by Nic Tatano
"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."
Annnnnndddd .… 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
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."
