CBS Television City sprawled out along Beverly Boulevard where the old Gilmore Stadium used to stand and couldn’t have been more different from the small-fry operation at KWOB. Whereas Wesley Everett’s station filled a neighborhood corner and had only a four-car parking lot, CBS had more spaces than Gwendolyn could count.
She felt a dig to her side. “Not too nervous, I hope.”
“I wasn’t till we got here, but now that I’m looking at . . .” Gwendolyn waved her hand toward the three-story building. The diamonds in her bracelet caught the late morning sun, sending pinpoint prisms spinning around the cabin. Was it too much? This was a business meeting, not a night at the opera.
“Nothing you can’t handle,” Lucille Ball assured her.
Wesley had been a decent boss. He hadn’t fired her for swearing on the air; nor had he kicked up much of a fuss when Errol had let fly with “impotent.” And if he’d wanted to renew her contract for another six months, or one hundred shows, or whatever peculiar measuring stick took his fancy, Gwendolyn would have happily signed. But then Marcus returned to their table beaming.
Her show on CBS? With Desilu producing? The idea had made her head spin more than Chuck’s Dom Perignon.
By cocktail hour the next day, Lucille Ball had set up a meeting to sell the executives at CBS Television City on the idea of a chat show hosted by a woman.
Gwendolyn would have felt better if Chuck had been included in today’s presentation, but Lucille had vetoed it. “Since I Love Lucy ended, they’ve been begging me to come up with another show. Their doors are always open, but it’s got to be all about me.”
Lucille frowned at her now. “You are breathing, right?”
“Yes, but I’d appreciate the occasional reminder.”
Collectively, the executives looked like a Potemkin village—all façade with only emptiness behind. Individually, they were distinguishable only by the color of their neckties—a narrow range of blues from ink to navy. God forbid they should throw aquamarine or cerulean into the mix.
“Miss Ball!” A man with a budding paunch and a ring of gray hair stepped forward. “We were so excited to receive your call.”
“Mr. Farley.” Lucille accepted his embrace as though he might pass on a dose of the Spanish flu. “A pleasure as always.” She nodded hello along the row of faces on the far side of the table, then made an elaborate show of introducing Gwendolyn and then seating herself and motioning Gwendolyn into the chair beside her. She interlocked her hands, pointing her two index fingers at the sky.
“I’ve been studying your afternoon line-up and you know what’s missing? A chat show. Specifically, one hosted by a woman.” The streak of blue ties undulated like seawater. “Think about it,” Lucille continued. “Who’s at home during the day? Women. Housewives. Mothers. Who would they prefer to see? Yet another guy, or a version of themselves right there on their TV screens? If you’re not sure, you can call your wives, but I can save you the bother.” She pointed to Gwendolyn, who stiffened her spine slightly and presented them with a camera-ready smile.
Farley rubbed his hands together. “It’s so obvious that I’m kicking myself that we didn’t already think of it.”
Lucille emitted a strangled little laugh that none of the CBS suits would have been able to interpret, but Gwendolyn could: You didn’t think of it because you troglodytes believe a woman’s place is in the kitchen by day and the bedroom by night.
Gwendolyn dropped her hands into her lap and played with her bracelet. A woman hosting her own network chat show was virgin territory and she had expected a list of objections. But she saw now that she’d failed to take into account the considerable charms of a woman who’d been dealing with men her whole life and had triumphed over the lot of them.
“You got a name for this show?” Farley asked.
“The one Gwendolyn’s already using is perfect: Brick by Brick.” The name met with blank faces. “She’s been on KWOB since last May.”
Farley winced. “You wouldn’t be the hostess?”
“No!” Lucille’s response came out a little screechier than Gwendolyn would have preferred. “I’m bringing you a show with an established track record, which I presume none of you have seen?”
And why would they? My little show airs in the middle of the afternoon when these guys are at their offices making calls, stitching up deals, and ogling secretaries. What happens at two o’clock only concerns cookie bakers and sock darners.
“I’m sorry, Miss Ball,” Farley said, “but we were under the impression that you were here to pitch your new show.”
“I am. Desilu will be producing it—”
“As the on-air talent. Your name alone will bring in—”
“BOYS!” Lucille raised her voice like a schoolmarm. “You cannot build your whole line-up around one name—especially mine. Performing is no longer my priority. My focus will be on producing Desilu’s roster of shows.” She reached over and grabbed Gwendolyn’s hand. “Miss Brick here is exactly the sort of on-air talent you should be nurturing.”
The silence that followed wasn’t as awkward as Gwendolyn expected. Obviously, they were hoping to be pitched a show whose title included the words “Starring Lucille Ball,” so this Gwendolyn Brick, whoever the heck she was, must have come as a let-down. Still, they didn’t hustle the two women straight out the door.
“So, Miss Brick,” Farley said, “what sort of ratings have you been getting?”
This morning Chuck had grilled Gwendolyn over her figures until they were tattooed on her brain. “Last month we scored a market share of forty-one percent of sets tuned into a Los Angeles–area station. Our closest competitor showed reruns of Our Miss Brooks, which only got seventeen percent. By anyone’s reckoning, gentlemen, I’d say we trounced them.”
Around the Potemkin village, eyebrows rose, mouths smirked, and heads nodded.
The guy to Farley’s immediate right rapped the nib of his pen against the walnut table top. “Does your show have a sponsor?”
“Yes,” Gwendolyn said. “We’re enthusiastically backed by Belle Amie rum.”
“That’s Charles Bellamy’s label, isn’t it?”
A guy three seats down in a navy-blue tie with a fleur-de-lis pattern piped up. “That’s what we drink at home.”
“Does your wife do the shopping?” Gwendolyn asked him.
“Of course she does.”
“Including the liquor?”
“Including everything.”
“It’s quite possible that your wife started buying Belle Amie because she watches my show. Their sales have risen dramatically since they started sponsoring it and if we move to CBS, he’ll happily move with us.”
“Nah.” Mister Fleur-de-lis shook his head. “He’s too local for a network.”
“He currently moves product in thirty-one states and Pago Pete’s is opening—”
“National shows require a national sponsor.” Did he just say ‘national’? Gwendolyn strangled a gasp. “A show like this wouldn’t go national right off the bat, but it always pays to think big.”
Farley got to his feet, signaling that the meeting was over. As he walked them out of the conference room, he said, “It’s all up to the New York boys and I can assure you they will say no unless you can line up a national sponsor.”
Gwendolyn wanted to say, “Isn’t that your job?” but he hadn’t nixed the idea outright, so she told herself to be thankful they were still in there with a chance, smiled sweetly, shook his hand, and told him they’d be in touch.
She waited until she heard Chuck’s footfall on the pathway outside her living room window. She set the hi-fi needle onto the first track of his favorite Nat King Cole album, Just One of Those Things, and positioned herself at her kitchen counter where he would find her stirring a pitcher of martinis when he walked in.
He threw his hat onto the dining table and planted a long dreamy kiss on her before accepting the cocktail she slipped into his hands. “So how’d it go?”
His enthusiasm made what she had to say that much harder. “It started off well.”
“And then?”
“Lucille had to pull out her song and dance tricks.”
“Did they work?”
“In theory, yes.”
“So that’s good, right?”
“Once they got over their disappointment that Lucille wouldn’t be the face of this show we were pitching. But after I rattled off my little ratings spiel, they saw the idea has merit.”
“Enough to sign you?”
“Enough to talk national.”
He set down his drink. “National?!”
“Not at first, of course—”
“But sometime down the line? That’s amazing!” He saw the hesitation on her face. “Isn’t it?”
“It is . . .”
“But there’s a catch.”
Gwendolyn swallowed hard. Go on. Just say the words and get it over with. “It’s very possible—if—we get a bigger sponsor.”
“Bigger than what?”
Gwendolyn heaved the words out like they were cannonballs. “Bigger than Belle Amie rum.”
Chuck drew her into a tight embrace that almost crushed the air from her lungs. “I’m so gosh-darned proud of you.”
“But you know what that means, don’t you?” Gwendolyn barely recognized the mousey voice that squeaked out of her. “Brick by Brick will have to drop you.”
“Naturally.”
Gwendolyn felt her lip tremble. “You’re okay with that?”
He released her, picked up his drink again and gulped at it. “When you go fishing in the big pond, you have to swim with the big fishies.”
“But you took a risk with me when I was barely—”
He pressed a finger to her lips. “I was in a position to give you a start when you needed it. And now you must move up to the next level.”
“Chuck!” she cried out. “I don’t know what to say!”
“You’re not breaking up with me, are you?”
“What? No. NO! Why would you even think that? This is purely—”
“Business,” he finished for her. “And I get a ringside seat to watch you spread your wings and show ’em what you’re made of.”
She brushed his arms away and fell onto his chest, limp with relief.
“This calls for a celebration. Your choice, any restaurant you like. I’m going to jump into the shower and get cleaned up, but you should read Hedda’s column. She talks about the upcoming opening of Peyton Place. Nabbing Lana Turner for your show will go a long way toward impressing those network boys.”
The Villa Capri restaurant was homey, with lots of wood paneling and soft leather upholstery; it looked more like those ranch houses now populating the San Fernando Valley. If Gwendolyn hadn’t picked up the L.A. Times when Chuck was in the shower, she might have chosen a swankier joint. But next to Hedda’s column, Gwendolyn had spotted a quarter-page display ad for Chesterfield cigarettes that featured the smiling face of Mister Frank Sinatra.
As Chuck was whistling in the shower, Gwendolyn had called Sinatra’s house. The maid was reluctant to say where he was until she recognized Gwendolyn’s voice and told her that she made sure she always caught Brick by Brick. After that, it hadn’t been hard to pull Mr. Sinatra’s whereabouts out of her.
They’d been seated at the table only a minute when Chuck patted his pockets. “Sorry, my love,” he said, “I must have left my cigarettes back at your place.” He scooted off toward the vending machine just as their waiter arrived to take their drink order.
Gwendolyn parted her lips, Marilyn-style. “I believe Mr. Sinatra is in the house tonight.”
“He doesn’t like to be disturbed.”
That was all Gwendolyn needed to hear. She ordered two double martinis, three olives, extra dirty, and waited until the waiter was out of sight. She got up and picked her way around the restaurant until she spotted a familiar profile tucked safely in a corner booth, flanked by a buddy on each side. She marched up to them and laid her palms flat on the table. “We need to have a chat. In private. And I only have a minute.”
Frank’s buddies had been well schooled in the delicate art of taking a hint and soon they were alone. Gwendolyn slid into the booth.
“Remember how you said that you were in my debt?”
He slid a finger around the rim of his highball glass. “A purely rhetorical question, I assume.”
“It’s favor time.”
“Okay.”
“You’re currently shilling for Chesterfield.”
His finger jerked away from the glass. “A box of freebies is a waste of a favor, wouldn’t you say?”
“I want you to arrange an introduction.”
“With who?”
“The most powerful man at Chesterfield that you can tee me up with. I have a shot at moving my show to CBS but I need a heavy-hitting sponsor. All you need do is set up a meeting and I’ll take it from there. Can you do it?”
He scrutinized her with renewed admiration. “A few phone calls should fix that.”
“I look forward to hearing from you.”
She slid out of the booth and walked away without looking back.