As the weeks passed, doors that had been bolted only two years before were suddenly swinging wide open. Because of my newfound notoriety as the producer who got the Melanie Diamond exclusive, job offers around the country started flooding in. Opportunity. Cash. Health benefits.
“I’d like to talk to you about working for us,” Curtis said via cell phone.
I’d watched Grighton’s show—as a news producer you have to watch everyone’s show—and I thought he was smart, tough and intimidating. And I wanted to work for him. But most importantly, he wanted to hire a young, female producer who could deliver. Me.
And here I am.
“…Report back to me at eleven,” Curtis says to whatever poor soul is on the phone with her. Then she lowers the headset to rest around her neck and stares at me. “So, Gabby, you made it. Welcome to national news.”
In the next hour, I’m given a desk, a computer and a BlackBerry.
Curtis tours me around the building, barking out orders. “Morning meeting is at eleven, afternoon meeting at three, post-show meeting at seven-ten. All take place in the seventh-floor conference room. Ron hates tardiness, so don’t be late. Ever. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“He also detests guests who stutter, so don’t book them.”
“That’s fine.” N-no p-problem.
She shows her pass to the security guard and we enter a small puke-green room. “The green room. Obviously.”
In Arizona, the green room, where the guests wait to be interviewed, wasn’t actually green. But I always thought that was kind of lame. This one has a watercooler, a coffee brewer, a loaf of banana bread, a TV and VCR, and a blue leather couch.
“If he catches a grammar mistake in the script,” Curtis says, “he’ll think you’re illiterate. Watch out for sloppiness. And always get your facts right. He’s known as one of the most trusted newsmen in the nation for a reason. Us.”
“Got it.”
She presses her finger against her lips. “Control room,” she mouths and opens the door.
No one looks up as we sneak inside. Jane Hickey’s morning show is filming.
I love control rooms. I always feel like I’m in the center of the world. Two rows of producers at their computers face a wall of television monitors. The center monitor shows the two smiling blondes, Cameron Diaz and Jane, discussing Cameron’s new movie. The monitor beside her shows the police chief in South Carolina, the one who found the kidnapped girl. As soon as Jane finishes her interview with the movie star, the feed will switch to the police chief. Built into the side walls are fifteen television monitors showing the news on every other news station in the country.
“You’ll be working here,” Curtis mouths, pointing to one of the desks, which a tall, lanky man now occupies.
She motions me back toward the door.
When we’re back outside, Curtis continues growling orders. “Ron’s ratings are highest when he gets a good debate going, so don’t book any wimps. Make sure the guest can stand his ground.”
“No problem,” I say.
“And make sure to know who else the guest is talking to. If he appeared on Larry King last night, we don’t want him tonight. Ron won’t be happy with you. He won’t be happy at all.”
“Got it.” Butterflies are anxiously flying around my stomach. If I was intimidated by Ron before, I’m scared shitless now. What if Ron doesn’t like me? What if he thinks I’m some sort of hack? What if he thinks I’m illiterate?
“And remember,” Curtis says as we step back into the elevator, “he’s very happily married. And we want him to stay that way.”
I try to keep the shock from my face. What exactly does she mean by that? Does she think I’m going to try to sleep my way to the top? Or is it my responsibility to keep guests from hitting on him? He’s not exactly a rock star. I can’t exactly imagine screaming teen girls pressed against the tinted windows flashing him their panties. “I understand,” I say.
“Good.” With a glance at her watch she adds, “It’s time for the morning meeting.”
My hands are shaking. I’ve moved them under the conference-room table so nobody notices, but there doesn’t seem to be anything I can do to make them stop.
Curtis, the reporters and the associate producers are all chatting among themselves. Ron is expected any minute and I can’t get my hands to stay still. Ron will probably think I’m some sort of crack junkie. Just as I’m about to try putting them on the table again, so I can use the right one to take notes, he enters the room.
“Good morning, you guys!” he sings.
“Hey, Ron,” everyone chants back.
Ron looks exactly like he does on television, only taller. He comes across as the ideal dad: smart, trustworthy, handsome and in control. His hair is short, dark gray and parted to the side. He’s wearing beige pleated trousers and a navy collared sweater. He places his steaming mug of coffee at the head of the oval table and sits down.
“Everyone excited for today’s show?” he asks, scanning the table. His gaze rests on me. “You must be Gabby. Welcome to the team.”
My cheeks flush when he says my name. I’m not surprised he knows who I am, but the familiarity of my nickname catches me by surprise. “Thanks, Ronald,” I say, trying to sound smooth and praying I don’t stutter. “It’s a pleasure to be working for you.”
He smiles, and I’m surprised to see that he has two dimples. “How do you feel about the cold, Arizona? No dry heat here, is there?”
He’s so sweet. And what a cute new nickname. “It’s a bit of a shock to my system.”
“Wait till January. You’ll be wanting to get on the first plane back to Phoenix.”
I don’t need a plane for that. I just have to fall asleep. “I doubt that,” I say, smiling. I am bantering with Ronald Grighton!
“Wow, what a great smile,” he says.
My smile gets even bigger.
Curtis rustles through her portfolio. “Welcome to Ron’s Report, Gabrielle. Now let’s get started on today’s show. Since we can’t get the kidnapped girl—I just heard she’s talking to Paula Zahn—”
Groans from the table.
“—I think we should stick to our program. We’ll do the segment about the elections first. Then the hurricane in the Bahamas. We have the director of the National Hurricane Center and the governor-general scheduled. Then we’re supposed to go to—”
Suddenly my bag begins to vibrate. What the hell?
In a split second, everyone at the table whips out his or her BlackBerry, apparently the cause of said vibrating.
“They lost the Cookie Cutter,” Curtis says.
Murmurs around the table. The Cookie Cutter is Jon Adams, heir to Cookie Creams, the chocolate-chip dynasty, who was arrested for raping and fatally stabbing three women in Spanish Harlem. “How did that happen?” asks Michael, an associate producer. “He was in custody.”
“He jumped bail,” she reads. “We have to run a story on this today.”
Ron sips his coffee. “Who can we get to talk?”
“The district attorney is doing a press conference at noon,” Curtis says. “We’ll need to cover that. Let’s speak to someone from the defense team. Do you think the Adams’ parents will talk to us?”
This all happens so fast, I barely have time to think. I need to add something. What can I say? “What about interviewing the victims’ families?”
Ron grins and taps his mug on the conference table. “Definitely.”
Wahoo!
Curtis continues flicking through her BlackBerry. “The mothers are Puerto Rican and Dominican. Who speaks Spanish?”
“I do,” I say quickly. You don’t live in Arizona without learning the lingo. Some of it, anyway.
“Good,” says Curtis, nodding. “Go to it.”
My hands stop shaking. I’m going to do fine. No, I’m going to do great.
“The chicken pad thai,” I order at the Thai restaurant counter. “To go.” I’m starving. All I ha
d for lunch was coffee, coffee and more coffee.
What a day. What an amazing, incredible, exhausting, overwhelming day.
The show went smoothly. My segment went perfectly. I called the mothers and convinced them (in Spanish) to come on the show, where I got them a proper translator. Both Curtis and Ron praised me for a job well done.
When my meal is ready, I return to my apartment. My doorman informs me that my mattress and frame are waiting for me. Micha, the porter, helps me carry them up to my apartment. I give him a twenty and then sink into the couch, turn on the news and dig into my chicken.
Heather is in her room, chatting on the phone, and doesn’t come out to say hello. If I weren’t so damn tired, I’d be insulted.
A picture of the kidnapped kid flashes across CNN and I feel a pang that she went to Paula Zahn and not us. My BlackBerry buzzes a few times, but it’s only sports scores. When I’m done eating, I strip off my clothes, wash off my makeup, replace the couch pillows, make my bed and then climb underneath the sheets. Tired and happy, I think about potential stories for tomorrow. Maybe the defense attorney will be willing to speak to us. Maybe someone will find the Cookie Cutter. What will happen with the hurricane? I cannot wait to chase these stories.
Crap. Tomorrow—maybe I should call it re-today?—I won’t be doing any chasing. More likely, I’m going to be getting chased. By my future mother-in-law.
5
My Mothers, Myself
Considering how abnormal my life is, the next few days (actually several for me, a few for the rest of the world) pass by in a relatively normal way. Note relatively.
First, on Monday in Arizona, my mother calls at eight (yes, eight) to tell me that she’s still mad at me. I grovel until she’s satiated, and then just when I fall back to sleep, Alice calls. Groan. Both mothers on my first official day of being unemployed. Fate can be cruel.
Though, my mother, I can handle. My mother, I can tell off. But the Number One rule in any book of practical etiquette is “Don’t piss off your future mother-in-law.” In other words, wait until after the wedding to tell her, for instance, you will not be hanging that lovely portrait of her on your bedroom wall. Otherwise an argument might ensue, and what if your fiancé sides with Mommie Dearest? You get to be the queen only after you ascend to the throne. So when Alice calls me on Monday morning at nine (yes, nine), demanding that my mother and I come by that afternoon so we can all “get our heads together,” I remain composed.
My mother does not do the let’s-get-our-heads-together thing. At least, not well. “My mom doesn’t get back until tomorrow morning,” I explain, trying to keep the exasperation out of my voice.
Alice sighs. Loudly. “All right, Gabrielle, but don’t blame me if we can’t get everything done on time and your wedding is a huge disaster.”
“Why don’t we just meet tomorrow.” I pull the comforter over my head in the hopes that she’ll go away.
She sighs again. “Fine.”
“Let’s meet at night so Cam can come, too.”
She laughs. Shrilly. “No. We don’t need Cam.”
“Really? I think we kind of do.”
“Trust me, he’s not going to care. He doesn’t want to be bothered with the small details. Let him worry about work, and we’ll worry about the wedding. I’ll see you at four tomorrow.” She hangs up.
I call back my mother and ask if she’ll come with me to Alice’s.
She groans. “Do I have to?”
“Mom! It’s my wedding.”
“I know, but I don’t want to go to Alice’s. She sounded so…Martha Stewart. But without the good taste and prison stories. She made me want to throw up a little.”
“Hey, you’re talking about my future mother-in-law.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. But she does.”
“Mom.”
“Fine, I’ll come. My plane lands at eleven. Should I meet you there?”
“Yes. At four.” I tell her the address and wait as she types it into her planner.
“Done,” she says. “Wait. I don’t have to bring anything, do I? Like freshly baked cookies?”
This whole situation is making me want to throw up a little, too. “No. Just come.”
Once I’m up, I call the person who bought my car and ask him if there’s any way, if it’s at all possible, if I renege on the sale. “I’m really sorry, but I’m not moving now and I really need my car—”
“No,” he says flatly through the phone.
“Oh. Um. Pretty please?”
“No. Sorry. But have a nice day,” he says and then hangs up.
Fantastic. I decide to wait until after I’ve had my coffee before calling both Heather and my old boss (to beg for my job back). When I’m fairly well caffeinated and thus prepared to face another phone call, I get Heather’s voice mail (“I’m really sorry but—”) and then reach Bernie. He tells me he’s already hired my replacement.
That was fast. So much for being indispensable.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “but let me know if you’re interested in freelancing.”
Nothing is worse than going from a full-time producing gig to freelance producing. It’s like going from teaching to substituting, or full-time girlfriend to 2:00 a.m. sex buddy.
Guess I’ll try to find myself a new car.
Nothing says early November like postelection coverage and, with a full day of airtime to fill each day, TRSN has been doing it to death. Without a major federal election this year, Tuesday’s brainstorming session becomes a contest to see who can come up with the strangest story angle. There’s the standard surprise winners and losers, the perennial favorites being tracked as possible presidential candidates and of course those oddball stories from the “flyover states” (I visibly grimaced when Curtis used that expression) like the dead guy elected mayor.
I send out some e-mails, and by the afternoon meeting I know I have a winner.
“Listen to this,” I say after the room gets quiet. “Apparently in a small six-hundred-person Colorado town south of Denver, a group of college students got a mayoral candidate on the ballot from a new, unknown party called the Progressive Democratic Party. They won by campaigning on a premise of promising to reduce the smell and noise from cow herds—I’m guessing a hot-button issue in town. But I have it on good authority that the party’s real goal is to legalize marijuana.”
Many of the people around the table groan. TRSN is even more old-school than CBS, and I suppose the politics of the newsroom might not be that progressive, either.
“Can you get the story for tomorrow’s show, Arizona?” Ron asks.
“Already on it,” I answer. I really don’t know what I was so worried about.
On Tuesday night, I go shopping. My heels just aren’t going to work at the station. I need a pair of cute flats like everyone else’s. Even as a producer, I am not above running tapes from room to room, and appropriate footwear is definitely needed.
I also need to lose ten pounds. Everyone here is absurdly skinny. The reporters. The cameramen. The doormen. The lunch lady.
Heather retreats from her room to flip through my purchases. I voice my weight concerns and she recommends I try the Pilates studio down the street from our apartment. I think she might be onto something and book an appointment for tomorrow night. She also recommends a therapist, but I’ll hold off on that one for a while. At the moment, I’m preferring denial to certain institutionalization, thanks.
On Tuesday morning in Arizona, I drop off Cam at work and head over to the Barnes & Noble in the truck. I hate driving the truck. But thank goodness Cam spent eighteen hours last summer teaching me to drive stick or I’d really be stranded this week. Until I find a new car, anyway. I buy Ron’s autobiography, My Report: The Lessons I’ve Learned by Ron Grighton, and my first bridal mag. Since I don’t want to let Alice bulldoze me into getting everything she wants, I feel I should arm myself with some info before I get to her place. Then I order myself an iced mocha something, find an
empty seat and flip through the glossy pages.
By page ten, I am exhausted. It seems that there are many, many things one has to do to have a wedding.
Set a date! Alice wants May. May is fine. I have nothing against May. See? I can be conciliatory.
Create your budget! Who’s paying for this circus, anyway?
Decide if you want premarital counseling. Maybe we can use Heather’s therapist.
Decide if you need a prenup. Don’t even joke about it.
Have you thought about your Bridal Lingerie? No. I have not. Flip.
Dream dresses to die for! If the preparations don’t kill me first.
Get into shape! If my Pilates class in New York whips me into shape, will I be thin in Arizona?
Pick the perfect bridal bouquet! What do I know about flowers?
The ultimate wedding registries! That I can do. Shopping. What do I need? New sheets…for my New York apartment. Boo. This is going to suck. I hardly need anything in Arizona, yet I need everything there. If only Pottery Barn shipped to alternate universes.
Choose the lucky members of your wedding party! Do I really need a wedding party? Maybe we can skip the bridesmaid/groomsman thing. It’s kind of degrading. You are my handmaiden. Now look fat and ugly so I look even more beautiful.
I call Cam from my cell. “Do we have to have groomsmen and bridesmaids?” If I had a sister, maybe I’d feel differently.
“Very funny,” Cam says. “I’m planning on asking Dan, Joshua, Matt of course, and Jer and Rick.”
Dan and Joshua are his friends. Jer and Rick are his cousins. Matt is his brother-in-law. That sounds like an awful lot of people. “Five? Does that mean I need five bridesmaids?”
“If you want even numbers.”
I nibble on my thumbnail, and then my index finger, and make my way right through both hands. All this wedding talk has turned me back into a nail biter. “Does it matter?”
Me vs. Me Page 6