Your New Best Friend

by Jayne Denker

  Jack finishes his call, and he and Conn fall into their usual warm, jokey guy banter. Fifteen minutes later, Sasha sweeps in with kisses for everyone.

  When she gets to me, she looks me up and down and exclaims, "Melanie! I love your outfit! It's so cute!"

  "Cute"? My heart sinks. Now that I look at it from her point of view, it is "cute," especially compared to her sleek couture ensemble. She's managed to knock me down with one word. But she's smiling at me and the guys as she pulls her giant dove-gray cashmere shawl-wrap away from her neck.

  "Goodness, it's warmer than I thought. Didn't need this old thing."

  "This old thing" looks brand new and obscenely expensive, but all right.

  "This is exciting, isn't it?" she enthuses. "And Melanie, it's so wonderful to have you here too. Are you taking notes for us?"

  What?

  "No, of course not," Jack says. "One of the assistants is on her way in."

  "Oh!" Sasha flashes a bewildered look around the table. "Well, it's nice that you came along with Conn. It must have been a lovely day for a drive."

  "Sasha," Conn says patiently, but I detect an underlying note of irritation, "Melanie is one of my investors."

  "Is she?"

  Conn must be able to feel me tense up, because suddenly his hand is on my knee. One squeeze and my hips sink back onto the cushion. Two, and my rigid back relaxes a bit. Three, and I'm ready to take on Sasha with her own weapon of choice—sickeningly sweet disingenuousness.

  "It's true," I say to her with my best smile. "I'm here to keep Garvey honest."

  "Aren't we all!" She laughs then says, almost offhandedly, "It's very daring of you to dip into your trust fund for this."

  "I don't have a trust fund, Sasha."

  "Break your piggy bank then."

  Oh, I swear…but Conn's hand is on my knee again, so I settle. Not before Sasha's eyes lock onto Conn's arm. She can't see under the table, but he's clearly reaching over to me.

  Just then Conn's phone rings. He apologizes for the interruption, but Jack waves a lazy hand at him to take the call. He rises, walks over to the windows, and stares out at the view as he talks. Sasha excuses herself, murmuring something about a visit to the "little girls' room."

  I use the free moment to lean over to Jack and say quietly, "Okay, fine. I'll do the TV spots. But it's going to cost you an obscene amount of money."

  Without a moment's hesitation he shrugs and says, "Name your price."

  My price? Enough to move me up into Jack and Sasha's stratum of this venture. Enough to earn Sasha's respect. Enough to stop being Little Melanie pretending to be a grownup.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Once I agree to Jack's proposal, things move quickly. He and I hammer out the details in several conference calls over the following week: I'll be a guest on the noon news program with anchor Trudy Something-or-other. I've already checked out the show and come away with an impression of a lacquered helmet of hair, perky attitude, and way, way too many teeth, but not her last name. It doesn't seem to matter. Three spots to start, each on a Friday, then we'll reassess and come up with a more substantial contract. As a savvy young lifestyle advisor, I'll talk about the basics of my business then give advice on how to "live your best life" or something, maybe even take calls for one-on-one mini-counseling sessions.

  I can do that.

  Well, I'll figure it out.

  When I tell Conn I'm going to the TV studio at the end of the week, he congratulates me and wishes me luck, which is better than what I feared: that he'd lecture me again. After all, this is the guy who wasn't in favor of Your New Best Friend in the first place. Instead, he's nothing but supportive. He does add a word of caution, however.

  "Remember what I said about Jack, okay?"

  "Again? Yet?"

  He straightens from his squat behind the bar, where he's been stocking bottles, and studies me carefully. "I'm just saying if you're going to be spending any amount of time with him at all…"

  "I doubt Jack is going to have any free time to babysit me. There are producers for that kind of thing."

  "You're excited about this?"

  "I am."

  I'm also terrified, but he doesn't need to know that.

  "Well, good."

  "You sound surprised."

  Leaning on the counter, he studies me thoughtfully. "I thought you were happy with your business the way it is."

  His comment sounds a little wistful, and I don't know where that's coming from. "What, you're the only business owner in Abbott's Bay who might want to branch out?" I ask with a wink.

  "Point taken." He smiles back and holds up his hands in surrender before collecting a cup and saucer to start a triple espresso for me.

  I switch to a sultry voice and purr, "So Garvey, now that Your New Best Friend is an even bigger thing, who's a girl gotta sleep with around here to get a Reserved card for the spot by the fireplace?" To stack the deck I lean forward on my barstool, giving him a clear view down my shirt. His eyes flick downward. Score.

  "Still not permanently reserving those chairs when you only use them once in a while," he growls, but with his eyes still locked on my cleavage, I suspect I have a better chance at persuading him than ever before.

  "We'll see about that. Can you bring my coffee over there? I'm meeting with Laura."

  "Don't tell me she's doing another article on you."

  "No, she said she wants to hire me."

  "That's sweet."

  "Sweet? This could be a disaster." I have to raise my voice to be heard over the noise of the espresso maker. "What in the world is she going to hit me up for?"

  "Don't question. Just help. You are not here to judge," Conn calls over his shoulder.

  "Don't tell me my business, mister. I get paid to judge." The machine winds down, so I lower my volume as well. "But I do it in an uplifting, constructive way."

  "You're a true artist."

  "That's what I keep saying!"

  He slides my coffee toward me. "Here you go. Take it yourself."

  "The service here is terrible. Especially from the owner."

  "That's not what you said last night."

  I let him have the last word because the memory of last night's…service…and the way he stares at me, promising more of the same as soon as possible, leaves me weak in the knees. Needless to say, I have a little trouble shifting gears when Laura arrives. To buy some time to get my head straight, I suggest she order some coffee while I get settled in my usual spot.

  Before she joins me there, my phone rings. "Melanie! Quel horreur!"

  "Rose?"

  "I need you right away, dear," she cries, frantic. "It's a matter of life and death!"

  Or a crisis having to do with our Founder's Day celebration which, to Rose, amounts to the same thing. Every year on the third Saturday of October, the whole town honors my ancestor, the original real estate mogul who had the foresight to claim a giant chunk of land with a lovely ocean view on which to build his town. After a parade, penny carnival, and 5K and 10K runs, the day wraps up with a fancy-dress charity ball at the country club. Rose is in charge of the ball, and she's hired me to help her. We're supposed to meet later this afternoon.

  "Hold on, Rose. Deep breath." She obeys, and a whooshing noise sounds in my ear. "Better?"

  Out of the corner of my eye I see Laura hovering nearby. I wave her over as Rose chokes out, "Charity—disaster—mini-golf—ashes!"

  It sounds like she's stringing random words together, but I get the gist. We'd talked about having an indoor miniature golf course as the night's fundraiser, but from what I can decipher after a few more of Rose's panicked exclamations, the barn in which the portable golf course components were being stored caught fire. Although it's a shame, it's not an insurmountable problem. I try to tell her this, but she's inconsolable.

  "Melanie, you have to come now!"

  "Can't it wait one more hour? I've got—"

  "Melanie!" she wails.

 
; Well, she is paying me double my usual rate. I assure her I'll be able to pitch five fundraisers we can do on short notice to replace the one we've lost, end the call, and turn to Laura.

  "I'm so sorry. I have an emergency, and it can't wait." I stand up and hoist my bags on my shoulder. "We can reschedule. You have Hannah's number, right? Give her a call and set up a time. Okay?"

  "Oh." Laura blinks at me from under her heavy bangs—I sure hope she wants a makeover—and I take it as some form of assent.

  "Thanks so much. Sorry again. I'll see you another time!"

  I try to sweep out of the restaurant, but Conn snags my elbow, bringing me up short.

  "That's it?" he asks, with a significant look over at my coworker, who's still standing where I left her, looking lost.

  "I've got to get going. Rose is having a crisis."

  "Hm."

  There's a whole world of commentary in that tiny syllable.

  "I'll take care of Laura later, I promise." I look down at his hand on my arm. "Unhinge, darling. I'm losing daylight."

  * * *

  I'm not able to squeeze in a meeting with Laura before I travel to New York again two days later, and I feel bad about it, but then the television thing swallows me up. I arrive at the Rossiter Building midmorning, courtesy of Jack's car service once again, and I'm immediately shunted from room to room, signing forms, discussing flattering on-air outfits, and allowing myself to be primped, prepped, and coiffed to within an inch of my life. It's completely overwhelming.

  It sounds wonderful to jump straight into the national spotlight, but believe me, it's not the best idea. The proper process would have been to start on local TV first. Baby steps, a learning curve. However, thanks to Jack, today I'm starting at the top.

  Okay, it's not like I've got my own prime-time show on one of the Big Four networks or anything. Triple N isn't even in the same league as the most popular cable news channels. But it has a sizeable viewing audience—large enough to make me grateful for the dress shields that are probably going to be sorely taxed once I get on camera.

  The one thing they don't tell you before you go on: how bright and blinding the lights are. I know there are cameras with people behind them at the edge of the surprisingly tiny set, and engineers in a booth beyond that, but darned if I can see any of it. Maybe it's better this way though. Maybe I'd be too intimidated if I could see all the inner workings of the broadcast while I'm trying to focus on answering Trudy Helmet-Head (really, her hair is alarmingly large and quite stiff) beside me as she makes small talk. I wish I'd asked Hannah to come along. Or Taylor, who'd have pumped me up with a lot of "suck it up, bitch" haranguing until I believed I could take on the world. Most of all, I wish Conn were here with me.

  I'm snapped out of my reverie, but not my panic, when I hear my name mentioned. Trudy is talking rather urgently with the director, whose name I didn't catch, and they glance over at me every once in a while.

  When they realize I'm tuning in, the director—Roger? Ralph? Ronaldo?—says, "So, um, we were thinking…Melanie is quite a mouthful, isn't it?"

  I've never thought so. "It's just my name."

  "Doesn't have to be."

  What? "It'd be kind of weird to change it."

  "You could shorten it."

  "What…now? Right now?"

  "Why not?"

  "Well, sometimes my friends call me M."

  "Nah." Roger/Ralph/Ronaldo states decisively. "Too short."

  "How about Lanie?" Trudy suggests.

  "Perfect." The director slaps the desk. "That's why you get the big bucks. Lanie it is. You okay with that?"

  His last question is directed at me, but it's obvious my opinion doesn't matter. I'm already officially Lanie Abbott in their eyes. I nod and smile gamely.

  In. Over. My. Head.

  Once the lights go up, I lock eyes with Trudy and answer all her questions in a pithy yet lively manner, making a few jokes along the way, as I was coached. Our chat is safe and reassuring. I talk about where the idea for the business came from, and I make sure to mention Hannah by name and express how grateful I am for her inspiration.

  Trudy looks at me a little blankly. Although she seems interested and engaged, I detect a dead spot behind her eyes, and I feel a small urp of panic in my gut. Am I boring her? Is my business unexciting? I can't tell.

  We go to a commercial break, during which Trudy barely acknowledges me. When we come back, she plugs my business, repeating all my social media accounts where I can be reached, and then says, "Our time is up, Lanie. One last question before we go: how would you sum up Your New Best Friend? Tell us your motto. Your words to live by."

  "Er…" Motto? What motto? I have no motto! "I want to help you be the best you that you can be!" I make up on the spot.

  Ew.

  When the lights dim, I clamber out from behind the desk and head for the door. Jack's there, leaning against the wall, checking his phone.

  "Fabulous, honey," he says, kissing me on the cheek. "I knew you'd be a natural."

  I put on a smile for him. After all, he went to great lengths, throwing his weight around, to get me this gig. "You saw all that?"

  He doesn't answer my question. "How about a late lunch?" When I hesitate, he amends it to, "It can be a liquid lunch."

  "I can't. I've got to get back to Abbott's Bay."

  Jack sighs. "I swear, I don't know what you see in that place. Fine. Next Friday. Be sure to set aside some time for me. I mean it!"

  But the following Friday, Jack's nowhere to be found…on the day I really could use a friend. Richard the director (I finally heard someone call him by name) and Trudy aren't as obliging as they were the first time I showed up. In fact, after a sort of lackluster performance on my part, I catch them muttering to one another and shaking their heads as they glance in my direction a couple of times. Apparently the honeymoon's over. It isn't my fault. I may be exhausted and a little off my game from all this early rising and hours spent traveling, but the callers we took didn't exactly give me much to work with.

  First there was Ted, who said, in a tight, anxious voice, "Uh…I wish I were taller?"

  I stared out at nothing, staying perfectly still, like a puppy waiting for its master to say it's okay to flip the dog biscuit off its nose and into its mouth.

  "Well, I'm afraid I don't have a medieval rack in my basement to stretch you, Ted," I began, while Trudy let out the type of hearty chuckle all newscasters seem to have learned in broadcast journalism school. "But you don't need stretching anyway."

  "Lifts? Like the ones Tom Cruise is supposed to wear?"

  "Not lifts either. If you want to be taller, Ted, you have to act taller."

  The disbelieving pause went on so long, Trudy had to prompt him. "Are you still there, Ted?"

  "I don't get it."

  "You have to believe in yourself, buddy," I explain. "The minute you do, you'll start walking taller, and it can add inches to your height."

  "It will?"

  "Yup. And make a wise investment—get your clothes tailored so you don't look schlubby. Okay?"

  "Okay," he said, sounding a little skeptical but mostly mollified.

  The next person said I was beautiful and asked me for a date, which we laughed off as a producer ditched the caller at lightning speed.

  "Would I look good as a blonde?"

  I gently reminded this next caller she was on the phone and advised finding an app that lets you mess around with your hair color in a photo before taking the plunge.

  I was still stinging from that lame exchange, wondering if every call was going to be about physical appearances, when a youngish-sounding woman named Whitney said, "I need a real best friend."

  I jumped in immediately, glad someone brought this up. "You're absolutely right. Never let a friend for hire replace real friendships."

  "So how do I get a real one?"

  "Be one." Kind of glib, but hey, we didn't have a lot of time. "Get out there and do things you like, be a
round people who like the same things. Smile, be friendly, be helpful, and things will fall into place."

  I thought it was a great exchange, but Richard and Trudy didn't seem to agree. That was when they started their muttering in the corner, pausing only to summarily dismiss me for the week.

  As I hurry out of the studio, eager to scrape off my camera-ready layers of makeup before heading back home, I can't help but note the difference in the atmosphere between my first appearance and my second. Am I failing at this?

  When I get back to Abbott's Bay, I beg off dinner with Conn, hunker down at home, and fire up the NNN noon show on my DVR to analyze the hell out of my segment. After the first viewing (I plan on several, with note taking), I call Hannah.

  "I'm watching myself on TV," I whine.

  "Don't do that! Are you crazy?"

  "I need a new wardrobe. I need to go on a diet. I need to buy Spanx. Lots of Spanx. I need better highlights. Should I get a spray tan?"

  The irony's not lost on me that I'm obsessing about my looks after spending today's segment allaying other people's fears about their looks.

  "Do. Not. Move."

  Hannah is at my door within minutes.

  "Put the remote down. And the phone. Nobody orders Spanx today. Do you hear me? Not on my watch."

  "But…" I'm still in whining mode as I shuffle back to the couch and unpause the recording. "Look. I'm pale and puffy—ooh, maybe a facial? But look how lumpy!"

  "You are not lumpy."

  "I have squishy bits."

  "You're female. Plus you're sitting down."

  "Trudy Helmet-Head doesn't have squishy bits, and she's sitting down."

  "You said Trudy Helmet-Head isn't human, and I think you're right."

  I slump back against the cushions and close my eyes. I can't tell Hannah what I'm really worried about, which is I don't know what I'm doing and I'm not sure I want to be doing it anyway.

  "I need help," I peep.

  "The first step is admitting you have a problem." Hannah takes the remote out of my hand and turns off the TV. "I've called in reinforcements—"