I looked down at the tables, a sea of darkness under the bright spotlight, until I could make out the outline of Rob’s face and saw him offer a wink. “So without further ado, may I introduce . . . Dame Julie Andrews.”
The crowd clapped as Julie Andrews walked onto the stage and I made my way back to the table. Suzy Berenson had vacated her seat and disappeared. I sat down, took another big swig of champagne, draining the glass, then collapsed against the chair. Rob reached under the table and squeezed my hand.
• • •
“Thank God that’s over,” I shouted to Rob as the band struck up loud swing music, signaling the dancing portion of the evening and my cue to head out to my waiting town car. I took one last gulp of Suzy Berenson’s untouched champagne and stood up.
Rob leapt to pull my chair out, then brushed crumbs off his tux. “How ’bout we move to the bar for a nightcap?”
“I can’t,” I said, reaching for my purse. “I have to go.”
Rob cocked his head to the right, causing his hair to fall onto his forehead in a boyish way. “Just one? Come on, prin-chi-PAY-sa,” he smiled. “Don’t we need a postgame wrap-up?”
I did want to wash down the bitter Suzy aftertaste. “Okay.”
Rob grabbed my hand and led me across the crowded dance floor to the candlelit oak bar adjacent to the ballroom. He held up two fingers to the bartender.
“Two glasses of Veuve, please.”
“What a night,” I sighed, taking my seat on a barstool, then lifting my hand to press on my left temple.
“Dear Diary,” Rob started, using his finger as a fake pen, pretending to write on his cocktail napkin. “It’s me, Amanda. I met my idol, Suzy Berenson, America’s Sweetheart . . . correction”—Rob stopped, pretending to erase the entry—“make that, America’s Flaming Bee-atch.” He crumpled the napkin and pitched it across the bar like a baseball. “Did you hear that load of horseshit coming out of her mouth? Our high-end demographic . . . Blah, blah, blah. Why doesn’t she go get a half-caf venti cappuccino, no foam, extra hot, with a lid stopper so she doesn’t spill it on the leather seats in her hybrid Lexus as she heads to the Hamptons?”
“Wow,” I said, impressed by his on-the-fly characterization. “You seem to know her intimately.”
“I know her type,” Rob said. “Pretends to be ‘of the people’ on the air, then takes a private jet to P. Diddy’s White Party to avoid the unwashed masses. I’m sure she thinks anyone west of the George Washington Bridge is a redneck.”
Hearing that word made me think of Charlie, and it gave me a sad, unsettled feeling. Maybe Charlie should marry Suzy Berenson.
The bartender gently pushed two glasses of champagne across the shiny wood toward us. I put mine to my lips and let the bubbles burst into my mouth and tingle down my throat.
“And how about that part about me signing a manifesto?” I said to Rob, shaking my head, unable to shake the accusation.
“Don’t listen to a word she said, okay Amanda? She can’t hold a candle to you. On any level.”
“Thank you, Rob,” I said, reaching for his hand to pat. “I appreciate everything you said back there. I really do. The problem is I happen to agree with her.” I took another gulp and looked off across the bar.
“What does that mean?” Rob asked, placing his first finger under my chin and drawing my gaze back to him.
“Face it, we don’t challenge our guests enough, especially Fluke. And these poor kids on the staff think they’re producing a newscast, but they have no earthly idea what journalism is.” God, now I sound like Charlie.
“You think Suzy Berenson’s morning show is journalism?” Rob asked. “I mean, if you want to learn about the best fall accessories for your pet, then yes.”
“Look, Wake Up, USA! is not really ‘True and Equal.’” I was starting to lean forward on my barstool, toward Rob, beseeching him. “I don’t blame Suzy for thinking FAIR News may be responsible for the downfall of journalism. And without journalism, you know where that leaves us? We’re supposed to be the watchdogs of government and politicians. Without us, well, that is the end of democracy. I mean, we might be ruining civilization.” I took another gulp.
“Are you drunk?” he asked.
“Maybe.”
“Is it possible you’re using hyperbole for effect?” Rob asked, nodding at me, like one would a naughty five-year-old.
“I don’t think so, Rob,” I said, girding myself against the bar. “I do feel like boiling myself in hot water after some of those segments with Arthur Dove. The show crosses the line and you know it and you don’t do anything about it! You’re not even trying to solve problems!”
“That’s not our job,” Rob said.
“That’s our mission statement!”
“Not really,” Rob chided. “That’s a Benji gimmick. Our job is to rush into the fire of breaking news—and when no news is happening, to have a fiery conversation in a well-lit studio. Our job is to make good TV.”
“But don’t you see, Rob? You’re not putting out the fire. You’re fanning the flames!”
“Way to run with a metaphor!”
“I’m serious, Rob. If you want to be a fireman, stop masquerading as a journalist! This is what is so frustrating about you! You actually know the facts. But you dance around them like they don’t matter. It’s like you only want the heat, not the light.”
I braced for what I knew would happen next: Rob would stand up, probably toss a twenty onto the bar, flip me off, and walk out. And then he’d stop talking to me, like Charlie had done. I reached for my purse to avoid having to sit alone too long in the aftermath of Rob storming out.
“Okay,” Rob said after a long exhale, then sat still and looked straight at me. “What should I do differently? I’m all ears.”
“That’s funny,” I said, “I heard you were all hands.” I had to beat Rob to whatever punch line he was planning.
“I’m being serious, Amanda,” he said, leaning toward me. “I think we have something. It’s working. The viewers love us together. If what I’m doing upsets you, let me hear your suggestions.”
I put down my champagne and turned my barstool to face him. “For starters, we can’t let everyone with an agenda or some crazy opinion say whatever shit they want to on national television. When they lie and make false claims, we shouldn’t book those guests again. They have to be fact based, and when they’re not, you should call them on it.”
“Fair point,” Rob said calmly.
“Plus, I know moderate voices don’t make for good TV, but extremism is not good for the country. Our guests say some extreme things to get attention and it’s toxic.”
“I hear ya,” Rob said, still looking at me intently. “Some of our guests go too far. I’ll give you that. But that’s the risk of live TV. We don’t know what the guest is going to say before it comes out. It’s unpredictable. And admit it, that’s what makes our show interesting and more spontaneous. You’re leaving out the fun parts.”
“Some of it is fun,” I agreed.
“Remember that piglet and puppy race?” Rob asked. “That was pretty funny.”
“You mean when Larry announced we had ‘a wiener’?” I said.
Rob shook his head with resignation. “Larry.”
“That’s the crazy part about Wake Up,” I went on, picking up my champagne flute again and pointing it at him. “Sometimes it’s really fun and sometimes it’s really toxic. That’s quite a hybrid, you know. It’s almost like we should invent a new word for our brand of news that combines fun with toxic.”
“Hmm . . .” Rob thought about it for a second. “How about foxic?”
“Yes!” I slapped the bar. “We’re foxic!”
“I want to figure this out with you,” Rob said, looking at me. “What else do you think I should work on?”
“Well, let’s see
. You have a bad habit of saying some words over and over again. It’s maddening.”
“Like what?”
“God, where do I start? You say ‘from the get-go,’ and ‘let’s unpack this.’ Oh, you love to say ‘touché.’”
Rob looked away, like maybe I was hurting his feelings, then nodded. “Roger that.”
“Ah! That’s another one!”
“Okay, okay. Too many touchés? So that’s it?”
“You would never agree to do what I think we should do.”
“Try me.”
I took a deep inhale. “The election is one month away. What if we really hold Victor Fluke’s feet to the fire? What if we really ask him the tough questions? How about we do a real interview with him, where we don’t let him spin? How ’bout we bring up the housekeeper? Our own October surprise.”
Rob looked up and to the left, like he was watching the movie of that future moment play out on the mahogany bar. “We do that, it’s a one-shot deal,” Rob said. “It would piss off Fluke. And chances are he would never come back.”
“I disagree. He likes being on TV too much to boycott it.”
“But he might go to the competition.”
“Well, there you have it,” I said, putting down my glass. “I knew you wouldn’t want to do it. That’s the problem. When push comes to shove, you don’t have the balls to do it.”
“Excuse me?” Rob said. “Don’t make me drop my pants right here. I’ll do it.”
“Honestly, Rob, aren’t you embarrassed that we sit there every morning like we’ve never heard of the housekeeper scandal?”
“Yeah, sometimes. But then I look at my paycheck and I feel a lot better.”
“Rob, I’m telling you, this would put us on the map in a different way. Suzy Berenson could never question our journalistic credentials again. Plus if we confronted him, it would be a coup d’état. A ratings bonanza, in your language.”
“Keep talking French,” Rob said. “It’s sexy.”
“I’m serious!” I said, slapping his arm.
“And sexy,” Rob said. “Okay.”
“Okay, what?”
“Let’s go for it. Let’s nail him.”
“Are you drunk?” I asked.
“Drunk with possibilities,” he said.
“So are you in or out?”
“Oh, I’m in, darlin’.”
“Okay, then.” I steadied myself to glance down at Heshie’s diamond watch. “Oh, my God, it’s ten thirty! I have to go home. I haven’t even studied the rundown yet. Tomorrow’s going to be a disaster. I have to get up at three A.M.!”
“Really? That’s weird,” Rob said, “because SO DO I!”
I let out a whoop of a laugh, champagne almost coming out my nose. “Sorry! I forgot we’re in the same boat.”
“If there’s one person on Earth, Amanda, who understands what your life is like, it’s me,” Rob said. “I get it. I get you.”
“So then why don’t you need to go to sleep?”
“Because I’m having a good time with you.” Rob smiled that winning smile of his and I felt my chest flutter for a second, which I chalked up to the champagne. “Look,” he said, “I understand how hard you prepare and how well you want to do. You and I are more similar than you like to admit.”
“Oh, really?” I said, raising an eyebrow at him.
“Yes, really. I want us to do well, too. Only you and I understand how challenging our jobs are. And all the sick social media stuff. And Fatima, and Topher, and Larry.” Rob stood up from his barstool and moved closer to my legs. “Only you and I know how ‘foxic’ it is.”
“You make it seem like none of it matters to you,” I said, and I could feel his pant leg brush against my bare leg.
“It matters a lot to me,” he said. “I know what an incredible opportunity this is. That’s why I’m grateful. I know what else is out there, and I know you don’t find chemistry like ours.” Rob put his hand lightly on my knee. “Trust me, tomorrow will be fine. You’re so sharp, you can anchor the show with half your brain tied behind your back.”
“I hate to phone it in, Rob,” I said, sensing now would probably be a good time to get up and leave. “Plus I need more beauty sleep than you.”
“No, you don’t,” he said, giving me a long look. “You’re gorgeous. I haven’t been able to stop staring at you all night.”
Shit, there was that feeling again in my chest. Rob’s body pressed into my legs.
“How about just one more glass?” Rob put his finger in the air for the bartender and slid his other hand around my waist. “We’ll share it.”
Chapter 27
Blow the Break
My God! What is that racket? Something was making a loud chirping noise, startling me out of a dream in which I was falling, falling . . . the sudden drop leaving me short of breath. My eyes tried to focus in the dark room. Holy shit! My alarm! How could it be 3:15 A.M. already? When I checked the clock mere seconds ago, it was 1:21.
I threw off the covers and caught sight of the crime scene. Lying on the floor, my feathered dress in a heap, shoes scattered, and, near the foot of the bed, an exhausted condom. And there, a foot away, another one. I tried to make out a strange object hanging from the lampshade. I squinted to discern its amorphous shape in the dark, until I realized it was my bra. Good Lord.
The night was a blur of Rob’s skin and mouth against mine, with a few crystalline moments coming back: his strong arms wrapped around me, his warm mouth on my neck. My chest tingled remembering it. Jesus, this guy’s a professional. His kisses were smooth and his mouth tasted sweet. Don’t fall for it, Amanda, whatever you do. I bent down to gather the evidence and dash to the bathroom before Rob woke up.
“Hey,” he reached for me. “Come back.”
“It’s three fifteen!” I said. “The car comes in half an hour. And I think you should take a taxi, so we’re not showing up in the same car.” Even in my champagne haze, I’d already thought that one out. “I’ve got to jump in the shower.”
“You’re right,” Rob said, sitting up, suddenly alert. “We don’t have a minute to spare. I’d better shower with you.”
Against my will, I laughed. “Something tells me that wouldn’t save any time.” I grabbed a towel from the chair where I’d left it and started toward the bathroom.
“Hey, slow down,” Rob said, his voice serious now. He reached for my arm and pulled me back down to the bed. He wrapped his arms around my waist, pressing his warm body against my back. “You’re amazing,” he whispered. I closed my eyes and could feel my heart pounding.
• • •
The town car pulled up to the studio door and I stepped out into the bracing night air, a baseball cap pulled over my wet head, my brain aching from champagne. A second later, Rob’s taxi pulled up to the curb directly behind mine. He hopped out and waved.
“Hey, Amanda, fancy meeting you at this hour!” he called, his voice the only sound on the deserted block. “What are the chances?” he asked, striding toward me, looking more handsome than he should, in his black pants and rumpled white dress shirt, tuxedo jacket in his hand. “Wow, rough night?” he asked, his eyes twinkling. “Looks like you didn’t get much sleep.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying this,” I said, hoisting my bag onto my shoulder and steading myself on the sidewalk.
“Oh, very much,” he smiled.
We walked up to the side entrance. Through the glass doors we could see Stanley sleeping upright in a chair, arms folded across his chest, passkey in hand. Rob rapped on the glass doors and Stanley startled awake, then leapt to let us in.
“Good morning, sir,” Rob said to Stanley, chipper as if it were nine A.M. “Look who I just happened to run into outside. My car coincidentally pulled up at the exact same time as Amanda’s, so that’s why we’re arriving together, bot
h with wet hair.”
Stanley stared at us blankly.
I shot Rob a look, then turned and marched straight to the elevator, willing myself not to look back at him, though I could feel his eyes on me.
“Nice bumping into you, Amanda,” he called.
I didn’t turn around. I couldn’t think about Rob . . . or his lips . . . stay focused! The elevator lifted, the loss of gravity adding to the light, fluttery sensation in my chest. Maybe I’m still drunk. I leaned against the metal wall, trying to block the images drifting in from last night: Rob pulling off his tux, his body pressed against mine. Dammit, stop thinking. How did my bra get on the lamp? And what the hell did I do with all that jewelry? Shit! Focus! It was impossible to imagine getting through a three-hour show. Staggering into my office, I clicked on my computer and I stared at the rundown for a few seconds, but it looked like a scrambled word cloud. My head was aching in earnest now. It was 4:30. I threw on a bright red dress and ran to the elevator.
• • •
5:55 A.M. I raced into the studio, straining to appear calm. Using peripheral vision, I could see Rob going over his notes and whistling to the music. Bruce unzipped my dress halfway, wrestling with my bra strap and the mic pack. “Good tune,” I said to distract myself. It took every ounce of discipline not to glance over at Rob on the sofa.
“It was Rob’s choice,” Bruce explained. “I didn’t know he’d ever heard of Neon Trees. I think you’re rubbing off on him.”
Amanda Wakes Up Page 26
