by Holly Brown
I laugh uncomfortably. “No one’s asked me what I’m doing afterward.”
“But what’s the news network version of that?”
“I haven’t encountered one so far.” Luke doesn’t count. Chloë’s talking about a Dennis Graver, someone who wants to demonstrate power over women and stroke his ego in the process. That’s not Edwin at all.
Chloë’s the one to laugh now. “Playing it close to the vest, huh? Catch me at the next gala, and we’ll talk.” She disappears into the crowd.
“It’s like I wasn’t even here,” Chase grumbles.
“She had other things on her mind.” The conversation has pulled me out of the fantasy and into the real world. I’ve been too busy to even read the next installment of the diary, but it’s at home, waiting for me. “When do you think we’re sitting down for dinner? I’m starved.”
“Maybe they want you to see how the kids feel.” I look at him blankly. “You know, why you really should try to stop hunger.” He takes his phone out of his pocket and appears instantly engrossed.
“Seriously? You have your phone on?”
“So do you.”
“That’s for work.”
“I have important things going on too.” He sends a quick text and turns the phone over.
“So was that about work?” I think of what Belinda (or maybe it was Nan) said about Until on the AstroTurf. I’ve been so preoccupied that I haven’t even looked up the rumor.
“No.”
The curtness of his reply piques my interest. “Who was it then?”
I’m not going to drop it, and he can feel that. Finally, he admits, “Lydia. She wanted to know if I had time to hang out while I’m in town. I told her no.”
“Lydia Garber? After what she did to me?”
Lydia graduated near the top of her class at Stanford and works for CNN as a producer’s assistant. That, alone, seems an indictment of my rocket ride. She’s the friend of Chase’s I most wanted to like me, because she seemed both whip-smart and kind, with personal integrity. She was compassionate after all that happened with the viral video. So when she went on record against me last week, that one hurt. Her quote was about how I was far from the hardest worker and that the general feeling was that I knew how to use my looks to my advantage with professors, and one professor in particular.
She means Professor Trent, of course. I wouldn’t have thought Lydia would have spread or believed that rumor.
I’m in a new Valentino, feeling the old shame. Yes, Professor Trent was the one asking me to stay after class to brainstorm my next paper and give me suggested study areas for the upcoming exams; I never solicited that. But I never said, I don’t need your help, I can do this on my own. I went out for coffee with him that one time, and even though nothing happened and it was far from campus, of course it still got around. He was so nice, and everyone liked him so much. I did too. He was beloved, and I wasn’t. They said I was manipulating him, like I was the one with the power, and maybe I was. I hadn’t thought so, but if everyone else seemed so sure, it was hard not to doubt myself.
What makes the heat rise to my cheeks even now is that I could tell he was attracted to me, and I never said no. I didn’t know I could, not without hurting his feelings, and not without fearing that a rejection could hurt my grade. I did need that A, and I was working for it, hard. But maybe I didn’t really earn it. I needed his curve.
Chase swore he didn’t know Lydia was going to be quoted, and that if he had known, he would have tried to stop her. I assumed it was the truth. But then, I also assumed he’d ended their friendship.
“Lydia’s going to know where you were tonight,” I say. “It’ll be all over social media.” Not just social media but actual media. This is a big event. The red carpet was live-streamed. “What’s Lydia going to say about you now?”
“She knows I’m here to support you.”
It doesn’t exactly feel that way, with the way he’s been plugging Until, but this isn’t the place to discuss it. There’s press everywhere.
He moves closer and kisses me lightly. “I’m happy to be here. I love you.”
I don’t want to be upset with him. But it chafes that he’s still friends with Lydia, and meanwhile, he’s got little tolerance for hearing about Reese, who has my back.
I have to remember that this is all new to him. He’s not used to being on my arm rather than the other way around. I don’t like that he talked about his start-up on the red carpet, but he’s proud of it. I have INN; he has Until. There’s finally parity between us.
He’s not comfortable yet, but he’d better work on that. Because I’m not going anywhere.
Chapter 16
July 8, 1991
What an incredible day. Scott asked me out for coffee. There we were, in the red-boothed diner, and he was smiling at me in this friendly way, a way that I’d seen so many times before ON TELEVISION. The way he smiles at Trish.
“Tell me something about you that I won’t find in a press release,” he says.
My mind goes to Lyndon, of course, but I won’t let it stay there. “I’ll tell you a secret,” I said. “My hair. It’s not real.”
He brightened at the whiff of a scoop. “It’s a wig?”
“A perm, but no one ever guesses. This hair is my superpower.”
“You’re like Samson. I’ll start calling you Sam.”
We were sharing a conspiratorial smile when a fan—middle-aged with one of those obvious crunchy perms, maybe Ogilvie home—approached. Customers at other tables had been whispering to each other and either pointing to our booth or just eyeballing Scott since he arrived. But that first woman opened the floodgates. The line snaked through the middle of the restaurant, and waiters and waitresses had to slither around it, trays held aloft. Some asked for my autograph too.
Scott said, “Good idea. Get it now because she’s going to be huge.”
Afterward, he settled back in the booth. He talked a little about his kids, and about having to give up his job as a foreign correspondent so he wouldn’t miss their whole childhoods. That’s how he landed at Morning Sunrise.
He started laughing. “Hey, you tricked me! This was supposed to be me interviewing you.”
“I like to be the one asking the questions.”
“Yeah, I do too.” He grinned. “Let’s have a staring contest. Whoever blinks first has to share their deepest, darkest secret.” He shifted forward, his blue eyes on mine.
I was about to laugh, then realized he was serious. I got serious too. It was this strangely intense moment, with our eyes locked, and I really wanted to win.
The longer it went on, the more erotic (and embarrassing) it started to feel. So I forced a laugh, looked away, and lost. Immediately, I was kind of scared. I didn’t want to tell any secrets.
He said, “Don’t feel bad. It was kind of a setup. I’m a master of that game. I beat my kids every time. Since I rigged it, you get to keep your secrets.” He paused. “This time.”
I think he was kidding—flirting, even—but still . . .
“What used to make Trish and me work was that she likes to talk more than she likes to listen,” Scott said.
Used to?
“I like having you on-set. Fresh blood is important in a morning show. But I feel like we’re not using you to your best advantage yet. Dennis and I have discussed this.”
!!!!
Then we started talking and laughing, trading anecdotes like old friends, and I don’t know how much time passed. But when I looked up, I saw York Diamond standing by the cash register.
“What’s wrong?” Scott asked.
I couldn’t even speak. What I was thinking was, Not again. I can’t live this way, always looking over my shoulder, never feeling safe, knowing how little the police will do until he’s actually done something, and outside of California, stalking is nothing.
It’s nothing when he shows up where I am, when he sends letter after letter, telling me I’m his, no matter what I
do or where I go or who I’m with. When he spies on me and I feel dirty and hunted and afraid all the time.
I used to wonder how much more I had to take before I’d be taken seriously. The answer? Everything.
Maybe York was just in the neighborhood. Standing at the register, he wasn’t even looking at me. I could believe he hadn’t seen me, that he was waiting to be seated, like any other customer.
I really want to believe that.
The fact is, York was right about me. My ship is coming in.
I wish it wasn’t at Trish’s expense. I wish there was room at the top, or on the couch, for two women. Despite the way she brushed by me the other day, I do feel for her. She must know all the things that Dennis was telling me at lunch about the scrutiny the morning shows and the anchors face, and about her Q score. She has to be on edge, and it’s hard to do your best under those circumstances.
If I were in Trish’s place, I’d be under that same pressure. Would I fare any better?
I’ve handled pressure before, like, of the life-and-death variety. When Lyndon was stalking me, R.G. broke before I did.
R.G.’s desertion was one of the worst parts of the whole horrendous experience. I thought he loved me enough to weather anything, that we’d do it together. But he said it had become too much, and he broke up with me on the steps of the courthouse, which meant I had to walk in alone and take the stand and stare out at that lunatic with his sick, vacant eyes, seeing him mouth the words “I love you,” my stomach roiling.
If I could face the wrath of a man who wrote letters in his own blood, who saw a restraining order as a betrayal and a challenge, if I could survive without the man I wanted to marry, then a ratings war is child’s play.
At the end, R.G. told me, “I want to be your boyfriend, not your protector.” But love is sometimes about protection. People don’t get to choose if the one they love will be in danger.
I’ve told myself a million times that he’s a coward and I’m better off without him. But I was never as close to anyone as I was to R.G. He was the only person with whom I could be truly vulnerable. Look how that turned out.
Chapter 17
I’m in my office, reviewing my latest script, while Reese is on a Starbucks run. It still feels weird that I don’t get my own lattes, but then, the photos from the gala are splashed everywhere. Raising my profile was the whole point of attending, yet I still covet anonymity. I suppose I want to have my latte and drink it too.
My mind keeps straying to the diary. Knowing what’s going to befall Elyse, and knowing that someone out there thinks it has some correspondence to my life, is uncomfortable, to say the least.
I have to remember that the diary was written almost thirty years ago; there’s nothing prescient about it. Elyse and I are very different people. R.G. and Chase are very different people. R.G. and Elyse didn’t break up because she got successful; they broke up because she got stalked and R.G. crumbled. That’s not Chase.
Chase did the opposite of leaving me on the courthouse steps. He flew across the country at a moment’s notice to hold my hand on my first red carpet. Sure, it got rocky during the cocktail hour, but then dinner was great, and afterward, we took a walk along the Hudson. Not that I could walk far in three-inch heels, but still. We didn’t want to go far, anyway, because after a few minutes of kissing, I couldn’t wait to get his clothes off. It had been too long.
A picture of Chase and me kissing by the river showed up on Instagram. It could have been a fluke and someone happened upon us and decided to capture a romantic image, but it felt more likely that we’d been trailed. Kind of like what Elyse was talking about.
That diary entry was delivered before the gala, not after. Is it possible someone is writing the entries in real time as an elaborate hoax, trying to plant ideas and shape what’s to come? That the person who wrote it is also the one who photographed Chase and me? It seems crazy but not impossible, and there’s a lot of crazy in the world. There doesn’t have to be a comprehensible motive. It could just be someone who likes torturing me. Give the would-be journalist a sham of a mystery to solve. Get me distracted and paranoid, fixating on women from the 1990s who’ve been terrorized and victimized, and soon, maybe I’ll be victimized the same way.
I need to stop reading, that’s all. Even if the person giving me the entries is trying to help, it’s not.
I get a text from Edwin saying I should report to the newsroom, now. When I arrive, he’s in the center, clapping his hands. “Everyone, gather round! Off the phones. Now, please!”
The staff streams over. My eyes should be trained on Edwin, but I’m watching to see who’s watching me, just like when I was being tracked on Tag.
Not again.
Isn’t that Elyse’s catchphrase?
“I wanted to tell you all how impressed I am by the work you’re doing,” Edwin says. “You’re changing the landscape of our politics and our society. Sure, Ty did that amazing piece on the pay-for-play reception, and no other media outlets ran with it, so that was a disappointment. But story by story, step by step, we’re making it happen.”
He lifts up his phone and begins to read: “‘INN is the true definition of fair and balanced, and there’s evidence that it’s moving the needle. Other networks are forced to cover what they might otherwise choose not to. They’re being shamed into more investigative work, knowing that if they don’t cover certain stories, their own corporate affiliations and allegiances can very well wind up on display. INN is journalism for a new world order.’” He looks up, smiling, at the loud swell of applause. “What we do matters. We’re putting all the other networks on notice: tell the truth, or else.
“On our very first day on the air, I made a statement directly to the camera. I pledged that I’d never allow INN to be beholden to special interests because that’s the death of democracy.
“Well, the story that Cheyenne will soon break on Ty’s show is the first in a series. It’s about a huge threat to democracy: the documented collusion between government and a private corporation. It’s going to do us proud. It’s what INN is all about, and it wouldn’t be possible without every last one of you.”
Edwin said I was getting a big story, but a series?
“Thank you all. Class adjourned!”
No one laughs. The positive energy that was in the room has evaporated. I can’t blame anyone for the tepid response. I’ve been here less than a month, and I’m going to have a series, on the highest-rated show on the network. Whoever didn’t hate me before will hate me now.
Edwin exits the newsroom, either oblivious or unconcerned. I overhear one of Khalif’s producers grumbling, “We know Ty is at the top of the food chain, but that’s because INN devotes all the resources to keeping it that way.” There’s palpable resentment in the room, and I’m not sure if it’s more about Edwin, Ty, or me, or if we’ve become lumped together in some sort of unholy trinity.
No one’s talking to me or looking at me. Even Beth’s team has huddled up, walled off. It’s more distressing because I thought I’d begun to make some headway at the bar the other night.
I force myself to walk to the elevator at a normal pace; I don’t want to give the appearance of fleeing. Edwin might not have to care how he looks, but I do.
Reese is waiting in my office. “Your latte’s cold,” she says.
“Edwin was making an announcement. Good news: I’ve got a series on Ty’s show.”
I assume that Reese is going to help me feel the appropriate level of excitement, but she remains unsmiling. “Congratulations.”
“You don’t seem happy.”
“Neither do you.”
I can’t really argue with that.
“You could have texted me to say where you were,” she says.
“Sorry,” I say, though really, I shouldn’t have to apologize. Reese is my assistant; it’s not my job to make her feel included.
I would have liked to get her opinion about newsroom dynamics or even have sent h
er downstairs to do some reconnaissance for me. She’s supposed to be my spy, though so far, she hasn’t told me anything useful. I haven’t questioned that, assuming that it’s been hard for her to gain anyone’s trust given her association with me, but now, with the way she’s acting . . .
I don’t have time for this bullshit. I’m in final rehearsals for Khalif’s show tonight. All I can control is my performance.
I lose track of time as Albie and I perfect my delivery. Then I notice that Reese is no longer in the studio.
When she finally shows back up, it’s with home-cooked miso salmon and asparagus. It must be her way of apologizing for her attitude earlier. Albie says he’s going to run out and grab dinner for himself. Reese assures him there’s plenty, but he insists, so it’s just Reese and me eating together in the bleachers.
“Thanks for cooking,” I say. “This is delicious.” I wash down a bite with Red Bull. It might not be the best for my vocal cords, but I need to fortify myself before the broadcast.
“It was the least I could do, after earlier. Besides, I thought your kitchen needed christening.”
She cooked in my apartment, after I explicitly told her the first day that she wouldn’t need the key. What I meant was, I didn’t want her using the key. Is it possible she misunderstood?
The timing seems suspect, like I might be eating her passive-aggression.
But I have to express myself delicately. Reese isn’t just a subordinate, she might be a friend. She’s also a subordinate who knows a lot more than I do, and who can help or hurt me with my colleagues downstairs. “I really appreciate you cooking, but in the future, maybe you could ask first.”
“My apartment’s in Brooklyn; yours is just blocks away. I wanted to surprise you. What’s the big deal?”
“It’s not a big deal. I just—”
“You don’t trust me?” There’s true hurt in Reese’s eyes. “Is that why you didn’t text me about Edwin’s announcement?”
