The Last Good Night by Emily Listfield Page B

Thanks.”
    Berkman’s office was at the far end of the studio. It was an austere affair, with a stiff leather couch against one wall, a mahogany desk, three chairs, and some highly polished chrome accessories. The single surprising note was a large Brice Marden painting that looked like a chalkboard hanging on the wall behind the desk. I’d heard rumors that Berkman had a substantial contemporary art collection in his townhouse on the Upper East Side but I’d never been invited to see it. It was hard to imagine him, so serious and so gray, haunting the galleries and theartists’ studios, but it was said that he did, preferring that to letting an agent do all the legwork for him. Whether it was vanity or passion, I didn’t know.
    Quinn was slouched in his chair, looking glum, when I walked in.
    â€œHello, Laura,” Berkman said. “Have a seat. I’ve just been talking to Quinn.”
    I sat down beside him and waited.
    Berkman leaned forward and the monogrammed cuffs of his shirt peeked out of his suit jacket. There were no how-are-you’s or chat about the weather. There never was with him. “Your on-air chemistry is not exactly rivaling Tracy and Hepburn’s,” he said bluntly.
    Quinn was staring down at his glossy black wing tips. I was beginning to see why.
    â€œThe viewers aren’t fools, you know,” Berkman continued. “It’s a mistake to think they don’t sense what’s going on between you two. I’m not saying you have to be kissy-kissy, but the cold war you two have engaged in is going to affect ratings. It certainly has to improve by the time we launch In Step .”
    â€œDidn’t Malcolm X say you can’t legislate love?” Quinn asked.
    I frowned. I’d buy a lot of things, but not Quinn Hartley as an expert on Black Power.
    â€œI’m not talking about love,” Berkman said. “But last time I checked, we’d negotiated détente in three-quarters of the world. I’d like the same in this office.”
    â€œSpeaking of In Step, ” I said. “Alexandra Harrison came to interview me today.”
    Berkman raised one eyebrow. “Yes. Susan told me she set that up. How did it go?”
    â€œFine. But before she left, she gave me advice on interviewing the secretary. I wasn’t aware that you’d made a decision about that.”
    â€œWeren’t you?”
    â€œNo. How did she know before I did?”
    â€œGood reporting on her part, I’d say.” Berkman looked down and muttered to himself. “I’d love to get her on television. Anyway, as I was saying, I’ve made dinner reservations for the two of you tonight after the show.”
    We both groaned.
    â€œAt Orbilé. Eight o’clock. Back room. I’ve been bribing the headwaiter for years so don’t even think about not showing up.”
    Â 
    O RBILÉ WAS HOUSED in an elegant white brick building on Fifty-seventh Street known for its celebrity occupants and its double-height windows. The restaurant itself had gone through a vogue in the eighties when it was the setting for a number of Warhol-attended parties of aging socialites, English brewing heiresses, and disturbingly good-looking artists, which was doubtlessly when it had become a favorite of Berkman’s. Most of the others had moved on by now to whatever was in fashion this year, mostly dark living room-inspired dining rooms that gave even the most democratic of partiers the satisfyingly patrician feeling of being in a private club. Orbilé remained what it had been before the peacocks had come and gone, a bland gray-carpeted affair frequented by people on expense accounts.
    We were shown to a table in the rear.
    Quinn ordered a scotch on the rocks and I ordered a glass of white wine. We both looked around the room, avoiding each other’s eyes.
    A few feet away, I recognized a curly-headed minor rock star from a duo that had been popular