Love You Madly (due out May, 2006)

“Don’t worry, Julie—he’ll be wearing a Speedo under the sheet.”

Fervently, I hoped Link Ramsey would wear it, and not pull one of his pranks by surprising his new acting partner in mid-scene with total nakedness. Love of My Life, the show for which I was both head writer and co-executive producer, was Julie Lawson’s first daytime drama, and she was about to do her first bed scene.

Costume supervisor Flo Ryan stood beside me, making notes. “We need some tape to put across Julie’s nipples,” I told her.

Julie clutched the front of her terry cloth robe, her green eyes wide with curiosity. “But they’re only going to shoot my back down to the waist, and from the side when I throw myself on top of Link. The audience isn’t going to see my nipples. Why do I need tape?”

“They can do practically anything on cable,” I said, “and they go pretty far with nudity after ten p.m. on the networks, but this is daytime TV. We do fake reality. Our network has drawn a line we don’t cross—meaning that Link’s skin can’t touch the …” I struggled for the perfect word…“relevant parts of your body.”

Flo sucked her lower lip as she assessed Julie’s ample breasts. “I’ll get the widest roll,” she said, and hurried off to raid the supply shelves at the rear of our show’s three thousand square foot wardrobe department.

We’d hired Julie two months ago for the role of “Amber,” an impetuous medical school dropout who is pursuing “Cody,” the part played by daytime’s favorite romantic bad boy, Link Ramsey. Because Cody is grieving for his recently lost love, he isn’t interested in a new woman. He’s been ignoring Amber’s advances. For her own devious reasons—which won’t be revealed for a few more weeks—Amber has become increasingly bold toward Cody. In the scene we were going to shoot this morning, Amber surprises Cody by jolting him awake in bed.

“Morgan, will this scene air by the time we go to Las Vegas for that… weekend soap…thing?”

“The Super Soap Fan Weekend,” I said. “Yes—it’ll air in two weeks, just before we go to Las Vegas. By then our viewers will be very eager to see you and Link live.”

Julie clenched her teeth and stretched her mouth into a wide grimace. It wasn’t a very attractive expression. “What’s the matter?” I asked.

“I read Link’s bio—he’s been in plays, he’s done Shakespeare, but I’ve just been in Playboy. I mean, I’m taking acting lessons, but I’ve never been on a stage, in front of real people. I’m scared.”

“It’s an audience of fans,” I said reassuringly. “Tell you what—I’ll write some answers to questions the fans might ask, then you won’t have to worry about what to say.” I started toward the door, but she reached out to stop me.

“Morgan—what if nobody asks those questions?”

“Here’s the way it will work: I’ll be up on that stage, too. I’ll introduce you and the others, and call for questions. Then I’ll take my microphone and go out into the audience. I’ll pretty much steer the discussion in the direction I want it to go.” I lowered my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Joel Davies—you’ve seen him, he’s our production manager—will be out in the audience with a microphone, too. Don’t tell anybody, but the makeup ladies and the hairdresser will be sitting among the fans. If nobody else asks the questions you’re prepared for, I’ll have them rehearsed to do it.”

Julie flashed a smile of appreciation.

“Don’t fret about the Super Soap Weekend,” I said. “The people will love you. You’re terrific as Amber—you’re striking just the right notes playing her outrageous personality. Now have fun this morning when she’s trying to seduce Cody.”

“If I can just remember my lines!”

“The intention of the scene is more important than the exact words in the script,” I said. “If you go up in your lines, don’t panic. Link is great at covering.”

She relaxed, and I saw a little twinkle in her eyes. “He’s cute, too. Is he straight?”

“Definitely,” I said. I couldn’t suppress a smile. According to industry gossip, Link got high marks in the romance department.

Julie might have misinterpreted my smile because a sudden look of anxiety swept across her face. “You’re not going out with him, are you? I mean, even though you’re thirty, you’re good-looking enough to catch a star.”

Catch a star? Yuck! I decided not to make a fishing joke and instead answered simply, “No, Julie. Link and I just work together. That’s all it’s ever been”

“Maybe Las Vegas will be fun,” she said.
 

There was no one at Betty Kraft’s secretarial desk outside my office at the opposite side of our studios in the Global Broadcasting building, but I saw that Link Ramsey was inside waiting for me. He was standing in front of the window behind my half of the massive antique English partners’ desk, staring down at Central Park West.

“What’s up?” Indicating the makeup robe he was wearing, I added with mock severity, “You better have something on under that. This isn’t HBO.”

He didn’t laugh, or give the playful comeback I’d expected. The expression on his face was solemn, almost bleak. That was unusual. At thirty-two, Link had the dark-haired, dark-eyed brooding good looks of a modern Heathcliff, the classic tormented anti-hero, but one of his most appealing qualities, on screen and off, was his sense of humor. Even during technical catastrophes—inevitable when you tape two hundred and sixty hour-long episodes a year—I could count on Link to lighten everyone’s mood with a quip or a practical joke.

But this time I sensed he wasn’t about to pull one of his gags. He beckoned to me. “Come over here and take a look.”

I joined him at the window. “What do you want me to see?”

“Down on the sidewalk—the woman in the blue coat.”

All I could make out was a tiny dab of blue. “We’re twenty-six floors up. How can you tell it’s a woman?”

“For the last couple of weeks, everywhere I go, when I turn around, there she is. She’s always wearing that same coat.”

“Has she said anything to you?”

“Yesterday, for the first time. It was irritating, seeing her everywhere, so I went over to where she was standing. I was nice about it, but I asked why she was following me. She said she just wants to be near me, that I don’t even have to talk to her. Morgan, I’m beginning to think the lady may be a little nuts.”

Obsessed fans could be a serious problem. The network employed experienced security staff on each of the floors where Global Broadcasting shows were taped, but outside the studio actors were vulnerable.

“I’ll assign one of the guards to leave with you tonight, and I’ll have him chat with her.”

“No,” he said sharply. “I don’t trust those apes. They might get nasty. I’m sure she’s harmless.” Still looking down at the speck of blue on the sidewalk, he added, “She’s only pathetic. I’m not afraid of her— I’d just like my privacy back.”

“If you don’t want a guard, what can I do?”

“When I finish for the day, come out of the building with me. We’ll be holding hands, like you’re my girlfriend. Maybe she’ll leave me alone if you talk to her—woman to woman.”

I was dubious.

“Come on,” Link urged. “She’s shy, and—to put it kindly—she’s not attractive. I’ll bet the sight of a pretty woman with me will discourage her.”

Reluctantly, I agreed to give it a try. “But I have a condition,” I said.

Link lifted one wild black eyebrow and joked, “Want to go to bed with me, boss lady?” He raised his hands, palms out, in a gesture of surrender. “Like I said: any place, any time.”

“We settled that a long time ago, so forget it,” I said. “Here’s my price: Behave yourself in the scene with Julie today. None of your naughty tricks.”

“Killjoy,” he growled. But he promised.

“One small detail,” I said. “We start holding hands just as we’re about to exit the building. I don’t want anybody on the show to jump to the wrong conclusion about us.”

The phone on my desk rang. I could see from the flashing button that it was my private number. “Go somewhere and run your lines,” I said, making a shooing motion with my hands.

Giving me one of the sexy winks that made him such a favorite with the audience, he left, closing the door behind him.

I picked up the receiver. “Morgan Tyler.”

“Morgan, thank God you’re there!” It was Nancy Cummings, my best friend. “I need you.” In the dozen years I’ve known her, since we met as freshman at Columbia, this was the first plea I’d ever heard from her. “If you’ve got a date tonight, please cancel.”

“The men in my life are out of town,” I said. Homicide Detective Matt Phoenix and his partner were in Washington, D.C. at an FBI seminar, and true crime author Chet Thompson was in San Diego, interviewing a survivor of genocide for the new book he was writing. I had no idea where Philippe Abacasas, the mystery man I thought of as the wild card in my life, might be, or if I’d ever see him again. “I’m free,” I said. “What’s up?”

“Tonight’s when I’m finally going to meet Arnold’s daughter, Didi, remember?”

“How could I forget? You’ve been trying to decide what to wear for a week.”

“Well, there’s a slight change of plans. Arnold wants you to join us.”

“I’d like to meet your future step-daughter,” I said, “but I really don’t think I should be with you the first time—”

“Oh, but Arnold insisted. He said if the two of us join them for dinner, it won’t seem as though he’s shoving me at Didi.”

“I thought Didi knew what a serious relationship you and Arnold have?”

On the other end of the line, I heard her inhale and expel a breath. “So did I. I’m embarrassed to admit that I just assumed he had told her—even though I should know better than to assume. It turns out he’s mentioned me—but so far only as a colleague at Donovan. He said he wanted her to get to know me first, before he tells her about us.”

Arnold Rose, one of the smartest and most successful criminal lawyers in the country, headed a division of Donovan, Newton, Lipton and Klein, the firm where Nancy practiced corporate law. From what Nancy had told me, he adored his only child.

I remember being a twelve-year-old girl. We were usually a lot smarter than the
adult authority figures thought we were. For Nancy’s sake, I hoped that Arnold’s
little ruse wasn’t going to backfire.

(End of Chapter 1)