by J. P. Barry
Reaching for the house phone after dressing, I called my manager, Jack Ramsey.
“I know. I know, Jill. I saw the article. Slime balls from all the tabloids have been calling nonstop since four in the morning sniffing around for a comment. Just got off the phone with Nate. He’s in the same boat. All I need to know is are you divorcing, or not?” Jack said the second he answered.
“We’re not,” I replied, unsure of how to spin why we were at Charles’ office in the first place without giving away too much personal information. To date, we managed to kept marital troubles quiet.
“Might I ask why you two were visiting Mr. Downey yesterday? It makes sense based on recent rumors. You and Nick have been spotted fighting. You’re barely speaking to the other, never mind never attending events together,” he pressed.
“Look, Nick and I hit a rough patch. We’re fine now. For my sanity, please spin this the way you’ve spun the adultery rumors.” My tone, short.
“You got it. In the meantime, go out with Nick in public today. Show a united front, and that all is well. Hold hands, kiss, skip through Central Park for all I care–just be seen outside, happy in love. I’ll have Maryann send over a copy of the joint statement Nate and I will make this afternoon.”
“Thanks for handling this.”
“That’s my job. If the station gives you hell over this, give a shout. I’ll call that crap weasel Robbins myself,” Jack said, then hung up.
Shit! The frigging station and Robbins.
The second Robbins caught wind of this, he’d explode. In the past, we’d had several run-ins over news stories I’d been the central focus of. Each time, the PR department, along with Jack, carefully crafted ways to turn negatives into positives. Usually, I’d read something management prepared on air, first thing, then everyone would pretend nothing happened. Focus remained on the heart and soul of the show, which I didn’t mind at all.
“See?” Nick smiled, standing in the doorframe to the bedroom, arms crossed against his broad chest. “All taken care of. Rearview mirror material. Now, onto better, cheerier, more fun things. I know you’ve got a show tonight, but after, when you get home, I may have a surprise or two up my sleeve. Nate and Jack want us to be seen out and about around town, but I say screw it. I want you all to myself. We can do the photo op tomorrow.” Mischief danced in those vibrant green eyes of his.
A grin braced my lips. Nick had that ability. He knew how to break me, pull me from the wreckage, make me forget the world around was on fire. Right then and there I was one hundred percent sure I was all in–I wanted him, us, this.
“Is that a smile I see?” Nick teased.
“Maybe. Don’t get too full of yourself.” I raised an eyebrow.
“Nah, babe. I’ve got other things in mind for now,” he growled, throwing me over his shoulder and onto the bed. “Getting up and dressing was one of my worst ideas to date.”
With a giggle, I gave into his will, falling victim to false hope.
Chapter Three
Jillian
Begrudgingly, I left Nick home to go to work. It had been sometime since I experienced missing him upon leaving. Truth be told, it kind of felt exhilarating. The marriage of annoyance and ache exiting, coupled with the excitement to return proved powerful. The day had been a total one eighty degree turn from previous months. We talked, but not about anything pressing, but rather caught up. I had no idea Nick signed a three-book deal with a major publishing house, nor did I know his Podcast was getting ready to go global. The best part? Nick and I laughed–a lot. Real, genuine, honest laughter filled the once darkened hallways of our home.
Exiting the Lincoln Town Car, a perk from the station, Lyla immediately greeted me. Shedding my coat and purse, Lyla took possession of the items, following me down the long narrow corridor to my office, arms filled with folders, fingers tightly clutching her cell phone.
“Senator Joshua Millburn canceled last minute. His replacement will be Judge Ethel Wasserman. Currently, she’s in hair and makeup. The Judge is amenable to all discussion as long as it has nothing to do with her personal life, which loosely translates to, stay away from mentioning her alcoholic son who’s in rehab, again. Anything involving politics or current events is up for grabs. I know its short notice, but Liam made a list of topics to touch upon, mostly women in government and the roles they play. If it were me, I’d focus on her recent decision regarding the Babette King murder trial, and the rumors she’s being considered for the open Supreme Court Justice chair, but those are just my simple suggestions. Everything is on your desk, along with a few other things that require your signature.
“Also, Mr. Robbins wants to speak with you after the show. He left strict instructions for you to meet him in his office, and to bring Liam with you,” Lyla informed.
“I’m not shocked Millburn bailed. Had a feeling he would after yesterday’s news explosion. His PR guys are probably working overtime trying to find a PC way to spin why he was in a cheap motel room with a bunch of underage hookers as the FBI raided the dump. I’ve got a few things I’d like to chat about with the Judge, but I’m liking your suggestions. Excellent work. Thank you. As for Topher–tell him to kiss my ass,” I replied, shuffling papers around the messy work surface.
Lyla’s expression—priceless. She wasn’t sure how to respond to my Topher comment.
“Relax. I was joking. Tell the little shit I’ll be there the second my mic is unplugged.”
A nervous laugh came from Lyla’s mouth. “I’ll get right on that,” she answered, exiting.
I liked Lyla, quite a bit, actually. She reminded me a lot of myself when I was her age, ambitious. What made her stand out was she didn’t want to be a gofer forever. Lyla had expressed hopes and dreams of one day having her own prime-time show, so introductions to all the right people were made whenever possible. Thoughts, ideas, opinions were always encouraged, and fully supported. Other on-air talent at the network didn’t allow assistances as much free rein as I’d given Lyla, which I never understood why. Egos, perhaps. Eventually, someone in the industry would notice Lyla’s talent. The thought of losing her sucked, but watching her succeed would feel far better.
Glancing at the desk clock, I spoke to myself. “In five, four, three, two … hello, Liam.” I didn’t have to look up to know my predictable, amazing, gifted producer Liam Stevens entered the room.
“You’re killing me, Jill. You know that, right? A slow, painful bleed out.” He huffed, closing the door, taking a seat on the white leather sofa. Reaching into his laptop bag, he produced four antacid tablets. Popping them into his mouth, he sighed, heavily.
“Jack and Nate have the whole tabloid nonsense under control,” I replied, still digging through a never-ending mountain of papers. The more I shuffled them, the bigger the stack grew.
“I’m sure everyone has a firm handle on this, but I hate to burst your bubble. Robbins is fuming. Did Lyla tell you he wants to meet with both of us post-show?”
“Yes. I’m not worried about it. Topher isn’t going to do a damn thing. He’ll huff and puff like he always does, but nothing will come of it. That jackass needs us more than we need all of this. Without our show, no one would watch this station.”
“Jill, we’re all replaceable in this industry. Don’t think you’re untouchable. Here today, gone tomorrow, without a backwards glimpse. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen it happen. The next pretty face will quickly cover yours on ads and billboards. You better go in there sans the attitude. Leave the gigantic chip on your shoulder here, safely tucked away in this space. Anyway, what’s going on with you and Nick? I’m aware you’ve been having marital problems, but didn’t realize you guys were headed for a divorce. I thought you’d scream and shout a bit, then work it out.” Liam leaned back into the sofa, stretching and closing his eyes.
“We’ve been ‘separated’ for some time now, but living in the same house. A few months ago, he filed for divorce. Not me. Then, yesterday, while hammerin
g out the terms at my lawyer’s office, I’m not sure what happened. Nick had a change of heart. Says he wants to work things out,” I explained, plopping onto the chair across from him.
“Why didn’t you say anything to me?” Liam’s eyes opened, revealing a mix of genuine concern and hurt.
“I don’t know. Talking about it sort of hurt, and I wanted to keep it private.”
“Kendra and I are always here for you, Jill. We may not be blood, but that doesn’t matter. We love you and Nick very much. You’re not alone.”
Kendra, Liam’s wife of forty years, quickly befriended me the second we met at one of Nick’s book events. As we waited in line to use the restroom, she struck up a conversation about how exceptional of a therapist Nick was. Flattered by her kind words, I introduced them. The ironic part? Nick had been chatting with Liam about potentially doing a fill-in guest spot at the network. As Nick and Kendra spoke, I conversed with Liam about being a journalist for a local news network. After that night, I didn’t hear or see from either until one morning Liam emailed asking to meet up for coffee. Just like that, I had an interview to host a nightly news show. A week later, it was mine. I owed everything to that chance happening, Nick’s talent, and Liam Stevens.
“That means the world to me. It really does, but everything is fine. I promise,” I assured.
“Don’t shut me out again, Jill. If you don’t want to talk about whatever with me, call Kendra. She’ll always lend a shoulder to cry on.”
“I’m sorry. I won’t.” I paused, smiling warmly at Liam’s loving nature, leaning forward, briefly placing my hand on top of his, giving it a squeeze. “Listen, after Topher bitches me out over whatever crawled up his ass and died today, I’m going to request a brief sabbatical. Nick and I want to take a quick vacation, get away from everything to reconnect. If we stand any chance of making our marriage work, we’ve got to do it in a drama and distraction free environment. Around here, that’s an impossible feat. Don’t even attempt to pretend otherwise, because we both know it.”
“I see that appeal going over like a fart in an elevator. Topher won’t go for it. Especially not with the CAT Network only a few points behind us in rating polls these past months. You’re the big-ticket item around here. If you’re out, the ship will sink–and fast. Don’t you even attempt to pretend otherwise.”
“I’m aware, which is why I need you to help me come up with a rock-solid proposal for who will fill-in while I’m away. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. Please, Liam?”
“I’ll see what celebrities I can line up.” He paused, pondering something in his head before continuing. “I don’t talk about this often, but roughly fifteen years into my marriage, Kendra and I hit the skids, bad. I thought for sure it was over. All we ever did was yell and scream. Didn’t see eye to eye on anything, ever. One evening, after a huge fight, she kicked me out. The kids were little. They had no idea what was going on. To this day they thought their father was away working. We were separated for about six months. I moved in with my older brother, Randy, you know, the retired detective. Worst time of my life. Anyway, my oldest fell off his bike–broke his arm. Kendra called from the hospital crying, scared. I ran to the ER like a bat out of hell. My kid was hurt. My wife was upset and worried. They needed me. A few hours later, when I was dropping them back home, she invited me in, and we talked–like really talked, something we hadn’t done for a while. It wasn’t fun at all, but once we dug through all the hurt feelings, we came out on the other side just fine. Look at us now. Three grown, married, successful children, with twin grandbabies on the way.
“If you and Nick truly love each other, this bump in the road will be a story you’ll tell one of your kids one day. Jill, and don’t take this the wrong way, you’ve got to reign it in a bit. He’s got a lot of work to do too, but your biggest problem is you haven’t forgiven him for the Kelly incident.” He stopped speaking momentarily, putting his hand up to halt any interjections. “Don’t cheapen our relationship by lying and saying you’re fine with what happened, because we both know you’re not. You’ll never be okay until you let it go. You haven’t been the same since it happened. Every single aspect of you changed. You’re worth more than the heaping bag of crud you’ve been dragging around. Just some food for thought. All right, I need you in hair and makeup. Show starts in a half hour.”
“That’s why I love you most and best. Thank you,” I said, standing, leaning over, kissing his bald head.
“Yeah, yeah. What are producers who double as adopted dads for? Get your ass in gear, kiddo. We’ve got a job to do,” he said, exiting.
* * * *
“I’m Jillian Winters, and that’s the bottom line. Goodnight.” Body froze, smile glued to my face, eyes fixed on camera two waiting for Liam’s cue.
“And, we’re out. Great show, everyone. Another masterpiece for the books. Thank you for all of your talent, support, time, and help,” Liam said, removing his headphones, running both hands over his face. “Whenever you’re ready, Jill.”
Placing my mic pack on the table, shoulders slumped. Having to maintain perfect posture for three consecutive hours took a toll on my back. Add the stress of having to deal with Topher and his arrogant belligerence on top of that, it was a miracle I could stand in the upright position at all.
“Let’s get this over with,” I said to Liam, walking to the elevator bank.
In silence, we entered Topher’s massive office space. You’d think being he was worth millions of dollars the area would’ve been decorated with taste and class, but no. The theme of his surroundings could best be described as ‘shabby cheap.’ Random stock art hung from the stark white walls. The floors were contractor grade, flat brown carpet. Every detail down to the chairs screamed bargain basement discount junk. Tension laced with anxiety caused my right leg to bounce up and down. The motion, greeted by Liam’s hand holding the limb in place. Though he didn’t speak a word, his head remained down inspecting his tablet. In his own way he was attempting to sooth.
“Mrs. Winters. Mr. Stevens. Mr. Robbins will see you now,” Topher’s secretary informed.
“Thank you, Janette,” Liam replied, taking hold of my arm. “You are a strong, confident, badass of a woman. Pull it together,” he whispered in my ear.
“I’m fine.” I lied.
“Great. Tell your face that.”
The reminder comforted, but not enough to keep my stomach from turning. Upon entering Topher’s private space, he gestured for us to sit, while he barked orders into the phone. After a few seconds, he slammed the receiver down on the cradle, and looked up.
“Mr. Robbins,” I began, but was cut off.
“I don’t care what you have to say, Ms. Winters. Yesterday was decent until you and your husband decided to ruin it. Again, with the damn tabloids. First, it was the affairs. Then, it was the diva-like behaviors. After that, it was the drunken fighting to the death with your husband in public, and let’s not forget the verbal scuffle you got into with a fan. And, my personal favorite scandals—the mic mishap, and all the off color, snide remarks made during interviews. Now, it’s sneaking into a divorce lawyer’s office. The messed-up part? This is just from the past year alone. It doesn’t account for the other shit you’ve put me through over the course of your employment at this network,” Topher ranted.
“The interview wasn’t my fault. My comments were taken out of context, and spliced to suit the negative needs of other networks, and the media in general. As for the fighting to the death argument with Nick, it never happened. A rag reporter made it up,” I defended, because it was the truth. I’d been asked to make a statement about an executive order a governor had given. My words were chopped to pieces, and put back together via massive editing. The results portrayed me as a giant, ignorant, uneducated asshole. Jack got his hands on the original recording, leaking that to the press, instantly discrediting the competitors. Case closed. The Nick argument story came out of left field. Plain and simple–nev
er went down. We’d have to have been out in public together for it to have been witnessed, which hasn’t happened for a long time.
“I don’t give a rat’s behind whose fault any of this is, because it becomes my problem regardless. This station has paid more in legal fees for you than any other person on staff. Get your house in order, or else there’s the damn door. Use it. Don’t let it hit you in the ass on the way out. The only reason you haven’t been let go, yet, is because of your ratings, which you’re only a small part of creating. The man sitting beside you is responsible for making all the magic happen. Thank him you’re not back at that shit station you used to work for, because if I had my way, you would’ve been gone a long time ago. Oh, and while we’re at it, put a lock on your husband’s mouth. He’s become the king of too much information. It’s as if someone shoots him with a sodium pentothal dart in the neck before he gives any kind of interview. He keeps flapping his gums like a whiny, snowflake liberal, pushing his agenda. We get the backlash of it here. Do you understand me, Ms. Winters? Enough already. Damn it.”