by Liz Newman
Skye had heard the story from a cameraman who had witnessed Geldman’s death. Dressed in a camel blazer with nary a strand of his impeccably dyed hair out of place, glared into the camera, straightened his shoulders and watched the countdown to airtime. He took a sip of coffee as the On the Air flashed. His mouth opened and closed like a fish’s, while the floor producer’s forehead glistened with sweat. Bob Geldman cleared his throat, looked at the camera again, and collapsed into his script.
Stage hands rushed to assist him as the floor producer shouted, “Keep rolling! Keep rolling!”
“He was a good man,” Skye offered.
“May he rest in peace for all the good he did. But if that’s not working yourself to death…” Kleinstiver’s trailed off, as he scanned a document on his desk. Skye peeked at it, Fish Stick Fridays are Back! Kleinstiver slipped the school lunch menu into a desk drawer and went on. “I see no point in writing and recording two different shows per weekday.”
Kleinstiver arranged the papers on his desk a neat stack. “Diane Sawyer presents an hourly new magazine show once a week,” he continued.
“You, twice a day. A solo anchor presenting multiple topics. Shall I demand that you not kill yourself for the sake of this show? Frankly, Skye, human beings shouldn’t expect that of each other. We’re going to play the five o’clock show again at ten o’clock. Our research teams have assured us that ratings will remain steady, even if that little caption that says Live will disappear. Do you know what that tells me, Skye?”
“What?”
“That no one in TV land gives a flying…fish stick. People who watch the five o’clock show are usually asleep by ten o’clock, and if not, they can double their dose of you and all the same news they viewed before to make sure they didn’t miss anything.” He rubbed his haggard face. “What the devil do you do besides work, anyhow?” His tired eyes reflected the blue light of the computer screen.
“I order take-out, work at home, and try to catch up on ten years of lost REM sleep. Tonight, I’m going wild and meeting Edie for a cocktail.”
Kleinstiver switched off his computer and walked to the closet by his office door. “In the spirit of keeping my brain from merging with the Associated Press, I will join you,” he decreed as he donned a beige trench coat and wrapped a wool scarf around his neck. “Then it’s off to the ‘burbs and my darling spouse and daughters, who have forgotten what I look like, but are enjoying the fruits of my good work ethic. Remember to put a coat on,” he said in a fatherly manner. “It’s deceivingly beautiful outside, but the air is as dead and cold as winter.”
“Meet you in the lobby in five.” She smiled and strode toward her corner office to retrieve her coat.
***
Skye, Edie, and Kleinstiver sat down at a table in The Club Room, New York City’s posh lounge du jour. Steady beats pulsed while gorgeous model types carried champagne buckets and glasses to tables. Heads turned to toward their table, as the well-heeled leaned in to whisper to each other.
“That’s Skye Evans.”
The air smelled of expensive cigarettes, fragrant jasmine candles, and spices.
Marcus Kleinstiver stirred his drink and raised his hand to summon the cocktail waitress. He took a swig of his tequila. “Teleworld is being taken over. Robert isn’t worried, but I am. He’s positive they won’t lay me off because of our children. Job insecurity makes every past financial decision a regrettable one, although our surrogate is now a very well-kept woman.”
He chuckled without smiling.
“Everyone is expendable. Especially an old queen, to a stuffy conservative like Millingham. Now, about the takeover; Ridley Post, honorary member of the board of directors, let me in on this, so keep it hush-hush,” Kleinstiver continued.
“Alfred Millingham is in the middle of some nasty divorce proceedings. Lorraine is taking him to the cleaners after forty some years of marriage because she caught him in his office fooling around with Denny Moss.”
“His secretary?!” Edie squealed. “No.”
Kleinstiver grinned. “Ridley said Alfred was sitting on his office chair and cradling Denny on his lap like a baby when Lorraine walked in. Alfred was as naked as an albino alligator. Probably looked like one, too.” Edie’s looked disgusted and threw a bacon-wrapped scallop back onto her plate. Kleinstiver went on.
“Lorraine burst out screaming for someone to call the police. ‘Indecency!’ she shouted, repeatedly. That and, “‘In front of the window!’”
“Denny looks pretty young for her age,” Skye chuckled.
“I look pretty young next to Alfred, too. So does Tutankhamen.” Kleinstiver downed his drink, pushing the empty glass aside and stirring the next one.
Skye recalled her first meeting with Denny Moss. She had forced herself not to look at Denny’s cleavage: Her breasts defied gravity and threatened to heave right over the neckline of her scoop-neck shirt. She had looked around at the other employees, who smiled and shook Denny’s hand. Impulsively, she glanced at Denny’s shirt again and beheld a slight peek of pink nipple poking out. Denny’s breasts threatened to pop out of her shirt any day, and Skye had believed some heavy-bottomed Human Resources manager would soon fire Denny without qualms. Skye wished she had organized an office pool to bet on it, as she loved a sure thing.
Denny reported to work in a variety of provocative outfits: a short Catholic school girl’s uniform skirt with knee-high socks and stiletto heels; a man’s shirt masquerading as a dress, and a belt that in Denny’s mind must have passed for a skirt. Never in a hundred years would she have guessed that Alfred would be attracted to such a creature. She glanced at Edie, who was working on her cell phone calculator.
“This is how long my savings will last, with severance.” Edie showed them the figure. Kleinstiver flagged down the cocktail waitress.
“Keep them coming,” he said. “My eldest daughter is getting married in four months. One hundred grand for chicken or fish, flowers, and a band. Not including the bar tab.” He sighed and leaned back, his head in his hands. Sweat stains showed under his arms. “Millingham built this company from the ground up. Now he runs one of the top five major news networks. Rumor has it that Denny is expecting. Of course, he wants to sell, so he can travel around the world drinking single malt scotch while cradling Al Junior in one arm and a former member of the New York Knicks’ dance squad in the other.”
Skye shook her head. “Alfred has millions, perhaps billions, tied up in securities, investments, and stock options. Never missed a day I can remember. As long as he can breathe on his own, he’ll never trust the company to anyone else.”
Skye’s eyes fixed on the condensation ring her glass left on the table. She wiped it away with her cocktail napkin.
“There’s more,” Kleinstiver continued. “A few failed ventures dent the pocketbook, even for a multi-millionaire like Alfred. The dot-bombs, foreclosed restaurants, and legal battles with family members and service workers in his employ who witnessed firsthand how rich he has become. Not to mention his generosity with his friends,” Kleinstiver made quotation marks with his fingers at the word, “who are simply disgusting opportunists. He’s won a big hand with Teleworld. It’s simply a matter of time before he cashes in his chips.”
“Skye!” A willowy redhead approached their table.
“Tabitha?” Skye rose to hug her former roommate.
“My god, I haven’t seen you in years!”
“Congratulations on the Laney Award!” Tabitha said. “Jonas and I watch your show almost every night. What have you been doing? Besides working on the show.”
“You know me,” Skye shrugged. “A work recluse.”
“Come meet my friends.” Tabitha motioned toward a table of well-dressed youthful aristocrats engrossed in a conversation. “You should join us.”
Skye made a hasty introduction to Edie and Kleinstiver as she tried to think of an excuse to decline Tabitha’s invitation. Kleinstiver put on his overcoat and Edie decided aloud to
pick up a chocolate donut before going home to catch the end of CSI: Miami. Kleinstiver pecked Skye’s cheeks and waved goodbye to Tabitha’s dazzling smile and Edie’s retreating.
Tabitha took Skye’s arm, pulling her down to sit with the rest of the group just as a bottle of premium vodka on a tray with bowls of olives and onions, a bottle of grenadine, assorted juices, and freshly chilled glasses arrived. A handsome young man signed the tab, and Tabitha curled into him and whispered in his ear.
He leaned forward and held out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Skye. I’m Tabitha’s fiancé.”
“Likewise. You look so familiar. Where have I met you before?” Skye said.
The young man shrugged and looked at Tabitha. “Don’t be modest. Tell her.”
Tabitha swelled with pride . Jonas remained silent. “All right, I’ll tell her. He’s Jonas P. Laurenti.”
“Aptly described as one of the greatest entertainment moguls of our time,” Skye smiled. “I am a fan. Truly. I heard The Stone Cutter surpassed a worldwide box office record.”
“Enough about work, please. I promise not to discuss what happened today in the news,” Jonas replied as Tabitha laughed and bit a cherry.
“This is Blaine Pfeiffer,” Jonas continued. “He’s a partner at Grandclemente and Ross law firm.” Jonas turned back to the rest of the group.
Blaine leaned toward Skye and picked up a glass.
“Allow me to throw together one of my favorites for you. I used to call these Blaine’s Specials when I bartended during law school.”
He handed the drink to Skye and said, “Let’s toast.”
Skye took a sip and wiggled her toes in her Weitzman heels. “It’s delicious!”
“A bar full of drunk fraternity and sorority members agreed with that statement for many nights. Blaine’s Specials kept them coming back. That and fifty-cent drinks.”
He leaned toward Skye and spoke softly. “To be honest, I’m a little out of place with these blue-blood types. I worked my way through school.”
“So, did I,” Skye said. She raised her glass and they toasted.
“Lucky Skye.” Tabitha interjected loudly. “She happens to be Carolyn Chase’s daughter.”
She turned back to her friends and became engrossed in the animated stories they told. Skye groaned inside.
“The Carolyn Chase?” Blaine asked. “You’ve got the genes of a media superstar. My dad was a mechanic. Although I have been told I’m a talented attorney. And I believe it, so I suppose I am.” Blaine flashed a smile.
“How’s the legal world, Blaine?” Skye said.
“Excruciating. Someday I’m going to turn away from it all and make pottery for a living.”
“I work twelve-, fifteen-hour days and wonder if it means anything. If the monetary rewards are worth the energy I put into my work.”
“Sounds like you need a good man, Skye,” Blaine replied with a wry smile.
Skye sighed and glanced at her watch. She rose to leave.
“Time for me to go. Tabitha,” she called.
Jonas kissed and nuzzled Tabitha’s neck. They murmured in the sweet and silent way lovers do when they’re ready to escape from the public eye. “It was so nice to see you again.”
Tabitha enveloped Skye in another gigantic hug, then pulled away and mouthed the words Call me.
Chapter Two
Skye stared at the ceiling, dazed with the remnants of elixirs floating in her system. The memories of her boyfriends flooded back. The gorgeous young fashion designer who watched himself in the bedroom mirror as they made love; the CEO of a major company who ripped off his dress shirt, lifted up his arm and inhaled, entranced by his own manly scent. And then there was Gibbs, with his cigarettes, quick wit, and sardonic smile. She had to admit she had loved him best. There’s something about the smell of cigarettes, booze, and leather, she thought as she buried herself in the covers. A familiar smell for little girls growing up in the 1970’s. A dad smell. Ugh. This is why I hate lying in bed and thinking.
Pointing the remote, she turned on the television and flipped through the channels: a home-shopping network touting beaded caftans and dusters, a cooking show with a pleasantly plump hostess, and a classic 1980s teen flick.
“Blaine?” the actor on television said.
“That’s not a name. That’s an appliance.”
She chuckled as she rose to prepare a whole grain English muffin and fruit. She sipped French-pressed Bolivian coffee with a teaspoon of rice milk, and then looked at the clock above the kitchen table. Six-thirty. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
Her fax machine buzzed, and a stack of documents printed into the tray. Skye popped half a strawberry in her mouth as she perused the report and then dialed Kleinstiver’s cell phone.
“Greetings from the office. Kleinstiver here in my Sunday best.”
“Shall I call you Father?” Skye asked.
“So long as you never marry and require a wedding to be paid for.”
“I’m going to try and keep that dream alive,” Skye smiled. “I received the bios for tomorrow night’s guests. These questions are going to need serious work. Just another lazy Sunday.”
“I’ll be here until five in the afternoon. Same time, same channel,” Kleinstiver said.
After editing in her office, Skye ventured out for a second muffin. When she returned, she sliced a piece of cheese and an apple and ate while she worked. At ten o’ clock, she peered into the refrigerator again but found nothing. She made her way to the pantry. She found a pack of snack cakes and stuffed a one into her mouth. You weak little pig, she thought. That’s what people will think when they look at you.
She spit out the cake and rinsed her mouth. She spat the cake into the trash and then put on her jogging gear.
The sun shone on the busy streets as she passed by a group of models walking through a street market, happily sharing a greasy bag of doughnut holes. Tourists sifted through fake designer bags and ogled thin cashmere sweaters and wool scarves.
Vendors called out to Skye.
“Hey, pretty lady! I got gold bracelets here. Rings, diamonds! Whatever you want. Alright, fugghedabout it!”
She heard horses’ hooves and the creaky wheels of drawn carriages as she arrived at the park. A happy couple twirled a toy in front of a black French poodle as it barked and jumped, and a group of happy children rode by on bicycles. Skye stretched her hamstrings and calves. Her lower back cracked, reminding her of the long hours in the anchor’s chair or at a desk. She sat for a moment. Feeling eyes on her, she turned to find a handsome, blond man sitting next to her.
“Hi,” he said. “I didn’t know sitting down could quicken my heart beat so much. Must be you.”
“That’s a good one,” she said. “Original.”
“Nah, I use it all the time.”
He pushed his hair out of his eyes, and she knew she’d better start running. She took off, her feet flying on the pavement. The leaves on the trees had begun to turn gold. Then she heard someone panting behind her. She slowed and jogged backward. The man from the bench struggled to keep up.
“You’d better sit back down. If you get in shape, you won’t be able to use that great pick-up line anymore,” Skye called.
He laughed and pursued her.
“I was joking. I’ve never used it before today. I’m a newbie when it comes to this running thing, if you can’t tell already. Can we sit down and talk, or are you going to make me run a little more?”
“You’ll have to do much better than that!” Skye sprinted, her legs flying. He sped up to run beside her, out of breath.
“Like I said, this is new to me. This…trying…to…get…in shape,” he panted. “How long do you run?”
“About three miles a day. Usually at the gym, but it’s such a nice day out.” She liked his face, his Roman nose. He smiled and then bam! ran right into a streetlamp and fell to the ground, holding his cheek.
She stopped and crouched next to him. “That must’ve hurt,�
�� she laughed.
“Yeah, that was pretty embarrassing.” He sat up and leaned back, wrapping his arms around his knees.
“The cheek will be okay. Guess I’ll always have a memory of you. Unless you care to give me your phone number.”
“Let me guess; we’ll make even better memories. Better put some ice on that.”
She held her hand to his cheek a millisecond too long before running off, the sound of his laughter fading behind her. She jogged another two miles, winding and taking side trails around the park. When she finally slowed, he had disappeared.
***
A waitress placed a steaming café latte before her in a bistro on Fifth Avenue, across from Central Park. She sipped the latte and ate Waldorf salad while browsing the Times. She thought about the blond man. She turned to the Entertainment section. She remembered his smile and the way he leaned toward her on the bench, causing her to blush. She lay the paper on the table and lifted the mug to her lips, staring out at passersby, and saw him walk into the bistro.
“No shower before lunch? You really are my type of girl. May I?” He gestured to the seat across the table.
Skye felt annoyed by the comment, but admired the Rolex on his wrist. “Since you didn’t break a sweat, be my guest.” She smiled as she sipped.
“I’m Charlie Meyer. You look so familiar. You’re an actress, no doubt.”
“Don’t keep up with the news much; do you, Charlie?”
“Ah, you’re a movie star.”
“Wrong again.” She opened her newspaper and pretended to read.
“One more guess, okay? I guess right; you buy us lunch. I guess wrong; I’ll buy.” He motioned a waitress over. A girl wearing a black polo shirt and pants appeared with a notepad.
“What’s the most expensive meal on the menu?” Charlie asked.
“For lunch…the grilled cheese and Dungeness crab sandwich and tomato basil soup with truffle oil,” the waitress said.
“I’ll take it.” He turned to Skye. “Wine?”
