the group had set up a polarity between them. The contrast had been too strong. Cathy was tiny, dark-haired, quivering with tension, a simmering kettle threatening to explode into a furious boil. Compared to her, Jill was a cool, long-stemmed lily.
The group met at one o'clock. Cathy, an associate vice-president in the studio's production department, came in her business clothes; she wore vibrant power colors and dramatic accessories. As small as she was, Cathy was an intimidating presence. She looked like someone with power. Jill, whose wealth could have given her considerable power if she had wanted it, dressed casually. She was never sloppy or ill-groomed; she might wear an open-necked Egyptian cotton shirt over an eight-gore twill riding skirt clenched at the waist with a wide leather belt, or cuffed silk trousers with a chunky handknit sweater. Her clothes were every bit as expensive as Cathy's; when you're five feet ten with size-six shoulders and hips, expensive clothes fit better. Otherwise the shirt cuffs stop about two inches before your arms do. But her clothes were so understated that their quality was apparent only in the details of construction: the wide, beautifully finished seams, the careful linings, and the fine sheen of the fabrics. Her sweaters had intricate handknit patterns, and her blouses had covered buttons. The pockets of her skirts were never economically set into the side seams. They were moved in a few inches and carefully bound and welted into a slit in the body of the skirt itself. With the pockets placed there, the wearer could tuck her hands and her keys into her pockets without adding eight inches to the silhouette of her hips.
So the rest of the group often reacted to these two expensively dressed young women through the contrast between them. Jill knew that she was popular and influential at Cathy's expense, something she felt rather bad about. This was exactly the sort of thing that a member was supposed to bring up during the group sessions, but so far she hadn't and Cathy hadn't either. Jill had long since noticed that what she and Cathy had in common was much more important than their physical differences. Neither one wanted to be the focus of any of the group's discussion.
Asking for Cathy got Jill through the studio's switchboard; a brief mention of her interest in Weary Hearts got her through Cathy's secretary; her name got her through Cathy's assistant and to Cathy herself.
"Jill, this is a surprise." Cathy's voice sounded wary.
Jill could understand that. If someone in the group were to call her, she would be uneasy; even Horton the Elephant might pause before climbing a second tree. "I know," she responded, trying to keep her voice light. This is no big deal; don't worry. "I need to ask you a professional favor."
"Yes?"
"I have some questions about the making of Weary Hearts. I wanted to prowl around a bit and I wondered if you could open a few doors for me."
"What kind of questions?"
That was an entirely legitimate response. Cathy would be crazy to open doors when she was unclear about Jill's mission. But her question put Jill in a bind.
One of the rules of group was honesty. You were not supposed to lie. Jill obeyed that rule faithfully. She didn't tell the whole truth—not even close—but she told nothing but the truth.
Had anyone else asked her, she would have told one of the assorted half-truths that she had told Ken and Lynette, John Ransome, and the people on Cass's production staff. But she found it suddenly hard to lie to Cathy, even over the phone.
No wonder some groups had a "no outside contact" rule. The rules of the group, its honesty and constant self-scrutiny, were too difficult to sustain in normal human contact.
"It's complicated, but basically a member of the Ringling family has raised some questions about what was in the first rough cut. I can tell you the whole story if you want."
"No, that's all right," Cathy said so quickly that Jill felt like
The group met at one o'clock. Cathy, an associate vice-president in the studio's production department, came in her business clothes; she wore vibrant power colors and dramatic accessories. As small as she was, Cathy was an intimidating presence. She looked like someone with power. Jill, whose wealth could have given her considerable power if she had wanted it, dressed casually. She was never sloppy or ill-groomed; she might wear an open-necked Egyptian cotton shirt over an eight-gore twill riding skirt clenched at the waist with a wide leather belt, or cuffed silk trousers with a chunky handknit sweater. Her clothes were every bit as expensive as Cathy's; when you're five feet ten with size-six shoulders and hips, expensive clothes fit better. Otherwise the shirt cuffs stop about two inches before your arms do. But her clothes were so understated that their quality was apparent only in the details of construction: the wide, beautifully finished seams, the careful linings, and the fine sheen of the fabrics. Her sweaters had intricate handknit patterns, and her blouses had covered buttons. The pockets of her skirts were never economically set into the side seams. They were moved in a few inches and carefully bound and welted into a slit in the body of the skirt itself. With the pockets placed there, the wearer could tuck her hands and her keys into her pockets without adding eight inches to the silhouette of her hips.
So the rest of the group often reacted to these two expensively dressed young women through the contrast between them. Jill knew that she was popular and influential at Cathy's expense, something she felt rather bad about. This was exactly the sort of thing that a member was supposed to bring up during the group sessions, but so far she hadn't and Cathy hadn't either. Jill had long since noticed that what she and Cathy had in common was much more important than their physical differences. Neither one wanted to be the focus of any of the group's discussion.
Asking for Cathy got Jill through the studio's switchboard; a brief mention of her interest in Weary Hearts got her through Cathy's secretary; her name got her through Cathy's assistant and to Cathy herself.
"Jill, this is a surprise." Cathy's voice sounded wary.
Jill could understand that. If someone in the group were to call her, she would be uneasy; even Horton the Elephant might pause before climbing a second tree. "I know," she responded, trying to keep her voice light. This is no big deal; don't worry. "I need to ask you a professional favor."
"Yes?"
"I have some questions about the making of Weary Hearts. I wanted to prowl around a bit and I wondered if you could open a few doors for me."
"What kind of questions?"
That was an entirely legitimate response. Cathy would be crazy to open doors when she was unclear about Jill's mission. But her question put Jill in a bind.
One of the rules of group was honesty. You were not supposed to lie. Jill obeyed that rule faithfully. She didn't tell the whole truth—not even close—but she told nothing but the truth.
Had anyone else asked her, she would have told one of the assorted half-truths that she had told Ken and Lynette, John Ransome, and the people on Cass's production staff. But she found it suddenly hard to lie to Cathy, even over the phone.
No wonder some groups had a "no outside contact" rule. The rules of the group, its honesty and constant self-scrutiny, were too difficult to sustain in normal human contact.
"It's complicated, but basically a member of the Ringling family has raised some questions about what was in the first rough cut. I can tell you the whole story if you want."
"No, that's all right," Cathy said so quickly that Jill felt like
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