How Far She's Come

by Holly Brown

  “She’s here,” Janelle said, “in her dressing room.”

  Trish could have left the note for me to find during the cooking segment. She wasn’t there that day, but she could have done it the day before, or put someone else up to it. Trish could easily get my phone number. She’s the person most threatened by me. My ascension could be her downfall, and I’m clearly on the rise.

  Yes, it all makes sense. Trish has the motive, means, and opportunity.

  Only it’s backfired. I’m turning into America’s sweetheart, and Trish is receding into irrelevance. She’s getting what she deserves.

  I’m not in any real danger after all, and I was about to give the best performance of my life on that couch with Scott and Trish. Like Val said, use the adrenaline. Anger is motivation too.

  After Conrad did the weather and sent it back to me in the studio, my news reading was flawless. By the time I was on the couch with Trish and Scott, I was raring to go.

  They were a tag team, alternating their questions for me. Trish stumbled a few times, her smile wobbly, and there was something about her manner, and her breath.

  Trish had been drinking.

  She really was unraveling, which could explain a lot but doesn’t excuse anything.

  Inside, I was calm, and ice-cold. Outwardly, I was projecting just what I needed to, confidence touched with vulnerability. “It can be scary, being a female,” I said, “but women have a lot more power than they realize.”

  Once the segment had ended, I lingered on the couch an extra second. Scott gave me a high five. “Way to go, Sam!” he said. I thanked him, but my real focus was Trish, who was averting her eyes. More proof.

  Trish started to get up, and I put a hand on her arm. She looked over in surprise, and perhaps a little fear. I liked thinking it was fear. She deserves a taste of her own medicine.

  “I get it,” I said softly. “I’ve figured it out.”

  Trish pulled her arm away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “If you don’t, then I apologize. If you do, then you’re going to hell.” Oh, she knew all right. She’s not a very good actress.

  Yes, it could be dangerous to put the coanchor on notice. But I’m a rising star, and Trish is on her way down, and out.

  That was a twist I hadn’t seen coming. I hadn’t expected Elyse to turn into some kind of badass.

  I still don’t know who R.G. is, but B.N. has been easy enough to find.

  When I check Wikipedia, there’s nothing new from R.G. (or from his impersonator). But I have a feeling Elyse and I haven’t seen the last of him.

  Chapter 32

  It wasn’t easy, getting myself to work today. But Graham kept texting and then Edwin joined in, and I wasn’t making headway on any of the mysteries (not Elyse’s, or Beth’s, or my own). Hiding out at my apartment offers the illusion of safety, but if I truly want to protect myself, I have to go back and put a stop to this, whatever this is.

  I jump at the knock on my office door. “Who is it?” I call, hoping I sound more grounded than I feel. I’ve given Reese some bullshit tasks to do just to keep her out and about. She’s a reporter at heart, and I don’t want to answer any questions right now.

  “It’s your humble foot servant.” It’s Albie, and he’s decided to try stand-up comedy.

  “Come in.”

  He shuts the door behind him, leaving Officer Mortimer in the hallway. Tongue-tied Officer Mortimer, who looks nineteen and flushes every time I speak to him.

  “What’s my next assignment?” I ask Albie.

  “Just keep studying.”

  “So I don’t have any appearances scheduled on any other shows?”

  “Correct.”

  “Am I being punished?”

  “Not that anyone’s told me.” Hardly the most reassuring answer.

  “Could I stay under contract here at INN for the whole three years with them giving me nothing to do?” Being sidelined, like Beth said. But that was only supposed to happen if I refused the story or screwed it up. That’s not how it went, and yet I’m still benched.

  “You’d have to ask Edwin about that.”

  As in, Edwin has the power to do whatever he wants. “Now’s when people are interested in me. By the time I’m a free agent in three years, no one will want me.”

  He nods.

  It’s infuriating. I’m not even sure I want this career, but I don’t deserve to have it snatched away. I’m actually good.

  “So I need to suck up to Edwin,” I say.

  “Among others.”

  Graham, is that what Albie’s saying? I need to make nice with the man who sexually assaulted me?

  I’m glaring at Albie, though it’s not his fault. He doesn’t know what Graham did to me.

  Probably doesn’t know.

  He stands up. “I’ll tell you as soon as the situation changes. In the meantime, do your homework.”

  Does he mean I should keep studying the curriculum, or does he mean my homework is to make it up to Edwin and Graham?

  Wait, if my apartment is bugged and my phone definitely is, then my office could be too. “You’re right,” I say. “It was my fault.”

  “That’s not what I—”

  “No, I could have done more. I will do more. I’m going to make you all proud of me. You believed in me, all of you, and I let you down. It’s not going to happen again.”

  Albie seems distinctly uncomfortable with my sudden change of heart. “Well,” he says, “we’ll talk soon.”

  Play the part, that’s what Beth told me. Use their perceptions against them. They think they’re so much smarter than I am, so I can feed that, and feed their egos. It’s time to channel Elyse.

  I might as well face what I’ve been dreading head on. Get out in front of it, so there’s no element of surprise. No bumping into him in the hallway or having him pop into my office unannounced.

  I call Graham’s office and ask if he has a minute. “I’ll be right up,” he says.

  He is, in record time, like he has his own private elevator. He’s slightly out of breath.

  As I watch him close the door behind him, even though I know Officer Mortimer is just outside, that this time, someone will hear me if I scream, my body remembers the other night. It remembers Graham’s fury, and his threat, and his fingers, and his breath. It remembers being told that people only hear what they want to hear, and no one wants to hear me.

  No, he’s wrong. The world is changing. Think about Harvey Weinstein, Kevin Spacey, Matt Lauer, Louis C.K., all the producers and entertainers and broadcasters and politicians and moguls brought low.

  But in those cases, there were multiple accusers, strength in numbers. Right now, I’m all alone.

  My stomach’s clenched, my limbs have gone cold, and my respiration has shallowed. I remind myself that like Elyse learned in self-defense class, my body’s preparing itself to fight or flee. I fought Graham the other night, and I’m going to keep fighting.

  “Hi.” I smile at him with faux warmth. “It’s good to see you.” I gesture toward the seat recently vacated by Albie.

  As soon as he’s across from me, he says, “I’ve been thinking a lot, Cheyenne. My feelings got the best of me the other night. I really like you. I thought that you liked me, and I just—it got out of hand.”

  So that’s the narrative he’s going with. It wasn’t anger the other night, it was passion.

  My breath is deepening; my arms and legs aren’t as cold as they were. I just need to play my part. I can hate him later. I will hate him later. “I understand. I do sometimes send mixed signals.”

  His face practically liquefies with gratitude. “Sometimes I’m not great at reading women. I didn’t get a lot of practice when I was younger.” No shit. “Being where I am at INN, it can go to your head. I have to really work to stay grounded. I just want us to be friends again.” That’s how he treats his friends? I don’t want to know how he treats enemies. “Could we do that?”

&nb
sp; “Absolutely.” I smile. “I would love to be your friend.” But I will never forget that you’re my enemy.

  He smiles back. I’ve just absolved him. Or so he thinks. “I’ll make sure I help you however I can. The Until story didn’t have the legs we’d hoped, but you do. In more ways than one.”

  He is so vile. “I know it was my fault. The Until story. I couldn’t carry it off. I let you, Ty, and Edwin down. But I’m going to do better.”

  He makes a move as if to place a comforting hand on me and then thinks better of it. Fortunately, he doesn’t seem to see me flinch. “You will,” he agrees. “You’ll do better.”

  So the prick is actually agreeing that it’s my fault. He’s absolving me.

  But I focus on the most salient point: he believes me. The apology tour has gotten off to a fine start. Graham, Edwin, Ty—the unholy trinity. I’ll express remorse that I failed to deliver, I’ll let the big men around me provide solace, and I’ll vow to never disappoint them again, if they’ll only give me another chance. I’ll play the broken woman, a good soldier, and they can think that they’ve put me in my place, wherever it is they want me to be. I’m their Broadcast Barbie. I will thoroughly and completely snow them, so when the knife plunges into their backs, they’ll never see it coming.

  Chapter 33

  August 14, 1991

  Last night, B.N. found out that I’d met with R.G. He wasn’t even mad, just sad, which made me feel terrible. He’s such a good person, and sometimes I wonder if I am. I spend so much time thinking about myself, and what I want, and what I’m afraid of. I lose sight of people.

  “You were in love with him,” he said. “Are you, still?”

  Our conversation was happening in the dark, as usual. That meant I had to control only my voice, not my face. “No, I don’t love him anymore.”

  If I don’t love him, why am I looking over my shoulder for him every time I’m on the street, both relieved and disappointed when I don’t see him?

  But I was telling the truth when I said, “I want you, B.N.”

  We’d been lying back to back, and I could feel B.N. rolling toward me, close but not touching. It was my move, and my chance to prove that I really am over R.G., to myself as much as to B.N.

  I hadn’t had a drop of alcohol, but I kissed him anyway. Tentatively at first, and then with abandon, like I’d been caged for years. His response was surprisingly swift. He yanked my shirt off and pulled down my sweats and underpants, rounding the bases as fast as he could. I would have expected him to be gentler, but it had been a long time for him too.

  Then he was in just his boxers, and I hesitated. “I don’t have a condom,” I said. I hoped he didn’t either.

  No such luck. He fumbled in his wallet on the nightstand, pulling out a foil wrapper.

  I got that old feeling. Two old feelings, actually: the first that I was losing contact with my own passion and desires, that I was hijacked by the worry that I wouldn’t be what he—any he—wants. I thought maybe I could sneak out and have some vodka, and it would get me over the hump, so to speak.

  The second feeling was about a different kind of spectator. It used to be Lyndon, though I know he’s dead. What I don’t know is if there’s Someone Else. Not Lyndon, and not Trish. Just Someone. Always Someone.

  “Are you okay?” B.N. asked.

  I could feel what he wanted, and I wanted to give it to him. That’s what you’re supposed to do once you’ve worked a guy up to this state. “No, you go ahead.”

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  “It’s not you, it’s me.”

  “Are we already breaking up? We never even got together, exactly.” His joke fell flat.

  “I’m kind of scarred by everything that happened. With Lyndon, and whoever else.”

  “Like R.G.”

  I had the impulse to defend R.G. and our relationship, to pretend we never had any problems other than the stalking, but that would be a lie, and it only hurts me to tell it. In moments like this, R.G. never stopped to see how I was. He never cared whether I really wanted him, and I learned not to care either.

  “R.G. too,” I said.

  “Let’s wait for a better time, then. There’s no rush. You didn’t say no tonight, but I want you to say yes.”

  Somehow, we were okay. He made it okay. We even managed to fall asleep, his arm loosely around my waist.

  Then today, after the show, I was looking across at him as the staff gathered on-set for the meeting Dennis had called. I watched him push his glasses up his nose, thinking that’s the man who’ll be in my bed tonight, who I want in my bed, who’ll wait until it’s right. I started to smile.

  Then I realized: Trish was the only person who wasn’t there. She’d raced out of the studio the second the show ended. Even Scott and Conrad were in attendance.

  Dennis said, “I’ll get right to the point. Trish will be leaving us. It’s for personal reasons that she prefers not to disclose.”

  Everyone looked shocked, even Conrad. Only Scott was taking it in stride.

  Dennis told us that Friday is her final show—as in, two days away. He talked about putting together a tribute montage, bearing in mind what kind of send-off would help the viewer get ready for the new coanchor.

  He didn’t say who that would be, and my mind was whirling as the meeting concluded. Dennis gestured for me to come over and told me we’d meet in his office in twenty minutes.

  In the elevator, I was light-headed. I want this, yes, but am I really ready for it? I’ve anchored before, but that was a half-hour broadcast in a small market. This is Morning Sunrise. “Have a seat.” He gestured, unsmiling, toward the black chair across from his. His manner was arctic. “I’ve been debating between a series of guest hosts and letting you have the spot—temporarily, as a tryout. The ‘Safety First!’ segments are performing well, but that doesn’t mean viewers want to spend two hours with you every weekday morning.”

  “I will devote every waking hour to this job,” I said. “If you give me this chance, I won’t let you down. I promise you that.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You’ll have a week’s tryout. After that, we either extend, or we bring in guest hosts.”

  “I just want you to know, I’m not going to give you any trouble. If you promote me, if you let me have this opportunity, I wouldn’t even need a raise. I’d stay at my newsreader salary.”

  “This isn’t a financial decision.” His lip curled. “You heard that Trish gave me trouble?”

  “No, no”—I was stumbling over my words—“I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “We don’t have much time to get ready for your debut. I want you here every day, every night, prepping.”

  “Of course. Thank you so much, Dennis.”

  “Get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow, it all begins.” He put on a pair of reading glasses and looked down at a sheaf of papers on his desk. It was my cue to leave.

  “Thank you so much! See you tomorrow!” Too perky. Not even Katie Couric could have pulled that off and sounded genuine.

  As I was about to open the door, he said, “B.N.? That’s the best you could do?”

  I pretended not to hear.

  Down on the lower floor, I gathered my things, talking to no one. I was shaken up. It’s just an audition, not a job offer, and now I have to win Dennis back. I’d wanted him to know about B.N., but now it seems like a miscalculation that could have cost me a permanent contract.

  I looked over at B.N., and he gave me this smile, like we’re in it together, but really, I might need to be on my own.

  I can’t blow this for a romance that might not go anywhere. Men always say they’ll stand by you. R.G. did, once upon a time. He said the same thing a few days ago. Now where is he?

  The rumor mill has already started: management is reaching out to a number of high-profile women, including Connie Chung, though they’re not sure if America is ready to wake up to an ethnic woman. If it’s true, it might not matter how well I perfor
m next week. Depending on who’s available, I might be forced to step aside. If it’s not Connie Chung, it could be a blonde with a higher profile and a better rack.

  I hurried home, not even saying goodbye to B.N.

  I just wanted Dennis to leave me alone. Now I might have gotten my wish.

  On Monday, though, I get my shot. If the viewers respond to me the way they’ve responded to my safety segments, Dennis will have to hire me, regardless of his personal feelings. I’ll make it so that if he doesn’t offer me the job, he’ll have to do some explaining to his bosses. He does have a few. That job is meant to be mine. I’ve suffered for it.

  When I got home, I felt like I’d run a marathon. No, a gauntlet. Yet it hasn’t even begun.

  I was famished. I went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator to find that the food on every shelf had been rearranged. I hadn’t told the People writer that Lyndon used to do that. But Someone Else knows.

  If I called the police and said there had been an intruder, there’s no way they’d take me seriously. They’d think I’d rearranged my own refrigerator and forgotten about it; they’d accuse me of sleepwalking. Police can always find an explanation to keep them from having to do their jobs. They’d laugh about me later. Worse, they might leak to the Star or the Enquirer: “Morning Anchor Cracks Up!”

  There’s nothing funny about it. Someone wants me to know they’ve been here, that they can get to me in my own home, and that they know everything from my past.

  Trish is already out of a job, so the only reason she would do something like this is in retaliation. But how would she know about Lyndon’s condiment trick? Also, she’s a celebrity. If she came into my building, someone would recognize her.

  R.G. knew. For the first time, I’m the one who rejected him. Could he be so angry that he’d terrorize me? I wouldn’t think he’d do that, but then, I never thought he’d leave me on the courthouse steps.