CHAPTER 1
SHELLY PIPER studied her reflection in the unforgiving glare of fluorescent lighting and mirrors on three sides and didn’t know whether to weep or puke. The pale green chiffon bridesmaid’s dress stretched across her sturdy frame like a misplaced canopy for Barbie’s dream bed. She forced a finger underneath the band of one puffed sleeve, hoping to restore blood flow to her arm. The designer of this thing obviously never met a ruffle, pouf or bow she didn’t love, since the yards of billowy fabric were liberally decorated with every frill and fribble imaginable. “I look like a Jell-O mold,” she said.
“Oh, now it’s not that bad.” Her best friend and bride-to-be, Yvonne Montoya, tried to smooth the full skirt of the dress, which ballooned over Shelly’s hips. “I think it’s just darling.”
“A darling Jell-O mold.” She frowned over her shoulder at the bow perched on her backside.
“No, you look beautiful,” Yvonne protested.
Only a bride, vision fogged by love and the prospect of her own white satin splendor, would think this. Shelly caught the eye of the salesclerk. The woman’s smile was strained. “I’m sure the effect of all the bridesmaids together will be wonderful,” she said.
Liar. Shelly tugged at the ruffled neckline, trying to pull it up over her cleavage. The designer apparently hadn’t considered that some women had real breasts, either.
“Emma and Stacy loved the dress,” Yvonne said.
Emma and Stacy were liars, too, Shelly decided. They were also sizes four and six respectively. They needed all these ruffles to give the illusion that they were more than shining hair and good cheekbones.
“Perhaps if I ordered the dress in a larger size.” The salesclerk frowned at the bow. Or maybe she was frowning at Shelly’s butt. Shelly was tempted to give a belly dancer shake for the clerk’s benefit.
“The size isn’t the problem.” She reached for the zipper and began to pull it down. “This isn’t the sort of dress for my body type.” Shelly was a well-endowed size twelve. One hundred percent natural curves. She’d learned long ago to avoid ruffles the way a dieter avoids cheesecake.
“Shelly, please!” Yvonne hurried after her as she headed for the dressing cubicle. “This is my wedding!” She said the word as if it was an occasion upon which life and death depended. Who knows, for Yvonne, maybe it was.
Six years ago, on a particularly maudlin evening shortly after her twenty-fifth birthday, a weeping, slightly inebriated Yvonne had vowed to be married by the time she turned thirty. When she’d missed that deadline, she’d plummeted into a months-long funk that had lifted only when she’d won the coveted proposal from Daniel Dunnegan, a commodities broker she’d known all of three months. Still, the man—and the upcoming wedding—made Yvonne happy, so Shelly was determined to keep her that way.
“It’s going to be a beautiful wedding.” Preparing for her role as maid of honor, she’d been practicing saying this repeatedly, a calming mantra for the stressed-out bride.
“But you have to be in it. And you have to wear that dress. It’s the perfect dress.”
Perfect for what? But she really already knew the answer. Since they were kids, Yvonne had harbored dreams of the perfect Cinderella wedding, complete with ruffled dresses, a fourtier cake and a white satin gown with a train five yards long. Having finally won that prized proposal, she had poured twenty years of pent-up longing into creating the absolutely perfect dream wedding.
It was a testament to their friendship that Yvonne hadn’t let her less-than-perfect choice of a maid of honor cloud her vision one bit. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t wear the dress,” Shelly said, watching her face in the mirror as she spoke. Same pleasant smile, same calm expression. This is what years of training to be on television will do for you. You could say the most alarming things with a straight face. Fifty homes destroyed by a tornado? Mass flooding in the southern valley? World’s worst bridesmaid’s dress proudly worn in public? That calm reporter’s demeanor never changed. “Of course I’ll wear the dress,” she continued. “It’s going to be a beautiful wedding.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Yvonne’s voice sounded dreamy, as it did too often these days. She drifted away, leaving Shelly to change clothes in peace.
Five minutes later she emerged from the cubicle, herself again in a neat black pantsuit with a beaded top that drew attention to her face and a long jacket that skimmed her hips. After years of dieting, exercise and various desperate measures, she’d celebrated her thirtieth birthday last year by embracing the fact that she was a size-twelve woman in a size-six world. She was healthy, she was strong and she was beautiful, even if not everyone appreciated her beauty. She appreciated it, and to hell with the rest of them.
Of course, there were still days when she looked at pictures of size-two models in magazines and wanted to slit her wrists. After all, years of brainwashing couldn’t be banished overnight. But she’d come a long way since the times when her mood for the morning was dictated by numbers on the scale. She had a whole new wardrobe of classy, flattering clothes and a new appreciation for her own sexy curves. And she’d discovered there were more than a few men out there who appreciated a woman with a woman’s shape.
Now if she could only convince her bosses at First For News to appreciate her as much. After years of slaving away behind the scenes, she’d finally earned a tryout for a weekend on-air reporter’s position. But that had been weeks ago. The powers that be were certainly taking their time making up their mind.
“Will that be check or charge?” The salesclerk greeted her at the front register.
Shelly handed over her charge card and tried not to think about how much she was paying for a dress she would wear once and then banish from her closet forever.
“I’m going shopping for stationery this afternoon, want to come?” Yvonne came to stand beside her. “You can help me pick out thank-you notes.”
Oh joy. Shelly shook her head. “Sorry, but I have to get back to the station. I’m hoping to catch Darcy by surprise and make her tell me what the higher-ups have decided about the reporter’s job.”
“You mean they still haven’t told you?” Yvonne planted her hands on her hips and looked outraged. Or as outraged as a curly haired blonde with big brown eyes can look. “No one’s worked as hard to get that job as you have. Why can’t they just give it to you?”
“This is television.” Shelly shrugged into her coat, then draped the dress bag over one arm. “Qualifications don’t necessarily have anything to do with whether or not you get a job.” But dammit, she had worked hard to prove herself. She’d volunteered for every shitty schedule, worked overtime turning in award-winning copy and had taken hours of classes to hone her skills in front of the camera. Going by seniority alone, she was next in line for a promotion. There was no good reason the job shouldn’t be hers.
She kept reminding herself of this on the drive from Cherry Creek to downtown. Though six inches of snow had fallen over the weekend, most of it had already melted away. The streets were clear and the sun shining through the windshield made it feel warmer than the thirty-eight degrees showing on the Republic Bank sign. A typical January in Denver.
As the elevator ticked off the passing floors on its way to First For News’ offices at the top of the Republic Plaza Building in downtown Denver, she rehearsed the spiel she’d give her boss, Darcy Long. It’s been three weeks. They told me from the first I was one of the top candidates. When will they make a decision? A polite, firm request for action. The key was to act professional and think positive.
As she stepped off the elevator, she caught a glimpse of a woman in a pink blouse and gray slacks darting down the hall. Darcy. And the hallway led to her office. A feeling of triumph surged through Shelly as she hurried after her boss.
She cornered Darcy in her office at the end of the hall. Darcy’s eyes widened as Shelly swept in after her and closed the door. “I don’t have time to talk, Shelly,” Darcy said, making a show of shuffling papers on her
desk. “I have a meeting with Roger in five minutes.” Roger was Roger Murphy, executive producer of First For News.
“Then you have five minutes.” Shelly settled into the chair across from Darcy’s desk. “This won’t take even that long, I’m sure.”
Darcy’s face looked pinched, though a series of Botox injections had made it impossible for her to actually frown. “What do you need?” she asked as she dropped into her chair.
“It’s been three weeks since my tryout for the onair reporter’s spot,” Shelly said. “Have you heard anything?”
Darcy wrinkled her nose. (The only part of her face she could wrinkle, Shelly supposed.) “I really don’t have time to discuss this right now. Maybe later….”
“How much time does it take to tell me yes or no?” Shelly struggled to keep a pleasant look on her face. Her stomach was doing the backstroke and she was wishing she hadn’t eaten that chicken sandwich at lunch.
“All right then, no.” Darcy avoided her eyes.
Shelly swallowed hard. “No you haven’t heard anything, or no I didn’t get the job?”
Darcy sighed. “No, you didn’t get the job.”
“What? Are they crazy?” She sprang to her feet, every calm, professional word she’d rehearsed burned from her brain by red-hot anger. “They told me I was a top candidate. That I did great in my audition. I’ve worked here ten years. My piece on homeless women won an award last year.”
“Tamra Smothers won an award for reporting that piece,” Darcy said.
“Yes, but I did the work. And everyone here knows it.” She paced back and forth, fists clenching and unclenching, before she turned on Darcy again. “What did they say? Why did they turn me down?”
Darcy shuffled papers again. “Oh, they weren’t specific. They apparently feel they’ve found someone else who will connect with viewers better.”
The words set off warning bells in Shelly’s brain. “What do you mean ‘connect with the viewers better’? Who did they hire?”
“I believe her name is Pamela Parsons. Very good credentials, I’m sure.”
“Pamela Parsons!” Known in local circles as Perky Pam, Parsons was a bleached-blond beauty queen whose main claim to fame was posing in a bikini in ads for Honest Cal’s Used Cars. The ads were plastered all over town, insuring that everyone knew who Pam was— “She’s not a journalist. She’s a model.”
“She has a journalism degree from the University of Colorado.” Darcy stood. “Look, I really have to go now.” She offered a patently fake smile. “Don’t worry, I’m sure there’ll be another chance for you soon.”
Right. Just as soon as I bleach my hair and lose forty pounds. “They thought I was too big, didn’t they?”
Darcy stumbled on her way out the door and turned to stare at Shelly, her face blanched white. “I didn’t say anything like that.”
“You didn’t have to.” She took a deep breath, holding back the black mood she could almost see at the edge of her vision. “I’ve heard it before.”
“You’ll never prove anything if you try to sue.”
“Oh, the station would love that, wouldn’t it? Did they tell you that? ‘Don’t let her know the real reason she lost the job. We don’t want a lot of publicity about size discrimination.’” Darcy’s wild-eyed look told her she’d scored a direct hit.
“You wouldn’t try to do that, would you?” Darcy asked. “You’d ruin your career before it even started.”
She nodded. The news business was amazingly insular. Get a reputation as a troublemaker and you were history. Besides, she’d have to spend a boatload of money and time she didn’t have trying to fight something that would be pretty tough to prove. “I don’t know what I’m going to do right now,” she said. “But I’ll let you know.”
She managed to hold a hint of a superior smile on her face until Darcy gave her one last angry look and left the office. Then she sank into a chair by the door and let out the breath she’d been holding. “So what has all this positive thinking done for you lately?” she mumbled under her breath.
“JACK, BEFORE WE START the interviews, I need to run some ideas by you for the promo spots.” Executive producer Armstrong Brewster cornered Jack Halloran outside the KPRM conference room after lunch.
“Sure.” Jack checked his watch, a classy but modest Tag Heuer his father had given him last Christmas. “I’ve got about fifteen minutes before the first candidate arrives.”
“It won’t hurt them to wait a little bit on a star.” Armstrong punched the keys of his PalmPilot. “Now what do you think of some footage taken at one of the area ski resorts—maybe Loveland, since it’s closest? Put you in a sharp-looking ski suit, surround you with snow bunnies.”
Jack made a face. “No one wears ski suits these days. And no one calls women skiers snow bunnies. It’s sexist.”
“Right. Well, if you don’t like that one, how about filming you at the gym? Maybe on one of those rock climbing walls? Play up the whole physical fitness thing and show off your muscles. The viewers love that kind of thing.”
“What does any of that have to do with the news?”
Armstrong heaved a sigh and fixed Jack with a pained look. “It might be the news, but it’s still entertainment. You have to catch people’s attention. And in this case, you’re what will capture them and, we hope, make them tune in to look.”
The idea grated. Surely the kind of people who tuned in to watch his show would be more intelligent than that. “This is a serious news magazine. About issues.”
He started toward the conference room where the job candidates were waiting. Armstrong fell into step beside him. “You think because this is public television we don’t have to compete for viewers? We have to get them any way we can. So if sex appeal sells, then we give ’em sex appeal.”
“This kind of thing is exactly why I left the networks.” He’d lost count of all the times he’d put in long hours, working on gritty, investigative pieces, only to find himself pushed into promo fluff pieces that made the station look good. When he’d learned that his last position as prime-time anchor had come not because of his journalistic chops, but because he scored highest with the target market group of twenty-five to thirty-seven-year-old women and men, he’d resigned and vowed to find a place where he could be more than just a pretty face stuck behind a desk.
He glanced at Armstrong, who was stabbing a stylus at his PalmPilot like a man trying to spear eels. “There’s more to life than looks, you know.”
“Tell that to a man with a full head of hair.” Armstrong slotted the stylus back in the case and looked at Jack. “Now which of the promo ideas do you like best?”
“None of them.” They reached the conference room and stopped outside the door. “Let’s finish this discussion after the interviews.”
“Maybe I should get Mr. Palmer to decide on a promo spot.”
“May I remind you that my uncle is providing the financing for the show—he doesn’t want to be involved in production. That’s your job.”
Armstrong snapped shut the PalmPilot. “In that case, I say we do the spot at the gym. It’ll appeal to women and men.”
Jack shook his head and opened the door to the conference room. He wasn’t done discussing this yet, but right now he had to choose a coanchor for the show. From the first he’d agreed that having two people to present the news was better than making this a one-man show. Adding a woman provided another prospective on issues, as well as appealing to a different demographic.
He might resent that television was ruled by audience numbers, but he wasn’t naive. The trick was balancing reality with the way he wanted things to be.
“Hello, everyone. Sorry to keep you waiting.” He took a seat at one end of the conference table while Armstrong sat in a chair against the wall. “I’m Jack Halloran and this is the producer of the show, Armstrong Brewster.”
Jack studied the four candidates and mentally matched them with the curricula vitae he’d studied earlier. A tal
l African-American woman with a cascade of braids and a model’s high cheekbones smiled at him. Angela Lawson. Early-morning anchor at a network affiliate in Tulsa. Only four years out of the University of Oklahoma but rising fast.
To Angela’s left was a petite woman with a lion’s mane of blond hair. Mindy Albertson. Blue eyes and peaches-and-cream perfection. She looked like the cheerleader who’d lived next door. The one who’d been the most popular girl in every high school in America. But she wasn’t a dumb blonde. She’d graduated with honors from NYU and had been weekend anchor at a large independent in Rochester.
Veronica Sandoval was the third candidate, a native of San Antonio whose black hair was fashionably disheveled—a look he would bet took hours to get so perfect. At thirty-four, she was the most experienced in the group, and the oldest, though she looked at least five years younger than the graduation date on her CV indicated.
He turned to the last candidate, a honey-blonde in a well-cut blue suit. Unlike the others, she wasn’t beaming at him with an impossibly wide smile. Instead, she was watching him. Studying him. As if this was all quite serious business to her.
He folded his hands in front of him on the table and addressed the women. “I’d like to start by having each of you talk about why you think you’re the best candidate for this position. Angela, why don’t we start with you.”
The African-American woman sat up a little straighter and glanced around the table. “No offense to anyone else here today, but it’s obvious I’m most likely to appeal to a young, hip demographic. Public television has a stodgy image. You can pull in viewers by overcoming that.”
In the background, Armstrong was nodding his head. He liked the way this woman thought.
“But you have to give people more than fluff.”
The woman on his right, Shelly, had spoken. Angela looked annoyed. “Hey, I can deliver serious news.” She smiled. “But I can also look good doing it.”
Armstrong chuckled. Jack turned to Shelly. He gave her points for speaking up, but she was in the hot seat now. “Ms. Piper, is it?” he asked.
Love So Tender: Taking Care of BusinessPlay It Again, ElvisGood Luck Charm Page 24
