by Nic Tatano
I wiped my eyes and shook my head, struggling to keep the flood of emotion in check. "No, I'm okay," I said softly, the words barely audible. "I didn't ever want anyone to see me like this."
"Turn around," he said, taking my shoulders and guiding me on the couch so that I faced away from him. His hands then began to massage the muscles around my shoulders and neck, the firm pressure from his thumbs serving to melt away the tension. "My God, you're tight."
I surrendered immediately to his touch. My head went limp as I let him work out the Gordian knots my mother had tied in my muscles. "Oh God, Shawn, that's wonderful. Where in the world did you learn to do this?"
"My sister's a massage therapist. She used to do her homework on me. I picked up some of her better techniques." His hands continued to loosen the tight muscles around my neck. "I saw the woman in your office yelling at you. I figured it was someone from corporate. I didn't know that was your mother until Jillian told me."
"My mother is wicked," I said. "Pure evil."
"I thought I recognized her from The Wizard of Oz."
I laughed and a little more tension dissipated. He continued his assault on my back, moving down below my shoulders, pressing his thumbs into the middle of my back. "Ohhhhh, yeah," I said, wondering why I hadn't been visiting a massage therapist on a regular basis. (It was probably the first time those words had been said in the loft outside the bedroom.) He worked the rest of my back for another ten minutes, then stopped. "That was wonderful," I said, ready for a nap and still with my back to him. "Thank you, Shawn."
"You're not done," he said, and in one move pulled my shoulders back until I found myself with my head resting on a pillow in his lap. He looked down at me with those incredible eyes, giving my soul a badly needed hug. He gently brushed my hair out of the way with both hands. I wanted to just lay there and keep looking at him, keep breathing in his subtle hint of Fendi cologne, keep focusing on the kindness he was radiating and block out what I'd just endured. "Eyes closed, young lady," he said. "And no talking."
"Yes sir," I said, shutting my lids and trusting him completely. In another life I would have expected to find a man's hands running up my blouse at this point. Not that I would have minded a Snack attack, but I knew that wasn't Shawn's intent. He gently began massaging my temples as I sank deep into a state of relaxation. He said nothing for a few minutes, moving from my temples to the sides of my head and then taking it in both hands, running his fingers into my hair and rubbing the back of my head. The sound of my own breathing grew louder in my head, like what you hear when you're underwater. Finally he took his hands away and I felt him lightly kiss my forehead.
"Time to wake up, sleeping beauty," he said. I opened my eyes and saw him smiling at me. "Better?"
"Much," I said softly, feeling like I could get a tooth drilled without novocaine. "You're amazing."
He ran one soft hand across my cheek. "Syd, I want you to listen to me," he said, his voice as gentle as his touch. He suddenly looked at me like a parent, but one who actually cared. "You're one of the smartest people I've ever met. You're running an incredible operation here. People who work for you genuinely like you and respect you. You're a devastatingly beautiful woman… I mean, men walk into walls looking at you."
My confidence started to return and I smiled. He didn't say anything else and just kept looking into my eyes. "Hell, Shawn, don't stop," I said. "You're on a roll."
"You've got the world by the tail. You shouldn't give anyone the power to take that away from you with words. She only has power if you give it to her."
"I know, but she's my disapproving mother. It's kind of hard to just dismiss her opinion, even if I can't stand her. I'm stuck with her."
"Doesn't matter. Her opinion doesn't matter. You have to please yourself, not her. Which I assume is what you have been doing most of your life."
My smile grew as I realized how ridiculous it was that such a woman of power as myself ceded it to a button-pushing crone of a biological parent. "You know, for someone who is twenty-five you're a wise old soul."
"My other sister is a psychiatrist," he said, smiling. "She did her homework on me too."
"Figures." I raised my head a bit. "Shawn, thanks for letting me be a girl today. Just don't let the troops know what's really underneath, okay? You can't be a soft touch if you're in management, and you sure can't ever cry."
"It will be our little secret."
His eyes were such deep pools of warmth I just wanted to jump into them and lose myself. The man could have asked me to do anything to his body right now, and I would have obeyed like a fifties housewife. I reached up and brushed a wisp of hair from his forehead. "I can see why you have Jillian's heart."
His smile grew. "I think it's the other way around. She's pretty special."
"Yeah," I said. "She really is."
* * *
It was nearly six when I left the loft and headed back to my office. The smell from the roses hit me in the face. I grabbed the vase from my desk and headed across the hall to Jillian's office, walked in without knocking, and placed them on her credenza.
"What's this?" she asked.
"I was going to take them home, but you deserve them. Take them back to your place."
"Don't be silly," she said. "They were sent to you."
"By someone I don't care about," I said. "Enjoy them. Pretend they came from Shawn."
Her face lit up as it always does when she gets flowers. "Well, okay. If you're gonna twist my arm."
"Speaking of Shawn, take him home and drain him of all bodily fluids. He deserves a reward."
"On that, you don't have to twist my arm. I'll leave nothing but an empty husk."
I leaned one leg on the edge of her desk, looked around to make sure no one was within earshot, and dropped my voice. "Seriously, thanks for what you did today. You're a true friend."
"You don't have to say that, Syd. You know you're like a sister to me."
"I know. By the way, Shawn and I… we didn't—"
"It doesn't matter what happened up there. I just knew the little guy could set things straight for you."
“Jillian,” I said, “Shawn may just be the biggest guy I know.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Random thoughts as we head into week three:
—Shawn's little therapy session is paying wonderful dividends. Mother called the day after her visit to vent at me some more when she put two and two together and figured out Scott was the guy who had originally gone to the tabloids. I put her on hold and left her there, watching the little light blink for twenty minutes while I did some paperwork and then letting out a tiny cheer when the thing flatlined and went dark. Meanwhile, Rica did something to my cell phone she calls the "Frigidaire early warning system" so that if Mother calls that number, instead of the normal ringtone I get the slashing sound effect from the Janet Leigh shower scene in the movie Psycho. It cost me a buck ninety-nine, which is appropriate, since Mother thinks of me as a two dollar hooker anyway.
—We need a scheduler for The Loft. Too damn many people want to skip lunch lately, and the stairwell looks like a line for the bathroom at a trendy bar, with people hopping up and down on their toes like they really have to go. Meanwhile, Madison initiated what is known as a "reciprocal trade agreement" with a chain of linen stores because the clean sheet situation was getting out of hand and the maid was tired of trudging up and down three flights of stairs seven times per day. Thanks to this deal, we get bushels of sheets, pillowcases, towels and an industrial sized laundry hamper; they get free advertising. So anytime you see one of their ads, a CGR anchor is taking care of her to-do list on five hundred thread count Egyptian cotton. Not exactly like an angel getting wings when you hear a bell, but you get the idea.
—I bought two tickets to the best Broadway musical in town and gave them to Jillian and The Snack, a thank you for rescuing me last week, with the stipulation that they not "leave early due to bad choreography." And I don't wanna hear, "We
got back late from intermission," either. I know we are supposed to be acting like men and playing the field, but I'm really rooting for those two.
—I'm keeping The Fly at bay, which is no small trick these days. We're still letting him go at some point, but I can't have him going off the reservation with the Monopoly Guy's lawsuit coming up because you know damn well that Big Red will call Scott as a witness, and I want to make sure he's on my side when he takes the stand. While Scott is a master in the bedroom, I still cannot get the underlying thread of commitment out of my mind while he's running a feather duster over my ass. Neely suggested I simply pretend I'm with someone else, and when that didn't work, Rica said I should imagine that I am someone else. So just to have fun I'm imagining that I'm a famous woman whose husband cheated on her and is getting even. This week I pretended I was Hillary Clinton, and it was highly entertaining getting back at Bill. I even wore a cheap blue dress and a beret. Next up, Jennifer Aniston taking it out on Brad Pitt. Take that, Angelina.
* * *
"Jersey?" said Rica, suddenly grabbing her coffee and standing up. "We gotta go to friggin' Jersey for the trial?" She started to pace around our conference room.
Stacy nodded. "That's where the lawsuit was filed, that's where the trial will take place."
"I don't understand," I said. "Why not file here in New York?"
"They obviously wanted cameras in the courtroom," said Stacy. "They're taking their case to the heartland. How it plays in New York is one thing, but the concept will probably send the conservatives in this country off the deep end."
Oh shit. I hadn't even thought of that. I know, I know… you're saying, "Jeez, Syd, you work in television and you can't tell when a lead story hits you in the face? Did you think the other networks would just ignore dirty laundry this good?" And I can hear my mother now after the first day of the trial. "Sydney…that dress you wore on the witness stand made you look like a trollop."
"Anyway," continued Stacy, "cameras are not a problem in the Jersey courts, but in New York it can be a major issue. A judge can allow them, but you never know. Besides, the plaintiff lives in Jersey anyway."
"You know damn well one of those court channels will carry the trial," said Jillian. "This is going to turn into a circus."
"Already a done deal," said Stacy. "Actually, I've been contacted by two channels who are planning wall-to-wall coverage who wanted to sit down with me before the thing gets underway."
"Well, I'd cover it if I ran a court channel," said Rica. "It's a no-brainer from a newsperson's point of view."
When broadcasters smell the blood of other broadcasters in the water, it's a feeding frenzy that would make great white sharks look like a bunch of goldfish. We worship success but root for failure. "The cable operations will be all over this thing like the O.J. Simpson trial," I said.
"All us, all the time," said Neely.
"Jersey!" said Rica, shaking her head and looking out the window as she raised her hands to the heavens.
"What's your problem with New Jersey?" asked Jillian. "There are a lot of beautiful places in that state."
"You come out of the tunnel," said Rica, "and it stinks to high heaven. It's dirty. And there's a state law that you can't pump your own gas. You can't order a damned soft-boiled egg in a restaurant because the legislature thinks you'll die and sue the state. And the friggin' tolls on the Garden State every two minutes drive me nuts."
Neely turned to Stacy. "Can we get a change of venue to Brooklyn?" she asked.
"I got your change of venue right here," said Rica, glaring at her.
Stacy clapped her hands a few times. "C'mon, we're getting off topic here. We're all going to have to rehearse for this trial."
My face tightened. "Rehearse?"
Stacy nodded. "Perhaps that was a poor choice of words. I don't want you to rehearse your answers because I want you all to tell the truth."
"Aw shit," said Rica. "If we're gonna tell the truth we're screwed."
"No, you're not," said Stacy. "If you tell the truth in a certain way. There's the tone of your voice, body language, the way you phrase your answers, your comfort factor on the witness stand, the way you dress."
"And on that subject, I assume we're going to have to dress down for the trial," said Jillian. "Damn, I gotta go shopping for frumpy clothes."
"No, you don't. Now I wouldn't wear the blue sequins," said Stacy, looking at me. "But I don't want you putting your hair up in buns of steel and wearing those high-necked long dresses like those whack jobs in Texas with all the kids. You are all women in positions of power, and your clothes need to convey that. But in this case you are also very attractive women, so while your outfits should be of a business nature, they should not hide your sexuality. In fact, they should enhance it. You're showing that you have authority in the workplace and the bedroom."
"That," said Rica, "will definitely not be a problem with this group."
"Really," said Neely. "We don't even need to go shopping."
I took one look at the gleam in Neely’s eyes and knew she was already making a list.
CHAPTER TWELVE
"Anna Nicole is still dead."
Okay, I admit that sentence is horribly tacky, but it's basic code around any newsroom for, "there's no news today." The world never runs out of famous dead people, and you can always come up with something, anything, that will "advance the story", even though the person in question reached room temperature months ago.
Every station has a morning meeting in which story ideas are discussed. Reporters take turns pitching their ideas, then the News Director parcels out the assignments. The morning conversation during the story meeting of a slow news day usually goes like this:
News Director to reporter: "You got any story ideas today?"
Reporter: "Nope. But… Anna Nicole is still dead."
News Director: "Hmmm. You got a new angle?"
Reporter: "I met a woman who thinks she once sat next to Anna Nicole on a plane and saved the plastic cup with her lipstick on it."
News Director: "Great! Do it! Take it to a lab and get some DNA analysis on it. You can make a two-part series! What she was drinking and what kind of lipstick she used."
And that's why America is bombarded with endless stories even after the story is, and forgive my choice of words again, dead and buried. When there's nothing going on, our industry can beat a dead horse until the remains are down to the molecular level and nothing is left but the horseshoes. "Death by sidebar" is another term that describes a story that seems to have no end even though it's been over for months. Stuck for a story? Just find a new twist on a famous person's death, no matter how bizarre or hard to believe. The promotions people can tease it all afternoon. "Anna Nicole's first-class airline confessions….tonight at six!"
Fortunately for us here at CGR, we're never going to run out of stories, as the discussion of sex-related topics never dries up. Anna Nicole's name has not popped up even once during our first few weeks.
But apparently it has at the competition, as they've exhumed the poor woman and every other dead celebrity, thinking this weird kind of counter-programming will put a dent in our quickly growing female audience. And along with the parade of Anna Nicoles, they've got a glut of missing beautiful blonde girls and the people who are tirelessly looking for them. This tactic falls under the heading "people sympathize with pretty things that are broken." (It should be noted that by sheer coincidence, the only missing people in this country are rich, pretty blonde teenage girls. Incredibly, boys, minorities, brunettes, ugly children and poor kids never disappear. Amazing how that happens. It's a story that deserves an investigation, don't you think?)
Here's a newsflash for the competition. The sort of women who watch that stuff are not the women who are watching us. That kind of trashy programming won't have any effect on what we do. We're the only game in town for older women and the men who want them. And the men who are searching for beautiful missing blondes are hoping the
search ends in the bedroom.
Incredibly, our ratings are still growing a little each day. The word of mouth is spreading. The buzz continues in the newspapers on a regular basis, and for a cable channel, that's pretty unusual.
The Loft, meanwhile, has done more for "anchor chemistry" than years of work experience. It has given new meaning to the term working lunch.
So all is right with the universe, at least in the television end of it. The satellite gods are happy with me.
Still, I’m hitting the Tums bottle more often. That trial is hanging over my head like a swinging guillotine.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The last time I was part of a dress rehearsal was in a high school play. For some inexplicable reason, the drama teacher thought we should do "A Chorus Line", which is classic Broadway but contains a song entitled "Tits and Ass." Not exactly appropriate for a senior class production, but we weren't going to complain since we'd get to wear revealing costumes and swear on stage. The students, of course, thought this was very cool, knew it would be quite the scandal, and would probably make the front page of a Big Apple tabloid since the school was situated in the Long Island community of Babylon, New York, and you can't make up stuff that good. (My father had fled there from Connecticut, probably figuring people who lived in a town called Babylon had to be more receptive to having sex. Yet another scandal to have someone with Hartshaw blood living in a place that didn't have the decency to change its suggestive name. Although one would think that Sodom and Gomorrah were still available.) A few days before the production, the principal, who had no knowledge of musicals, walked in on a rehearsal in which a tall redhead in a skimpy outfit sang the virtues of her front and back. (Yes, the tall redhead would be me. I had the requisite T&A by senior year.) The principal's jaw dropped like a stone and he fired the drama teacher on the spot. But since tickets had already been sold, he appointed a substitute director from his church who made discreet changes in the lyrics and costumes. At my high school reunion, my rendition of "smiles and class" while wearing a gingham dress was voted the highlight of senior year. Sadly, a photo of that disaster is forever preserved in the yearbook, and will hopefully not make its way into a tabloid during the trial.
