The Separatists Read online

  “Impressive. Can you tell me what drives you, what makes you jump out of bed in the morning?”

  Washburn leans forward. “Erica, I believe journalism is vital to our democracy.”

  Erica feels a surge of excitement. Washburn’s passion and sense of mission are just what were missing from the other applicants.

  “What do you think is the most important quality in a producer?” Erica asks.

  “Results. If you don’t deliver, you’re not doing your job. I’m not interested in reinventing the wheel, in trendy new theories of leadership or management. I’m interested in what works. A producer has to be obsessed with detail, has to respect her staff, delegate authority, encourage initiative, and stay one step ahead. And of course, remain flexible. In our business you never know what’s going to hit you next. And the blows can come swiftly and from out of left field.”

  Erica is drawn to Gloria’s combination of quiet confidence, energy, and openness. She’s not sucking up to Erica, yet she’s created an immediate rapport, a relationship of peers. The two talk for another ten minutes, but Erica has seen enough. She doesn’t want to play her hand until Washburn’s background check has been completed, but she’s confident she’s found her woman.

  Erica escorts Washburn out of her office. “Thank you so much for coming in. We’ll let you know as soon as the decision is made.”

  Washburn leaves, and Erica turns to Shirley. “What do you think?”

  “I think very highly.”

  Erica walks back into her office just as Greg calls. She winces. The subtle, unspoken strain that Spotlight has put on their marriage is only increasing. She’s embarking on this great adventure without him. He’s certainly qualified to produce the show himself, but Erica feels strongly it would be a bad idea. Home and work boundaries would blur. Erica loves Greg, he’s brought her happiness, but there’s some part of her that she has to hold back. No doubt it dates back to her traumatic childhood, when she had no one to turn to, no one she could depend on but herself. Little by little, as she grew up, she developed an identity—part armor, part motivator—as an independent girl and then woman. She wasn’t going to wholly rely on anyone, ever. Some part of her strength and drive comes from that sense of self. If she was working with Greg, together virtually 24/7, she’s afraid she would lose it, get claustrophobic, feel suffocated.

  Greg senses her reticence, but Erica isn’t sure he understands the reasons for it. Sometimes when they’re discussing Spotlight, a look of confusion tinged with hurt will come over his face. Does she owe him an explanation? She’s afraid that if she opens that can of worms, a lethal snake—green and angry—might slither out. The fact is, her career continues to soar while his plods along, successful at a much lower level and not fully engaging for him. She knows he misses the hurly-burly of being in the trenches. He’s not really cut out to be a consultant, and Erica wonders if his male pride is keeping him from admitting it. Managing that pride requires a delicate balance of support and discretion. Oh, what a roiling mass (mess?) of subtle adjustments and seesawing emotions marriage is.

  Erica sits at her desk. “Hi there.”

  “How’s the search going?” he asks.

  Erica pauses. “It’s progressing. There’s a lot of talent out there.”

  Greg pauses. “No one leapt out at you?”

  Erica closes her eyes and exhales. “A couple of candidates seem promising.”

  “You seem preoccupied. Are you sure you’re not taking on too much?”

  “You know I thrive under pressure,” Erica says.

  “It can be a thin line between thriving and cracking.”

  Well, that was unnecessary. “I’ll try my best not to cross it.”

  “You know I’m always available to troubleshoot. Even if it’s only short-term. It might take some of the pressure off.”

  The truth is Erica’s North Star—but sometimes you have to head south. “That might be very helpful. Let me look at the budget and timetable. If one of today’s candidates gets hired, of course, everything changes.”

  “Of course.”

  Erica hangs up and walks over to the window—down on Sixth Avenue, the city is its pulsing, indifferent self. There was definitely an edge in Greg’s voice. Jealousy. Erica’s first marriage failed because of her drinking, her ambition, her final terrible fall. But she’s older now, and wiser. Not as impulsive. She understands where her self-destructive instincts come from—the toxic quicksand of her past. She’s better now, isn’t she? She’s made some peace, her sobriety is solid, she’s built a strong foundation to replace the house of cards. Right?

  She looks down at the streetscape, and a wave of vertigo sweeps over her. She moves away, goes into the kitchen, and puts her hand on the refrigerator door. As she opens it, she imagines—for one delicious effervescent second—being greeted by a shiny bottle of champagne.

  CHAPTER 11

  GLORIA WASHBURN WALKS OUT OF the GNN building and quickly merges with the swarming lunchtime crowds. She takes out her prepaid phone and calls.

  “How did it go?” the male voice asks. Hearing it, Gloria feels that familiar wave of desire ripple over her body—and her soul.

  “I think it went well. We don’t want to count any chickens, but our preparation paid off.”

  “When will you know?”

  “In a couple of days.”

  “What did you think of her?”

  “She’s very pretty.”

  “That’s it?”

  They laugh. Their shorthand laugh. The one they’ve developed during the two years of their beautiful relationship. No, partnership. Their beautiful partnership.

  “She’s sincere, hardworking, and . . . troubled.”

  “We do love them troubled, don’t we?” he says, lowering his voice into that seductive whisper.

  Gloria has pleased him, which is what matters most. More than anything. She lowers her own voice. “Yes, darling, we do love them troubled,” she says with a satisfied smile as she reaches the curb and prepares to step out into traffic.

  CHAPTER 12

  LESLIE AND STAN WILSON LIVE in one of those Richard Meier glass buildings facing the Hudson in the far West Village. The apartment is enormous and open, with a large Mondrian competing with the view of the glittering river and the towers of Newport City on the far shore. The space is impossibly chic, streamlined, midcentury, and Erica feels a stab of insecurity—her own apartment seems so old-fashioned, even dowdy, in comparison.

  There’s another couple there—Frazier Stone, the painter, and Veda Alexander, the designer—as well as Elle Walker, a youngish screenwriter known for her wit and for the string of men in her life. All three of them are dressed in striking outfits that look to Erica as if they should be hanging on gallery walls, not human bodies. She defiantly (defensively?) fingers one of her clip-on earrings.

  They’re sitting around on vast low sofas, Leslie is in the kitchen.

  “To an artist, truth is subjective,” Frazier says, Scotch-and-water in hand. He’s burly and virile, with a booming voice, larger than life. “My work is my truth, it makes its own rules—and then breaks them. I don’t concern myself with absolutes.”

  “I so agree,” Elle Walker says. “You can’t let the truth stand in the way of a good story.”

  “Of course, in advertising, truth is a tool, to be used selectively. ‘The whole truth and nothing but’ may be fine for the courtroom, but it could put me out of business,” Stan says.

  Everyone laughs. Except Erica. She finds the discussion disheartening but stays on the sidelines, intimidated by the casual assurance, clubby and cool.

  “Well, in the news business we play by different rules,” Greg says. “The truth isn’t the means to an end, it is the end. And it is absolute.”

  Erica is proud of him for speaking up and feels a wave of affection and respect.

  “You’ve just proved my point. The truth means different things to different people,” Frazier says.

  �
��Every woman who has ever faked an orgasm knows that,” Elle says, to great laughter all around.

  Leslie walks in, looking both chic and homey in a short pearl dress—what amazing legs—and a blue chef’s apron, her trademark bergamot perfume kissing the air. “I could use a little help in the kitchen.”

  Erica practically leaps out of her seat—not easy from the low-slung sofa—and follows Leslie into the sleek, if diminutive, kitchen. These condos are clearly not designed for the Julia Child crowd.

  “So, how is Spotlight coming?” Leslie asks as she takes down plates and picks up a serving spoon. There’s a pot of paella on the stove.

  “Well. I hired an executive producer, and I’m flying out to North Dakota next week to meet with the Bellamys.”

  “Terrific. Whom did you hire?”

  “Her name is Gloria Washburn, she’s been the executive producer of Washington Undercover for the past three years.”

  “I’ve heard terrific things about that show. Weren’t you tempted to hire your husband?”

  Erica wasn’t expecting that question. She ignores it, gesturing around the kitchen and asking, “What can I do?”

  “How about tossing the salad? Back to Greg. Who isn’t resting on those divine looks—he’s bright and has something to say. Terrific guy.”

  “He is. He’s wonderful.”

  “If he were mine, I don’t think I’d let him out of my sight.”

  “You know he’s got his own business. I’m not sure he’d want to be around me 24/7.”

  “From what he told Stan, the consultancy is fine, but he feels a little bit . . . irrelevant. He said he misses the excitement, the high stakes of being at the center of things.”

  Odd that Greg would tell that to Stan—whom he’s known for all of two weeks—when he’s never brought it up directly with Erica. But it does confirm her suspicions. She pours on the dressing, picks up the salad servers, and starts to toss.

  “Erica,” Leslie says with a laugh, “they’re greens, not enemies of the state.”

  Erica stops cold. “I’m sorry. Was I tossing too vigorously?”

  “Lettuce does bruise,” Leslie says drily.

  People bruise too.

  “How’s your new book coming?” Erica asks to change the subject. Leslie is working on a biography of Michelle Obama.

  “It’s always a slog at this point. My research is done; now I have to organize it, pull it together, and force it into a coherent narrative.”

  “Somehow you turn history and politics into page-turners.”

  Leslie smiles, stops plating the paella, and takes Erica’s hand. She leads her into the back of the apartment and opens the door to her office. The room is book-lined, every available surface is strewn with articles and papers and jotting-covered legal pads. The shelves are dotted with miniature giraffes of various sizes and styles, and in the middle of the room there’s an enormous table entirely taken up by a wooden box filled with research, with markers dividing it by category and subject. The contrast of this clutter with the rest of the apartment is striking.

  “Welcome to my id,” Leslie announces.

  “Mine’s a lot messier.”

  “We’ll have to discuss that at some point.”

  “So this is where the it’s-not-magic-it’s-hard-work happens.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And your dreams are populated by galloping giraffes.”

  “My parents took me on safari when I was seven.”

  Erica knows that Leslie comes from privilege; both her parents were academics, but there was old money in the family.

  “I just fell in love with the giraffes. Here is this creature with the most awkward anatomy, and yet . . . they are the soul of grace.” Leslie fusses with her hair and then looks down. “I was never the prettiest girl. So I’ve had to . . .”

  Erica is touched by Leslie’s admission. Underneath her sometimes brittle brilliance is a kid who’s had to work hard to accept herself. She reaches out and gently touches her arm. Leslie gives her a disarming smile.

  “Oh, rats, the food!” Leslie exclaims.

  Leslie has placed Erica between Frazier and Elle at the table. Frazier thinks that Erica “must do a Spotlight on the art market, it’s as corrupt as the Kremlin.” Greg is on Leslie’s left, and she spends most of the meal leaning into him, chatting in a low exclusionary tone, laughing and making him laugh.

  Leslie and Stan clear the plates. Erica looks over at Greg and he gives her a big smile. Someone’s having a very good time.

  Leslie comes back to the table and stands behind Greg. “Now who’s up for some dessert?” she asks, casually putting a hand on his shoulder.

  CHAPTER 13

  IT’S A LITTLE PAST ELEVEN, and Erica and Greg are in their bedroom, getting ready for bed. Greg has had too much to drink—his movements are emphatic and jerky. On the ride uptown he was silent, even a little sulky. He wanted to stay longer but Erica insisted they head home—she’s exhausted and wants to get right to work on Spotlight in the morning.

  Greg takes off his jacket and shirt and tosses them on a chair. It’s annoying—he knows Erica likes a neat room. And that she dislikes what happens to him when he’s tight. His charm dissipates and then rematerializes as a chip on his shoulder. And she hates the smell of alcohol on him. Hates it because it’s so seductive and unfair.

  Erica takes off—and hangs up—her blouse and skirt and heads into the bathroom. She looks at herself in the mirror and sees insecurity in the corners of her eyes. The evening has left her feeling a little confused, even conflicted. Leslie and Stan were so welcoming, Erica feels like a door to a whole new world is opening for her. It’s both flattering and intimidating. Leslie is just so polished and sharp and knowing, but there always seems to be something unspoken going on below the surface. And her financial and academic pedigrees trigger memories of Erica’s days at Yale, the casual confidence of her classmates, their not-so-subtle digs at her background. “You’re from rural Maine? How picturesque.”

  Erica, stop it! You’re more famous than all of them put together. And your work may not hang in museums or get nominated for Academy Awards, but it makes a difference in the real world.

  Erica washes her face and brushes her teeth. In the bedroom, Greg has gotten into bed and turned out the bedside lights. Erica climbs in beside him. She lies on her back, staring up at the ceiling. The room feels dark and lonely.

  And then Greg reaches out and pulls her to him, roughly, and his hot whiskey mouth is on hers, his tongue insistent. Erica pulls away.

  “What’s wrong, not in the mood?” he asks sarcastically.

  “No, you’re not in the mood. Make that state of mind.”

  “Oh, so now I’m not allowed to have a couple of drinks?”

  “And I’m not allowed to say I don’t want to have sex?”

  There’s a pause and then Greg says, “You know, sometimes it’s not a lot of fun being Mr. Erica Sparks.”

  “I’d say you more than held your own. And you certainly looked like you were having fun.”

  “I’m a nobody with that crowd. I run a two-bit consultancy. That Frazier guy never said a word to me.”

  “Leslie certainly made up for that.”

  “Jealous?”

  “No,” Erica says too quickly.

  She can’t believe they’re arguing like this. They almost never argue. She hates fighting, she saw enough fighting as a kid to last her three lifetimes. It’s ugly and sad and a big fat waste of energy.

  There’s a pause and Greg props himself up on an elbow, and when he speaks his tone is soft, if slightly slurred. “I’m sorry I’m being such a jerk.”

  “It takes two.”

  “Nah, I started it. It’s just that, well, you’re putting Spotlight together and I’m trying to win a contract with a station in Akron to run team-building exercises.”

  Erica feels a wave of guilt. She could hire Greg for Spotlight. But her gut tells her it would be a bad idea. Yes, they
were an amazing team before they got married. But a ring changes everything. As empathetic as Greg is, he also has an ego. While they were equals at the start of her career at GNN, today she’s top dog. And she wants to be top dog, without apology. And he is angling for a team-building gig in Akron.

  They look at each other in the dim diffuse light coming in through the room’s windows. “I’m proud of your success, and who knows where it will lead,” Erica says. “I’m also exhausted.”

  “We’re doing okay, aren’t we?”

  Erica feels her throat tighten and tears well up behind her eyes. She reaches up and touches Greg’s cheek. “Yeah, we are.”

  He smiles, lopsided, and turns away from her, curling up. Within a minute he’s fast asleep. Erica lies there, trying to control her anxiety.

  CHAPTER 14

  GENERAL FLOYD MORROW STRIDES DOWN the Pentagon hallway, enraged. How dare they?! It’s despicable, a disgrace! He reaches his office, storms in, and slams the door behind him. Then he kicks the wastepaper basket across the room. His temples are pounding and he feels a massive headache forming behind his eyeballs. There are no standards anymore. The country is going to ruin. No soap in the men’s room dispenser! How is a man supposed to wash his hands after doing his business? Germs are spreading. Antibiotics are becoming useless. It could lead to an epidemic. Some idiot might say it’s a small thing. There are no small things! Only small people! It’s emblematic of everything’s that’s wrong with this country!

  The whole USA is sick, sick in the head. It disgusts him.

  Well, he’s not going to take it! He’s going to fight back and fight hard and fight dirty if he has to. And he’s got the means to do it. Oh yes, he does. And nobody knows. Well, James knows, of course. He’s the one who brought Morrow into the movement. Fine young man. And Neal knows. Another upright fellow. A strong man. A self-made man. Knows what he wants and how to get it. And, of course, the Bellamys know. Mary is a good woman. Great woman. Classy lady. Old school. And Sturges. A real gentleman. Yup. He, James, Neal, and the Bellamys are quite the team—the dream team that’s going to be this crummy country’s worst nightmare.