(1980) The Second Lady Read Free

them. Find them a waste of time. Too much work transcribing, and most of it non-essential. But no, I don’t mind talking to one.’
    Parker depressed the record button and started the machine.
    ‘How long have you been in Washington?’ he asked.
    ‘Transferred here the year before Billie Bradford moved into the White House.’
    ‘About three-and-a-half years ago.’
    ‘About. I’m mighty proud of her. She’s giving the old House a new look. She’s elegant as Jacqueline Kennedy. Smart and honest as Betty Ford. More creative than either. More political savvy than either. Certainly as much as Rosalynn Carter. Great instincts. To my eye, the best looker we’ve ever had there.’
    i agree,’ said Parker. ‘It’s a joy working with her. Have you seen much of Mrs Bradford since she became First Lady?’
    ‘Not much. I don’t have much to do with the East Wing. I’m on the West Wing side. Presidential politics entirely. Still, she’s been kind enough to have me to three or four state dinners.’
    ‘I didn’t know you had anything to do with her life. One day, not long ago, she mentioned you.’
    ‘Did she? What did she mention?’
    ‘How you saved her neck after her first assignment on the Los Angeles Times.’
    ‘She told you that?’
    ‘Yes. She said she owed a lot to you.’
    ‘It was something anyone would have done. Hell, for a writer she was just a green kid out of college and a couple of publicity jobs.’ He paused. ‘What did she tell you?’
    ‘Just the bare facts. She thought you might elaborate on them. It’s colourful stuff for the book.’
    ‘Go ahead.’
    ‘Her first assignment for the newspaper,’ said Parker, it was very important to her, and the managing director - I don’t have his name —’
    ‘Dave Nugent.’
    ‘Thank you. Anyway, he gave her an assignment to interview somebody important -‘
    ‘Dr Jonas Salk. The polio vaccine man. Up from La Jolla to give a speech in Los Angeles.’
    ‘Good. So she went out on the interview, got it. Salk was friendly. Gave her wonderful material. She went to her typewriter, wrote her story, handed it in to you to pass on to the managing director. You found the story appallingly bad, sophomoric, wrong lead, so on. Without telling her, you held it back. You knew if the editor saw it, he’d fire her. So you quietly turned it over to a close friend of yours who was on rewrite, a veteran named Steve Woodson —’
    ‘Steve Woods,’ Kilday corrected him.
    ‘Yes, thanks. Woods. He rewrote it completely and handed it back to you at your request. You handed the rewritten story in to the managing editor. He liked it, and he gave her a permanent job. When she read the story in print, she was amazed at what had happened to it. She asked you, and you levelled with her. You told her that her interview had been awful. You told her exactly what she had done wrong. You told her you had given it to Woods to rewrite. You pointed out how he had changed the story to make it acceptable. She was a quick learner. The next time, and in all the times after, she got it right. That’s Mrs Bradford’s version. Is it substantially correct?’
    Kilday had finished the last of his sandwich. ‘Umm, 1 suppose so, substantially,’ he said. He cupped a hand in front of his mouth, and behind it used a toothpick to clean the spaces between his teeth. ‘Only one thing wrong with it. That’s because I never told her the truth. There was no Steve Woods to rewrite it. He didn’t exist. If he had, I wouldn’t have showed it to him, wouldn’t have wanted him or anyone else to know how poorly she’d done with her first assignment. Didn’t want word getting out to the boss. No. The truth is I took her story home and rewrote it myself and handed it in. Never told her I did it. Didn’t want her owing me. Just wanted to be her friend. So she never knew I did it. Didn’t know then. Doesn’t know to this day. So that part’s no use to you. Can’t put that part in your book.