by Holly Rayner
The flowering trees that overhung the studio parking lot filled the air with their too-sweet scent and scattered their flowers uselessly on the pavement to be crushed into colorful pulp by careless passing tires. The too-hot wind picked them up and spun them into delicate little whirling purple cyclones.
Kathy wanted desperately to go lie down under one of those trees—face down, splat, like a cartoon—and sleep for a year. She'd wake up out of fashion and out of touch like a particularly tragic Rip Van Winkle even though nothing had really changed. Nothing ever changed in Miami except the people. The plants kept blooming, the sun kept burning in spring as it would in summer, and fall, and even through most of the winter. Seasons didn't exist in South Beach.
The heavy steel studio door beside her groaned and scraped as it was pushed open, and a haggard-looking intern stuck his head out.
"Kathy, fifteen minutes."
Kathy sighed and wished she had a cigarette butt to drop and stomp out dramatically. Instead, she ran a hand through her hair and pulled her blazer back on.
"Fine. It's too hot out here anyway."
A blast of cold air hit her as she slipped back into the florescent-lit studio hallway, drying the sweat on her skin and waking her up slightly. It wouldn't last. She'd never been more exhausted in her life.
"Here's your briefing sheet," the intern said, handing her a file which she flipped open and started scanning through at once. "Top story is the election again. Then, that missing airplane."
"Again?" Kathy griped. "The thing has been missing for months. What more could we possibly have to say about it?"
"Um, apparently we're just talking theories about how it might have gone down," the intern replied, glancing at his own notes. "The graphics department made us a virtual model or something."
"Ugh." Kathy handed the briefing back to the intern impatiently. "Tell Mitchell that if I wanted to wave my hands at a green screen all day, I would have gone into meteorology. This gimmicky B.S. has to stop. And if I don't get to cover some real news soon, I am going to find the biggest, squarest hand mic we have and shove it directly up his ass."
"Is that—do you really want me to say—are those the exact words I should use?"
"You heard what I said, kid."
The intern took a deep breath and hurried off while Kathy ducked into makeup for a fresh coat of paint.
"Again?" one of the stylists said as she sat down. "How long have you been on air today?"
"Since five this morning," Kathy replied, exhausted. "So, do me a favor and really lay it on thick under the eyes."
"What happened to Cassandra?" the stylist asked, re-pinning Kathy's long chestnut curls into place. Her dark gray-blue eyes stared back at her from the stylist's mirror, telling her she couldn't keep doing this to herself. The stress was adding years to her, and at twenty-nine, she really couldn't afford that. Cliff was already eyeing that redheaded intern, Emma, to replace her.
"She went into labor last night," Kathy said. "A week premature. Stress set it off early, apparently."
"Honestly, she shouldn't have been working that close to her due date anyway," one of the other stylists said, shaking his head.
"I don't know how she managed it," another added. "I've had kids. I could barely handle being on my feet for ten minutes at a time by the last month. The girl is superhuman."
"No," Kathy laughed. "Just not interested in losing her job. Mitchell was ready to can her the minute he found out she was pregnant. You wouldn't believe how little maternity leave he's giving her."
The first stylist grimaced and the other clicked her tongue in disgust.
"Mitchell," they both muttered together.
"Did you know America is one of only four countries in the world without mandatory paid maternity leave?" Kathy added. "I looked it up. America, Swaziland, Lesotho, and Papua New Guinea."
"Where the hell is Lesotho?" the first stylist asked.
"No idea," Kathy shrugged. "But I wouldn't want to be pregnant there."
Kathy was the main anchor of the studio, usually handling things from ten a.m. to seven p.m. Cassandra did early mornings and late evenings, but now Kathy was covering both. She'd already been in the studio ten hours and was expecting another four. She had a nightmare of a headache drilling at her left temple and another broadcast in five minutes. The studio was a sensory nightmare of alternately too bright and too dim lights and constant jarring noise. Kathy revisited her wild, unobtainable fantasy of going to lie down somewhere.
Once the makeup crew had done what they could, Kathy made her way to the set and took her seat behind the desk, reading over her briefing again, more thoroughly now. Her co-anchor, Bradley Mann, slid in at the last second just as the cameras turned on. Kathy fixed her award-winning newscaster smile in place and got ready to work.
"Hi, I'm Bradley Mann."
"And I'm Kathy Burgess!"
"It's three o’clock, and this is South Beach News out of beautiful Miami, Florida."
The election coverage was insipid, the airplane piece as gimmicky and pointless as she'd feared with an extra dose fear mongering, and they rounded things up with an interview with a conspiracy-slinging nut job who should never have been given a platform more legitimate than the corner soap box they'd probably found him on. Kathy was ready to strangle someone by the time they reached the last segment of the day, a fluffy feel-good piece.
"The newest addition to the maternity ward at Mercy Hospital in South Miami arrived more than a little early for his reservation," Kathy read from her prompter, smiling warmly into the cameras. Great, more babies. As if Cassandra waddling around for the past three months hadn't been reminder enough of her situation. Her sour feeling never showed on her picture-perfect smiling face. "Little Grant Ellison surprised his mother Karen by arriving four months early! Specialists at Mercy scrambled to stabilize little Grant, who was born weighing just three pounds!"
Kathy carried on with the gory details, trying and failing not to think about them too hard. So many things could go wrong. Why, she wondered, were humans so phenomenally bad at giving birth? It wasn't this hard for other mammals. But for some reason, Homo sapiens had decided the best evolutionary path was the one that practically killed the mother every step of the way and left her body permanently changed even if she survived. It just seemed like such a terrible setup. And humans certainly hadn't done anything socially to improve it. Maternity leave was the least of the numerous issues that made being a mother in this country, any country really, a terrible decision. Kathy knew. She'd been sitting up all night restlessly researching all those issues for the last month and a half.
At long last, the cameras turned off and Kathy stumbled away from the desk, sore and exhausted beyond all reason. She was going to go home and sleep for a week. She dragged a hand down her face, already imagining the microwave dinner she was going to inhale before she collapsed.
"Kathy! Straighten up!"
Kathy groaned, recognizing the voice.
"I'm going home, Mitchell," she said as she turned to face him.
Mitchell was a few years older than her, about thirty-two or so, barreling his way towards a ruinous sixty with reckless hedonistic speed. Despite all the time he spent on the beach weightlifting instead of working, his gut was already beginning the slow sag towards a beer belly. It was impossible to say what color his skin had once been beneath all the orange spray tan, though he'd presumably done a great deal of actual tanning at some point as well. His skin had gone leathery, crinkling like crepe paper around his eyes. His hair, poorly dyed black to hide the early gray, was slicked back so stiffly it looked like a rubber wig. He was wearing a T-shirt under an obnoxious Hawaiian print. The shirt read 'no fat chicks.' Kathy wondered if he knew how much everyone despised him.
"Oh no, you're not," Mitchell replied sharply. "The chairman is visiting."
The swell of anger Kathy had been preparing to unleash evaporated instantly.
"The Sheikh?"
"He'
s doing his usual tour of the facilities," Mitchell confirmed. "Making sure we're up to his high standards."
Mitchell rolled his eyes, his contemptuous expression making it clear what he thought of the Sheikh's standards.
"But it's only been a few months since his last visit," Kathy said, caught off guard. "He usually only visits a few times a year."
"Well, I guess he likes it here," Mitchell huffed, already trying to walk away. "Whatever. Deal with him."
"What? Why me?" Kathy demanded. "I need to go home! I've been here since five!"
"I don't care!" Mitchell was hurrying away from her before she could argue. "He likes you. You deal with him!"
Kathy groaned and gave up trying to chase him. It was pointless anyway. Mitchell was probably on his way out the door, heading back to the beach. He rarely spent more than a few hours in the studio these days. And Kathy couldn't say he was wrong in wanting her to deal with the Sheikh. He did seem to like her, at least more than he liked Mitchell (although that wasn't saying much), and with the state the studio was currently in, they needed all the good will from the board they could get.
Still, it was with a great deal of reluctance that she pulled herself together and went to find the Sheikh. It wasn't that she didn't like him. They'd spoken on a handful of occasions, mostly during inspections like this. He was polite, genial, intelligent. A little stiff and formal, but then again, he was her boss. She just didn't have the energy to fake a smile and be sociable right now. She wanted to eat and go to bed. Hopefully, the Sheikh wouldn't need her to accompany him for long. She'd give him the usual tour and report, and, fingers crossed, he'd let her go home in an hour or so.
She was almost to the office when she paused, surprised by a delicious smell wafting down the hallway. She'd know that smell anywhere. That was the coconut curry from her favorite restaurant in town. She would have eaten it twice a week if she could afford it. She followed the scent, surprised to discover it leading her in the same direction she'd been going. She opened the office door to see Sheikh Tehar Al-Kindi sitting at his desk with two Styrofoam takeout boxes.
For a moment, she was distracted from the food by the sight of him. It caught her off guard sometimes how handsome he was. It was hard to say what exactly was so remarkable about his features, to the point that it became easy to forget, when out of his presence, how those same features could make her heart race when he was in the room. His skin was golden warm and clear, his jaw strong, the lines of his face angular and striking. But all those features could be found better refined in magazines and in the faces of the actors and models she regularly interviewed. Perhaps it was something in his eyes, which were a striking dark brown that, when illuminated, seemed almost gold. Kathy was inclined to think it was none of these so much as his smile, which conveyed a gentle, patient intelligence that mere physical attractiveness could never hope to match. He turned that smile on her now, eyes lighting up beneath the fringe of his jet black hair.
"Ah, Miss Burgess," he said, offering her a seat. "I was just about to go and find you."
"It's good to see you again Sheikh Tehar," Kathy said with a respectful nod of her head. "But I'm surprised you're back so soon. Is something wrong?"
"We had such a nice talk last time," Tehar replied, an amused smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Perhaps I just wanted to see you again?"
Kathy laughed politely, but she didn't buy it. She took the seat he'd offered across the desk from him.
"It seems like a long way to fly just to talk to me," she replied. "You know you're always welcome to call and save yourself the trip to the airport."
"I may hold you to that," the Sheikh said with a small laugh, but then he sighed, getting more serious. "No, actually, I'm afraid I'm here on Henry Alan's request."
Kathy's eyes widened. Henry Alan was the founder of QIC Media and the primary owner, along with the Sheikh and Josh Mitchell. It was the Sheikh's funding of the company along with his thoughtful leadership and spotless reputation that had allowed it the level of success it had attained, and earned Tehar his place as chairman.
"He wants this station more closely monitored now that Mitchell is running it," the Sheikh explained. "The company can't afford another scandal."
"Understandable." Kathy shook her head remembering that mess. "You know, I never did get the full story on what happened."
"We can discuss that in a moment." The Sheikh stopped her and pushed one of the Styrofoam containers towards her. "Someone mentioned you'd been here all day, so I thought I'd treat you to dinner for your hard work. You mentioned this restaurant the last time we talked, I believe?"
The Styrofoam squeaked as Kathy opened it and the scent of delicious food wafted out. She'd been right about the scent. It was her favorite coconut curry. She was practically drooling at the sight of it.
"Thank you," Kathy said, taking the plastic fork he offered her. "This is my favorite!"
"I made sure to tell them no shrimp," Tehar noted. "You're allergic to seafood as I recall."
"Yeah." Kathy laughed, surprised and delighted. "I can't believe you remembered! This looks so good. I haven't eaten since breakfast."
"You should take better care of yourself," the Sheikh replied, opening his own container. "This station needs you. You're our most valued anchor."
Kathy's face heated with flustered delight.
"There's no need to flatter me," she said.
"It isn't flattery if it's the truth," Tehar replied seriously. "You are the most stable and reliable face this station has. After everything that's happened, we quite literally cannot afford to lose you. You should take pride in that. We're lucky to have you."
"I don't feel like I'm doing anything extraordinary," Kathy said evasively. "I love this job. I just want to do my best at it."
"You just worked a, what, eleven-hour shift?" Tehar leaned across his desk, frowning. "More? I don't even know. Regardless, that is going above and beyond what is expected of you. It shouldn't have even been asked of you. I take it that was Mitchell's doing?"
Kathy nodded, rolling her eyes as she took a bite of her curry.
"I'll look into making sure that doesn't happen again," Tehar promised. "I need to look into his scheduling practices anyway, after the fit he threw about giving that other woman maternity leave."
"So, you're just down here to clean up his messes?" Kathy asked. "That doesn't seem right."
"After the scandal last year, Henry Alan thinks he needs to be more closely supervised." Tehar put his food aside, apparently not very hungry. "And I can't blame him. I could have sent someone else out here to keep an eye on him, but, frankly, I don't trust anyone but myself to stay objective. Mitchell's family has a great deal of money and influence that he's never been ashamed to use for his personal benefit."
"So, what did happen last year?" Kathy asked. "I transferred to this station after the worst of it was already over."
"Well, I assume you heard about the affair?" The Sheikh sighed, sitting back and rubbing the bridge of his nose as though even remembering the event gave him a headache.
"Yeah, with an intern, right?" Kathy replied.
"A nineteen-year-old intern," Tehar replied. Kathy winced. "And barely that. The photos that were leaked were very compromising. Mitchell's family is influential, but his ex-wife's family is probably even more so. She was humiliated and her family was outraged. They set out to ruin his career and QIC Media on top of it. The press had a field day. We've always tried to brand ourselves as moral leaders with upstanding values. That one of the part owners was fooling around on his wife with a teenager—a teenager who worked for him no less! The consent issues there cannot be understated. Well, needless to say, it was an ugly blemish on our record. It nearly killed this station and the entire company with it."
"So, why wasn't he fired?" Kathy asked, frowning over her Styrofoam lid.
"Henry Alan owed his father a favor. They've been friends since charter school." Tehar waved it off dismissively,
though his tart expression made it clear he didn't approve of such nepotism. "So, Mitchell was merely demoted. I was given his position, which he isn't pleased about as I'm sure you can imagine."
"That explains a lot, actually," Kathy muttered, recalling how quickly Mitchell had fled the building. "He doesn't exactly speak fondly of you, or of Henry Alan."
"Knowing what kind of man he is, I would be very surprised if he did," Tehar said with a snort. He shook his head, returning to his lunch. "But enough of that business. How have you been since my last visit?"
Kathy debated how truthfully she should answer and decided to lean on the side of polite formality.
"Fine," she answered with a slightly stiff smile. "Working hard. If I didn't love this work as much as I do, I'd probably have gone crazy by now."
"As evidenced by today." Tehar raised an eyebrow, clearly still baffled by the ridiculously long shift she'd worked. "But I was more concerned about what happened right after my last visit. Forgive me if it's not something you want to talk about, but I heard your father passed just this November?"
"He did," Kathy answered, tightlipped, sitting back a little stiffly. She put down her fork. "Lung cancer. He was a pack-a-day smoker for most of his life."
"I'm sorry to hear that." Tehar frowned, sympathy and concern making lines in his face that made him seem older than he was. It was somehow comforting, a glimpse past his usual formal facade. "I've lost relatives to cancer. There's nothing worse than watching someone you love disappear a little at a time."
"No, it wasn't like that for me," Kathy said, shaking her head. "By the time he got to the doctor and had it checked out, it was already terminal. Treatment might have given him a few more years, but he decided against it. Didn't want it to interfere with his work. He didn't even tell us he was sick until he went into the hospital for the last time, by which point it all happened pretty fast. Spent his last few days pushing out one more article. He wanted to finish this big piece on the Syrian refugee crisis. He'll probably get a few posthumous awards for it."
