escort from British Air and airport security to get her through customs quickly. She had no time to waste, and the driver from Claridge’s would be at the airport. She glanced out at the British countryside as she drank her tea. And it all went like clockwork when they landed.
She was in the car from Claridge’s within twenty minutes, and at the hotel forty-five minutes later. She had an hour to bathe and dress, send e-mails, make some notes, and get to Downing Street for the interview. The cameraman was meeting her there. And as soon as she checked into the hotel, they took her to the familiar suite she always requested. It had pale yellow walls and flowered chintz furniture, and looked like a guest room in an English country home to Blaise, and she loved it. She ate a quick breakfast, although it was lunchtime in London by then, but she never suffered from jet lag, which made traveling easy for her. She looked fresh as the proverbial daisy when she arrived at Downing Street, where the camera man and crew were waiting in a van with all their equipment. He had identified himself to the guards outside, and they were expecting Blaise.
Three secretaries helped them set up in a pretty sitting room, and by the time the prime minister joined them, promptly and on schedule, they were ready, and Blaise glided into the interview with ease. She found the prime minister extremely astute and charming and very witty. He fielded her questions nicely with a twinkle in his eye, and answered fully those he liked better. It was an excellent game of verbal Ping-Pong, and they were evenly matched. He liked her, had been looking forward to meeting her, and he had been told she was a very clever woman, and he wasn’t disappointed. But he answered enough questions in depth, and with seeming sincerity and candor, that the interview was a success for her. She had gotten what she came for, a glimpse behind the mask of the new prime minister. The interview felt warm and personal, and she had put him at ease. And he enjoyed her enough, and admired her, to answer questions he might not have otherwise, which was what always happened with her subjects. And when he asked her what she was doing next, when the camera was no longer rolling, she told him about the interview in Dubai the next day, and he grinned broadly.
“Now that’s an interview I’d like to see. He’s a much more interesting subject.”
“More controversial perhaps,” Blaise said with a gleam in her own eye, “but surely not as interesting, or charming.” She thanked him for the interview then, wished him luck in his endeavors, and they both walked away feeling they had made a friend, which happened to her often. Blaise was very good at what she did, and all her subjects, the men anyway, fell just a little bit in love with her. She came to life on camera as she did nowhere else. And she went back to the hotel, pleased with the interview, and knowing Charlie would be delighted. The prime minister had been an excellent subject.
She had just enough time at the hotel to change her clothes again, put on something more comfortable, relax for a few hours, take a walk down New Bond Street in the crisp October air, order a quick meal when she got back to the hotel, and leave for the airport again, for the flight to Dubai. It was almost the same length as the flight the night before from New York to London, about forty-five minutes shorter, and she was planning to sleep so she’d be fresh when she arrived. She couldn’t afford to be slow or sluggish or dull-witted for the Saudi prince. He was known to be sly and adept at avoiding key questions. She knew she’d have to be at her best for him, and she went to sleep the moment she got on the plane. And as she requested, they woke her up right before they landed.
There was VIP escort service for her again, a Rolls-Royce Phantom limousine with a liveried driver, and she was taken to the Burj al Arab Hotel. She only stayed at the best hotels when she traveled, particularly in foreign cities, which was in her contract. And they had to provide her limousines everywhere. She had been doing this for twenty-five years, and she had earned it. She took it for granted now, as part of the landscape for her.
She had been to Dubai before, and she was impressed to see that they had put up even more modern structures since the last time she’d been there, and the hotel where she was staying looked palatial. The suite they gave her was one of the largest and most opulent she’d ever seen, and she had her own butler. There was a helipad for arriving guests. Her interview was scheduled for nine o’clock that night, and she took the opportunity to take a drive around the city with her driver in the Rolls, while he pointed out the sights to her, and it was very impressive, although it was a place she wouldn’t have chosen to come to on her own. But in the context she was seeing it, as a location for an interview, she found it fascinating. And when she got back to her hotel, she had new questions in mind to ask him. She knew that her subject normally lived in Riyadh, but due to the restrictions on women in his city, he had agreed to meet her in Dubai, when he had to go there on business. It was the most liberal of the Arab cities.
She wore a long sleeved, high-necked, somber but chic black dress as she waited for him to come to her suite, in the living room, where the cameras had been set up. And she looked respectful and subdued, as was fitting. He was actually younger than she was, and she knew he had a somewhat racy reputation when he traveled, with a keen eye for young women, but she had a feeling that he would be more circumspect here, and with her.
Blaise wasn’t disappointed when she met Mohamed bin Sabur. He came to her suite in an exquisitely cut English suit, made by his tailor in London, and impeccably shined John Lobb shoes from Paris. He was dark and had jet-black hair and a mustache, and he was one of the handsomest men she had ever seen. He was thirty-five years old and looked younger, and if she had been less serious about her work, she would have been tempted to flirt with him. Instead they sparred for two hours in the interview. He was clever and amusing and had a great sense of humor. He had been schooled in England.
For the first hour he dodged most of her questions, but she had anticipated that and had saved the important ones for later, hoping to wear him down and surprise him. And she even dared to ask him about his brother, the alleged terrorist, and he laughed out loud when she asked the question.
“What an interesting reputation my brother has,” he said easily, without embarrassment. “The only one he terrorizes is me. He beat me up regularly when we were boys, quite mercilessly. And now he charms away all my women. He’s a devilishly handsome man.” He had slipped right through her question with ease.
“So are you,” Blaise said with the smile that she had been famous for since her youth in television. She was an even match for him.
“Thank you, Miss McCarthy.” She asked him several more pointed questions then, about oil in the Middle East, and his business in the United States. He answered cautiously but seemed to be sincere, to a point. He was no fool, and he told her nothing he didn’t want said on TV. He was just guarded enough, and just open enough, to make the interview fascinating to their viewers. And he was an incredibly seductive man, with an air of mystery about him. And from his playful answer, she surmised that his brother probably was exactly what was said about him, a terrorist of some kind, but she knew enough not to press the point. And she drew the interview to an elegant close. He bowed when it was over, and thanked her, and then surprised her totally by pulling a small box out of his pocket and handing her a gift. She was stunned. No interview subject had ever done that before, although a few had sent presents to her afterward, but it was rare, except when they established genuine friendships. This, she knew, was just part of his charm. She opened it while he watched her, and found a gold bangle bracelet from Cartier with small diamond studs on it. It was an extremely generous gift from a very handsome man, and she was touched and flattered.
“Thank you for a most enjoyable evening,” he said to her. “I was wondering if you would be kind enough to join me for dinner?” She hadn’t expected that either, but Blaise had always been adventuresome, and she accepted without hesitation, and he was pleased. It was nearly midnight, but they were both exhilarated by the interview and wide awake.
He took her to one of the finest restaurants in Dubai, Pierre Gagnair’s Riflets, in his Ferrari, and she felt totally at ease with him. Whatever his reputation with women, he was also very much a gentleman, and extremely sophisticated and civilized. He spent considerable time in Paris and London every month, with frequent trips to New York on business. She had fun with him. He seemed very taken with her, and she was intrigued by him. She had a strong sense that whatever she was seeing was what he wanted to show her, and who he really was remained well hidden. But what she did see was entirely likable. She wore his bracelet on her wrist all evening, and when she thanked him sincerely for both the gift and the evening, he thanked her for the interview again. She promised to send it to him on a DVD after it ran, and she hoped he’d be pleased.
“May I call you when I’m next in New York?” he asked politely, and she smiled at him.
“I’d like that very much,” she said warmly, but she was sure he never would. She wasn’t nearly racy enough for him, and it was unlikely that they’d become friends. But he had made her brief stay in Dubai a lot more fun, and she had a sense of adventure as she went back to her suite, and looked at the bracelet again. She wrote him a note of heartfelt thanks to send the next morning before she left. He had been generous and cooperative and kind, as well as interesting as a subject. Her trip to Dubai to interview him had been well worth it, and a total success, which wasn’t always the case.
She sent what they had to Charlie by computer, and he called her two hours later.
“My God, Blaise, what did you do to the guy? You had him eating out of the palm of your hand.” It was even better than he had hoped. Bin Sabur had looked completely smitten with Blaise.
“Not exactly, and I’m not sure how honest he was with me. Like about his brother, and on a number of other subjects, but he gave a great interview.”
“You got a great interview out of him. He didn’t just sit there and spill his guts, you pulled it out of him like silk scarves out of a magician’s hat. Lady, you are good.”
“Thank you,” she said, smiling at the compliment, and even she had to admit it had gone well. She was anxious to see it for herself. “He gave me a diamond bracelet too, from Cartier,” she said with a giggle.
“Did you sleep with him?” Charlie sounded shocked, and worried. He didn’t want her getting arrested for something she shouldn’t do, but Blaise was too smart for that.
“Of course not. It was a gift to thank me for the interview, when it was over. He’s actually a nice guy, and very flirtatious. I let him take me to dinner. And after that I came back to my room.”
“Well, lock your door in case he shows up tonight. He looked like he wanted more on the feed I just saw. Guys don’t give diamond bracelets for nothing.”
“Guys in the States expect to get laid if they feed you dinner. At least here they hand out diamond bracelets. It’s a better deal,” she teased, but she was in good spirits. She had had fun with him, and he made her feel young and sexy again. Not having a man in her life for four years since Andrew made her feel as though she were no longer a woman at times, and wonder if she ever would be again.
“Just be careful until you leave. I don’t want to have to get you out of jail, if you break any laws. Or look for you in Riyadh if he kidnaps you.”
“He won’t. He admitted on camera tonight that he has three wives, and I’m older than he is, by about ten years.”
“So? That didn’t seem to be slowing him down, neither your age nor his wives. Besides, I think they’re allowed three or four, or five.”
“Don’t worry, Charlie, I’ll be home tomorrow. And this was good for him too. It gives him great PR in the States. It was a win-win for us both, and I got a diamond bracelet on top of it. I’d say Dubai was a success.”
“Just get your ass home. I’ll feel better when you’re back in New York.” She would too, but she had enjoyed it and was pleased it had gone well. As it often was in the life she led, interviewing fascinating subjects, it was more than just work. Sometimes it was magic, when it clicked. And it had. Perfectly.
She didn’t hear from Mohamed bin Sabur again before she left, and she left her thank you note to him at the front desk to be delivered to his hotel, and she caught her flight back to New York. She felt a little bit like Cinderella after the ball. But instead of losing a slipper, she had a beautiful Cartier bracelet on her wrist and smiled every time she looked at it on the way home. She arrived in New York after the fourteen-and-a-half-hour flight, and she was back in her apartment three days after she had left. And both interviews looked fantastic when she saw them at work the next day. All of her producers were thrilled. It had gone particularly well. And Charlie made sure he checked out the bracelet when he saw her and looked impressed.
“I’ll bet you hear from him when he’s in New York.”
“I doubt it. Saudi men just give very generous gifts. Believe me, it doesn’t mean a thing.”
“I gave my wife a Cuisinart for our tenth anniversary,” Charlie said, looking at her. “I didn’t give her a bracelet like that.” She laughed.
“That’s why I’m not married anymore. I’d rather buy my own Cuisinart. You’re not supposed to give household appliances, Charlie, after ten years.”
“She likes to cook,” he said, looking miffed.
Blaise’s first day back went well, but the time differences caught up with her that night. She went to bed at eight o’clock and fell asleep in five minutes, and she was up at five the next morning, in time to see the sun rise, as she went over some research for interviews she was doing the following week. She was still thinking about going to California to cover the UCLA shooting, but the story seemed a little cold now. Pat Olden was still in a coma, and the doctors were no longer sure he’d come out of it, nor what his brain function would be if he did. It was tragic but not necessarily newsworthy anymore, it was just sad.
And as she sat in her kitchen reading the newspaper online at seven, she thought of visiting Salima at school. She had said she might, and she wanted to see her.
She had no plans for the weekend and she had the time. She looked at her watch and decided to do it. She was wide awake for the three-hour drive to Springfield, Massachusetts. She could be there by ten o’clock that morning, spend the day with Salima, and come home that night, which was what she usually did. There was a bed and breakfast near the school, where Blaise occasionally spent the night, but she preferred coming home to her own bed, and Salima didn’t mind. They packed so much talking and hugging into a day’s time that one day together seemed like enough to sustain both of them until Blaise came up again.
She showered and dressed, got her car keys out of her desk, and called the garage to get her car ready. She only used it occasionally on weekends, and to go out to the Hamptons in the summer. Mostly she used it to visit Salima. She was smiling as she left the building. It was a beautiful sunny day, and it had been warm when she got back to New York the day before, in typical Indian summer fashion. She loved this time of year in New York. She could hardly wait to see her, and it was always a pretty trip. She was feeling happy all the way to the garage, and as she started her car, she noticed the diamond bangle on her wrist again from the handsome Saudi man she had met in Dubai. She remembered what they said about her then, that she led a perfect life. And for once, she had to agree. It really was.