Книга - It Girl

It Girl
Nic Tatano


~Veronica Summer is stuck in the dream job from hell.The spunky New York reporter is offered the network's morning anchor position, but she doesn't want it because she's a night person. Then the network plays a trump card, promising her the evening anchor chair in three years. So the fiery redhead takes the plunge, with the ultimate gig waiting down the road.Problem is, that road is filled with two am wake-up calls and the only social life she has is one with bats and raccoons. She quickly realizes she'll never survive the grind and decides the only way out is to get fired by being her snarky self on live television.And the ratings skyrocket.Veronica becomes the nation's It Girl, so the network makes her a celebrity contestant on its most popular nighttime dance competition show, Dance Off. While her journalistic credibility is shot to hell by the show's skimpy costumes, she's thrown into close contact with two incredibly attractive men; her dance partner and the show's sarcastic British judge.And she soon discovers that love is the ultimate gig.













It Girl


Nic Tatano










A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)




Contents


Nic Tatano (#u5297b9ba-a23f-5a75-ba9f-03d8074c4d6a)

Dedication (#u14a388ea-c40f-5623-a2c0-3c67e8b31069)

CHAPTER ONE (#u5d7a1899-840d-5474-8c93-153ac0b67fe0)

CHAPTER TWO (#u2b313dfb-57c0-512e-ac06-159863cee2eb)

CHAPTER THREE (#u4bb08e74-b27c-5047-bcc5-7a258f13f410)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u5ff271df-7051-5dac-bc57-0b28e4ebea01)

CHAPTER FIVE (#uf50ba182-b3d9-5558-8bb0-b12d29d12fc9)

CHAPTER SIX (#u36bb63d3-0aed-50e9-86fc-4418ea8e6797)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#uaca1885c-7344-5ff5-9247-27c03f333a7e)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#u541bb788-3ac0-5380-bd1a-8532a162c63d)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTY (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

BONUS MATERIAL (#litres_trial_promo)

About HarperImpulse (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




Nic Tatano (#u84c8cafb-cb45-5112-8795-f6e4f243f555)


I've always been a writer of some sort, having spent my career working as a reporter, anchor or producer in television news. Fiction is a lot more fun, since you don't have to deal with those pesky things known as facts. I grew up in the New York City metropolitan area and now live on the Gulf Coast where I will never shovel snow again. I'm happily married to a math teacher and we share our wonderful home with our tortoiseshell tabby cat, Gypsy.

You can follow me on Twitter @NicTatano.


For Myra, my real life It Girl




CHAPTER ONE (#u84c8cafb-cb45-5112-8795-f6e4f243f555)


"My network's twenty–million-dollar-a-year morning anchor just got arrested for soliciting a prostitute."

While I've made a habit of getting major exclusives as a television reporter, this latest juicy scoop brought the conversation at our dinner table to a screeching halt.

And the next words you hear should tell you that you need to get out of your conventional mode of thinking.

"She hired a prostitute?"

That's right. She.

See what I mean? You naturally assumed said morning anchor was a man looking for a hookup with some silicone babe on a Manhattan street corner. But nooooo, in this case we're talking about television's reigning "It Girl" who heretofore was assumed to be pure as the driven snow by the network executives who hired her.

At least they got the driven part right.

Snow White in handcuffs.

Film at eleven.

This simple text message from my contact at the cop shop meant the bigwigs who ran my network would be looking for a replacement. Immediately. You can't exactly get the kids ready for school while watching an anchor who thinks half 'n' half is something other than what you put in your coffee. Anyway, it wouldn't take long for the vultures who wanted the job to start circling.

I would not be one of them. But even the chance that the network might pluck me from the local affiliate for this job from hell sent a chill up my spine.

Yeah, you heard me. Twenty million dollar job from hell. It was a gig this intrepid television reporter didn't want.

And in the back of my mind I knew, thanks to Murphy's Law, they'd want me for it.

Sonofabitch. I hate it when people offer me huge contracts.

My best friend Layla raised one perfectly plucked dark eyebrow like a question mark. "Veronica, you gonna throw your hat in the ring?"

"Hell, no!" I said, as I grabbed my wine glass and took a bigger sip than normal. A pre-emptive strike in case said hat ended up in said ring.

Since you're probably wondering why a local TV reporter wouldn't want a network anchor slot that pays a fortune, I should probably tell you a little about my method of deductive reasoning. I'm Veronica Summer, the top hard news reporter for the network's New York City flagship affiliate. The local version of an "It Girl." And at the age of thirty-two, this tall, green-eyed redhead has her career just where she wants it. I get the lead story almost every night, take no prisoners, and am generally considered to be the best old-school journalist in town. So the last thing I need is a job that forces me to talk about purses, hair color and breast feeding at the crack of dawn. There's a network job I want, a dream job, and that aint it.

Even if it pays about a hundred times more than my current salary.

"Why the hell don't y'all apply?" asked Savannah, the sultry Southern brunette who is the most logical in our group.

"Because the morning show is a bunch of soft bullshit," I said. "That's not me."

"I watch that show while I'm on the treadmill," said Layla, who probably saw the dollar signs that came with the job before anything else. "They do some serious interviews. You could still do your Brenda Starr thing."

"Yeah, and that's about ten percent of the show," I said. "The operative word being show, not newscast. The other two hours are a flying Mongolian cluster of fluff consisting of musical guests, dieting tips and how to avoid picking up killer germs from shopping cart handles." I threw up my hands and shook them. "Run for your lives!"

Layla sat up straight and smiled as a cute guy walked by our table, then twirled a few strands of her jet black hair as she made eye contact. "You're gonna get a call."

"Pffft," I said, waving my hand like I was shooing a fly even though I knew she was right. "They've got a deep bench at the network. I'm not even a blip on their radar."

The discussion was thankfully interrupted as dinner arrived. Our regular waiter, a cute thirtysomething guy named Frank, slid a huge plate of fettuccine Alfredo with shrimp in from of me. I licked my lips. "Lotta cheese, as usual?" he asked.

"You know what I like," I said. His cheese grater hovered over my plate as he carpet-bombed my dinner with parmesan. I was thinking that even with twenty mil per year I'd still eat at this place. Loud and brassy, always busy with hardly any space between the tables, it had great food and portions large enough to end up with a to-go box for a midnight snack. The waiter finished serving and moved on to another table, while I turned my attention to one of the many flat screens that hung around the perimeter in the hopes of changing the topic. "Hey, the Mets are actually winning." I twirled some pasta with a shrimp into a neat ball and popped it in my mouth. Nothing like butter, cream, cheese, pasta and crustaceans to take your mind off things.

"Don't change the subject," said Layla. "You need to apply."

"They don't have someone like y'all," said Savannah. "You're pretty, smart, have the quickest wit of anyone I know. I'm sure men wouldn't mind waking up to you."

"The jury's out on that," said Layla, "because she throws them out the night before."

"I meant on television," said Savannah.

"And it pays twenty … million … dollars," said Layla. "Cha-ching."

I shook my head as I dabbed my mouth with a napkin. "The outgoing anchor has been there ten years. They're not going to pay that much for someone new."

"So you wouldn't do it for ten million?" asked Layla. She lowered her voice and said, "Cha-ching," again.

"It's a moot point," I said. "I'd take the evening anchor job in a heartbeat, but I'm not the kind of person they want for mornings. The 'P' word is a necessary skill set for that show."

"‘P’ word?" asked Savannah.

"Perky!" I said. I playfully batted my lashes as I widened my eyes and turned my voice into that of a high-pitched brainless bimbo. "It's what all morning shows want! Someone upbeat and cheerful before the sun comes up! Good morning! It's a beautiful day! Let's all be happy while you get your precious little snowflakes ready for school!" I went back to my normal sarcastic tone. "Can you picture me on a morning show? Hey guys, I'm Veronica Summer. What the hell are you guys doing up? Fuhgeddaboudit! Go back to bed and let the little bastards make their own damn school lunches!"

"Yeah, you're not exactly little miss sunshine in the morning. But you could fake it," said Layla. "You're good at faking things."

"Funny," I said, sneering at her. "Trust me, they're not going to call."

I really wanted to believe that as the discussion finally ended.

But dammit, they called the next day.

***

The network morning show is called, quite simply, The Morning Show. How much they paid someone to come up with that incredibly clever title is a closely guarded secret. Rumor has it that ten years ago network executives went off on a three day retreat to revamp the morning offering and come up with a new name for the thing. After a long weekend running up a huge bill at some exotic getaway in the Bahamas and countless hours of brainstorming someone came up with the ground-breaking idea to add capital letters to the concept.

The people in Congress have nothing on network executives, who have raised lack of productivity to an art form.

Anyway, The Morning Show's executive producer Gavin Karlson was already seated at the last table in the restaurant when I arrived a few minutes after twelve on Saturday afternoon. The huge teddy bear of a man in the camel's hair sport coat and starched white shirt stood up to greet me, towering over me by nearly a foot. "Veronica, nice to finally meet you."

"Same here," I said. A waiter came by and pulled out my chair. "Thank you," I said as I sat down and he handed me a brown leather-bound menu with a gold tassel in the middle. Natural light spilled through the windows, giving rich tones to the dark paneled walls of the old place.

The fortyish egg-faced bald producer (a dead ringer for Doctor Evil) studied me with his piercing gray eyes, probably looking to see if I had that starry-eyed look most prospective network anchors have on interviews. I smiled casually, as if this were just a run of the mill two hundred dollar lunch with a co-worker. Besides, I didn't want the job anyway. But when a network exec invites you to lunch at the city's oldest and most expensive restaurant, or even a hot dog stand, you jump, because you never know what's down the road. Don't burn a bridge before you even cross it. "So," I said, "getting any sleep lately?"

He shook his head and smiled. "You kidding? This has been the worst week of my life. Between bailing Katrina Favor out of jail in the middle of the night and dealing with the tabloids, it's been hell."

I tried to hold back a smile as I recalled the local front pages the day after she'd been arrested. "When you've got stripper name like Favor, it's a hanging curveball over the middle of the plate for the headline writers. Some of those were pretty brutal."

"Yeah, but you have to admit they were clever. We all got a kick out of Party Favor."

"She put you in a tough position."

"She put herself in a tough position. Pun intended."

"Hey, you could moonlight writing headlines. But seriously, I guess it must have been tough to let her go."

"Actually, it was an easy call to fire her. Thank God for the morals clause in her contract." He looked around to see if anyone in the half-empty restaurant was paying attention, then leaned forward a bit and dropped his voice. "Between you and me, we were going to replace her anyway when her contract expired next year."

"Really? After ten years?"

"Her favorability ratings were slipping, she was a bear to work with and her salary was way out of line. Then again, I'm not the one who signed her to that ridiculous deal."

"Oh, so this gig no longer pays twenty million." I playfully tossed my napkin on the table. "I'm outta here."

"It still pays a helluva lot. More than you're making now."

I replaced my napkin, took a sip of water, then glanced at the menu, which, of course, did not include prices. "Hell, I'm sure these entrees cost more than I'm making now. So what's good here?"

He looked quizzically at me, as if wondering why I was more interested in food than begging for the job. (Because I actually was more interested in the food.) "Uh, everything. I always get the broiled salmon with dill sauce. Save room for tiramisu."

"Sounds good. Make it two," I said, snapping my menu shut as I leaned back in my chair. "So, I'm sure people have been beating a path to your door since the news broke."

"Women will eat their young for this job. No offense."

"None taken. Hell, I agree with you. Last time we had an anchor opening we could have made a fortune with a pay-per-view catfight between a few of our reporters."

"Anyway, with sweeps coming up we need to have the replacement in the chair soon. I don't need weeks of speculation in the papers or the newsroom."

"I'm sure you have many qualified candidates."

"We do. You're one of them."

I couldn't help but smile. "I'm flattered. But I must admit I'm curious as to why you're talking to me. I mean, I'm not exactly someone with a morning show or anchoring background. And I'm not known outside of the tri-state area."

His smart phone lit up and vibrated. He looked at it, didn't answer, and turned back to me. "Well, the day after Katrina got arrested, we all sat down and threw out names of possible replacements. Yours was one that came up a few times. You're an excellent journalist, and our co-anchor said you've got a sharp wit. I had no idea you two went to college together and are close friends."

"Yeah, Scott and I go way back. We just don't see each other much because of the hours. I'm getting off work when he's coming in. Ships passing in the night."

"Well, anyway, he thought you'd be a good choice, and I think it's important that co-anchors actually like each other. Scott and Katrina were oil and water."

"So I've heard. He was about to shoe polish the toilet seat in her private bathroom and Saran Wrap the bowl. Splish-splash."

He laughed a bit. "I would have paid good money to see that. Anyway, we've been thinking of adding a harder edge to the show. So we need a real journalist as opposed to a traditional morning show host."

I sat up straight and widened my eyes, feigning interest. "Harder edge as in … "

"More political interviews, investigative pieces. We would get you out in the field to do stories, so you wouldn't be chained to the desk."

"Hmmm. By the way, you said my name came up a few times. May I ask who else thought I might make a good replacement?"

"You may ask," he said, with a wicked smile.

I shook my head as I rolled my eyes. "Typical management. You should know Jedi Mind Tricks don't work on me. Besides, I can just ask Scott."

"I figured you would. Anyway, we're doing a few tryouts tomorrow morning starting at nine when no one's around. Attempting to make the search as quiet as possible while keeping the knife throwing in the newsroom to a minimum. Scott's coming in and we're going to do a mock show with Friday's script. I'd really like you to come in if you're interested."

I wasn't, but turning down this man was career suicide. I'd never be considered for anything at the network again. I knew the "harder edge" was bogus, just a carrot to try to gain my interest. I'd just bomb the tryout and be on my way back to my real job. I forced a little excitement into my eyes and smiled. "Sure, I'll be happy to," I said, as I picked up my water glass.

"Great, I'll email you the script so you can look it over. Oh, one more thing that might pique your interest. One reason we want Katrina's replacement to do hard news is that this is the stepping stone to the evening anchor position. We see the person we hire as the heir apparent."

My glass froze in midair. Whatever attempt I was making at being casual went right out the window as my jaw dropped. That dream job I mentioned earlier? Yeah, this was it. Known as The Chair, the job was referred to with reverence by reporters, as if it could be spoken in italics. Gavin had dangled the ultimate carrot. "The morning show anchor will eventually replace Bill Recker?"

He nodded and smiled as he licked his lips, now having my attention and soul firmly tucked away in his pocket. Ruthless bastard. "He's retiring in three and a half years. That's not common knowledge by the way, but he's sixty-one and tired of the grind. Wants to sail around the world on his yacht before he's too old to do it. But he wants one more presidential election, and then he's gone. So the plan is to keep Katrina's replacement on mornings till he walks out with a gold watch, then slide that person into The Chair. Well, actually, it would be three years on the morning show, and then … "

And then he dropped another enticing piece of produce.

"Six months covering Senator Dixon's presidential campaign."

And just like that, the job in which I had no interest was now a job I had to have.

***

"I forbid you to take this job."

My latest boyfriend's words out of the blue stopped me just as I was about to apply the whipped cream to his washboard abs. I sat up and put the can of Reddi-Wip on the nightstand. Obviously my plan for round two on this Saturday afternoon human dessert bar had been doused with a bucket of cold water. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," said Alexander Dumont, my significant other for the past four months. He put his hands behind his head and locked his fingers. "I forbid it."

The night's dinner reservations at the city's trendiest restaurant went right out the window. I got off the bed, stood up, folded my arms in front of me and stuck out one foot like an angry teacher even though I was wearing nothing but a bright red thong. "Who the hell are you to forbid me to do anything that pertains to my career?"

"I'm your boyfriend, the man who is going to take care of you. And if you take this job and start getting up at two o'clock in the morning, we won't be able to continue our relationship. I already put up with you working nights."

I raised one eyebrow. "Oh, you put up with that, do you?"

"Every other guy I know has a girlfriend who works normal hours. Or a wife who stays home."

"Well, these are the normal hours for my job. And I'll never be a Stepford wife. I don't need someone to take care of me. I can take care of myself. Always have."

"You could get them to put you on the day shift."

"The eleven o'clock newscast is the station's signature broadcast, and I'm the lead reporter—"

"Yeah, yeah, I've heard about how important it is for viewers to go to bed watching your channel so that's what they're watching when they turn the TV on in the morning. Real rocket science."

"What I do for a living is important, Alexander. And I love what I do. You should know that by now."

"I just figured at some point your biological clock would kick in and this little fling with broadcasting would be over."

Now he'd crossed the line. My pulse spiked as my eyes widened. "Little fling?"

"You tell stories for a living. C'mon, it's not a real job."

Annndddd… cue the anger. "And you sell stocks to people. You're nothing more than a legalized bookie taking bets that companies will make money. Wall Street is a glorified casino."

"Don't change the subject. You're not taking this morning show job. You're not a morning person anyway."

"You don't get it. This will lead to the main network anchor job in three and a half years. You know how many people have sat in that chair in the last half century? Three. I'll be the face of the network at thirty-five. And I'll get to cover Sydney Dixon's campaign, and she's a lock to be the next President. I'll get to travel the world, have the President of the United States on speed dial, take trips on Air Force One—"

"Great, I'll see even less of you."

"It's my dream job."

"It doesn't work for me. Or my plan for us. You're not taking the job. End of story. C'mon, get back in bed."

He reached out for me and I shoved his hand away. My blood reached its boiling point, but I'm one of those people who can still think rationally even when I'm seriously pissed off. Reporters often see things in black and white, with very few gray areas. And at that moment, I knew I had to step back and look at the situation as a reporter, not as a girlfriend. I took a long look at the thirty-five year old man my friends considered to be an incredible catch. Tall, classically handsome with (ironically) an anchorman's square jaw, deep set dark brown eyes that matched the color of his short hair, a rugged face. A seriously buffed body to die for and sex that was off the charts. But the realization hit me that the man I had planned to turn into a hundred and eighty pound chocolate sundae didn't even know me.

Or didn't want to.

And just like that, I reached a decision. I knew it was time to cut my losses. "Get out."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Get your underwear off the trapeze and your toothbrush out of my bathroom and whatever other stuff you've got around here and get out. You've got thirty minutes and after that anything I find that belongs to you is going down the garbage chute. We're done."

He reached out for me again. "C'mon, babe, calm down."

I glared at him. "Oh, I'm very calm. You just showed your true colors. You have absolutely no respect for my career, or for what I want to do with my life. Which, since you obviously didn't get the memo, is not yours to mold. And in case you haven't been to a wedding in a while, they took the obey part out of the vows, so you can't forbid me to do anything. You put up with me for the past few months? Well now you won't have to put up with anything. Go get yourself a nine-to-five girlfriend."

"You're serious."

I nodded. "We're done, Alexander. As you would say, end of story."




CHAPTER TWO (#u84c8cafb-cb45-5112-8795-f6e4f243f555)


Scott Winter is known as "America's boy next door." One look at him tells you why.

Not classically handsome but beyond cute, he's got a mop of always-tousled black hair that leaves the impression it's been styled by some babe who ran her fingers through it after having her way with him. Combine that with devilish olive green eyes that make him look like he's up to something, a permanent five o'clock shadow, and a lean face accented by dimples that run the length of his cheeks, and you've got a guy with the highest "Q" rating in television.

That means viewers like him more than anyone else. On any network.

Women really like him. And they all want to sleep with him, even though he's happily married to his high school sweetheart and would never, ever cheat.

At five-foot-ten he's the biggest thing on television.

And he's been my friend for fourteen years since the day we met freshman year.

He stepped off the set to greet me as I entered the studio. "Hey, it's The Spitfire!" he said, using my nickname.

"Hi, Scott," I said, as he gave me a strong hug and almost lifted my hundred and thirty-five pounds off the floor.

"There's something I haven't seen between our co-anchors in awhile," said Gavin Karlson.

"Do we have to do a tryout?" asked Scott, as he wrapped one arm around my shoulders. "Can't we just hire her right now?"

"Sorry," said the producer. "This one's not my call. But you've got as much input as I do."

"Yeah, I know," said Scott.

Gavin looked at me. "So, you go by Spitfire?"

"My dad gave me that nickname when I was a little girl since he said I was an out of control ball of fire."

"Nothing's changed," said Scott. I playfully slapped his shoulder. "So, you ready to become the next morning show It Girl?"

"I don't know if I'd get that title, but I'd love to work with you."

"It would be nice to see you more. And my wife would be thrilled if you were my partner. She got a little tired of my bitching about Katrina."

"Well, thank goodness for the NYPD Vice Squad."

Gavin interrupted our little reunion. "You guys ready?"

Scott nodded, then took me by the hand and led me up the riser to the set, a grouping featuring a red leather couch and matching chair, a mahogany coffee table and a couple of giant flat screens hanging off the back wall which was painted royal blue. "We haven't anchored together since college. Remember how we always planned to work together?"

I nodded as we both sat down in the anchor chairs. "I'd forgotten about that, but maybe this is it. Just took ten years to get there."

"Why don't you read through the script a few times before we roll tape," said Gavin, who headed out of the studio. "I'll get someone to run the prompter and leave you two to practice."

"Sure," said Scott, who turned to me. "When was the last time you anchored?"

"I filled in a few times this year, but never more than two days in a row."

"Well, just think back to our college days. Like riding a bike. And remember, this is different than a regular newscast. It's more about personality than anything else."

I couldn't help but smile as the memory of our college newscast flashed through my mind. We had incredible chemistry that only works in television if the anchors like each other. I wondered if it would still show up after a decade apart.

A young brunette entered the studio and sat down at the teleprompter control station.

"That's Mandy," said Scott. "Mandy, this is Veronica."

She waved and gave me a cheerful smile. "Hi!"

"Hi, Mandy," I said, smiling back.

"Her pace is probably a little faster than Katrina's," said Scott.

Mandy nodded.

"Okay, you ready to do this?" he asked.

"Let's rock," I said.

I faced the camera and the words filled the prompter.

"Welcome to the Morning Show, America. I'm Scott Winter … "

"And I'm Veronica Summer. Thank you so much for joining us this Friday morning."

And just like that, I was twenty-two again, anchoring next to my closest friend in the business, looking at a future that was suddenly very bright.

Until I began to stumble through the script like I was twenty-two.

***

The job I didn't want that became the job I had to have had quickly become the "what if" moment I'd look back on for the rest of my life.

Remember my original plan to tank the tryout? This was worse.

The prompter may as well have been filled with Chinese. Even after three practice runs, I had become the victim of the classic rookie anchor mistake: stumbling out of the gate and becoming a snowball rolling downhill as I focused so much on the first screw-up I continued to make more.

Thankfully the mock interview segments we taped didn't require me to actually read, or it would have been even worse.

I knew it was gone. The Chair, the presidential campaign, rides on Air Force One, all history.

I shook my head as I looked at Scott. "I sure screwed the pooch on this opportunity."

"Pffft. Don't worry about it. They know you're not used to anchoring."

"Yeah, but they could find a small market anchor who could read the prompter better than I did."

He shrugged. "Not the biggest factor on this show."

Mandy the prompter girl walked toward the set and extended her hand. "It was nice meeting you," she said, her sad look telling me she knew she'd never see me again.

"You too," I said.

The door to the studio opened. Gavin Karlson walked through it and headed toward the set. For some odd reason he was smiling.

I dipped my head and looked up at him through sad eyes, like I'd been a bad student caught by the teacher. "I promise to buy Hooked on Phonics this afternoon."

He chuckled a bit. "Don't beat yourself up. You were fine."

"Amazing. You're channeling my mother."

He turned to Scott. "She obviously doesn't understand what we're looking for."

"Nope. Sure doesn't," he said.

"Let me guess," I said. "You're looking for an actress to play the before role in a stuttering commercial."

Gavin laughed as he sat down on the couch in the seat previously occupied by our mock interview subject. "Veronica, morning shows are all about personality. I could put any number of people in the chair to read a prompter flawlessly, but I need someone who has both incredible chemistry with Scott and who can connect with the viewers. Especially the female ones."

I cocked my head toward Scott. "I think every woman's dream over here has that covered." Scott tried to hold back a smile and blushed a bit.

"You still don't understand," said Gavin. "We need a woman that every man wants and who every woman wants to be. Someone who's going to attract men but not turn off the women. Someone who's approachable in the eyes of both sexes. If we paired some ice queen with him we'd lose the women even though they love Scott."

"But you said you wanted a harder edge to the show," I said.

"I do," said Gavin, "but it's still crucial that the new co-anchor bring great chemistry to the equation. The fact that you two have been friends for years really came through the screen. It's obvious you like each other. When we brought Scott on two years ago the women responded, but Katrina had no chemistry with him. She started resenting all the attention he got and it showed. She came off like a bitch with some of her snide comments and that turned off a lot of women. I've got a few thousand emails if you wanna read 'em."

"So, I'm still in the running?"

"Very much so."

My spirits lifted a bit and I actually smiled.

Until I saw the competition strut into the studio.

***

Every Sunday for the past five years I've had a standing appointment with my two closest friends. We meet at the same restaurant for brunch at eleven.

And even though I'm about twenty minutes late, I already know the topic of conversation.

Me.

Thankfully, they'll be supportive, which is what I need right now. I guess I should tell you about them.

Layla Starr has been my best friend since high school. The first time I saw her and heard her name, I did the judge-a-book-by-its-cover thing. At fourteen she had reached her current height, five-ten, and current figure, classic supermodel. With huge ice blue eyes that are a striking contrast to her black shoulder length hair, she could have been a model right then. With a name like Layla she was an obvious target for off-color comments from the boys at school.

When she was assigned to be my chemistry lab partner and I caught a glimpse of her killer body and perfect cheekbones, I rolled my eyes knowing I'd be wearing invisibility spray as the males in the classroom would totally ignore me. One of the boys nearly blew up the lab when she came to class one day in her cheerleader uniform that showed off legs up to her neck. Anyway, turned out she was this conservative girl from a strict family much like mine, so we became fast friends. I consider her the sister I never had.

The girl routinely stops Manhattan traffic and gets carded at bars, as the woman has apparently discovered the fountain of youth. She's solid muscle, working as an aerobics instructor, as her body still doesn't have an ounce of fat. You could bounce quarters off the girl's ass.

Savannah is my fish-out-of-water friend, a Southern belle from Mississippi whose main objective in life is to divorce herself from her evil family traditions that exist south of the Mason-Dixon line. This goal came about when, at the age of twenty-two, she graduated from college and was promptly anointed an "old maid" by her mother. After a few months of being compared to her high school cohorts who were already well established in the trailer park and regularly showed off their cereal covered spawn every Friday night at Wal-Mart, Savannah left town with nothing but her devastating looks and incredibly sultry drawl. She headed straight for the Big Apple. Luckily she brought a serious amount of common sense and surprising level of street smarts with her. I happened to meet her the day she arrived while working on a story at the airport, took pity on her and offered her my couch until she got situated. Which she promptly did the next day, as she relocated from my sofa to the apartment of the cute guy who lived next door. He also took pity on her, but in the end she left nothing but an empty husk.

A curvy, five-six brunette whose mahogany tangles end in the middle of her back, she's used her pale green eyes and pouty lips to advance her career as a political consultant who is often the spokesperson for campaigns. Clients seek her out since she's whip smart and can make any man feel like he's the only person in the room. (And by nightfall it often ends up that way.) She can also charm a crowd in a political debate by inserting charming Southernisms into the discussion. Savannah calls herself a "serial dater" but when she says it with that accent it actually sounds charming. She'll pretty much date any decent guy once, as there is apparently a little known congressional bill called "no man left behind." At twenty-eight she's the baby sister in our group.

The girls were already seated at our usual corner table, sipping mimosas as patrons crowded the long buffet line, so deep in conversation they didn't notice my arrival until I pulled out my chair.

Layla looked up and smiled, studied my face, then bit her lower lip. "Uh-oh."

I shook my head and said nothing.

"What?" asked Savannah.

"Well," I said, taking my seat as I flagged down the waiter with the tray of mimosas, "so much for my dream of anchoring the nightly news."

"What happened?" asked Savannah. "Y'all look like someone ran over your dog."

"I couldn't read the prompter. I stumbled through every script. Worse than in college."

"You haven't anchored in forever," said Layla. "I'm sure they know that. How did you do with Scott?"

"That part was okay," I said, as my mimosa arrived. "And the producer said we had great chemistry."

Savannah smiled. "There you go! Chemistry's important. I hate it when anchors don't like each other. Did the producer give you any other feedback?"

"He said I was still in the running, and I believed him," I said. "Until … "

"Until what?" asked Savannah.

"The competition walked in." I took a long sip of my drink. I needed liquid courage before discussing she-who-must-not-be-named.

"And said competition would be?" asked Layla.

I swallowed hard. "Noelle Larson."

Both raised eyebrows and said nothing for a minute. They knew what the implications were. The clanging of silverware and glasses replaced the conversation. The smell of a roast wafted by as a chef wheeled out a huge steamship round.

"Oooh, that looks good," I said.

"I thought Noelle got out of the business when she left the other morning show," said Layla, who obviously wasn't going to drop the subject.

I nodded as I leaned back in my chair. "She did, last year. But rumor had it that she was waiting out her non-compete clause for something else. Rumor was apparently true." I shook my head and stared at my drink. "There's no way they'll pick me instead of her. I mean, she's a morning show icon. And you should have seen her. Six foot blonde, short skirt with perfect legs, four-inch heels. Plus she's had a boob job since America last saw her and looks like she could nurse a small village. She was spilling out of her blouse."

Savannah reached across the table and patted my hand. "Well, y'all don't fret your pretty lil' head. They probably don't want someone who's plastic."

"You should have seen the producer," I said. "Practically tripped over his tongue. Then she heads up to the set, says hello to Scott, pretends she doesn't know me and asks if I'm a production assistant. Bitch."

"They won't pick her," said Layla. "She's older than Scott. It'll look like a cougar newscast."

"She's only forty and she's got a history of delivering ratings in the morning," I said, slugging down the rest of my drink.

"And she's too tall," said Layla. "She'll tower over him."

"Right," said Savannah. "That poor little thing will look like a munchkin next to her."

"Look, I appreciate you guys trying to find excuses to keep me in the running," I said. "But it's game over. What the hell, I've still got a great job. Let's eat."

"It's not over, sweetie," said Layla. "Remember, Scott's gotta have some input as to who they hire."

"He does," I said. "But I can't compete with a real life silicone Barbie doll."

***

As I headed down to the newsstand for the Monday morning papers, I decided it was in my best interests to totally forget about the job, relax and smell the roses. (Or, in the case of this part of Manhattan, the lovely residue of a garbage strike.) It was pointless to worry about something that was out of my control, and with Noelle Larson in the picture the job was a million-to-one longshot anyway. It dawned on me I was probably a courtesy interview to appease Scott.

Yeah, let's go with that.

The air was cool and crisp. At ten o'clock commuters were out of the way and the five block hike to the newsstand was an easy one. I liked buying hard copies from a human being, bypassing the electronic version or the delivery to the door of my apartment. And midtown was still populated by those classic green newsstands, with the dailies in a stack weighted down by half a brick while every magazine available hung from the sides. Besides, it forced me to walk every day and get some exercise, which I loathed. (And canceled out the candy bar I always bought with the papers.) I reached the newsstand, grabbed the city's three dailies and a Fast Break (a wonderful concoction of chocolate and peanut butter) and handed a five to Hal, the grizzled, fiftyish guy running the stand who always had a three day growth of silver whiskers.

"I think you're both, Freckles," he said, using his personal nickname for me.

"Excuse me?"

He pointed at my newspapers as he looked over the top of his silver reading glasses. "Page Six," he said, as he handed me my change.

Uh-oh.

Page Six was the city's clearinghouse for gossip, and obviously it had something to do with me. I opened The Post and saw the headline above side-by-side pictures of myself and Noelle Larson. The huge bold typeface screamed at me.

RED / HOT

Chase is on for Katrina Favor's job

So much for keeping it quiet.

The paparazzi had apparently snapped a photo of me entering the network headquarters yesterday, and done the same with Noelle Larson. Her photo was under the "hot" part of the headline (it was no contest, considering the length of her skirt) while I filled the side of the page under "red."

"Damn," I said out loud.

"Like I said, Freckles, you're both," said Hal. "Red hot Veronica, that's what I'm gonna call you now."

"Gee thanks, Hal," I said, as I leaned against his stand to read the article.

By Gemma Farrington

It's a network catfight in a game of musical chairs.

Producers of The Morning Show didn't waste any time holding tryouts Sunday morning for Katrina Favor's now empty co-anchor spot. Sources tell us that network execs are scrambling to find a replacement after Ms. Favor's arrest last week following her embarrassing dalliance with a male prostitute. Co-anchor Scott Winter was dragged in on his day off Sunday as the network shuttled a parade of info-babes onto the anchor desk. And with ratings sweeps just around the corner, the decision will come quickly.

Despite the long hours of tryouts, we're told the short list has but two names on it. Former morning show queen Noelle Larson, who left her post at the competition a year ago due to a contract dispute, and NYC reporter Veronica Summer, the fiery redhead who makes corrupt politicians run for cover.

While Larson's assets (both journalistically and physically) are well known to viewers, Ms. Summer is a wild card in the deck, having no anchoring or morning show experience. She's also a local reporter, so is unknown to a national audience. While this might seem to leave her at a disadvantage her off-camera relationship with Mr. Winter makes her a formidable challenger. The two attended college together and are said to be close friends; Ms. Summer was even a bridesmaid at Mr. Winter's wedding.

Chemistry could be the deciding factor in the choice, even though Ms. Summer does not seem to possess the typical morning show perkiness that has become the industry standard for women. It's no secret that Katrina Favor did not approve of Winter's hire two years ago, and their relationship off camera was said to be ice cold.

Who would you rather see sitting next to America's Boy Next Door? His attractive best friend from college with whom he has a warm (yet platonic) relationship? Or the towering blonde with the mile-long legs and the cheerful attitude that will give you a cavity? Vote in our Internet poll. Results on Wednesday.

"Sources tell us, my ass," I said aloud.

"Story not true?" asked Hal.

"It was supposed to be a secret."

"Well, I voted for you," he said, holding up an iPad.

"Thank you, Hal." I grabbed another candy bar and tossed him a buck. "Think I need a double today."

I turned and headed back to my apartment, feeling naked as it seemed every person on the street was staring at me. I'm used to being recognized, but not like this. I forced a smile at everyone, but it was through clenched teeth.

Gavin Karlson was pissing me off. I knew damn well he was the "source" and was using the newspaper to float a trial balloon. Yeah, he wanted to keep it quiet. Bullshit. The damn story would be in the paper until Thursday, the day after the results of the "poll" were released. And the whole thing would no doubt be picked up by every entertainment publication in the country.

And speaking of the poll, did it mean I really was on the short list of two? Or was this simply a ploy to find out if people wanted to wake up with Noelle again?

Inquiring minds wanna know.

It was time for this reporter to start digging.




CHAPTER THREE (#u84c8cafb-cb45-5112-8795-f6e4f243f555)


As an Emmy Award winning reporter, you'd think I'd be able to investigate my own life. But despite the tabloids seemingly permanent pipeline to that network "source" I've not been able to find out a damn thing about the decision to replace Katrina. Even Scott has been no help, apparently being left out of the loop after pleading my case to the network. (He also told the bigwigs his apprehension about working with a glamazon who made him look like a hobbit when she stood next to him in heels that took her up to six-foot-four.)

Oh, and that resolution I made to forget it and smell the roses? Fuhgeddaboudit. That barn door has sailed, as we say in the news business.

By Friday I had turned into a teenage girl hoping for a date to the prom. Every time the phone rang I jumped, waiting for news that would at least resolve the situation. Luckily Savannah has asked me to lunch, obviously noting I had become a walking frayed nerve ending.

While Layla is my best friend, Savannah is a world class expert at putting things in perspective with that Southern way of looking at things. (The laid-back and relaxed view of life, not that of her relatives whose family trees are of the pine variety with reunions that might have been accompanied by banjo music.) And since she works in politics, she always knows how to spin things. The girl could make a colonoscopy sound like fun.

Since I would be off to work in an hour I sadly bypassed the glass of wine I really needed in favor of club soda with lime. Savannah had chosen a quiet, elegant restaurant featuring soft violin music instead of my usual preference, a loud place with flat screens filled with ballgames that served kick-ass fried cheese.

"Y'all look so pretty today," she said, as always starting things off with a compliment.

"Considering I've hardly slept all week, I'm sure you're being polite."

"Well, you can't handle this all by yourself, sweetie. If you don't let go of the worry, you're fixin' to have a nervous breakdown."

"I think that happened when I saw my picture in The Post."

"Hey, you did well in the poll. Against Noelle, that's saying something."

I nodded slightly, realizing she had a point. I had expected a landslide in favor of the competition, but I actually came in a close second with forty-eight percent of the vote. "I was surprised at that, considering the photo of her that they ran."

"Did y'all forget that morning shows are predominantly watched by women? They don't want to tune in and watch a girl who looks like a wanton harlot."

"Wanton harlot?"

"Genteel Southern way of calling her a cheap bimbo." Savannah sipped her glass of wine as she looked over the menu. "That dress she almost wore was not exactly appropriate."

"Yeah, but a few years ago her producer was quoted as saying her legs were worth five share points. Why do you think they never put her behind a desk?"

"Let's not talk about that trollop anymore."

"I guess we could talk about the boyfriend I no longer have."

"You havin' second thoughts about throwin' your dog off the porch?"

I chuckled at the Southernism I'd never heard before. "Hell, no. He needs to move to Connecticut and find himself some Junior Leaguer who will bring him his slippers when he gets home, put on her kneepads and service him when the lights go out. Then send him a thank you note for not taking more than ten minutes."

She snapped her menu closed and waved for the waiter. "Ah'm sorry that didn't work out, but it's for the best. You don't need a man like that. You've got too much goin' for you."

"But not quite enough for the network."

"Will y'all stop it? You're young, you've got that beautiful red hair and those darling little freckles and gorgeous eyes and a great body. Plus you're smart and you've got a great job that you love." She leaned forward and gave me a soulful look. "And friends who love you."

"I know, I shouldn't complain. I really do have a lot to be thankful for. And I do appreciate you guys more than you know. But the shot at the evening anchor job comes along once in a lifetime."

"I guess we're not going to get off that subject. By the way, did you find out who is leaking all that information to the newspaper?"

"I don't have concrete proof, but it's gotta be the producer. However, he may have been under orders from the network president. That's the one thing that worries me about the job."

"What's that?"

"That if I get it, there's someone there I already can't trust."

***

My cell rang just as I left the station for my dinner break. I pulled it from my purse and felt my pulse quicken as I saw the name of the caller.

Scott.

"Hey there," I said. "Up past your bedtime?"

"It's Friday. I can be a night owl and stay up till eight. Might sleep in till four."

"Wow, aren't you the wild child. So, what's up?"

"I have good news and bad news."

I stopped walking and leaned against a store display window. A cute guy recognized me and smiled, so I smiled back. "Give me the bad news first."

"Let me preface this by telling you something I've never told anyone. The air duct in my private bathroom connects to Gavin's office. So I've pretty much heard everything he's said for the past two years."

"Just give me the bad news!"

I heard him exhale deeply. "They offered the job to Noelle."

My heart sank, the color drained from my face as my knees weakened. My body slid down against the glass as I went into a crouch. "Well, I can't say I'm surprised. I'm sure you'll do well with her."

"Don't you want the good news?"

"What, that I came in second and should be happy I got that far?"

"You should."

"That's your definition of good news?"

"It's a very important part of it. Because, and listen to my words very closely. She didn't take the job."

My head snapped to attention. "Wow. You're kidding!"

"Hey, I spent an hour in the can this afternoon listening to their negotiations. She wanted Katrina's salary, a five year contract, and a signing bonus. Basically a package worth a hundred and ten million."

"Holy shit!"

"They offered eight million a year for three years, no bonus. Bottom line, she got very insulted, showed her true colors and ripped Gavin a new one. Told him to go screw himself and walked out. She didn't just burn the bridge, she napalmed the damn thing. I thought Katrina was a bitch but this woman has raised it to an art form. Anyway, turns out she had another offer in her pocket from a syndicator that offered more money for her to do daytime talk without getting up in the middle of the night. I just found out she signed this afternoon."

"Scott, I'm blown away."

Long pause. "So, you want the good news?"

"There's more?"

"Do the math, kiddo. You came in second and should be happy you got that far."

My eyes widened and my adrenaline pushed me up to a standing position. "Are you saying … "

"You'll be getting a call Monday. They were busy hammering out an offer sheet late this afternoon."

I tried my best not to scream in the middle of the street, holding it in until I got home. "You know, Scott, you really buried the lead on this one. You could have just told me I got the job right up front."

"Hey, you were the one who asked for the bad news first." Slight pause. "You're going to get even with me for this, aren't you?"

“You know me too well. But I’ll let you slide on this one. Listen, thanks for everything you did to make this happen. I know you had a lot of input.”




CHAPTER FOUR (#u84c8cafb-cb45-5112-8795-f6e4f243f555)


My grandfather owned an old fashioned hardware store, and it ticked him off to no end that I enjoyed playing there as a little girl. I mean, he loved me to death and I couldn't get enough of the guy. But to Pops, hardware was a man's game, and no place for a six year old girl who should otherwise be occupied with Barbie dolls or skipping rope. To me the place was a giant metal toy store, where I could do cool stuff with magnets and leave countless colorful chalk marks on the walls using that plumb line thing. (In case you hadn't guessed by now, I'm one of those kids who colored outside the lines in grade school.)

Pops had a display in the front window in a futile attempt to scare the women away by offending them. When women's lib hit the country and skirts first appeared in his store, he took action by placing a small, bright red toolbox in the front window with a sign reading, "Woman's toolbox. Fully stocked. $19.95." Inside were two things: a can of WD-40 and a roll of duct tape. When women asked about it, he replied in this manner: "If it moves and shouldn't, duct tape. If it should move but doesn't, WD-40. If a woman has to deal with anything else, she needs to call a man."

Reporters all have virtual toolboxes. Writing ability, poise, the ability to wing it, a built-in bullshit detector and, most important in New York City, street smarts. The one tool they should give you in journalism class but don't is this thing called negotiating skills.

Because when you're dealing with broadcasting management, you've just entered the world's sleaziest car dealership and you're about to sit down with a man in a polyester suit. "So, what's it gonna take to put you behind the wheel of this morning show, little lady?"

We even have a newsroom acronym that describes the process. BOHICA.

Bend over, here it comes again.

As I headed to Gavin's office on Monday morning, I was armed with very little in the way of bargaining power. Because he has those world class carrots of The Chair and The Campaign to dangle. (I've decided the latter now deserves capital letters, like The Morning Show.) And there are a dozen other qualified women who would offer to have his children for the chance. (By the way, upper news management is predominantly filled by poster children for male-pattern ugliness who would otherwise have no shot at even being in the same zip code as a woman who looks like Noelle Larson. Power is the great equalizer in this business.)

Scott has filled me in on the specifics of Noelle's offer, complete with all the little perks they were willing to throw in. Some are standard for morning show anchors, like a limo to take you to the studio. They don't want their bleary-eyed stars scraping windshields, shoveling the driveway or getting behind the wheel half-asleep at two in the morning. Others are not, like their offer to insure Noelle's legs for one million dollars. (Should have thrown in a fifty dollar policy rider for her brain.)

Gavin's hot blonde secretary smiled and waved me into his massive corner office featuring floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a great view of Central Park. I had arrived at five minutes till nine. He got up from behind his antique oak desk which was cluttered with papers and extended his hand. "You're early. I like that."

I shook his hand. "I figured if I was late you'd give the job to someone else."

He smiled and gestured to one of the two chairs opposite his desk. "Your agent on the way?"

"Don't have one." Big smile from Gavin. Management hates dealing with agents.

"I'm surprised, but I'm not gonna complain. However, I am rather curious as to why you don't employ one for something like this."

I was glad I hadn't as I looked around the office. Half a dozen Emmy Awards sat on the wooden credenza behind his desk, while the bookshelf cubicles were filled with more award statues I didn't recognize. The walls were covered with photos featuring Gavin with various celebrities. There was a class system in television, and I wasn't in the top one yet. He was.

"Look, I could bring some shark in here to play hardball and maybe get another ten percent out of you, and then I'd have to turn around and give him ten percent of the gross instead of the net. Do the math. And I don't want to get off on the wrong foot. Besides, I'm old fashioned and think we're adult enough to make a deal in a civilized fashion without any lawyers in the room."

"Well, that's refreshing."

"I said no lawyers in the room. That doesn't mean I won't have mine look over the contract. Which I'm sure is fine."

"Fair enough. And since we're putting our cards on the table, I'll be honest. We offered the job to Noelle and she turned it down. But you were a close second anyway."

"I'm sure I'm a helluva lot cheaper."

He tried to hold back a smile and was unsuccessful. "This is still a helluva lot of money we're talking about." He opened a red folder, took out a single sheet of paper and slid it toward me. "This is the basic offer. I'll give you a more detailed contract to take home and review with your attorney, but the broad strokes are covered here so you don't have to wade through the legalese."

I grabbed the sheet of paper and tried my best not to let my eyes bug out, but when the word "million" ends up next to "salary" it's hard to keep a poker face.

It wasn't Katrina's money, or Noelle's. But for a girl who grew up in a hardware store, it was enough to buy enough duct tape to circle the planet a few times and hose down the entire globe with WD-40. The salary was more money that I could possibly spend, even after taxes. Three year contract, five million per. A list of wonderful perks. "That's extremely generous," I said. For someone who's never anchored or done a morning show, I thought, but didn't say.

"We want you to be comfortable."

"Hell, Gavin, I could eat lobster every day on this. Even after my income tax funds jobs for ten government slugs."

"So, thoughts?"

"Well, this looks fine, but I do have two small requests."

He rolled his eyes. "Oh geez … "

"No, no, these aren't going to cost you anything. One has to do with a staff writer at my affiliate. George Winson."

"Don't think I've ever met him."

"We'll, you're heard his words for years if you've watched our newscast. Anyway, he's sixty-two with a kid in grad school and the current News Director is trying to force him to quit so he can hire someone younger and cheaper. He's got three years till retirement and I'd love to bring him along."

"I thought this wasn't going to cost me anything."

"It's not. I'd like you to subtract his salary from mine. Basically, I wanna pay for him. He's a good friend and I'll need a fabulous writer for this gig anyway. Personally I love to write but I can't do it at three in the morning."

"Sounds very doable. Katrina's writer just quit anyway. She didn't like Scott."

"Great. Pay him a hundred grand, and make my salary four-point-nine million."

"That's incredibly generous of you, Veronica. I'd heard you were great to work with but I've never heard of something like this."

"When people are good to me, I have their backs."

"Very nice. What's the second thing?"

"My salary is never to be made public. Never, ever. I don't want newspapers referring to me as a five million dollar a year anchor, and I don't want people in the newsroom resenting me because of my salary. When I sign this contract I want it buried in that warehouse at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark."

"Fine with me. If you don't tell anyone, it will never get out."

"No leaks to the tabloids."

He shrugged and said, "Yeah, sure. Not a problem." I studied his face, looking for anything that might confirm my suspicion that he was the leak to Page Six, but I saw nothing. If the guy had a tell, I'd have to figure out what it was.

We chatted for about an hour, going over the parameters of the job, what was expected, my stories in the field and after-hours appearances. Of course, I was pretty much giving him the husband-tuning-out-wife-bobblehead, nodding at everything while my daydream had already time-warped a few years into the future. It showed me covering the presidential campaign and anchoring the evening newscast.

I left at ten, heading directly for my lawyer's office with contract in hand, but I knew I'd sign it.

And then I learned something. I'd often heard anchors who make millions bitch about all the pressure they were under, and I'd always scoffed at it, thinking, yeah, must be real tough taking home that much dough.

I wasn't scoffing anymore, as I broke out in a cold sweat.

***

When you're a single woman living in a one-bedroom Manhattan apartment that costs two grand a month, you dream of a walk-in closet.

This job comes with one. Sadly, it's located at network headquarters.

It also comes with a clothing allowance. Actually, if you imagine your sugar daddy is a billionaire. All of my new clothes cost me nothing.

The wardrobe consultant took me shopping on the company dime and now I have about fifteen new outfits that will supposedly make me look my best, blend with the set, set off my hair and eyes, etc. While I usually slip into a size seven quite easily, a few things needed slight alterations. So I've been on a pedestal in one of the network's wardrobe rooms while a middle-aged pudgy woman named Nancy sizes up the turquoise skirt I'm currently wearing. I kept looking at the rack holding my new wardrobe thinking everything hanging on it probably cost more than I made last year.

Nancy was about to go to work on altering the skirt when she was interrupted by a polite knock on the door. "You decent?" I recognized the voice as Gavin's.

"Yeah, come on in," I said.

He opened the door and walked into the fitting room, sleeves rolled up and red tie loosened. I noticed he had a sizable bay window that was previously covered by his suit jacket. "Just checking on the wardrobe progress. Nancy, how are you?"

"Fine, Gavin." Nancy stepped back and pointed toward my skirt. "Okay?"

Gavin walked completely around me, checking out my outfit, which, I must admit, felt a little creepy. Okay, my skin crawled. He ended up facing me and smiled, then turned to Nancy. He held up four fingers and she nodded. "Okay, you two have fun." He turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.

"What the hell was that all about?" I asked.

"Gavin likes to have input on the clothes before they hit the air."

"Well, we already bought 'em." I furrowed my brow. "What was the deal with him holding up four fingers?"

"That means I need to hem this skirt four inches shorter than it already is."

It was already about three inches above the knee. "Good God, I'm not Noelle with the world's longest inseam. This skirt will be up to my ass."

"Gavin's a leg man," she said. "And you've got a pair of good ones. They'll never see a day behind the desk anyway, since the female host always sits in the leg chair."

"The leg chair?"

"Yeah, it's the one at the end of the couch. Scott's behind the coffee table, but his co-host gets the leg chair which offers camera two an unobstructed view. You'll also be required to wear stilettos or platforms."

"And all my hemlines will be halfway up my thigh?"

“When you stand, anyway. When you sit, well … ”




CHAPTER FIVE (#u84c8cafb-cb45-5112-8795-f6e4f243f555)


Here's the thing about my new shift. Getting up at two in the morning isn't a big deal.

Knowing you have to fall asleep eight hours earlier, is.

I'd gone to bed at six, a ridiculous hour for someone who's been a night owl her entire life.

And all I could think of was, "I have to fall asleep. I have to fall asleep." And of course, I couldn't.

At seven, I got up and drank a glass of wine.

At eight, I took an herbal sleep aid.

At nine, I turned on the light and picked up a novel.

Somewhere around ten, I fell asleep, and was in the middle of a wonderful Christian Bale dream when the alarm jolted me out of bed.

"Alexander, hit the snooze button," I muttered. Before the fog cleared and I realized that I had thrown my dog off the porch and the snooze button would not exist for the next three years.

I wasn't remotely rested for the biggest day of my career.

I staggered to the shower with all the energy of an extra in a zombie movie, thankful that I'd been told not to bother with my hair and makeup with the phrase we have people to do that for you. Just as well. I would have looked like I'd combed my hair with an eggbeater.

The hot water from the shower woke me up a little. When I emerged my Siamese cat Pandora was waiting at the bathroom door with a happy face, as if to say, Cool! You're up! You're nocturnal too! Let's play!

I threw on jeans and a sweatshirt, having been told not to put my outfit on till I got to the studio. No wrinkles on the morning show. (Clothes or face.) I grabbed the hanging bag that contained my outfit, headed out the door and one minute later found a lean, middle-aged man in a dark suit standing next to a limo with the engine running.

He tipped his hat at me and smiled. "Morning, Miss Summer. I'm Charlie."

"Morning," I said, thought it came out "mohreen."

He laughed as he pointed at my mouth. "Forget something?"

"Huh?" I brought my hand up to my face and felt the toothbrush sticking out of my mouth. I yanked it out, and shook my head. "Dear God."

"It's a tough shift to get used to," he said, laughing as he opened the door for me.

I considered spitting out the toothpaste but the thought of paparazzi lurking in the shadows stopped me, so I just swallowed it and got into the car, which was toasty warm. I leaned back, closed my eyes, and immediately fell asleep.

***

One nanosecond later, or so it seemed, the sound of the car door opening awakened me.

"Good luck today," said Charlie.

"Thanks," I said, stifling a yawn as I got out of the car and staggered toward the door. I actually heard my heel clicks on the pavement, the streets being quiet without any traffic.

The door swung open as I approached and I was greeted by Scott's cheerful smile and obviously over-the-top perky face. "Morning, sunshine!"

"Bite me," I said.

"Yeah, I've been there," he said, ushering me in the door and wrapping one arm around my shoulder. "You'll get used to it."

"I feel like shit. I probably look like shit, but I can't focus my eyes enough to look in the mirror."

"You look fine. Get any sleep at all?"

"Four hours, but it seemed like four minutes."

"You just have to adjust your body clock." He led me down a hallway toward the network's newsroom.

"I'm not even in my body yet," I said, as we headed into the newsroom which was already a beehive of activity.

Gavin looked up from a desk and headed in my direction. "Well, you made it," he said, extending his hand.

"My body's here. My brain will arrive at five."

"As long as it's in the chair by seven, you'll be fine." He turned to Scott. "Get her down to makeup."

Oooh. A chair. I can sleep.

***

I discovered you can't catch a few zzzzzzs when your hair is being styled and your face painted. I was still in my roll-out-of-bed spring collection as this was being done, so as not to mess up the turquoise suit that's been chosen for my first day. Personally, I think it's a jacket with a matching belt. The skirt is that short.

The clock struck three-thirty, the makeup and hair were done and all of a sudden I heard a rumble from the pit of my stomach. The hollow feeling reminiscent of a hangover washed over me, and I knew I had to eat something or I'd pass out.

I walked briskly to the newsroom and grabbed Scott's forearm. "Where are the vending machines?"

He looked up at me, studied my face and nodded. "Ah, you're right on schedule. Time for your first breakfast."

"First breakfast?"

"If you think your body clock is screwed up, wait till you deal with your stomach. It's living in a parallel universe. I need to explain morning show weight gain syndrome later."

"I'm gonna get fat?"

"If you're not careful. Here's how it works. You usually eat breakfast, right?"

"Sometimes. Why?"

"Well, your body thinks it's time for breakfast because you've been up awhile. Of course, you'll burn so much energy during the show you'll need to eat breakfast again at nine. And we're not counting any snacks during the show. Then you get home and you eat lunch and dinner, except you're eating dinner at your normal time but it's time to go to bed, which is the worst thing to do. So you can pack on the pounds real easy. I gained ten my first month."

"Again, I'm gonna get fat?"

"Like I said, if you're not careful. Anyway, it's time for our dinner break."

"I thought we were eating breakfast?"

"Figure of speech. Follow me." He turned to the staff. "We'll be back after dinner."

Everyone nodded as he led me out of the newsroom and down a brightly lit hallway that made me shade my eyes as we headed to the front door. "Where are we going?"

"Across the street. The little bakery opens up early for us."

"Great. Just give me a bear claw or something."

"Not what you need. You'll slide right into morning show sugar crash syndrome. The guy who runs the place has a special breakfast that I've eaten every day for the past two years and haven't gained an ounce."

"I thought you gained ten pounds?"

"That was before I started eating here."

We left the building, crossed the street and headed for a place that looked closed. The sign above the door read The Little Bakery. Sort of appropriate for people who worked on a morning show called The Morning Show.

Scott reached the glass door and tapped on it. I could see a light on in the back and shadows moving around. A man emerged from the back, backlit so I couldn't see his face, and made his way to the door. He turned a key and opened it. "Morning, Scott."

Scott moved through the door. "Hi, Angelo. This is our new co-anchor, Veronica."

He stuck out his hand, though I still couldn't make out his face. All I could tell was that his shadow was tall and well-built. "My pleasure," he said.

I shook his hand, which was dry (no doubt from working with flour) and smiled. "Hi, Angelo."

"C'mon back," he said, then turned and led us past the display cases which were half-filled with cookies, breads and pastries. The smells filled my lungs, a combination of sugary sweetness mixed with the aroma of freshly baked bread.

We emerged in the kitchen, already full of activity as bakers in white aprons shoved dough into stone ovens. I could finally see Angelo, who looked as Italian as his name. Maybe thirty, thick black hair and deep brown eyes, a rugged complexion on a lean face. About six feet without an ounce of fat. How he did that working in a bakery was a secret I wanted.

Scott led me to a small table for two that was set off in the corner. There were already two large glasses of orange juice on the table as we took our seats. "So what are we having?" I asked.

Angelo smiled at me. "The only thing that can get you through your show. A real Italian breakfast." He headed for a stove, put something onto two dishes, returned, and slid the plates in front of us. "Sausage bread and eggs," he said. "Protein, carbs, and my special blend of spices designed to give you energy and keep your metabolism up."

"It looks wonderful," I said. And it did. Next to a couple of sunny side up eggs were two slices of hot bread that had veins of crumbled Italian sausage running through it. It was a lot more than I usually ate for breakfast, but I was starving.

"Get a piece of bread and dip it in the yolk," said Scott, who demonstrated.

I followed his lead and tasted something wonderful. The sausage, hot bread, egg and spices blended beautifully and seemed to instantly satisfy my hunger and wake me up at the same time. A sip of what was obviously freshly squeezed orange juice washed it down perfectly. "This is fantastic," I said.

"Glad you like it," said Angelo. He turned to Scott. "She seems nicer than the dragon lady."

I couldn't help but raise one eyebrow. "Dragon lady?"

"Let's just say Katrina is not on Angelo's Christmas card list," said Scott. "I only brought her here once."

"She's a gavonne," said Angelo.

"A what?" I asked.

"Italian slang for a person with no class."

"I'll have to remember that," I said. "So Scott, you do this every day?"

He nodded. "When I first started Angelo noticed I was buying nothing but pastries after the show. He told me I was approaching the vampire shift the wrong way."

"I've been getting up at two in the morning for years," said Angelo. "Sugar is not your friend on this shift."

"Anyway," said Scott, "he invited me to stop by for breakfast. And I've been coming here every day at three-thirty sharp ever since."

"Well, save a chair for me, Angelo," I said.

***

At one minute till seven my heart slammed against my chest for the first time in my television career. I'd never, ever been nervous, but this was more pressure than I'd ever felt.

And even though I was putting up a brave perky face, Scott noticed. He knows me too well.

He reached over and gave my hand a squeeze. "Hey. You're with me. Nothing can go wrong."

He looked into me with those incredible eyes of his, and seemed to suck whatever anxiety I had out of my body. I felt myself melt into the leather chair as the tension evaporated. Then I felt a burst of energy and took care of the most important thing: I yanked down my skirt as far as it would go, which, for some reason, wasn’t very far in the leg chair. Gavin must have designed the thing. I tried shifting into different positions, but no matter what I did America would get a great shot of my thighs.

"Thirty out!" yelled the floor director.

Half a minute before millions of Americans woke up with me.

Half a minute before every TV critic in the land sat poised holding a red pen filled with venom.

Half a minute before my first guest, the President of the United States, would be ushered from the green room.

The old line hit me. Americans worship success. But they root for failure.

"Ten out!"

So, this was it. They say there are forks in the road of life, moments during which your future can take off or do a swan dive into the dumper.

And as the light red light on top of the camera lit up, I knew this was a make or break moment.

***

The next day I knew how Sally Field felt when she won the Academy Award.

They liked me! They really liked me!

The reviews were positive across the board, from television critics to entertainment magazines to the Big Apple tabloids. My life felt like one of those movie posters with one line quotes from critics, like, "You'll stand up and cheer!" or, "The best morning show host since Katrina the bimbo!"

In reality, no one stood up and cheered at that hour of the morning, but apparently the country was comfortable with me. Some highlights from my own personal movie trailer:

"Veronica Summer brings a long overdue dose of journalistic credibility to The Morning Show."

"Summer is smart, informed, upbeat, and obviously has good chemistry with her college buddy Scott Winter. She looks like a solid choice out of the gate."

This one was my favorite, touching on the fact that I had no idea what a Louis Vuittonpurse was supposed to look like during a fashion segment. "Nice to see a morning anchor who knows more about the Middle East than designer handbags. Her interview of the President was tough but fair."

However, as someone who has made a living being a credible journalist, I was a bit put off by the amount of ink used to describe my appearance. And it was a barrel of ink.

"The spunky copper-top has a mound of red tangles and killer legs bound to get any man's motor running in the morning."

"Scott Winter's wife must be incredibly trusting to let him spend the middle of the night with a woman who should be in the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue."

"Only a matter of time before Playboy makes Ms. Summer an offer."

But the most telling comment came from Hal the newsstand guy. Actually, it was more of a scary prophecy that he offered as I arrived for my daily haul of print and chocolate.

"So, big star now," he said. "Guess you'll have some handmaiden pick up your papers from now on. Just remember, I knew you before you were famous."

"I can still do my own shopping," I said. "But if I ever do get the big head, please let me know."

"I won't hold back, Freckles." He turned to take some money from another customer, then looked back at me. "So, how you gonna handle the dating thing now that you're a household name?"

"What do you mean?"

“Well, I guess if I was in your shoes, I’d be wondering if a guy was really interested in me or my salary.”




CHAPTER SIX (#u84c8cafb-cb45-5112-8795-f6e4f243f555)


Hal's prophecy, such as it was, would apparently be put to the test very soon.

Two weeks into my new job and six weeks since I "threw Alexander off the porch" my friends thought it was time for me to put myself back on the market. My love life, or lack thereof, was the subject of our Sunday brunch conversation.

"I met a guy who I think might be a good match," said Layla, attacking a slice of london broil.

"See if he wants to have dinner at four," I said, stifling a yawn as I sipped a virgin mimosa. (Orange juice.) "He'll save money taking me to the early bird special."

"So, who is he?" asked Savannah, even though I knew damn well the two of them had already conspired on this project.

"You two reading off a prompter?" I asked.

"Smart ass," said Layla.

"I know how your devious minds work. Just get on with it."

"His name's Rob. He's a media buyer for an ad agency. Smart guy, funny, extremely cute. Thirty, never married. He already knows who you are."

"See, that's not fair," I said. "He knows what I look like and I don't—"

Layla interrupted me by shoving her iPad under my nose with a photo of this prospect, who, I had to admit, was extremely cute. My eyes widened and I absent-mindedly licked my lips.

"You were saying?" asked Savannah.

"Her prompter went out," said Layla.

Suddenly I was waking up. "He's uh, attractive."

"Yeah, right," said Layla. "Did you think I would fix you up with a guy who rings bell towers? Anyway, I told him you were available and that you two might hit it off."

"So," said Savannah, "I made a call and got you two a reservation for Saturday night at The Firefly."

My eyebrows shot up. "The Firefly? That place is booked six months ahead."

"Not if you know the owner," said Savannah. "And, we got you show tickets." She slid an envelope toward me.

I opened it up and saw two orchestra seats to the hottest Broadway musical. "How did you get…"

Savannah playfully batted her eyelashes and shrugged.

"Never mind," I said. "I don't wanna know."

"So you're good for Saturday," said Layla. "Rob will pick you up at six."

"Guys, I really appreciate this, but I've been spending Saturdays in bed."

"Yes, and y'all need some company in there," said Savannah.

I exhaled and shook my head. "I'm guessing I have no say in the matter."

"No," they said in unison.

***

A few minutes before my date, I knew I was in big, big trouble.

Because I was ready to go to bed. And no, not with Rob the media buyer or anyone else for that matter. Bradley Cooper could have walked in naked and I would have handed him the remote and told him to not to wake me. Though the thought did cross my mind that a wild night of sex might serve as an adequate sleep aid.

The week had been a roller coaster of sleep cycles. A few hours here and there, but not a single night with eight hours straight.

And right now I wanted about twelve hours of uninterrupted snoring.

Trust me, if my friends had not gone through all this trouble to get me "back in the saddle" as Savannah had put it, I would have called the guy and asked for a rain check. That not being an option, I slugged down one of those energy drinks (to which I had become almost immune), drank two cups of coffee and downed a chocolate bar. If that wasn't enough caffeine to get me through the evening, so be it, and my date could carry me home.

Still, despite my lack of energy I had managed to get gussied up enough to make a nice impression. (I should also mention that since I scored this gig, I am sought after by the paparazzi constantly, so I have to get dressed up and put on makeup just to shop for groceries. No more shoving my hair into a baseball hat and going out in sweats, which pisses me off.)

The doorman rang the buzzer, which told me my gentleman caller was here.

I looked at the clock and shook my head, knowing I had to stay awake for at least four more hours.

Great way to approach a first date, huh?

***

Rob the media buyer came as advertised, appropriately enough. His photo didn't do him justice, as he was even cuter in person. About five-ten, slender, with sandy brown hair and hazel eyes, he wore a sincere smile that brought long dimples into play.

Had I been wide awake, I probably would have been as excited as a schoolgirl and ready to jump his bones.

Alas, I was already fighting the sandman as we placed our order in the city's trendiest restaurant, which looked like a throwback to the gaslight era. Antiques everywhere, the only light provided by candles. A bubbling fountain in the center. Rose petals on the tablecloth. If I were in the mood I would have considered it incredibly romantic. Though we had a corner table in the back, I was getting constant stares. I politely smiled at everyone as I wondered if it would break some etiquette rule to dine while wearing sunglasses. I would make it a point to face the back of the restaurant any time I eat out in the future.

Rob was indeed a good match as we did have a lot in common. Thankfully he was carrying the conversation, as I found myself drifting in and out of consciousness. A quick look at the huge old grandfather clock told me I had three and a half hours to go. I was considering falling asleep during the play with the excuse that I was bored.

"The ad rates for your show have gone up since you started," he said. "Madison Avenue likes you."

"Good to know," I said.

The conversation segued nicely to sports, with his favorite teams, the Giants and the Mets, also being mine. His words began to fade and got a hollow sound as the tuxedoed waiter arrived with the soup course. He slid the china bowl in front of me and I tried to focus, but suddenly the world began to spin. I saw little black spots and knew from past experience I was about to pass out.

I grabbed the arms of my chair but I couldn't stop myself and the world went dark.

When I awakened, my vision cleared and I saw Rob and a waiter standing over me, both fanning me with napkins. My face felt very warm.

I had fainted, and gone head first into a bowl of lobster bisque.

"Do you need a doctor, Madame?" asked the waiter with a French accent.

"I'm fine," I said, right before I passed out again.

***

My eyes flickered as bright sunlight spilled onto my face.

Obviously, it was no longer Saturday night. I stretched my eyes open and looked up at industrial white ceiling tiles and a large fluorescent light that definitely wasn't the one in my apartment.

"Morning, sunshine."

I leaned up and saw Layla and Savannah seated at the foot of the bed, which was also clearly not my bed.

I was in a hospital room. "What the hell happened?" I asked.

"You passed out on your date," said Layla, who got up and moved toward the bed. "Twice. He called nine-one-one and they brought you to the emergency room, then checked you in for the night."

Savannah stood up. "I'll go get the doctor and let him know you're awake."

"What time is it?" I asked, as I stretched my arms out and yawned.

"Eleven on Sunday morning," said Layla. She sat on the edge of the bed. "I was beginning to wonder if you were ever gonna wake up. You've been out about seventeen hours."

"How did you know I was here?"

Layla reached for the end table, grabbed a bunch of newspapers and handed them to me. "Well, everyone kinda knows you're here."

I sat up and looked at the front page of New York's most popular tabloid. There I was, passed out on a stretcher, hunks of lobster in my cream-covered hair and mouth hanging open like a trophy bass, under the blaring headline.

MORNING ANCHOR GOES BOBBING FOR LOBSTER

"Dear God!" I said.

"Yeah, not exactly a Kodak moment."

I unfolded the paper and turned to the article.

Veronica Summer apparently doesn't need a spoon when eating soup.

The new co-anchor of The Morning Show did a header into her twenty dollar bowl of lobster bisque last night while dining at The Firefly, one of Manhattan's hottest restaurants. Her dinner companion, a young man who was not identified, called 911 after she passed out, was revived, and passed out again. A waiter at the restaurant confirmed Ms. Summer had not had any alcohol. She was taken to NYU's emergency room and admitted for overnight observation. Blood tests revealed no alcohol or drugs in her system.

A source close to the show tells us Ms. Summer has been exhausted trying to adjust to the early morning shift and suggested the weird hours and lack of sleep may have finally caught up with her.

No word on if she'll be back on the set Monday morning.

I rolled my eyes, dropped the newspaper and slapped my head back on the pillow as a doctor entered the room.

"Well, good morning, young lady," he said, sticking out his hand. "I'm Doctor Heller." He was perhaps forty, short and pudgy with thinning sandy hair and hazel eyes peering out of a moon face.

I shook his hand. "Veronica Summer. Sorry to tie up one of your beds for nothing."

He picked up the chart hanging on the foot of the bed and looked at it. "From what I can tell, a bed is what you need. When's the last time you had a good night's sleep?"

"Last night?"

"I meant before we checked you in here."

"A few weeks ago, before I took a morning anchor job."

"Yes, I watch your show. You're obviously doing a good job faking being awake. Your friends tell me you're having a lot of trouble adjusting to the overnight shift."

"I can't sleep more than four hours at a time. And it's also depressing the hell out of me. I've got no life. My whole life revolves around trying to get to sleep."

He nodded. "Have you been taking anything to help you sleep?"

"Wine. Over the counter sleeping pills. Melatonin. Nyquil. I've tried everything. Not at the same time, of course. Nothing works for more than four hours."

"Before you started working this shift, what usually helped you get a really good night's sleep?"

"Sex."

He bit his tongue and smiled. "I, uh, don't think your insurance covers that."

"Sure, it'll cover Viagra for guys but when women need some help, nooooo."

He laughed, pulled a pen and prescription pad from his pocket and started writing. "I'm going to prescribe a strong sleep aid. And this one should be more effective than a boyfriend and won't get you pregnant."

"Ooooh, I like a doctor who's a smartass."

"Occupational hazard when you work in the emergency room. Anyway, this medication has been very effective with my patients who work unusual shifts, like you. Now there is a small chance of a side effect. People have been known to drive while asleep—"

"I don't have a car and I don't know how to steal one. Just give me whatever it will take to knock me out."

He smiled and nodded as he ripped the prescription from the pad and handed it to me. "By the way, you had a ridiculous amount of caffeine in your system. Try to cut back. The thing that's helping you wake up for your show is also keeping you awake when you're trying to sleep. It takes quite awhile for caffeine to get out of your system. If you can simply get your sleep cycle adjusted, you won't need it."

"Got it. Thanks, doctor."

"I'll get you discharged. For today, go home and rest." He nodded at my friends and headed out.

"You know," said Savannah, "you may have something with your idea."

"She's right," said Layla.

I threw back the covers and started to get out of bed. "What idea?"

"Sex to knock you out," said Savannah.

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, and you see how my attempt to start a relationship last night ended up."

"Maybe you don't need a relationship," said Layla. "Maybe you could go the friends with benefits route."

"Now I know how Katrina Favor did this shift for so long!"

***

If I needed a reason to feel more positive about the job, she was sitting on the interview set waiting for me. Yes, one of the key carrots in the bunch, Senator Sydney Dixon, was my guest on Monday morning. Thankfully the extended stay in the hospital had recharged my batteries a bit. I'd also ditched the coffee and switched to fruit that was high in natural sugar, figuring things like dates and raisins might perk me up but not keep me awake at night. I still desperately wanted coffee, but was determined to give the natural high a try.

The Senator stood up to greet me as I approached the set and extended her hand. "Veronica, so nice to meet you."

"My pleasure," I said, as I shook her hand. Her turquoise eyes locked with mine, and I saw what was known in media circles as the look. The one that went right into your soul, seemed honestly sincere, as opposed to the usual blank glare you got from politicians who forgot your name ten seconds after you told them. It was part of the reason she was such a media darling and often received positive coverage bordering on bias. Reporters generally liked her personally, and she seemed genuine in return.

Voters loved her for any number of reasons, not the least of which was her appearance. The forty-five year old Senator from New Jersey is a stunner, a redhead like me but she's strawberry to my copper. Her body would be the envy of any twenty-year-old, as the former Marine drill sergeant has maintained her perfectly toned figure. But her buffed physique is a contrast to her incredibly sexy face, complete with high cheekbones, full lips, a sharp nose and a distinctive sultry whiskey voice that drives men crazy. It's like a cross between Demi Moore and Lorraine Bracco, and the moment you hear it you know who's speaking. She's known as the Tower of Power in Washington: a six foot babe who can turn heads in an evening gown and crack heads when she needs to. She also answers to Big Red from her days in the military.

That military service is an asset, as is her seemingly perfect normal family. Married to her high school sweetheart who is a school teacher, she's managed to raise two squeaky clean college age kids who spend their summers working with various charitable organizations. If there have ever been any skeletons in her closet, they've been exorcized. No one has even been able to come up with anything remotely resembling a scandal about the woman.

Put it all together and she's a slam dunk for the next Presidential election. I know it, the public knows it, and the network sure as hell knows it. Yes, there's this thing called bias which drives viewers crazy; in this case the networks are jockeying for position to get in the good graces of the woman who will occupy the Oval Office for four, and maybe eight, years.

That's not to say I agree with everything she stands for, because I don't. But since I'm an old school journalist I'll never share my opinions about politics, religion or social issues.

Anyway, she hasn’t officially kicked off a campaign with it being three years away, so today's visit is actually about things going on in the Senate. But there was a problem with one of the cameras, so we had a chance to make small talk while it was being fixed.

"I read about your hospital visit, are you feeling better?" she asked.

"Yeah, once I rinsed the bisque out of my hair. But you should know it does make a wonderful conditioner."

She laughed as she leaned back in her chair. "I'm not surprised you passed out. I couldn't imagine getting up at that hour every day. Though if I run for President, I know it'll be a couple of years without a break and crossing so many time zones I won't even know who I am. I wouldn't want to be one of those candidates who gets up to make a speech and forgets where they are."

"Hey, we love those sound bites. Speaking of the campaign—"

"Ah, nice try, Veronica. No announcement today. I haven't decided."

"Hey, you can't fault a girl for taking a shot."

"Look, I live in North Jersey and I've watched you for a long time. I know you're a solid reporter." She leaned forward and lowered her voice. "As opposed to some other morning show hosts."

"Thank you, that's very kind."

"So what do you want to talk about—"

"Ah, nice try, Senator."

"Hey, you can't fault a girl for taking a shot."

We shared a laugh, and I could see how the woman could charm even the most hard-boiled reporter.

Fifteen minutes later her interview was in the can. It was a spirited give and take; she didn't dodge any tough questions, I didn't lob any softballs, and she avoided anything that sounded rehearsed. She talked rather than recited. Again, I didn't agree with everything she said, but I couldn't help but like her personally as I walked her to the door.

"So, I was talking to Gavin," she said, "and he told me that should I decide to run you would be assigned to the campaign."

I nodded and smiled, thankful that Gavin was actually sticking to his word on something. "Yeah. So we could be tired together."

"Well, maybe by then you'll have learned some tricks and can give me advice. We redheads have to stick together. Although I'm not sure the rest of the media could deal with two spunky ones on the same plane."

"True. As far as attitude is concerned, we could have been separated at birth." We laughed as we reached the door. "Here's one piece of advice I can give you right now, Senator: be prepared to have no social life."

"Already there, honey. Sometimes I go weeks without seeing my husband."

"At least you have one."

"Don't worry, Veronica, Mister Right is out there."

I held the door open for her, revealing a waiting limo. "Thanks for coming by, Senator, and it was great to meet you."

She shook my hand and smiled. "Pleasure was mine. I'll see you again soon."

I watched her energetic walk to the limo, waving at a few pedestrians as she moved.

Funny, the carrot Gavin had dangled was a carrot top. Ironic, huh?

And suddenly the thought of a campaign and Air Force One gave me a shot of energy that topped anything in a coffee mug. Maybe I could do this after all.




CHAPTER SEVEN (#u84c8cafb-cb45-5112-8795-f6e4f243f555)


Upon further review, maybe I can't do this after all.

Three months into the new job, and I've realized my old boyfriend was right. I still don't want him back, but he was right. I'm not a morning person and never will be. You can't force an owl to be a chicken. (That one's from Savannah.)

This truly has become the job from hell. Forbidden fruit, as Alexander would put it. I can almost hear him saying, "I told you so. You should have run off to Connecticut with me and you could be baking cookies, servicing me every night, and thanking me for the opportunity."

I've become a physical wreck. Oh, those great breakfasts at The Little Bakery get me through the show all right. But it's the other twenty-two hours of the day that are killing me.

Here's my typical day:

Get up at two in the morning after being jolted out of bed like I've been hit with a cattle prod by an alarm which, at that hour, sounds like a Chinese gong.

Start the coffee pot, which I've loaded the night before since during my first week on the job I attempted to make some java while bleary-eyed and filled the coffee machine with flour, thus creating the first paste cappuccino.

Take a ten minute hot shower, drink two cups of coffee, stagger down to the limo in jeans or sweats, chasing raccoons away from the door in the process. I look up at what I thought were birds, but which Charlie informed me were actually bats since birds don't fly at night. Appropriate for the vampire shift, so I wave at them. Professional courtesy.

Drink two more cups of coffee after arriving at the station.

Breakfast across the street, which perks me up just long enough to get through the show.

Home by ten. Close the black curtains I've purchased to block out every ray of sunlight and make my apartment look like a hangout for a coven. Eat bowl of cereal, careful to add blueberries instead of the olives I used my first week. (New! Lucky Charms! Now with a full days serving of olives!)

Resolve to stay up without taking nap so that I will fall asleep at six and get eight hours.

Despite the caffeine content of four cups of coffee, I pass out on couch at noon after watching The Price is Right. (I always overbid.)

Wake up at four, covered with drool and somewhat rested. Eat lunch or dinner, depending on what I decide to call it.

Crawl back into bed at six in an attempt to sleep.

Give up at eight and watch television or read.

Fall asleep at ten.

Rinse. Repeat.

Social life? Seriously? Weekdays are totally out of the question. Weekends are spent in bed trying to catch up on sleep. I haven't been out with anyone since I did my swan dive into the lobster bisque and got a nine-point-four from the tabloid judge. I seem to remember what sex was like, but the memory is fading. I'm lonely as hell. My friends still are my friends, but they're on a different schedule, along with the rest of the world.

Sunday nights are the worst. After two days of my body almost getting back to normal, I have to crawl back into my coffin.

I know, I know, there's a big brass ring waiting for me in two years, eight months and twenty-eight days (who's counting) but I'm not sure it's worth it. I might be dead before then.

So, after two weeks of deep thought I'd decided on a course of action. To hell with the evening anchor job. I want my life back. And there's only one way to do it.

Try my best to get fired.

Oh, I wasn't going to make it obvious, like not showing up or dropping F-bombs on live television. It's going to be something natural. No one's going to be surprised. And no one's going to blame me.

Because everyone on the staff knows how exhausted I've been and what a physical wreck I am.

Now I had to let the whole country know.

***

I was filled with more energy than I'd ever had on this show, then realized I was simply excited about launching my plan. But I couldn't show it. Instead of sitting up straight as the intro music faded I slumped into my chair. Scott started with his usual upbeat welcome to the viewers. "Good Monday, everyone, and welcome to The Morning Show. I'm Scott Winter."

I started to talk and then stifled a fake yawn. "Oh, excuse me. And I'm Veronica Summer. At least I will be at some point."

"She was up past her bedtime," said Scott, always quick with the ad-lib. "Went to bed at eight."

"Just wake me when the prompter says it's my turn to talk."

Scott turned and made eye contact, shooting me a somewhat worried look that our two-shot camera could not pick up. I rubbed my eyes like people do when they first roll out of bed. His eyes widened a bit. Now I could tell he was seriously worried.

"So let's get started," said Scott, turning back to the camera, "because we've got a packed show for you this morning. A very special guest from Hollywood will be dropping by later on. He's just been named the most beautiful person on earth."

"Pffft, whatever," I said, waving my hand like I was shooing a fly. "Eye candy aint gonna cure cancer, so what's the big deal?" I caught a glimpse of Scott taken aback in my peripheral vision. "As for the really important stuff that isn't superficial, we'll get you up to date on the budget situation in Congress and take a look at how the new tax laws could effect your paycheck. And later on we'll have a visit from a nutrition expert to show you how to make a very healthy school lunch for your children that won't impact your budget."

"Right," said Scott. "And in the second hour—"

I cut him off. "You know what, Scott?"

Scott turned and gave me a wide-eyed look that I knew meant What the hell are you doing? "No, what?"

"I'm thinkin' there are a whole bunch of parents out there who just dragged themselves out of bed a half hour early to make those lunches for their precious little snowflakes. Well … here's a news flash for you moms and dads out there." I leaned forward and raised my voice. "KIDS CAN ACTUALLY PUT A SANDWICH TOGETHER BY THEMSELVES! HELLO, MCFLY!" I leaned back and returned to my normal tone. "Kids, stop playing with Facebook and listen up. You get your peanut butter, you get your jelly, you slap it on two pieces of bread and toss it in your Harry Potter lunchbox with a banana and a juice box. It's not rocket science! Let mom and dad sleep an extra thirty minutes and make your own lunch because they work their tails off so you can have a two hundred dollar cell phone in the third grade and then chauffeur you to every conceivable activity they can think of lest they be thought of as bad parents. Mom and Dad, go back to bed. We're here for two hours anyway and you can catch up later." I waved my hand at the camera. "Go on. Get under the covers. The kids won't starve. Toss 'em a pop-tart and catch some more shut-eye."

Scott's jaw dropped. I took a quick glance around the studio and saw the same reaction from members of the crew.

I flashed a devilish grin at the camera. "And tomorrow, we might even teach your children how to make an exotic breakfast called … wait for it … scrambled eggs! If we have time we'll show them how to do something really tricky … pour milk into a bowl of cereal! An incredible life skill! Meanwhile, let's check on the latest news."

***

Nothing happened as we went to commercial because I had one trump card up my sleeve. I knew Gavin Karlson had one hard and fast rule he'd never broken. He would not, under any circumstances, enter the studio until the show was over. He would not chastise me through my earpiece. He believed, as I do, that yelling at an anchor in the middle of a show only made things worse.

Didn't matter, I was doing it on my own.

The level of snark had reached an all time high for a network morning show. I went off on tangents, ranted about stuff that bugged me like helicopter parents who bubblewrap their kids; wondered aloud while interviewing our fashion expert why anyone would pay four hundred bucks for a purse when you could buy a perfectly good illegal knockoff on the streets of Manhattan for thirty, because, what the hell, they were all made with shoddy workmanship in China anyway; slammed the Mets for not having a decent centerfielder and charging too much to watch a lousy team; argued that all Central Park mimes were so damn annoying they should be deported to France; and vented about people who brought babies to the movies. Get a damn sitter! Scott had tried to talk me down off the ledge during each commercial break, and I gave him the bobblehead, then took off again the minute the red light went on. I figured someone was no doubt compiling my greatest hits for YouTube (probably labeled "Morning Anchor Goes Batshit") and whole thing would get ten million hits before the day was out.

At one minute till nine Scott ended the show with, "We'll see you tomorrow morning. I think." The credits rolled over a two-shot as I waved cheerfully to the camera. I'm sure that even my faux perkiness looked sarcastic.

At one nanosecond after nine the wooden door to the studio flew open so hard it banged against the wall and shattered the little glass window in the middle.

No surprise, Gavin Karlson stormed into the studio, eyes narrowed directly at me. “In my office. Now.”




CHAPTER EIGHT (#u84c8cafb-cb45-5112-8795-f6e4f243f555)


I followed Gavin, head down, pretending to be the student headed to the principal’s office. He was shaking his head as he passed his secretary, who held up a fistful of pink message slips while avoiding eye contact with me. She was on the phone and every line on the thing was lit up. He grabbed the message slips as he walked into his office, pointed to the chair opposite his desk without saying a word, then closed the door after I took a seat. It was all I could do to keep from smiling. He moved behind his desk, sat down, leaned back and folded his hands in his lap.

"Explain," he said.

"Explain what?"

His eyes became saucers. "Explain what? Oh, I don't know … why you were so incredibly obnoxious for the past two hours on national television."

"I don't even remember half of what I said. I'm fried, Gavin. Totally exhausted. If I said things that offended people I'm sorry, but I was basically asleep out there."

"Well, I'm sure you'll be able to read about it in every newspaper in America. Or watch yourself on the Internet."

I thrust out my lower lip in a pout, dipped my head and looked up at him through my eyelashes like a naughty little girl. "It was that bad?"

That question launched him out of his chair. "It was the worst performance in the history of morning television! I think you probably insulted every possible demographic out there! Not to mention what you said to our special guest!"

I played dumb again. "I, uh, don't remember—"

"The most beautiful man on earth! You asked him if his childhood idol was a Ken doll! You may as well have called him a plastic toy!"

I bit my lower lip, more to keep from laughing than anything else. "Oh."

He shook the pink slips at me and the irony hit me. (Maybe I'll get one later today!) "Meanwhile, I'm sure I'll be spending the rest of the day fielding phone calls and answering emails from irate viewers. I'd make you stay and do it yourself, but God only knows what you'd say!"

"Gavin, all I can say is that I'm sorry. I'm so exhausted I'm just not myself."

"Well, then go home and take a pill to knock yourself out." His phone buzzed and he hit a button. "Yes?"

His secretary's voice came over the intercom. "Mr. Fincastle wants you upstairs. Right now."

"On my way," he said. He grabbed his suit jacket from a hanger on the back of the door and put it on. "Great. Now I'm gonna get my ass reamed by the CEO. I'll send you a bill for the Vaseline." He stormed out of his office, leaving me behind.

I got up from my chair and slowly walked out past his secretary. "I guess he's done with me and I can go home?"

"That would be a very good idea," she said, glaring at me.

***

I desperately wanted to get out of the building as fast as possible so I wouldn't have to do what I'd never done.

Lie to Scott.

Alas, 'twas not to be, as he was waiting for me at my desk wearing a worried look. "So," he said, "you still work here?"

"No clue. Gavin got called upstairs."

"What the hell was up with you this morning?"

I shook my head. "I don't know, Scott. I'm just so damn tired I guess the truth came out about everything."

"Listen, you might want to write Gavin an apology before you get out of the building. I've got some clout around here but I might not be able to save you on this one. Meanwhile, make sure you get enough rest so that it doesn't happen tomorrow. "

"The point may be moot. I might not be here tomorrow."

"I'll see what I can do."

Oh, shit. The last thing I needed was for him to go to bat for me. "Really, Scott, don't put yourself in the line of fire for me. My screw-up, my problem. You don't need to take a bullet for me."

"Bullshit. We're a team, remember?"

Damn Boy Scout. Then again, I knew I'd do the same for him if the roles were reversed.

***

Charlie dropped me off at my apartment without saying a word. Didn't even get out of the car to open the door for me like he always did. As soon as he pulled away and turned the corner I had a spring in my step, my fake yawns no longer needed. Just as I was about to head up the stairs a well-dressed fortyish businessman in an expensive gray suit spotted me and smiled.

"Hey, Veronica Summer. Great show this morning," he said.

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, right."

He stopped walking. "No seriously, it was hilarious. You aren't fake like all those other people on morning shows. That rant you went on about kids making their own lunches was hysterical. My wife actually went back to bed. Our teenagers bitched about it but they made their own lunches. After they left we started talking about taking back the house and our lives."

My face tightened. "You actually liked what I did this morning?"

"Are you kidding? I'm telling you, I was doubled over laughing. What a great way to start the day. I know it's April Fool’s Day and all, and it was probably a put-on, but you really ought to consider doing that every morning."

Oh, shit.

I'd completely forgotten it was April first. Would viewers think the whole thing was a joke? Would such a small oversight ruin my master plan? Would Gavin let me off the hook because he'd think it was me trying to be funny?

Dammit! I needed to get fired here and the universe was conspiring against me!

"I'd never miss a show if you keep it up," the man said, then looked at his watch. "Anyway, thanks for the fun wake up call and for making our kids more self-sufficient."

"You're welcome," I said, as he moved on.

The spring in my step disappeared. The man actually liked





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