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How Far She's Come

Page 13

by Holly Brown


  I put the fork down and reach out to touch Reese’s arm. “I didn’t mean to leave you out before.” She hadn’t even crossed my mind. “Next time, I’ll make sure I include you.”

  “But you don’t want me in your apartment either.”

  “I like my personal space, that’s all.” Reese looks unconvinced. “This is a hard environment to trust in. Someone erased the teleprompter when I was on Beth’s show.”

  “I know. That was so lame.”

  “Do you have any idea who could have done it?”

  “Belinda isn’t psyched you’re here, but I think that’s just because of how stressed Rayna’s been. Rayna’s thinking you might be under consideration for the permanent coanchor spot on Media Is the Message.”

  So it’s not just about hazing, like Belinda (or was it Nan?) said. Rayna thinks I might be a true threat. “I’m not ready to host anything.”

  “Edwin might disagree.”

  I wonder why Reese didn’t tell me this bit of intel sooner. But then, it is speculation, not facts. She might have been waiting for confirmation. “From now on, could you tell me anything you hear, even if it’s just a rumor?” Especially if it’s a rumor. When I was growing up, Dad said that as long as you know the truth, that’s all that matters. He said what you don’t know can’t hurt you. He was wrong.

  “I’ll tell you everything,” Reese says. “You can trust me. I swear to you. We’re friends, and I’d never betray a friend.”

  “I never would either.”

  After dinner, the evening moves quickly. Wardrobe, hair and makeup, a dry run on-set, and then it’s live with Khalif.

  The show goes off without a hitch. No teleprompter “malfunction” today. After his sign-off, Khalif holds my hands between his, looks into my eyes, and tells me what a beautiful job I did. I can feel myself glowing.

  Reese says everyone is going out to their usual bar. I don’t know where that is, but Reese does. I’m glad that this time, I’ll have someone to talk to from go. “Are you sure I’m welcome?” I ask her. “They seemed pretty agitated in the newsroom after Edwin’s announcement.”

  “You should come. The news cycle moves fast.”

  THE BAR FEELS like a good-natured parody, wallpapered in yellowed newspaper clippings. Edwin’s not there, but it feels like it’s in keeping with his meta sensibility. When Reese and I arrive, everyone’s had more than a few. I don’t feel the tension from earlier between the staffs of the other shows and Ty’s show, or between them and me. It’s like they’re all one big happy incestuous family again. Unfortunately, the pervy uncle (i.e., Luke) is here tonight. I’ll make sure to steer clear.

  Reese is already taking a shot and laughing with some of the VJs. I follow her lead. No one’s supereager to talk to me, but I don’t feel like persona non grata either. After a few shots, I look around and realize Reese has disappeared. This time, it better not be to my apartment.

  Graham takes her place. “You feel good about having your own series on Ty’s show?” he asks, by way of greeting. He’s not smiling. Even when he holds court and tells a story that has everyone in stitches, he’s never laughing.

  I’m transfixed by his heavy black Dukakis eyebrows. Now that’s a reference I never would have made before my education at INN.

  Nan and Belinda had told me that Graham is a boy wonder who’ll soon be helming Ty’s show. But for some reason I can’t quite pinpoint, he makes my skin crawl. I wish I felt otherwise, because he’d surely be a valuable friend to have.

  “I feel good,” I say.

  He studies me with no self-consciousness at all, as if I’m a painting on a wall. “You are beautiful,” he says, matter-of-factly. He seems very sober, where I’m tipsy. I don’t like that power imbalance. I look around for Reese, but she’s still nowhere to be found. Really, no one is anywhere close to Graham and me, as if they all parted for him like the Red Sea.

  “Beauty isn’t enough,” he says.

  “I’m a hard worker too.” I hear how inane it sounds, but I’m not exactly at the top of my game right now.

  “This business takes a certain ruthlessness. Not everyone has that.” He’s visibly sizing me up. “Do you?”

  “It’s not the first word people use to describe me.” He nods, as if I’ve told him something important.

  “I’ve got a feeling you’ll do what you have to. And you’ll do it soon.”

  He is one creepy dude. How come Edwin doesn’t see that?

  “I’m writing your series. I’ll be feeding you the perfect lines.”

  The ego on this guy . . .

  “Ty will expect to hear them. You don’t want to disappoint him. Or anyone else.”

  “No, I don’t want to disappoint anyone.” This must be what it feels like to be shaken down by the mob. I don’t entirely know what’s being asked of me, but my sense that jealous women are my biggest threat has just been turned on its head.

  Where the fuck is Reese?

  Graham slides a shot glass in front of me. “Here, have mine. You look like you could use another.”

  I remember Beth’s advice: keep your drink in your hand. “I’m okay.”

  “You need anything, at any time, you just come to me.”

  My stomach tightens.

  “Coming aboard at INN can be pretty overwhelming, and I know you’ve got some personal stuff going on.” I stare at him. “Your father’s sick, right? Still undergoing treatment, and you were supposed to visit him last weekend?”

  I really, really hate the turn this is taking.

  “I can make life easier for you. I don’t know if anyone’s clued you in, but I’m Edwin’s right-hand man.” As if to prove it, he squeezes my knee and leaves his hand there. “I’ll tell you a secret. You know that motivational speech Edwin gave earlier? What he read off his phone? I wrote that.” He has a self-satisfied expression on his face. “When Edwin needs the finest in AstroTurf, he comes to me.”

  “INN has its own AstroTurf?”

  “Of course.”

  His hand hasn’t moved. Graham is a deliberate man. If he’s telling secrets, it’s for a purpose. He’s putting me on notice that he can plant stories wherever he wants and put his hands anywhere he wants, and he doesn’t have to worry about me telling anyone. He’s in charge.

  It occurs to me that in the brief history of the #metoo movement, the giants falling have been primarily because of the past tense. Women speak up when they’re out of the clutches of powerful, headline-grabbing men. But what happens to the woman still in the employ, and at the mercy, of the predator, when he’s no one famous, just some middleman (or right-hand man) and no reporter picks up the story? Who protects her?

  Who’ll protect me? It’s clear that Graham thinks the answer is no one. And he would know.

  “Excuse me.” I go to stand up. I’m a little unsteady on my feet, but it’s not the alcohol.

  “You look like you need to go home. I’ll take you. Make sure you get there safely.”

  “No, I just need some fresh air.”

  “You shouldn’t walk alone. You’re a celebrity now.”

  If only Graham were lying about his place in the pecking order. Ty’s show is the top of the INN hierarchy, and Graham is its unofficial head. I can see it in the way he moves, and the way people move out of the way for him. There’s an undercurrent to this whole interaction, almost an undertow, like he knows I’ll give in someday, whether I want to or not. Like he doesn’t actually care what I want. Or maybe he does, like those pro-rape activists I ran afoul of after the viral video. If I don’t want it, that only adds to their fun.

  I glance at my phone. “That’s Chase. My boyfriend.”

  He laughs. “Get it while you can.”

  I race out into the street, mind whirling.

  What did that parting line of his mean? And where is Reese?

  Chapter 18

  I’m in a state when I arrive back at my apartment building. It doesn’t help that I’m waved over to the security desk an
d handed a manila envelope. “From INN,” he says.

  “Who brought that?” I ask.

  “A courier.”

  I should have known that whoever’s leaving me the diaries could also easily find out my address, but it’s still disturbing. The building is secure, but what about right outside it? Rebecca Schaeffer was gunned down in her home. Marla Hanson was slashed in the street. And Elyse Rohrbach . . .

  I shouldn’t read it. I should go to bed. But I know I won’t be able to sleep, and once inside my apartment, my curiosity lures me back. Again.

  July 15, 1991

  Today was the worst. Well, not the worst of my life, but my worst on Morning Sunrise. Sandy and Frieda have always been the friendliest toward me. Today, they did my hair and makeup in a conspicuous silence.

  Finally, while Frieda was working on my eye shadow, laying the sparkly powder blue with lavender and pink above it, so that it would look, fittingly, like a sunrise, I couldn’t take it anymore.

  I pulled it out of them: Last night, I was featured on A Current Affair, getting into Dennis’s limo, supposedly looking up at him and smiling in this flirty way, and then doing the same sort of smiling at Scott in the diner. Maureen O’Boyle, the host, said something about how the new newsreader is making a big impression.

  That kind of notoriety can’t be good for my career. Morning shows are not the stomping grounds of femme fatales; they’re for good girls.

  I can’t believe my career could come to a grinding halt, all because of some stupid tabloid footage that must have been highly edited to create a false impression of me.

  Footage. As in, someone following me around with a camera, filming without my knowledge or consent. It’s an awful lot like stalking.

  I started trembling all over, so much so that Sandy declared, “Finito. You’re beautiful.” She probably didn’t feel safe having a curling iron near that head of mine.

  My performance on the show was, as I said, my worst. It was all I could do to keep my voice from venturing into vibrato. I imagined people at home thinking that I was screwing up because of too many late nights with network execs and other people’s husbands.

  I feel like it’s over, before it’s really even begun.

  Then there are the hang-ups. I can’t even pretend it’s a wrong number anymore.

  I’m going to double-check the three locks on my door, put a chair under the jamb, and try my hardest to sleep.

  Tomorrow has to be better.

  Chapter 19

  It’s not like it’s Page Six; it’s TMZ,” Reese says. “And the source is unnamed.”

  “An unnamed source who says I’m sleeping with Edwin! Who says that’s why I’m about to get a series on the network’s highest-rated show!”

  It’s first thing in the morning and Reese just showed me the TMZ piece on her phone. Reese is bright-eyed and ponytailed, with no mention of where she disappeared to the previous night. No apology for leaving me on my own, to be felt up by Graham. It’s not like Reese would have wrestled him to the ground, but if she’d been there to witness, he probably wouldn’t have acted that way.

  I was up for hours after I got home. When I read Elyse’s diary, I have to admit that a part of me wants to blame the victim. I want to think of how she brought what happened on herself, so that I can believe that I would never make the same mistakes. So that I can believe I’ll stay safe.

  I thought how if I had a diary and someone read an entry about my conversation with Graham, they’d think about what I could have done differently. How I could have stood up for myself while still shutting him down, all without risking my professional life. There has to be a way to let him know that I’m not someone to be toyed with; I’m INN’s hot property. No, I’m a human being. He has no right.

  #neveragain. #metoo.

  But hours passed, and I couldn’t think of anything.

  I feel demeaned and helpless, like after the viral video, only this could get a lot worse. None of those people had daily access to me, but Graham does. He’s the one with the power.

  Like Elyse, with Dennis.

  No, I’m not like Elyse. I’m not going to cleavage my way through this, even if Beth said that was a legit strategy.

  Maybe Beth is the friend sending the diary. If so, it’s meant to be a road map, a how-to manual. It’s about manipulating powerful men, using their vulnerability against them. Well, maybe vulnerability is the wrong word. It’s more like susceptibility, with their cocks and their egos. It’s not how I want to get ahead, but maybe it’s the only smart move.

  Just look how it turned out for Elyse.

  A Current Affair for Elyse; TMZ for me. The timing of the latest diary entry and the events depicted feel more than coincidental. It could be from someone who wants me to know that she (or he) is authoring my story. TMZ was just reporting a tip, after all. Any insider could have called it in.

  Any enemy.

  What with Edwin’s announcement the other day about my series, it could really be anyone.

  “This isn’t going to hurt you,” Reese says. “There’s no video and no photos, which means practically no one’ll click on it anyway. We’re talking about unverified gossip. What’s going to happen is that no reputable media is going to run with the part about you sleeping with Edwin, but they will pick up that you’ve got your first series, and it’s going to be big. People will be watching for you. They’ll know that you’re breaking news. You’re A-list.”

  “But people will think I only got it because I’m sleeping with Edwin.” Same as they thought I only got my grade by sleeping with Professor Trent, as if I couldn’t possibly have earned it. I remember how even Chase had looked dubious, just for a hint of a second, when I told him before he rearranged his expression and said how proud he was of me.

  “It’s a little added intrigue. Trust me, this is good for you.” She looks around, perhaps a touch dramatically, to confirm that the office door is closed. “I have a theory,” she whispers, “that Edwin is the one who leaked it.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “It’s a clever promotion for your story, and it makes him look like a stud. Two birds, one stone.”

  “Would he really do that?”

  Reese stares at me. “He’s a major player. In every way.”

  I have to admit, Edwin’s certainly been willing to do unorthodox things so far. And they’ve all worked out, right? I’m at galas with Katy Perry and Chloë Sevigny. That’s A-list by proxy.

  “I’m going out with some friends tonight,” Reese says. “Come with us. You need to blow off steam. Act your age.”

  I’m flattered to be invited, as it confirms that I’m more than just a boss to Reese, but I can’t really say yes. “I have to be careful about my ‘reputation.’” I do air quotes like it’s a joke, but we both know it isn’t.

  “Wear a wig.”

  “Seriously? Do people do that?”

  “All the time. I’ll get one for you. I’ll pick up some sunglasses too. Do you want to be a blonde or brunette?”

  “Surprise me.”

  THAT NIGHT, I’M rocking a blond bob poolside on a rooftop bar in the Meatpacking District. There’s literal AstroTurf under my feet, and I’m feeling no pain. Reese and her two friends from Columbia are hilarious, but that could just be the fact that I’ve had five drinks. I’m pretty sure no one’s recognized me.

  The view of the Manhattan skyline and the Hudson is spectacular as the sun goes down, and the music shifts from a chill vibe to club style. The crowd changes, too, from after work to partiers, younger and rowdier. Many of the women seem like underage supermodels in the making. Older men with the aura of wealth hang around, chatting them up, while the young bucks look none too pleased. Talking yields to dancing. Drinks are spilled, voices are raised, people are pushed. I’m about to tell Reese we should go home when she grabs my arm and says we’ve been invited to the VIP room.

  It’s dark, with expensive sumptuous couches and a hot tub, occupied by two
men in their early forties. Edwin’s age. They’re both in suits with no ties. The handsome one has wild curly dark hair, made more striking when contrasted with his conservative attire. The other is blond, his hair lacquered neatly.

  “This is Pietro, and this is Marco,” Reese says.

  Pietro—the attractive one—extends his hand. “Pleasure to meet you,” he says, in unaccented English.

  I don’t know where Reese’s friends went. I reach up to make sure my wig is on straight.

  Reese yanks it off. “You don’t need that here. Pietro knows who you are.”

  I yelp, belatedly, “Hey!” It’s another boundary violation, like when Reese let herself into my apartment.

  But then, Reese has had as much to drink as I have. I don’t want to be angry at my only friend in New York.

  With the way Pietro is looking at me, I can tell that, yes, he’s already seen me naked, and he’s hoping to do it again in the flesh.

  There are bottles on a cart behind Marco. “Can I mix you anything?” he asks.

  I think of Edwin and his penchant for the Prohibition era. I wish he were here.

  I should be wishing for Chase. But since the gala he’s seemed so far away, and it’s not mere geography. I’m feeling more and more that he’s another life. I was another girl.

  It’s not just since I started working at INN; it’s really since the viral video. I’ve never truly forgiven him for how he responded, that he tried to be sympathetic, but as it went on, I could tell that he thought I was becoming complicit in my own victimization. He thought I could have stopped it sooner if I’d only been willing to cry uncle. Sometimes he even seemed to think he was a victim too. I’d tarnished his perfect image.

  “I’ve been enjoying your reports,” Pietro says.

  You mean you’ve been enjoying my sexy walks and my leg crossing? “Thanks,” I say.

  “We met at the bar,” Reese says. “When he randomly told me he was a fan of yours, I felt like I couldn’t hold out on him. I had to let him meet you, especially since I knew he had the VIP room. We’re safe in here.”

 

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