It Girl

CHAPTER FOUR

My grandfather owned an old fashioned hardware store, and it ticked him off to no end that I enjoyed playing there as a little girl. I mean, he loved me to death and I couldn't get enough of the guy. But to Pops, hardware was a man's game, and no place for a six year old girl who should otherwise be occupied with Barbie dolls or skipping rope. To me the place was a giant metal toy store, where I could do cool stuff with magnets and leave countless colorful chalk marks on the walls using that plumb line thing. (In case you hadn't guessed by now, I'm one of those kids who colored outside the lines in grade school.)

Pops had a display in the front window in a futile attempt to scare the women away by offending them. When women's lib hit the country and skirts first appeared in his store, he took action by placing a small, bright red toolbox in the front window with a sign reading, "Woman's toolbox. Fully stocked. $19.95." Inside were two things: a can of WD-40 and a roll of duct tape. When women asked about it, he replied in this manner: "If it moves and shouldn't, duct tape. If it should move but doesn't, WD-40. If a woman has to deal with anything else, she needs to call a man."

Reporters all have virtual toolboxes. Writing ability, poise, the ability to wing it, a built-in bullshit detector and, most important in New York City, street smarts. The one tool they should give you in journalism class but don't is this thing called negotiating skills.

Because when you're dealing with broadcasting management, you've just entered the world's sleaziest car dealership and you're about to sit down with a man in a polyester suit. "So, what's it gonna take to put you behind the wheel of this morning show, little lady?"

We even have a newsroom acronym that describes the process. BOHICA.

Bend over, here it comes again.

As I headed to Gavin's office on Monday morning, I was armed with very little in the way of bargaining power. Because he has those world class carrots of The Chair and The Campaign to dangle. (I've decided the latter now deserves capital letters, like The Morning Show.) And there are a dozen other qualified women who would offer to have his children for the chance. (By the way, upper news management is predominantly filled by poster children for male-pattern ugliness who would otherwise have no shot at even being in the same zip code as a woman who looks like Noelle Larson. Power is the great equalizer in this business.)

Scott has filled me in on the specifics of Noelle's offer, complete with all the little perks they were willing to throw in. Some are standard for morning show anchors, like a limo to take you to the studio. They don't want their bleary-eyed stars scraping windshields, shoveling the driveway or getting behind the wheel half-asleep at two in the morning. Others are not, like their offer to insure Noelle's legs for one million dollars. (Should have thrown in a fifty dollar policy rider for her brain.)

Gavin's hot blonde secretary smiled and waved me into his massive corner office featuring floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a great view of Central Park. I had arrived at five minutes till nine. He got up from behind his antique oak desk which was cluttered with papers and extended his hand. "You're early. I like that."

I shook his hand. "I figured if I was late you'd give the job to someone else."

He smiled and gestured to one of the two chairs opposite his desk. "Your agent on the way?"

"Don't have one." Big smile from Gavin. Management hates dealing with agents.

"I'm surprised, but I'm not gonna complain. However, I am rather curious as to why you don't employ one for something like this."

I was glad I hadn't as I looked around the office. Half a dozen Emmy Awards sat on the wooden credenza behind his desk, while the bookshelf cubicles were filled with more award statues I didn't recognize. The walls were covered with photos featuring Gavin with various celebrities. There was a class system in television, and I wasn't in the top one yet. He was.

"Look, I could bring some shark in here to play hardball and maybe get another ten percent out of you, and then I'd have to turn around and give him ten percent of the gross instead of the net. Do the math. And I don't want to get off on the wrong foot. Besides, I'm old fashioned and think we're adult enough to make a deal in a civilized fashion without any lawyers in the room."

"Well, that's refreshing."

"I said no lawyers in the room. That doesn't mean I won't have mine look over the contract. Which I'm sure is fine."

"Fair enough. And since we're putting our cards on the table, I'll be honest. We offered the job to Noelle and she turned it down. But you were a close second anyway."

"I'm sure I'm a helluva lot cheaper."

He tried to hold back a smile and was unsuccessful. "This is still a helluva lot of money we're talking about." He opened a red folder, took out a single sheet of paper and slid it toward me. "This is the basic offer. I'll give you a more detailed contract to take home and review with your attorney, but the broad strokes are covered here so you don't have to wade through the legalese."

I grabbed the sheet of paper and tried my best not to let my eyes bug out, but when the word "million" ends up next to "salary" it's hard to keep a poker face.

It wasn't Katrina's money, or Noelle's. But for a girl who grew up in a hardware store, it was enough to buy enough duct tape to circle the planet a few times and hose down the entire globe with WD-40. The salary was more money that I could possibly spend, even after taxes. Three year contract, five million per. A list of wonderful perks. "That's extremely generous," I said. For someone who's never anchored or done a morning show, I thought, but didn't say.

"We want you to be comfortable."

"Hell, Gavin, I could eat lobster every day on this. Even after my income tax funds jobs for ten government slugs."

"So, thoughts?"

"Well, this looks fine, but I do have two small requests."

He rolled his eyes. "Oh geez … "

"No, no, these aren't going to cost you anything. One has to do with a staff writer at my affiliate. George Winson."

"Don't think I've ever met him."

"We'll, you're heard his words for years if you've watched our newscast. Anyway, he's sixty-two with a kid in grad school and the current News Director is trying to force him to quit so he can hire someone younger and cheaper. He's got three years till retirement and I'd love to bring him along."

"I thought this wasn't going to cost me anything."

"It's not. I'd like you to subtract his salary from mine. Basically, I wanna pay for him. He's a good friend and I'll need a fabulous writer for this gig anyway. Personally I love to write but I can't do it at three in the morning."

"Sounds very doable. Katrina's writer just quit anyway. She didn't like Scott."

"Great. Pay him a hundred grand, and make my salary four-point-nine million."

"That's incredibly generous of you, Veronica. I'd heard you were great to work with but I've never heard of something like this."

"When people are good to me, I have their backs."

"Very nice. What's the second thing?"

"My salary is never to be made public. Never, ever. I don't want newspapers referring to me as a five million dollar a year anchor, and I don't want people in the newsroom resenting me because of my salary. When I sign this contract I want it buried in that warehouse at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark."

"Fine with me. If you don't tell anyone, it will never get out."

"No leaks to the tabloids."

He shrugged and said, "Yeah, sure. Not a problem." I studied his face, looking for anything that might confirm my suspicion that he was the leak to Page Six, but I saw nothing. If the guy had a tell, I'd have to figure out what it was.

We chatted for about an hour, going over the parameters of the job, what was expected, my stories in the field and after-hours appearances. Of course, I was pretty much giving him the husband-tuning-out-wife-bobblehead, nodding at everything while my daydream had already time-warped a few years into the future. It showed me covering the presidential campaign and anchoring the evening newscast.

I left at ten, heading directly for my lawyer's office with contract in hand, but I knew I'd sign it.

And then I learned something. I'd often heard anchors who make millions bitch about all the pressure they were under, and I'd always scoffed at it, thinking, yeah, must be real tough taking home that much dough.

I wasn't scoffing anymore, as I broke out in a cold sweat.

***

When you're a single woman living in a one-bedroom Manhattan apartment that costs two grand a month, you dream of a walk-in closet.

This job comes with one. Sadly, it's located at network headquarters.

It also comes with a clothing allowance. Actually, if you imagine your sugar daddy is a billionaire. All of my new clothes cost me nothing.

The wardrobe consultant took me shopping on the company dime and now I have about fifteen new outfits that will supposedly make me look my best, blend with the set, set off my hair and eyes, etc. While I usually slip into a size seven quite easily, a few things needed slight alterations. So I've been on a pedestal in one of the network's wardrobe rooms while a middle-aged pudgy woman named Nancy sizes up the turquoise skirt I'm currently wearing. I kept looking at the rack holding my new wardrobe thinking everything hanging on it probably cost more than I made last year.

Nancy was about to go to work on altering the skirt when she was interrupted by a polite knock on the door. "You decent?" I recognized the voice as Gavin's.

"Yeah, come on in," I said.

He opened the door and walked into the fitting room, sleeves rolled up and red tie loosened. I noticed he had a sizable bay window that was previously covered by his suit jacket. "Just checking on the wardrobe progress. Nancy, how are you?"

"Fine, Gavin." Nancy stepped back and pointed toward my skirt. "Okay?"

Gavin walked completely around me, checking out my outfit, which, I must admit, felt a little creepy. Okay, my skin crawled. He ended up facing me and smiled, then turned to Nancy. He held up four fingers and she nodded. "Okay, you two have fun." He turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.

"What the hell was that all about?" I asked.

"Gavin likes to have input on the clothes before they hit the air."

"Well, we already bought 'em." I furrowed my brow. "What was the deal with him holding up four fingers?"

"That means I need to hem this skirt four inches shorter than it already is."

It was already about three inches above the knee. "Good God, I'm not Noelle with the world's longest inseam. This skirt will be up to my ass."

"Gavin's a leg man," she said. "And you've got a pair of good ones. They'll never see a day behind the desk anyway, since the female host always sits in the leg chair."

"The leg chair?"

"Yeah, it's the one at the end of the couch. Scott's behind the coffee table, but his co-host gets the leg chair which offers camera two an unobstructed view. You'll also be required to wear stilettos or platforms."

"And all my hemlines will be halfway up my thigh?"

“When you stand, anyway. When you sit, well … ”

CHAPTER FIVE

Here's the thing about my new shift. Getting up at two in the morning isn't a big deal.

Knowing you have to fall asleep eight hours earlier, is.

I'd gone to bed at six, a ridiculous hour for someone who's been a night owl her entire life.

And all I could think of was, "I have to fall asleep. I have to fall asleep." And of course, I couldn't.

At seven, I got up and drank a glass of wine.

At eight, I took an herbal sleep aid.

At nine, I turned on the light and picked up a novel.

Somewhere around ten, I fell asleep, and was in the middle of a wonderful Christian Bale dream when the alarm jolted me out of bed.

"Alexander, hit the snooze button," I muttered. Before the fog cleared and I realized that I had thrown my dog off the porch and the snooze button would not exist for the next three years.

I wasn't remotely rested for the biggest day of my career.

I staggered to the shower with all the energy of an extra in a zombie movie, thankful that I'd been told not to bother with my hair and makeup with the phrase we have people to do that for you. Just as well. I would have looked like I'd combed my hair with an eggbeater.

The hot water from the shower woke me up a little. When I emerged my Siamese cat Pandora was waiting at the bathroom door with a happy face, as if to say, Cool! You're up! You're nocturnal too! Let's play!

I threw on jeans and a sweatshirt, having been told not to put my outfit on till I got to the studio. No wrinkles on the morning show. (Clothes or face.) I grabbed the hanging bag that contained my outfit, headed out the door and one minute later found a lean, middle-aged man in a dark suit standing next to a limo with the engine running.

He tipped his hat at me and smiled. "Morning, Miss Summer. I'm Charlie."

"Morning," I said, thought it came out "mohreen."

He laughed as he pointed at my mouth. "Forget something?"

"Huh?" I brought my hand up to my face and felt the toothbrush sticking out of my mouth. I yanked it out, and shook my head. "Dear God."

"It's a tough shift to get used to," he said, laughing as he opened the door for me.

I considered spitting out the toothpaste but the thought of paparazzi lurking in the shadows stopped me, so I just swallowed it and got into the car, which was toasty warm. I leaned back, closed my eyes, and immediately fell asleep.

***

One nanosecond later, or so it seemed, the sound of the car door opening awakened me.

"Good luck today," said Charlie.

"Thanks," I said, stifling a yawn as I got out of the car and staggered toward the door. I actually heard my heel clicks on the pavement, the streets being quiet without any traffic.

The door swung open as I approached and I was greeted by Scott's cheerful smile and obviously over-the-top perky face. "Morning, sunshine!"

"Bite me," I said.

"Yeah, I've been there," he said, ushering me in the door and wrapping one arm around my shoulder. "You'll get used to it."

"I feel like shit. I probably look like shit, but I can't focus my eyes enough to look in the mirror."

"You look fine. Get any sleep at all?"

"Four hours, but it seemed like four minutes."

"You just have to adjust your body clock." He led me down a hallway toward the network's newsroom.

"I'm not even in my body yet," I said, as we headed into the newsroom which was already a beehive of activity.

Gavin looked up from a desk and headed in my direction. "Well, you made it," he said, extending his hand.

"My body's here. My brain will arrive at five."

"As long as it's in the chair by seven, you'll be fine." He turned to Scott. "Get her down to makeup."

Oooh. A chair. I can sleep.

***

I discovered you can't catch a few zzzzzzs when your hair is being styled and your face painted. I was still in my roll-out-of-bed spring collection as this was being done, so as not to mess up the turquoise suit that's been chosen for my first day. Personally, I think it's a jacket with a matching belt. The skirt is that short.

The clock struck three-thirty, the makeup and hair were done and all of a sudden I heard a rumble from the pit of my stomach. The hollow feeling reminiscent of a hangover washed over me, and I knew I had to eat something or I'd pass out.

I walked briskly to the newsroom and grabbed Scott's forearm. "Where are the vending machines?"

He looked up at me, studied my face and nodded. "Ah, you're right on schedule. Time for your first breakfast."

"First breakfast?"

"If you think your body clock is screwed up, wait till you deal with your stomach. It's living in a parallel universe. I need to explain morning show weight gain syndrome later."

"I'm gonna get fat?"

"If you're not careful. Here's how it works. You usually eat breakfast, right?"

"Sometimes. Why?"

"Well, your body thinks it's time for breakfast because you've been up awhile. Of course, you'll burn so much energy during the show you'll need to eat breakfast again at nine. And we're not counting any snacks during the show. Then you get home and you eat lunch and dinner, except you're eating dinner at your normal time but it's time to go to bed, which is the worst thing to do. So you can pack on the pounds real easy. I gained ten my first month."

"Again, I'm gonna get fat?"

"Like I said, if you're not careful. Anyway, it's time for our dinner break."

"I thought we were eating breakfast?"

"Figure of speech. Follow me." He turned to the staff. "We'll be back after dinner."

Everyone nodded as he led me out of the newsroom and down a brightly lit hallway that made me shade my eyes as we headed to the front door. "Where are we going?"

"Across the street. The little bakery opens up early for us."

"Great. Just give me a bear claw or something."

"Not what you need. You'll slide right into morning show sugar crash syndrome. The guy who runs the place has a special breakfast that I've eaten every day for the past two years and haven't gained an ounce."

"I thought you gained ten pounds?"

"That was before I started eating here."

We left the building, crossed the street and headed for a place that looked closed. The sign above the door read The Little Bakery. Sort of appropriate for people who worked on a morning show called The Morning Show.

Scott reached the glass door and tapped on it. I could see a light on in the back and shadows moving around. A man emerged from the back, backlit so I couldn't see his face, and made his way to the door. He turned a key and opened it. "Morning, Scott."

Scott moved through the door. "Hi, Angelo. This is our new co-anchor, Veronica."

He stuck out his hand, though I still couldn't make out his face. All I could tell was that his shadow was tall and well-built. "My pleasure," he said.

I shook his hand, which was dry (no doubt from working with flour) and smiled. "Hi, Angelo."

"C'mon back," he said, then turned and led us past the display cases which were half-filled with cookies, breads and pastries. The smells filled my lungs, a combination of sugary sweetness mixed with the aroma of freshly baked bread.

We emerged in the kitchen, already full of activity as bakers in white aprons shoved dough into stone ovens. I could finally see Angelo, who looked as Italian as his name. Maybe thirty, thick black hair and deep brown eyes, a rugged complexion on a lean face. About six feet without an ounce of fat. How he did that working in a bakery was a secret I wanted.

Scott led me to a small table for two that was set off in the corner. There were already two large glasses of orange juice on the table as we took our seats. "So what are we having?" I asked.

Angelo smiled at me. "The only thing that can get you through your show. A real Italian breakfast." He headed for a stove, put something onto two dishes, returned, and slid the plates in front of us. "Sausage bread and eggs," he said. "Protein, carbs, and my special blend of spices designed to give you energy and keep your metabolism up."

"It looks wonderful," I said. And it did. Next to a couple of sunny side up eggs were two slices of hot bread that had veins of crumbled Italian sausage running through it. It was a lot more than I usually ate for breakfast, but I was starving.

"Get a piece of bread and dip it in the yolk," said Scott, who demonstrated.

I followed his lead and tasted something wonderful. The sausage, hot bread, egg and spices blended beautifully and seemed to instantly satisfy my hunger and wake me up at the same time. A sip of what was obviously freshly squeezed orange juice washed it down perfectly. "This is fantastic," I said.