“Let me be clear, Nia. All PrimeTime Media contracts are nonnegotiable,” DeAnna said. “Our human resources department has done all the necessary research on the marketplace, competition, and, more importantly, they have done the research on you. So, since you were fired from your last position and Kris Kensington seems to be doing her best to sully what’s left of your reputation, this offer seems more than fair.”
Ouch, girlfriend did not play. I had to swallow my ego and my first impulse to shove the contract back across the table and tell DeAnna where to stick it, but unfortunately she was right. Just within the last week I had started to realize how limited my options really were. My calls and e-mails to contacts at outlets that had previously expressed interest in my work went unreturned and unanswered. The word was out. My career was officially DOA in LA thanks to Kris, and her version of my firing was sure to get to the East Coast media outlets within the week as well. But while I digested that this could be the only job offer I received and that eking out a living as a freelance writer wouldn’t cut it, I knew there was one thing that DeAnna had to agree to or I could never take the job.
“OK, I can accept the salary, but one point that’s nonnegotiable for me is that I must be allowed to bring my assistant, Marquis Jackson, with me.” I sat back in my chair and stared back at DeAnna. I was ready to walk away over this point, and she knew it.
“Fine. I’ll have legal adjust the contract to include your assistant, Marquis, and send the revised agreement to your home this evening to sign.”
I accepted the terms of her offer, and within forty-eight hours, human resources had arranged for my apartment and MJ’s to be packed up and the contents shipped to New York.
When we arrived at the DivaDish offices, MJ jumped on decorating the office. He’d done a great job. There were a plush cream-colored sofa, two black linen and chrome chairs, and a glass coffee table with chrome furnishings. A fifty-four-inch HD flat screen was mounted on the wall along with a series of black-and-white photographs of celebrities behind the sofa and a large zebra-skin rug on the floor.
I got busy meeting the new team, whose members seemed bright, competitive, and passionate about the brand and the growing audience. They were all young, hungry, and ready to put DivaDish on the map, but the senior editor, Che Williams, had really distinguished herself as a dogged reporter with a knack for landing juicy scoops, great underground contacts, and a hip writing style that readers really liked. There was only one bad apple in the bunch: a self-important fashion reporter named Basil Greene whom DeAnna had personally hired. Lazy, loud, and with an affinity for long lunches and cocktails, he quickly got on both MJ’s and my bad side.
Up by six o’clock and in the office by seven thirty each morning, I spent the first half hour of my day scouring competing websites. I then checked the chatter on our Facebook page and Twitter account, posted some questions to spur discussion, and then responded to e-mail. At eight thirty, I met with the editorial team to talk about the day’s assignments, brainstorm new articles, and review the hottest celebrity photos from the photo agencies to make our selects for the day. We’d then review any overnight star sightings, breakups, or makeups, and our marketing and social media teams would review traffic patterns and develop new content opportunities and campaigns.
Being editor in chief for DivaDish was fun and fast-paced. I reported on the celebrities that I cared about, like Gabrielle Union and her hot romance with Dwyane Wade; the opening of Steve Harvey’s new movie; Usher’s baby mama drama; Beyoncé and Jay Z’s daughter, Blue Ivy; Kim Kardashian and Kanye’s latest antics; and Zoe Saldana’s blockbuster. I no longer had to pretend to be just as obsessed as my former Hollywood Scoop! colleagues with the likes of just-plain-old-boring Jennifer Aniston.
The first two weeks DeAnna left me alone to get acclimated and gel with the team. But by week three, she included me in her weekly update meetings during which she reviewed the business, newsstand sales, and traffic goals in painstaking detail with all her editors. All the editors made sure to overprepare for the weekly torture sessions because DeAnna was exacting and icy, and she never missed anything. I always walked out of those meetings thankful I had a contract in case she ever decided to bounce me out the door over some bullshit.
The best part of my new job was finally running my own show and no longer having to answer to people like Kris Kensington. I assigned the stories. I set the pace. I decided whom we covered and to whom we gave a pass.
And now that meant I had to decide whether to cover my best friend’s husband’s affair.
I decided to put Che off for a little while longer and told MJ to let her know that I had received her e-mails and to hold on posting the story while I attended my weekly meeting with DeAnna. I opened my office closet door and looked into the full-length mirror on the other side of the door to check my look before going into battle.
Before we came to work at DivaDish, MJ had insisted that I needed a wardrobe upgrade. And he knew my mom would be sending boxes of “business separates” from the Home Shopping Network that he would have to donate to Goodwill, so he called his friend Harper Stevens, a personal shopper at Bergdorf Goodman, and arranged for a complete makeover. Standing naked and vulnerable in the bright, unforgiving light of a Bergdorf dressing room, I knew I was in good hands with Harper. She was fly in a boho chic kind of way, assessed my body and taste in minutes, and returned with an armload of skirts, blouses, dresses (I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d worn one), and jeans, declaring my new look would be urban elegance with edge. I didn’t even know what the hell that meant, but MJ snapped his fingers in appreciation, so I knew there was no going back.
The hardest part of the makeover? Aside from blowing my entire Hollywood Scoop! severance package, spreading the balance of that afternoon’s purchases across three credit cards, and spending more on clothes in one afternoon than I had spent in total over the last five years, it was getting used to the heels. Now, don’t get a sister wrong. I l-o-v-e a fabulous shoe. But prior to moving to New York, I saved my shoes for industry events and nights out when Eric managed to plan something for us that didn’t involve a movie ticket or restaurant with a paper napkin dispenser on the table, but MJ and Harper assured me that being taken seriously in Manhattan was all about having a mean shoe game. This explained the acquisition of seven pairs of flat-form pumps, calfskin booties, peep-toe stilettos, and one sick-ass pair of over-the-knee black leather boots that I had no idea where on earth I would actually wear. There wasn’t a flat in sight.
And today’s outfit had been one of my favorites. It was a little dressy for a regular day, but I was having drinks with Vanessa after work. The navy Zac Posen high-waisted skirt with an oversize brushed silver zipper running down the front hugged my full hips and skipped across the top of my knees, making my five-foot-eight frame look long and lean. The matching navy-and-black silk T-shirt with a netting of flowers on the shoulder made it hip for the office. Black suede pumps and an armful of black crystal bangles completed my look. Urban elegance indeed.
I spiked up my short cut and smoothed down the sides around my ears. I could feel it was almost time for a touch-up again. The jet-black color that my new stylist had recommended really worked with my deep brown skin tone. I hurriedly put on some clear MAC Lipglass before closing the closet door.
I grabbed a file with the site traffic data and new marketing plans, and walked down the hallway to DeAnna’s office on the other side of the floor. The last editor to arrive was considered late by DeAnna.
The entire floor was bustling with activity. There were three other new digital properties inhabiting the floor with DivaDish. The northwest corner housed TheSportsBeatz, run by gruff former TV reporter Rodney Reynolds; this section of the floor sometimes sounded like an actual locker room with a bull pen of loud wannabe jocks tossing story ideas and often footballs around all day. The other property, GospelWired, was headed by Michelle Miles,
a holy rolling, sanctified sister who was always trying to bless me, share some scripture, or throw some holy water on me. I cut a quick left down the hall to DeAnna’s office to miss Michelle. The last thing I needed was Michelle getting that holy water in my hair today, because then she’d be meeting her Maker a lot sooner than she intended.
Rodney and Michelle were barely civil when I came on board three months ago, so it was clear to me immediately that they considered me competition for resources and DeAnna’s approval. I knew they would be no help in helping me get the lay of the land. Now, a knife in the back? They’d be more than happy to oblige. It was every publication and website for themselves, which was fine with me. As my mom always told me, keep your friends close and your enemies closer.
I stopped at the cubicle in front of DeAnna’s glass office door. Her assistant, Joan, looked up at me from her computer screen over the tops of her glasses.
“DeAnna will be just a few minutes,” she said in her usual clipped tone.
“Thank you,” I said, and then took a seat in one of the upholstered chairs outside Joan’s cubicle. Sitting there always made me feel like I was waiting to see the principal.
Michelle scurried down the long hallway, engrossed in reading her BlackBerry.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw DeAnna’s office door open and heard a familiar and grating guffaw. It was Basil, my wandering fashion editor.
He backed out of DeAnna’s office and closed the door, never seeing me sitting outside Joan’s cubicle.
What is my fashion editor doing talking to my boss?
“DeAnna’s ready for you now,” Joan said, interrupting my train of thought. She took off her headset and came around to lead us into DeAnna’s office as if we couldn’t find it for ourselves.
As Michelle and I followed her into DeAnna’s office, I saw Rodney already seated on the sofa, and my antennae automatically shot up.
Why are my fashion editor and Rodney meeting with my boss?
I dashed off a quick text to MJ.
Saw Basil and Rodney meeting with D . . . What’s up?
He responded quickly.
On it . . . Stand by.
I slipped my iPhone back into the pocket of my skirt, confident I’d have an answer on what sneaky little Basil was up to by the time I got out of this meeting.
With panoramic views of Manhattan’s Central Park, DeAnna’s office made a statement. Swiveling around in her large black leather chair from behind a desk that looked like command central from the space shuttle, DeAnna picked up her large black leather portfolio and pen and then made her way over to where we were seated.
Her bob slicked back off her face and tucked behind her ears, DeAnna wore a crisp white blouse with a large puffy bow knotted to the side of her neck, a snakeskin black knee-length skirt, and bright cranberry platform booties. She took her customary seat in the large leather and chrome chair with her back to the window. Bryan Phillips, the unit’s finance director, slipped in quietly, carrying a sheaf of spreadsheets, and grabbed the other chair. Rodney and Michelle sat together on the sofa and put their papers and folders between them, clearly indicating that I wasn’t welcome to join them.
What’s going on with these two today?
Looking around awkwardly with nowhere to sit as if trapped in a bad game of musical chairs, I turned to ask Joan if she could bring in another chair, but she’d already slipped back out the door.
“Just take a seat on the ottoman, Nia, so we can get started,” DeAnna said dismissively.
I removed some large coffee-table books and a tray and set them on the floor before taking my seat facing both DeAnna and Bryan, with my back to Rodney and Michelle. I sat tentatively on the edge of the ottoman, balancing my folder on my lap as Bryan opened the meeting with his weekly financial report.
His flat monotone voice droned on as he moved through the traffic, revenue, and expense figures for each of the sites. For DivaDish and GospelWired, Bryan’s news was good. Traffic was up, revenue was climbing, and expenses were holding flat. But I heard Rodney shifting uncomfortably in his seat and shuffling some papers when Bryan got to his numbers, which were down across the board.
“What’s going on with TheSportsBeatz, Rodney?” DeAnna said, turning an icy glance in the editor’s direction.
“Well, as you know, DeAnna, there’s always a lull in our audience traffic right before the NBA season starts. But this weekend the new season starts, and we will have some really good stuff to post,” he said.
“In fact,” he continued, sounding more excited than he should, given the numbers Bryan just shared, “we have story and video on Marcus King that’s sure to create a lot of heat for the site.”
Oh shit . . .
“What’s the story?” asked Michelle. I tried to turn around on the ottoman as best I could in my tight skirt to look at Rodney. I wanted to be looking him dead in his eyes when he said he stole my story.
“As you know, we’ve just gotten video of Marcus King leaving a Midtown hotel with vixen Laila James.” Rodney sat back against the sofa, keeping his gaze locked on DeAnna and refusing to look at me burning a hole in the side of his head as I started to speak up.
“But wait a minute, that’s my . . .”
DeAnna cut me off, raising a manicured finger to let me know silence was expected.
“That’s great, Rodney,” she said. “Why don’t you head back to your office and get that up right away?”
“But DeAnna . . . ,” I started again, blood rushing to my cheeks. I felt hot all over. I clutched my pen and tried to restrain myself from jabbing Rodney’s story-stealing neck with my pen.
“Just a minute, Nia,” DeAnna said again with a wave of a glossy nail before she turned and told Bryan and Michelle that they could leave as well.
Rodney quickly gathered his things and left the office to go post my story on his struggling website before I could say anything, and Michelle slinked out the door behind him.
DeAnna turned her attention to me after the door closed behind them. Her gaze was cool and distant.
“I think I know what you were going to say, Nia.”
“You do?” I was confused. How could she know what I was going to say?
“Yes, Nia,” she said cryptically. “You were going to say that Rodney stole your story, right?”
“Uh, yes, actually I was,” I said, looking at her quizzically. “How did you know?”
“How I know isn’t relevant, Nia. What is relevant is that you had a story on superstar Marcus King that would have been a big traffic driver for your site, and you hesitated to put it up because you were worried about your friend Vanessa. The only thing that’s relevant in this conversation is why you hesitated.”
Yes, Vanessa was my friend, but she was also DeAnna’s soror, which I thought meant something, but I guess I was mistaken. This woman was take-no-prisoners for real. Sorority bonds be damned.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Yes, one of my reporters got a clip of Marcus King in a compromising position, and I was taking a moment to decide how we should proceed. That was my video.”
“Well, in the hour it took you to decide how to proceed, a DivaDish competitor could have jumped on the story and taken the lead,” DeAnna said as she got up from her chair and walked over to her desk, sat down, and began scanning her e-mail in-box, indicating that she was wrapping up our meeting.
“And actually that video is the property of PrimeTime Media. It’s not yours. So one of your internal competitors did what you were too afraid to do, and now they have the lead.”
My phone began to buzz repeatedly in my pocket, and I knew it was MJ texting me with the news I now already knew. I’d later learn from MJ that Basil had overheard Che talking about the Marcus King exclusive in the office and had gone into the site’s story queue, seen the story waiting for my approval, and then forwarded a copy
of the clip to DeAnna to curry favor.
But how had Rodney gotten in the loop? There was no reason to think that Basil would go directly to Rodney, because then that Judas wouldn’t have been able to score points with DeAnna. No, this snake had gone directly to her, and then she had been the one to pull in Rodney.
“I wasn’t aware I was competing internally,” I said as I gathered my papers and put them back into my folder. “But, believe me, DeAnna, I’m very clear now.” I wanted to add “bitch” on the end, but that probably wouldn’t have gone over too well.
“The web moves fast, and it won’t wait for you to figure out your personal loyalties, Nia,” DeAnna said over her shoulder as I started to walk out of her office. “And neither will I. Close the door behind you, please.”
I sank back into the warm leather seats of the town car, thankful that my new job came with the perk of a car service but not thankful for much else after that afternoon’s ambush in DeAnna’s office.
What the hell was that?
I’d never worked at a place where titles within a company would steal one another’s stories. And explaining to Che what had happened to her big exclusive had not been easy. Getting a story like the Marcus King video, however much I might loathe the idea of outing my best friend’s husband, would have been huge for her career. I did manage to appeal to what was left of Rodney’s journalistic ethics and get him to put her byline on the story and video on TheSportsBeatz site. And just as DeAnna had predicted, the story had taken off like wildfire that afternoon. Sites all over the web were linking and outright grabbing the video. The PR team had agreed to push Che to do the TV and radio interview requests that came pouring in. They were no dummies. Putting a young, pretty editor on the screen versus the curmudgeonly vet Rodney was a no-brainer.
As I was leaving the office, I saw Che getting her makeup done for an interview with Access Hollywood. Getting the byline and doing the on-air interviews seemed to have smoothed things over with her and shut down her initial threats to quit.
Games Divas Play (A Diva Mystery Novel) Page 6
