by Liz Newman
Denny threw her coffee straight at Skye’s face. Quick as lightning, she ducked. The coffee splattered onto the microwave on the counter. An administrative assistant poked her head in. She took in the sight of the splotched coffee and Skye’s wild-eyed look and ducked back into the hall as quickly as a turtle retreats into its shell.
“Are you going to wait until he dies?” Skye advanced on Denny, unable to control her words. “I wonder who will tire of whom first. Does your stomach turn when he reaches for you?” Denny’s face went green and Skye knew she hit a soft spot. “Bet you thought that was just morning sickness. Maybe the novelty of shagging a sexy grandpa wore off,” Skye laughed. “How old will your son be when your husband takes his last breath? How much of an inheritance will be left after he divvies it up between the children from his other wives? I hope the money is enough to cover the hole your conscience eats up inside of you!”
“Stop!” Denny screamed, covering her ears. “Stop! Stop! Stop!” Denny’s mouth opened and closed slackly, like a fish out of water gulping.
“What’s wrong, Denny?” Skye asked. “No comment?”
Denny’s face turned green and purple. She grabbed her belly and rested her other hand on the counter. She glared at Skye, her nostrils flaring.
“That’s right,” Skye said. “Take deep breaths.”
Skye circled Denny, leaning over the back of her shoulder to whisper in her ear. “I want you to keep all of the things you love, the houses, the diamonds, the cars. So let’s keep this little conversation between us. To keep things from getting awkward.”
Denny turned to her and looked up with hope.
“I make a better friend than an enemy,” Skye reassured.
Skye backed away from Denny, clearing her path of escape from the break room. Denny stood frozen to the counter.
“I have a meeting with Alfred now,” Skye said cheerily. “I can’t wait to see him. I know how wound up he is. Maybe I can help him relax.”
Skye placed her water glass in the sink, folded her arms, and strolled to the exit. She turned around to face Denny. “You’re right about something. I never thought I’d say that to you. I do need a serious relationship. Maybe I should start looking. If I lose my show, I just might grasp at straws. Or skeletons. I hope this meeting with Alfred goes well. Or you might find yourself in a place you never dreamed you would. In the ex-wives club.”
***
Skye met Blaine in the reception area of Alfred Millingham’s office. “Ready for action?” Blaine murmured.
“Action is all I know to do,” Skye said.
“Please have a seat in the conference room,” Alfred’s secretary called as she hung up the phone.
Above her lip she curled a long tuft of hair so thick at first it looked like a moustache. She stood up and walked them to the conference room.
“May I get you anything to drink besides water?” she asked as she took a tall bottle of spring water from the mini refrigerator and poured it into two glasses.
“Coffee, please,” Blaine said, removing documents from his briefcase.
“Do you take cream and sugar?”
“Soy milk. Do you have an organic sugar substitute?”
“Absolutely.”
Skye recalled the splattered coffee on the wall of the break room and an insane giggle escaped her lips. Blaine gave her a questioning look, and Skye waved her hand in the air.
“Sorry,” she said, clearing her throat.
Alfred’s secretary placed the sparkling glasses of water in front of Skye and Blaine. “I’ll brew the coffee for you right away. Mr. Millingham will be here in just a moment.”
“Thank you, Barbara,” Skye nodded. Alfred’s secretary left the room. Skye and Blaine looked at each other, and Skye took a deep breath.
“I thought his secretary’s name was Janet,” Blaine whispered.
“Do you want to hear the truth, or the rumor?” Skye asked.
“Aren’t they usually the same thing?”
“Janet left alleging a hostile work environment. She said she felt uncomfortable about the…physicality occurring in Alfred’s office. She also said Alfred was getting too comfortable with her, if you know what I mean. Apparently, he patted her on the bottom. She was telling him a joke at the time, but not one to warrant contact. So she says. His attorney said the incident never happened. She was handsomely paid to keep her mouth shut. I think he hired that one…” she motioned in the direction of Barbara’s desk in the adjacent room, “to keep temptation at bay.”
“God bless the hounds.”
Alfred breezed into the room, straightening his tie. He nodded at Skye, then stopped short at Blaine, who stood up to greet him. “Blaine Pfeiffer, Grandclemente and Ross,” Blaine said pleasantly. The two men firmly shook hands.
“You brought representation,” Alfred commented.
“That wasn’t necessary. In any event, my time is limited. Dee is feeling unwell and I have meetings scheduled all day. Skye, I agreed to this meeting because I have some very bad news. I’ve decided to cancel your show. The ratings fell drastically since people lost interest in hearing about 9/11. It is no fault of yours. You are and always will be one of my best journalists. The time has come to rethink your position here at Teleworld. In between shows there are news updates. I want you to be the main anchor during those intermittent news updates, and I also want you to filter the most newsworthy stories for the updates from Associated Press and take over where Kleinstiver left off. The intern we hired just isn’t cutting it. Eventually, you will have your own show again.”
“You want me to take a position you’ve entrusted to an intern?” Skye said, incredulous.
“We must be flexible for the times, Skye. You know I regard you as a superstar. You have the fire—”
“Enough, Alfred.” Skye held up her hand. “If the fire is what I have, then what I am about to say to you is going to burn. Give me a minute to collect myself.”
Anger welled up in her chest, anger longing to be unbridled and unleashed; indignation desiring the ability to send every piece of paper, every chair, everything that could be torn from the room flying through the floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows. Sal’s face flashed before her eyes, ever trusting of her true intentions. Keeping her show was no longer simply a vanity for her. She would fight as a lioness would fight to protect her cub, until the death if need be. No one would push her out, not even Alfred with his silver duck’s bottom pompadour crowning his head, or the wretched terrorists who gave birth to an era of news reporting based solely on the exploitation of improbable fears.
Rising and pacing around the room, Skye gathered her thoughts, rolling a chair away from the table so she could sit directly across from Alfred. Skye leaned forward and folded her hands together. “It is unfortunate you have made the decision to cancel Around The Clock. However, I know I am not at fault for the drop in ratings. As you may recall, in early September you requested me to step aside and allow Denny to sit in the anchor’s chair for two nights a week. As a friend, I acquiesced to your request. After my stint in the hospital, my name was removed from the title without a demand from me to have it back. The disappointment of seeing the show decline in quality gave me no desire to have my name on it. I have a stack of memos here, sent from Gary Sinha, a member of the board of directors, to Marcus Kleinstiver in January. It reads, and I quote, ‘ATC has become a poison for this station, in essence the weakest link. Skye Evans has been done a grave injustice in her absence. Denny Moss is hands-down the most unqualified journalist ever to sit behind the desk. I have expressed my worries to Alfred and have been ignored. Perhaps you can think of a way to assist me.’ Stack on stack of communications between key personnel that reflect this same point of view about Denny’s performance.”
“Kleinstiver, however, believed in you. He believed you would give us a fair shake, and that you would turn your head aside regardless, so he kept his silence. We all did. You knew about the decrease in ratings. Having watched
the show, as I imagine you did, you knew Denny was nothing more than an amateur handed a golden goose on a silver platter; the anchor position of a highly rated show. You let the necessary parts of my team go without asking my consent, pushing Kleinstiver to the brink. When he resigned, he forwarded these emails, as well as numerous others which gave feedback on Denny’s performance, to the entire board of directors, and me. I have another document, a record of ratings. Amazingly enough, the ratings rise on the nights I sit in the anchor’s chair, but not enough to salvage the show, according to the board.”
Alfred’s secretary walked into the room carrying asilver coffee pot, sugar and creamer containers engraved with the letters TNBC. She poured coffee into a cup and set it before Blaine.
“Mr. Millingham?” she asked.
“Yes, please.” Alfred’s brow furrowed as he watched the hot liquid stream out of the silver teapot.
“May I get you anything else?” Barbara asked pleasantly.
“Barbara, please bring in a television and DVR.” Skye said.
“Right away, Miss Evans.” Barbara bustled toward the door, closing it softly behind her.
Skye stood up and paced the room. “I realize I erred in standing by and letting this happen. I realize that I allowed your wife to take control of my show and destroy it. Now that the ratings are so low it cannot be salvaged, I feel it is only fair and just for you to grant me a new show.”
“I cannot just dole out shows,” Alfred said. “I need research done showing a niche in the market and votes from the board.”
“I’ve have already taken care of all production aspects of the new show. The show will be called From Tragedy to Triumph, and will be a partial news show, partial reality show. Reality television is the wave of the future, and test studies prove that viewers want a more in-depth, positive look into people’s lives. The first show is already on film.” Skye held up an encased DVD. “It is the story of a hero who perished in the Shanksville, Pennsylvania crash, and the last time he spoke to his wife and sons before the crash. It ends with his son winning a spot in the major leagues and dedicating his success to his father. Everyone who viewed the show was brought to tears.
“This episode has been sent to a major movie production company, and they’ve already bought the rights to adapt the story into a movie. This episode,” Skye held the jewel case up and waved it in the air for emphasis, “has also been sent out to the four major cable news networks in the country besides ours. I have received bids from each one.”
Skye sat down and slid the jewel case across the table toward Alfred. Alfred picked up the case and examined it. Barbara backed in through the door, rolling a flat screen television with a DVD player underneath it on a cart. She placed the DVD into the player and hit the Play button, turned the lights off and stood by a side wall.
Alfred watched the tape with his hands folded. When the episode finished, Barbara flicked the lights on, dabbing the corners of her eyes, and left the room. Alfred tapped his fingers on the table. “Once again, Skye, your work speaks for itself. However, I am unable to make any decisions without consulting my attorneys and the board.”
“I already consulted the board, Alfred. I have here signed documents from every member of the board, including Timothy Reilly himself. I gave them the same option I am giving you, either the show, or my resignation.”
“If you are demanding a decision now, then I must accept your resignation,” Alfred said, his eyes narrow. Tiny beads of sweat formed on his fuzz-covered widow’s peak.
“Before we give you a signed resignation, we ask for a buyout of her contract for the remaining five years,” Blaine said. He pushed a stack of documents forward.
“This is ludicrous,” muttered Alfred. “I will not buy out the contract. Either she stays, or she forfeits.”
“I might be speaking from a third person perspective, but Teleworld is beginning to sound like a hostile work environment. May I advise, Mr. Millingham, that this is not the type of publicity you should garner for your station, for the sake of your new wife and your unborn child. News viewers would not like to read about scandals such as these, especially in these unstable times. With the first episode of From Tragedy to Triumph currently being transformed into the basis of a movie of the week on a major network station, the bad publicity generated by TNBC could be featured in the movie.”
Blaine pulled the stack of documents back. He removed an envelope from his briefcase. “The contracts to keep Skye at TNBC state that the new show can be modified at any time, as long as it remains a full feature show. The show will last the remainder of her contract,” he glanced at a document underneath, “a remainder of five years, and then you are free to part your separate ways. My client is gracious enough to agree that, if the show is not successful in ratings, you can buy out whatever years remain in her contract and you can part ways.”
“At noon today,” Skye said, “is my first call with a competing network; the one that has offered me the most lucrative sum, which if I may add, is thousands more than I am making here at Teleworld. I have calls scheduled all afternoon. I’m devoted to Teleworld, but I have been pushed over and underappreciated for too long. I graciously stepped aside at your request and my show’s been run into the ground. I wonder to myself why I should stay here, after being treated so poorly, and I remembered the story you told me about my mother. I have a legacy here. This is my home. If you expect me to stay, I wish to be relegated back to my time-honored place and not stuffed back into a closet.”
“Carolyn asked for nothing, and I put her on top of the world,” Alfred said. “I only ask you to bear with me, Skye. I will give you your own show again, in time.”
“Don’t you think I know my own mother well enough, Alfred? She wasn’t the type to ask. With due respect, neither am I. There’s one more thing that I want.”
Alfred lurched onto his elbows, a haggard old owl. “And that is?”
“Kleinstiver and Edie. Back on my show with contracts lucrative enough to make them leave their current positions. Blaine has the contracts here for you to sign as well.”
Alfred remained pensive, calculating his next argument. He shook his head, pushing the contracts back toward Blaine. The phone in the conference room lit up and Alfred pressed the speaker button, welcoming the rescue.
“Alfred?” Barbara said. “Denny is on line one. She says it’s urgent.”
“Put the call through,” Alfred responded and picked up the phone line. “I’ll be right there. Just finishing up the meeting with Skye. I’m going over a proposal she’s given me.” He listened into the phone as Denny chattered loudly. He laughed heartily, his face turning red. “No. No. It’s for a show. What’s that, darling? Well, it’s much more involved than that. All right, sweetheart. All right. See you in a minute.” Alfred hung up the phone. “You are winning everyone over, aren’t you? First the board, now Denny. She said I should give you whatever you want.” Alfred removed a Mont Blanc pen from his breast pocket. “Here I thought the entire time you two didn’t get along.” He scribbled his signature on all the lines Blaine pointed to. He stood up and shook Skye and Blaine’s hands. “Must go now. Skye, have Clarissa book a lunch date for us through Barbara. Dee’s having contractions. We’re having a girl. I always wanted a little girl.”
Skye stifled a laugh. “Is the offer to vacation at the villa still open?”
“Of course.”
“I’d like to go there while the production team gets settled.”
“Wonderful. I will be back in the office about the same time you return. See Barbara about your travel arrangements and in two weeks we’ll begin production on your show.” Alfred threw open the door of the conference room and exited into the reception area, waving at Barbara as he flew down the hall.
Blaine shuffled the documents, tapping their edges on the table and placing them back into the envelope. “From Tragedy to Triumph could be the title of your life story.”
“It could be the title of many
life stories. That’s what makes it sell,” Skye tapped her hand on Blaine’s upper arm. “Thank you for your help.”
“You manned this ship, Skye. I’d hate to be against you. If you ever give up broadcasting, you should become a lawyer. You’d better get on the phone and start disappointing those other networks.”
“My afternoon’s pretty open.” Skye smiled. “There are no calls scheduled. I bluffed.”
“There are no other networks vying for the new show?” Blaine asked in disbelief.
“I finalized this production yesterday. There is a movie offer, though. But it has nothing to do with the show. Just the story. Care to join me for lunch?”
“I’m meeting Anita at the office. Another time. We’ll celebrate. My treat.” He held out his hand so she could shake it. She looked at it, pushed it aside and enveloped him in a huge hug.
***
Skye thumbed through the folder that Barbara hand-delivered to her desk in the afternoon. She examined the picture of the stunning Italian estate set against a backdrop of rolling hills and sighed with pleasure. She scanned the electronic printout of a business class airline ticket.
“The latest pattern of terrorism has predominantly hit intercontinental flights,” Skye said to Clarissa as she prepared to leave the office. Clarissa held the arms of Skye’s trench coat wide, pulling it over Skye’s back. “Hundreds of international flights take off and land every day without incident. I haven’t taken a vacation since…I can’t remember.”
“You’ve never taken a vacation since I’ve worked here,” Clarissa said. “You deserve it. What about your appointment with Dr. Carter? Shall I reschedule for when you return?”
Skye buttoned up her trench coat. “Tell him…I’m switching tanks for a little while, to get some fresh air. He’ll understand. And please pass on my gratitude for his help.”
“Right away.” Tears welled up in Clarissa’s eyes, and Skye perceived the slightest flicker of pity mixed with caring emotion in Clarissa’s expression. As a reflex, she bristled at the pity, but Skye still longed to embrace her. She restrained herself as Clarissa was subordinate to her, and the physicality might confuse their working relationship. Inwardly, she chastised herself for running her life in strict adherence to principle, even in the face of genuine empathy.