Her Perfect Life

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  “Listen, kiddo, there are reporters who they’re not using in this feature. That’s when you’ve gotta worry, right? Being wanted is a good thing. Look on the bright side.”

  “Mumma! Greer!” Lily’s daughter Rowen had the nanny by one hand and was dragging the poor young woman into the living room, Lily’s carefully adorable dog prancing at their heels. Petra went to Wellesley College, nannied while she figured out her next career. She’d contemplated moving home to Sweden or Denmark, someplace like that. Of course Lily had a cover-girl nanny, all engaging accent and a tumult of blond hair.

  “I’ll take the puppy,” Petra said. “Unless? You need me?”

  “He’s fine here,” Lily said as the dog snuffled at her blue-jeaned legs. “See you later, Petra. Have fun.”

  “Wow, do you get bigger every day, Rowey?” I gave in to Rowen’s running hug as her nanny left us, the little girl’s head coming just above to my waist. She was such a mini-Lily, the same sandy hair and wiry shape, even her forest-green eyes. She smelled of almonds and vanilla, same as her mother, and even wore the same jeans and white tee.

  “I’m almost eight. In three months. Are we doing our TV today?”

  “We sure are, kiddo,” I said before Lily could answer. “And here’s Wade and Warren. You remember them?” I flinched as Wade’s tripod narrowly missed knocking into the vase of lilies.

  “Hey, Rowen,” they said at the same time. “Hey, Lily.”

  Warren hefted his camera. “Where do you want us, Greer?”

  “Outta here,” Lily answered, but she was smiling.

  Of course, Lily knew enough to be congenial with her crews. Rowen had slipped her hand into Lily’s, looking at her with joy and anticipation. It was tempting to shoot them right there in the light of the late-morning sunshine, oh-so-casual mother-daughter celebrity peas in a pod.

  “Kitchen?” I suggested. “Viewers love that. How you’ve decorated, and whether you have the fancy pots and pans. This is supposed to be a welcome-to-summer feature, what the news team stars do in their spare time. Maybe you two can make ice cream, something summery like that.”

  “Make ice cream.” Lily’s tone dismissed that idea.

  “Ice cream!” Rowen, at least, was on board.

  Lily’s phone rang, a three-note trill. Her face went white. The phone trilled again.

  “Lil?” I asked. “What?”

  She was clearly expecting a phone call, or news of some kind. She’d reacted, instantly and dramatically, to the sound. A thousand possibilities crossed my mind—doctors, lovers, relatives. Not that I knew any of those people. I’d tried to find out, casually, as most work colleagues do, but Lily was a vault about her personal life. She wasn’t closing me out, she truly wasn’t, she was like that to everyone.

  “Rowe? Honey? Will you take Wade and Warren to the backyard? We’ll shoot out there. Just like we talked about?” Lily’s voice seemed tense. “In a minute, sweetie.”

  The three had barely taken a few steps when Lily turned her back on them, put the phone to her ear. “Mr. Smith,” she silently mouthed to me. “Hello?” she said into her cell.

  Mr. Smith. No two words could have made me happier. Whoever he was—or she, I still wasn’t convinced—had given us a couple of slam-dunk stories, and if our new source was about to lay another one on us, all good.

  “Hello?” Lily said again. “Hello?”

  I eased closer to her.

  “Nothing,” she said, and looked at the phone again.

  “Damn,” I said. I saw her expression. “What? You suddenly down on our hero?”

  Lily blew out a breath, plopped down on her pristine white couch. She stretched out her legs, her pale blue toenails perfect, of course, and stared at her feet.

  “So Saturday night,” she said, not looking at me.

  “Congrats again,” I began, then felt the tension. “Saturday night what?”

  Lily leaned her head back against the couch, closed her eyes. “When I was getting my photo taken, after? When you wouldn’t come with me?”

  “Yeah.” I perched on the arm of the couch. “You know how I feel about photos.”

  “Smith texted me.”

  “Great,” I said.

  “And told me my dress was perfect.”

  It took a beat for that to register. “He was there? It wasn’t televised, was it?”

  Lily shook her head, still not looking at me. Then she did. “Nope. I suppose someone could have livestreamed it to him. But that means someone else there was communicating with him.”

  “Someone could have done an Instagram live,” I reassured her. “Or anything live. It’s impossible to keep stuff off social media.”

  “You could come up with a billion explanations, Greer, but so what. He was watching me. Me. And somehow saw me in that dress. He made sure I knew he had. He called me before the photos were even done.”

  “Weird,” I had to admit. “Verging on creepy. But not necessarily. You know sources. They’re nuts. That’s why they’re sources.”

  Lily shook her head. “He also texted that he’d call me today. ‘With an even better story,’ those were his words.”

  “Lil? And that’s bad because?”

  I slid down off the arm of the couch, and Lily scooted over to make room. I stuck my legs out alongside hers, and her perfect toes made me wish I’d worn my newer sneakers. But then I wasn’t the one on the air. Not the one in the spotlight. I didn’t have to be perfect.

  “Well, he just hung up.”

  “You’re overthinking,” I tried to convince her. “Maybe he—”

  “I know, got cold feet. Changed his mind. Got disconnected. Got interrupted. Lost his cell phone signal. I know, I know. But…”

  Lily stood, brushed down her jeans. Pressed her lips together. Chin down. Her thinking pose.

  From outside, we could hear Rowen and the crew laughing.

  “About today’s shoot,” she said. She took a few strides toward the kitchen, then seemed to change her mind. She turned, pointed at me. “I have some requirements.”

  “Require—?” Requirements, I thought. Talent. Give me a break. “Lily, hey, this is not a negotiation, I’m afraid. The powers want you, and—”

  “Fine. They can have me. But not Rowen.” She waved toward the backyard. “She’s been on TV before, when she was little, but she’s older now. Recognizable. I’m serious. She didn’t sign up for this.”

  I rolled my eyes, rolled my whole head, then tried to rein in my frustration. “Lily, come on. This is the deal. The viewers love you, they want you, they can’t get enough of you. And Rowen is part of the package. The Lily package. The single-mom, career-woman, gorgeous, smart, having-it-all perfect package. Perfection is in the perception. It’s a good thing.”

  “Nope. Nope, nope, nope. It’s an impossible thing.”

  “It’s not my call, Lily.” I saw my producer life flashing before my eyes. “‘Summer on Six’ is their baby, you know?”

  “And Rowen is my baby,” she said. “I’ll quit, really will. There’s nothing more important to me than Rowen. Rowen’s safety.”

  “And keeping her fed,” I reminded her. “And cared for in the manner—” I made a grand gesture, encompassing the lilies, the Italian-tiled fireplace, the expansive bay window. “To which she has become accustomed. Ha ha. But I mean, come on, you already kept her out of school this morning to shoot this, right? So maybe? Possibly? Come on, Lily. You might be overreacting to … to I don’t even know what.”

  We faced off, Lily and I. Standing, I was taller than Lily, especially now that her feet were bare. The fragrance of the pink-and-white lilies on the coffee table sweetened the air, and outside, I heard Rowen’s crowing little laugh again. Lily turned at the sound, physically straining toward it, and then she turned back to me.

  I could see her brain calculating her leverage, how far she’d really go. She’d told me about some encounter with a viper woman, as she’d called her, a year or so ago in a grocery store
, which seemed to push her over some edge. Lily’d never told me about her past, much less her family; even who Rowen’s father was or how that had happened. I knew she was from the Midwest, went to J-school in Missouri, never been married. That’s about the gist. We’re colleagues, but I’m five years older than she is, and we’re not what one would term “friends.” It’s a job. She doesn’t know about my family either, such as it isn’t. Anything about me, in fact. She’s never asked, not beyond the shallow “have a good weekend” niceties. She has no idea what a weekend might even include for me. I was the producer-researcher-administrator-fixer, she was the talent. The balance of power was precarious.

  “We can do back-of-heads, long shots, see her from far away.” She nodded, deciding, pursed her plumpy lips. “But no close-ups. She’s a child. My child.”

  When Lily’s cell phone rang again, we both flinched.

  CHAPTER 5

  LILY

  Sender unknown, Lily’s caller ID read. Mr. Smith. Lily couldn’t shake the trepidation about Saturday’s messages. “Mr. Smith” had never said anything personal before, commented on what she’d worn, or what she looked like. Maybe that was what unnerved her. Something was changing their equilibrium.

  “Answer it.” Greer moved closer. “It’s him.”

  “How would I exist without you telling me what to do?” Lily whispered.

  Greer had moved even closer, obviously wanting to hear the call for herself. Why not? Lily thought. Might as well have an earwitness.

  She hit the green circle on the phone screen before the end of the second ring. “Hello?”

  “Hello, Lily,” the voice said. “I hope you like the flowers.”

  Lily’s eyes widened. The fragrance of the lilies seemed to intensify, the sweet scent, so enticing when she’d thought they’d come from someone else, now seemed sinister. Almost suffocating.

  “The flowers are from you?” Lily asked. She should have suspected it. The flowers—lilies—had arrived without a card. Something Sam used to do, back when he was still trying to keep them “together,” even though he was also together with his wife. The first one. It had crossed her mind, more than once, that Sam was Mr. Smith. That he’d taken up this pretense to be able to stay connected with her. And Rowen. But again, that fairy-tale thinking made no sense.

  She saw Greer wince.

  “Oh, no, no,” Mr. Smith’s voice laughed through the speaker. “Not from me.”

  “Okay, not from you. Then how did you—?” She stopped, interrupted herself. People who called reporters were often eccentric. Rule-breakers. Whistleblowers. Coddling sources, reassuring them, was part of the deal. You didn’t have to like someone to get a good story from them. The flower thing was strange, but she wouldn’t take that bait. He might be guessing, or fishing. She’d stay on the opposite side of that fence. “So nice to hear from you. How can I help you?”

  Greer gave a quick thumbs-up, seemed to agree with her tactics.

  “As I said the other night,” the caller went on, “I may have a good story for you.”

  “Terrific,” Lily said. Remembered her manners. “And thank you again for your guidance.” Maybe she could try a little test. “I thanked you, as much as I could, in my acceptance speech.”

  “I know,” the caller said.

  He had been there. She’d bet anything on that.

  “And yes,” he went on. “I am working on another investigation for you. But I have hit a bit of a roadblock. I wanted to let you know not to expect anything until tomorrow. I will call you then, if that fits your schedule.”

  A noise came from behind them. Lily turned to see Rowen, green-banded croquet mallet in hand, followed by Wade holding the blue mallet and Warren the black one. They stopped in the dining room, two talls and a small in the middle, a threesome in the carved wooden archway.

  “Mumma?”

  Lily held up her forefinger. Mouthed the words, “One minute,” pointed to the phone, then swirled her finger, directing them back outside. She somehow didn’t want Mr. Smith—or whatever his damn name was—to know Rowen was even in the room.

  “Of course,” Lily said as she heard the back door close again. “You choose the timing. We’re eager to hear.” She stuck out her tongue at Greer, pretending to gag on her own possibly too-obvious flattery.

  “Until then,” the caller said. And hung up.

  “Weird.” Greer plunked her hands on top of her head.

  Lily looked at the blank phone screen. “Yeah. You’ve got to wonder if it’s worth it, Greer. My—I don’t know—accessibility. He has my cell number and knows where I live, because—”

  “Does he, though?” Greer asked.

  They both looked at the flowers. Gorgeous, voluptuous, expensive.

  “Someone sent them, but he said it wasn’t him.” Greer pursed her lips, thinking. “Have you gotten flowers without a card before?”

  So there was a question that was more complicated than it sounded. She had. But long ago. A different Lily ago. But she couldn’t let—didn’t want to let—Greer in on any part of her private life. She didn’t mean it to be unfriendly, but she’d recognized, as she’d stepped deeper into TV world, what happened when people mixed business with friendship. People meddled. Asked questions. Tried to help. Crossed lines. She would be a good reporter pal, but a producer, even a reliable, knowledgeable one like Greer, didn’t need to know Lily’s personal business. And definitely not her past.

  “Oh, I suppose so.” Lily waved off the inquiry as if anonymous flowers were part of her TV life, like clothing allowances and autographs. But if it wasn’t Mr. Smith, maybe—maybe?—the lilies were from Sam. Would that be a good thing or a bad thing? What would he have meant by them?

  “You should call the florist,” Greer suggested.

  “Like I didn’t think of that,” Lily said. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be brusque, but Rowen accepted them.” She took a deep breath, spooled it out, stared at the flowers. “She’s not even supposed to answer the door. Stupid me, I was in the shower. And Petra was out. If I’d been doing my regular job instead of this dumb shoot, she’d have been at school. Or at least I would have answered the door, and I would have known—I mean, what if—”

  Lily pictured it. Those home surveillance cameras were so hackable, she hated them, but now she longed for one. “What if he was Mr. Smith himself? At my house? What if—”

  “Stop. Lily. There are no what-ifs,” Greer interrupted. “Sometimes flowers are just flowers.”

  “He was at. The. Emmys!” Lily felt her eyes well. “He was there. And that formal voice, you know? Nobody talks like that.”

  “Maybe.” Greer shook her head. “But he could have easily seen your dress on social—someone probably Instagrammed it. You have, like, a billion followers. You’re cranky now and making something out of nothing. He’s a good source. He has nothing to do with the flowers. He was guessing.”

  “I should toss these into the trash.” Lily frowned. “Or am I overreacting?”

  “Mumma?” Rowen’s voice again, from the other room, coming closer. “Come out! We need you!”

  “You, overreacting? Imagine.” Greer raised an eyebrow at her. “Let’s do this thing, Lily. We’ll keep Rowen safe, and you’ll be even more adored.”

  CHAPTER 6

  GREER

  I knew enough about Lily to understand she’s one of those women who thinks they can have it all, and if her life isn’t perfect, then there’s something wrong that someone else ought to fix. She had no idea how often it was me fixing it. And she didn’t need to know. All part of the job.

  When we got to her backyard—an expanse of green lined with fading yellow daffodils and an ocean of white tulips, the grass elegantly short, where weeds dare not even attempt to grow—Rowen and Wade and Warren were clustered around a croquet wicket in the far corner, protected from curious neighbors by a high white fence.

  I mean, croquet. How retro is croquet?

  But “Summer on Six” required sho
wing our talent engaged in a summer activity, and playing in the backyard was perfectly acceptable. Lily and Rowen—the fence was two feet taller than the little girl—in an adorable mother-daughter croquet match. Cute, shootable, endearing. Aspirational, if you aspired to the 1950s. More cinematic than playing video games, I rationalized. With all the arm-twisting I’d had to do to convince Lily to do this at all, I’d take what I could get. And then maybe the two of them reading in the redwood lounge chairs under the leafed-out sugar maple. Walking hand in hand. Picking flowers. For this, I went to journalism school. But then, Lily had, too.

  What did she want me to do, call the police because someone had sent her flowers? I considered attempting to track down the sender, maybe that would make her happy, make her realize how much she needed me, but apart from calling every florist in Boston, that would be impossible. And who lets a little kid answer the door?

  “Wade? Warren?” I called out as the screen door closed behind us. “You wanna set up your gear? If I could lure you from this crucial match?”

  “Bummer.” Wade lofted his mallet, his blue Channel 6 shirt untucking from his jeans. “I was about to achieve world domination.”

  “No way.” Rowen leaned down, clonked her green ball through a wire wicket, then held her mallet in triumph. “You lose, Wade.”

  “Sorry, guys.” Lily had reached her daughter, draped an arm across Rowen’s shoulders. “Did this one warn you she’s Olympics material?”

  “I could tell she was letting us win.” Warren replaced his mallet in the rack, then started opening his tripod, flapping down the latches that held the three legs in place.

  “Got that right,” Rowen said. “Mumma, can we…”

  As Rowen chattered, I noticed Lily scanning the tops of the fence, left to right, then behind them. Keeping her daughter close.

  It took two hours, once we got started, to shoot the whole piece. Every angle imaginable of the two of them walking and talking and hitting croquet balls, Lily’s laughter sounding completely genuine. She eagle-eyed the camera, standing in front of her daughter whenever she could.