Private Screening Read Online Free PDF Page A

songs in.
    â€œScared with Me,” Stacy scribbled for its title, and smiled at herself. Thirty-one, and still ripping off your life for lyrics.
    Pausing, she wondered if that hadn’t begun scaring her a little. Perhaps what had made her want to campaign, even more than Jamie’s need, was that she needed to care for someone or something too much to sing it away. Too soon, and by surprise, her songs would be someone else’s trivia question, and then she’d face Jamie’s ironic catch-question, “But what does it mean?”
    Beneath the title, she wrote its first lines:
    Please don’t deceive me
    That the morning will show
    What it means to be lovers
    When our hearts cannot know …
    Suddenly she recalled the morning after she’d made love to the boy.
    She’d awakened to silence; somehow, she had felt her parents knew. Guiltily, she tiptoed from her room. In place of breakfast talk and clattering dishes, she heard their television.
    Her parents were in front of it. She knelt beside them. “Robert Kennedy’s been shot,” her father said.
    For a crazy instant, Stacy wanted to confess to him, so that Kennedy might live. “I’m sorry,” she remembered blurting.
    Stacy closed the notebook.
    Nerves, she thought—less than twelve hours now. Stacy walked into the bathroom, glancing wryly at the thick glasses, the first hint of lines they magnified.
    She showered, put in her contact lenses, and joined Jamie.
    He was picking up the telephone as Sherman held an index card in front of him. “Why am I doing this?” he asked.
    â€œA morale-boosting call from the candidate. Old man Parnell is an absolute reactionary and she’s having this party anyway. Plus, she’s a pipeline to new contributors.”
    The red-haired aide stepped forward. “I called one of our Bay Area people this morning. Some hotshot young lawyer has hold of a gay rights suit against Parnell and his paper.”
    Kilcannon glanced at Sherman. “Why didn’t I know that?”
    â€œ I didn’t know—anyway, we need the money and it’s too late to change.” Sherman gave the aide a pointed stare. “Maybe you can set up a meeting with some presentable gay leaders. After Stacy’s concert.”
    Jamie looked from one to the other. Then he dialed, peering at the card. “I don’t see any children.”
    Sherman nodded. “The son got kidnapped, remember?”
    â€œVaguely.” His tone changed abruptly. “Alexis? This is James Kilcannon.” Listening, Jamie laughed. “I’m just calling to thank you in advance. I know you’re Colby’s liberal conscience, and that’s not easy work.”
    Catching Stacy’s eye, Jamie made a grimace of self-dislike, then smiled into the phone. “Yes, I’m bringing her—she’s my liberal conscience.…”
    â€œBlack coffee, Stace?”
    She smiled up; Nat Schlesinger, Jamie’s press secretary, had already learned what she liked. Of the people who surrounded them, she felt most affection for this rumpled, homely man who lived his life through Jamie. “Nat,” she told him, “you’re my home away from home.”
    As Nat beamed with pleasure, Jamie hung up. “What’s in San Diego?” he asked Sherman.
    â€œAn old-folks hit. Sacramento’s the day-care hit.”
    â€œWhat’s this about?” Stacy murmured to Nat.
    Nat bent closer. “What Tim calls a ‘hit’ is to go somewhere that makes a point in thirty seconds of air-time. If Jamie goes to a day-care center, people know by watching the news that he’s for working parents.” As the door opened, Nat looked up. “Here’s one of the TV spots you’re buying.”
    A man whose pin-striped suit cloaked too much bulk hustled in with a cassette. “Who’s he?” she asked.
    â€œThe media buyer, Bob Lauersdorf. He negotiates for