by Nic Tatano
"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
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
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 a
s 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."
