by Jayne Denker
At that moment, Conn lets himself into my apartment, extending a takeout container. "Cuban sandwich, extra fries."
"This is what true love looks like." I accept his offering, despite my conviction only moments ago that I have to lose weight.
He drops down on the other side of me, his elbows on his knees. "You're stressed, Abbott. You've been stressed ever since you started this TV nonsense. Is Jack pushing you too hard?"
"She's pushing herself too hard," Hannah says.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" Conn asks softly, and I become as melty as the cheese on my sandwich. It's like he can read my mind.
I want to say no, I'm not sure at all, but I'm a stubborn bitch. Giving up and walking away isn't what I do. I nod, but I can't get any words out, afraid they'll be pushed out on a sob. I'm still scared, but I have my friends with me.
Conn gathers me into his arms. "If this is what you want, we're all pulling for you. You've got the support of the whole town. In fact…I've reconnected DBC's cable so everyone can watch your show."
I pull back, gaping at him. Conn doesn't believe in having TVs in the restaurant. He tried it for a while, but he always says he'd rather the patrons talk to each other instead of staring at something overhead, so he pulled the plug. He got the cable switched back on just for me? That's huge.
Hannah stands up. "I'm going to go. Conn, worship her until she feels better. Melanie…" My friend studies me with a sharp eye for a moment, and suddenly I'm impressed with how much she's changed in the past few months. She's stronger, more confident, more put together, less hesitant, less timid. I did that. I do know what I'm doing. "You're allowed one pair of Spanx. One. No more. And don't get them in too small a size either. You don't want to be fainting on set, right?"
I jump up and give her a tight hug. "Thank you."
"Kick their asses."
CHAPTER THIRTY
If I expect Jack to show up and give my ego a boost—and protect me from the not-very-secret criticism of the NNN crew—I'm sorely mistaken. I text him the day before my next show to see if he's going to be there. Which, in itself, is kind of freaky. I'm looking to Jack for my peace of mind? It's so wrong.
He answers right away, but his message makes my stomach bottom out.
Aw, Miss Melanie, I'm sorry—I'm in London. What do you need?
Nothing urgent, I text back—a complete lie. I was hoping you'd be able to give me some feedback, help me improve.
You look like you're doing fine so far. Something wrong?
It feels like the producers want something I'm not giving them, but I'm not sure what I can do differently.
Are they not supporting you?
I think back to the frequent Richard and Trudy conclaves, and I want to share my fears, but I don't want to complain. I backpedal immediately. Everyone's great. Having a great time!
Jack signs off with more words of encouragement and a promise to watch from wherever he is. It makes me feel a little better, but when I get to the studio today, I still wish he were there.
I heave myself into my chair beside Trudy Helmet-Head, who gives me the briefest of smiles. It's hard to get comfortable, as I'm basically a lot of sausage in too tight a casing. I didn't listen to Hannah's advice and bought some too-small shapewear, and now it feels like any part of my body above my boobs and below my thighs is swelling up. Hey, all that cushioning has to go somewhere.
Even though I told myself I wouldn't, I catch myself looking for Jack lounging along the wall, as if by some miracle he could, let alone would, get back to New York in time for my guest spot. He's not there, of course. I look up at the booth, which I can see into for a few minutes before the set is hit with enough lumens to mimic the surface of the sun. All I see is the usual handful of techs and producers going about their pre-show business.
And speaking of producers, Richard appears as if from out of nowhere and does his usual soft slapping of the desk in front of me with his palms. "So, Lanie. Good to see you," he says, entirely unconvincingly, then charges ahead. "Let's chat a second. What you've been doing is great, don't get me wrong, but it's a little flat."
"Flat?"
"A little. So what say we punch it up some? Let's make it more interesting. Just follow Trudy's lead. Okay? Great."
Punch it up? More interesting? How…? Before I can ask, Rich slips back into the shadows at the edge of the set, the lights come up, someone counts down, and Trudy's introducing me, giving her usual brief summary of who I am and what I do for folks who haven't seen me on the show before. Then she swings around to face me.
"Lanie, we've heard about what services you provide. Give us some examples. Tell us about your clients back home in Boston."
"Abbott's Bay," I correct her, as politely as possible. "On the North Shore."
"Of course. Beautiful area. What sort of unusual requests have you had?"
Unusual? Reginald the ferret comes to mind, but I don't want America thinking I spend a lot of time harboring dead rodents. "Well…" I can't think of anything. Not a thing! You'd think with the many clients I've worked with already something would come to mind, but that mind of mine is a blank. Trudy watches me expectantly. A trickle of sweat makes its way down my spine. Her encouraging look starts to crumble around the edges. It feels like five minutes have passed, when really I know it's only been a few seconds. Still, a few seconds of dead air is a broadcaster's worst nightmare. Then something finally surfaces from the murk fogging my brain.
"I did help one particularly awkward friend win the woman of his dreams."
"How did you do that?"
And I'm off, telling the tale of Petey Fagle and his bait shop girl. I don't name names, of course, but I do ramble on about Petey's quirks and the details of his clumsy courtship, and how I used my expertise to turn him into the most romantic suitor possible, given the circumstances.
Once I finish his story, I think I'm off the hook, but Trudy immediately requests another.
"Er…" I laugh nervously, trying to run out the clock. The spots seem so short…until you've got Trudy bugging her eyes at you, silently demanding more.
So I launch into the tale of Zoë and her mom, again not naming names, culminating with, "The posture thing was just a side effect. It was so obvious. The girl might as well have had a sign hanging over her head: Raised by Nannies. Her mother is stuck with a kid she barely knows, and she's trying to force her to become perfect—well, her idea of perfect, anyway—when the poor thing is going through her standard teenage awkward phase. She needs to be allowed to be a kid. And she needs to get some unconditional love from that harpy who birthed her."
"Fascinating stuff. It seems like there isn't one person you don't try to help!"
"Of course, I'm never sure I can help everyone. After all, this started because I tried to tell my friend Hannah not to get back together with her ex, and she's still not listening to me."
Trudy laughs cheerily, and I feel absolutely elated at having given her what she and Richard were looking for.
Then her expression drops from mirthful to dead serious in a nanosecond. "Now, Lanie, I have to ask…isn't this, well, rather dangerous?"
I'm brought up short. Confused at the sudden change of subject and tone, I stammer, "I'm…not sure what you mean."
"You've said yourself you're not a licensed therapist. You're giving advice based on your own ideas about how people should live their lives. Wouldn't you call that irresponsible?"
My God, I'm being ambushed. How can this be happening? Haven't Trudy and I bonded? Aren't we buds now? I mean, I got her to laugh. That has to count for something, right? Apparently not, as she's still giving me her serious-journalist glare. Somehow I get the feeling she's been dying to hit me with this sort of accusation for the past three weeks. I can actually feel my blood pressure spike as I scramble to get on top of this.
"Of course not. I give very good advice. I get to know my clients before I advise them, if I don't know them already. And believe me, I know p
lenty of people who are…let's say anything I do for them can only be an improvement."
"Such as?"
And God help me, now I have an example ready. "A woman I work with, for one. Strange little thing, she's afraid of her own shadow. She's asked me to help her, and I don't know where to start. She'd be a lifelong project!"
With Trudy prompting me with nods and significant looks that demand more, I give up a detailed description of Laura—her eccentricities, her tics, her thick glasses and lank hair, her awkwardness. Lifelong project indeed, especially the way I sell her on air, solely to survive until my segment is over.
And I hate myself for it the minute the lights go down on the set, leaving me and Trudy in half-shadow.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Late in the afternoon, I have Xavier drop me off in front of Deep Brew C. It's just rained, and a cool, fishy-smelling breeze gives me a little chill as the setting sun filters through the remaining clouds, dipping behind the hills and casting the downtown area in shadow.
DBC is quiet, with only a smattering of locals now that the vacationers have gone home. It gets even quieter when the patrons spot me—ominously so, like a saloon in an old Western when the mysterious stranger walks in. The lump in my stomach that appeared as soon as I finished today's TV spot grows bigger and heavier.
"Hi, all," I say, nodding at my friends and neighbors. Tommy's pulling beers and doesn't—or won't—catch my eye. "How's Abbott's Bay this evening?"
My friends and neighbors pointedly turn back to their drinks.
"Tommy." I'm surprised I manage to keep my voice steady as I lean on the bar. He finally glances over at me. "Is Conn in?"
After a moment's hesitation, he answers, "He's at home. Harvey's not doing too well."
That's all it takes for me to hurry to Conn's house, dodging puddles, my arms wrapped tightly around my torso to fend off the evening chill. I peek in the window before opening the door. He's in the leather recliner, staring out the picture window at the fading light. When I let myself in he looks over but doesn't get up.
"Hey," I say softly.
"You're back."
"Yep." Suddenly I feel awkward and out of place in his house, in his presence. "I heard there's something wrong with Harvey. Is he going to be okay?"
The cat doesn't look unwell right now. He's splayed across his owner's thighs, twisting this way and that to get comfortable while trying to maximize the belly massage Conn's absently giving him.
"We had a little scare."
I want to get closer and see the cat for myself, but the vibe from Conn is keeping me halfway across the room. "What happened?"
"He'll be all right. I tried some new cat food because he's getting pickier, and it wreaked havoc with his stomach. The vet gave him an IV and said he needs to take it easy and eat 'senior' cat food."
"Oh, good. I mean, that the problem is only his food."
"Uh-huh."
More silence. The vibe gets heavier, and I know it's not only because Conn is worried about Harvey. I knew this was coming—I've just been trying to ignore it all day.
"Conn…" I start, but he cuts me off.
"We saw your interview." His words are conversational. His tone is not.
"We?"
"A lot of the town came to the restaurant on their lunch break to watch the show."
I swallow heavily and sit on the caved-in couch, nerves keeping me on the edge of the cushion. "Well, that was nice."
"Mm." He continues to pet Harvey, giving the cat his full attention. I get the feeling he doesn't want to look at me. "It was interesting."
"It's been…harder than I thought."
Finally he looks up. He must tense up as well, because Harvey shoots his owner a dirty look before slipping off his lap and stomping away. "You didn't seem to have a hard time telling stories about your clients."
Here we go. "I didn't name names."
"You didn't have to."
"Nobody outside of Abbott's Bay will know who I was talking about."
"But everyone in Abbott's Bay knows. You violated confidentiality."
"I don't have any promises of confidentiality!" That really stings. It reminds me of Trudy's attack, accusing me of being irresponsible because I'm not a licensed therapist.
Conn pushes to his feet and crosses to the kitchen to dish up some of Harvey's new cat food. "Yeah, well, maybe you should have thought of it sooner."
I know that look on his face—he's already judged me and found me lacking. Just like old times. My defenses go up immediately. Conn wasn't the one in a big corporate news setting, broiling under the set lights, surprise-attacked by the anchor I thought was starting to be my friend. Or at least a friendly acquaintance.
"Excuse me for helping people, and doing a decent job of it all summer, not to mention making the best of a stressful situation on live TV. It's not easy, you know."
"Why do you do it, then?" When I don't answer, he fills in the blanks for me. "Because it's too tempting, right? Melanie Abbott, TV star. The next rung on the ladder, never mind if you step on your friends to get to it?"
"You're overreacting, and you're being cruel."
"Seems you know from cruel."
Now I'm on my feet as well, trembling with adrenaline. "You know, I don't need this right now. I just got back, I'm exhausted, and this is unfair. Come find me when you have something reasonable to say."
I try to storm out, but Conn throws himself in front of me, blocking my path to the door. "Look, Melanie. You hurt a lot of people who like you and look up to you. Laura especially. You should have seen her face. It was…" He shakes his head. "I don't care what was going on in that TV studio. It doesn't mean you get to make your friends the butt of a joke."
"I didn't—!"
"You did! And I saw the looks on their faces that proved it. It's like you brought out some…exaggerated version of your worst self or something. Lanie," he spits.
"Hey, Lanie wasn't my idea."
"Not the point. Viewers all across the country saw some heartless, catty woman getting some laughs at her clients' expense. And that's inexcusable."
"Whose side are you on?" I'm shouting now—something I never do. Well, if I do, it's usually when I'm arguing with Conn, and he's arguing back, but this isn't our usual bickering. This is mean. I'm furious that he'd condemn me like this.
"I'm on your side—more than anyone else in this town," he says. "But sometimes I have to tell you things you don't want to hear. This is one of those times. You hurt people today, all to make yourself look good." Then he gets very quiet. "Look…I love Melanie. But I don't even like Lanie."
Well. Welcome back to the world of Judgy Conn. It's been so long I'd almost forgotten what it was like. I should have known a month of heart-melting affection, hot sex, and bandying around the L-word wouldn't banish it for good.
He's wrong this time though, I tell myself as I march back up the road toward town. I did what I had to do, and I'll bet nobody thought anything of it, nobody was as hurt as badly as he says they were. I didn't say anything that wasn't true. The irony is Conn really hurt my feelings.
I need to see a friendly face, so I detour over to Hannah's instead of going straight home. She'll be able to give me a better perspective of people's reactions at the viewing party instead of Conn's gloom-and-doom reporting.
I knock, growing chilled again as I wait on her stoop. Nobody comes to the door. I try again. I think I can hear movement inside, but the door doesn't open. That's weird. After a third knock and calling Hannah's name, I lean over the railing and peek in her front window. It brings to mind my dad's potentially felonious behavior with the nude yoga tenant, but this is Hannah. She wouldn't call the police on me.
It might be a reflection on the glass as I move, but I could swear I see a flicker of light inside. A hint of dread trickles through me. What if did I hurt people, including Hannah, and she's avoiding me now? I accused her on air of not taking my advice to stop communicating with Marty, which w
as pretty mean, even though I credit her stubbornness with starting the business.
I pull out my cell phone and call hers. I can hear her ringtone coming from inside. Then it stops. Her voicemail greeting sounds in my ear, and I do my best to sound cheerful and not at all suspicious as I leave her a message.
"Hey, Hannah! I'm back from New York! Dying for some MooMoo's—want to get some before it closes for the season? Call me!"
I click off and hurry home, keeping my head down so I don't catch anyone's eye on the way. I turn off my phone, turn off my brain, and try not to think about my last disastrous TV appearance. I don't, however, delete it from my DVR unwatched. I make it almost forty-eight hours before I cave on Sunday afternoon.
It's awful. It's worse than I thought. No wonder everyone's avoiding me. I'd avoid me if I could. Suddenly there's nothing I want more than to go back in time and reject Jack's offer. My first instinct had been the correct one—I never should have gone on TV. This whole experience has been miserable from beginning to end—which, I decide, is now.
I text Jack, informing him I won't be continuing my segments on the NNN noon show. I expect him to be on the phone in an instant, no matter what country he's in today, demanding to know why I'm quitting, encouraging me to sign a new, extended contract, but my phone stays silent.
After three days hiding in my apartment, I run out of food, so I have to leave my self-imposed prison. I decide to go to the office. Work is always my refuge when I've screwed up royally in all other aspects of my life. I can bury myself in paperwork, pretend everything's normal, and not have to think about anything else.
Except Laura's there. After a moment of hesitation in the doorway, I charge toward my desk. Everyone's looking at me. I can feel it. Jason, Maude, even Eric the Red, who of course today—of all days—is not only in the office, but able to focus on things, like me. And Laura…I sneak a furtive peek. She's not looking at me, and somehow that's worse.
I change my mind and change direction, making a beeline for my father's office instead. I slink in, shut the door, and curl up on his couch without a word. He acts like he doesn't see me, which makes me wonder if he's angry with me as well.