“You could have just told me about this,” I said to him at last. “I might have covered it anyway.”
“Liar,” said Mike.
“How’d you do it?”
“There was a little item in that upstate newspaper about the governor’s taxes. You know, the one you blew off?”
I nodded.
“I called my contacts at the IRS and found out that the FBI had pulled all the governor’s returns. Then I called some people over at the Bureau, but they kind of clammed up. So then I talked to my friends at the State Senate, who told me a special committee was being impaneled for Monday.”
“Wow,” I said. He’d just put my entire network of Jersey contacts to shame. Of course, he had a few decades on me.
“So I called car dispatch at NYFBI and asked what day this week they were sending out any teams of more than three cars.” He shrugged. “Basically, I had a hunch, and it took about a month to shake out.”
I stared at him, deeply impressed. Maybe if I paid close attention to him, I’d win a Pulitzer one day too.
“Look,” he said to me. “I get it. I know no one cares about what it means to do this job. But I’m not here to read copy. I’m an investigative journalist. I can do that. And I wanted you to see it.”
Oh, I saw it. I saw it and I was right back to worshipping at his feet. Jerk or no. Pain in my ass or no. Mike Pomeroy was a news god.
“It’s a great story, Mike,” I said, trying to keep the reverence out of my voice. Which wasn’t too difficult, since, after all, I knew his other side now. “More than a great story. Great television, too. It was … bran … but with a donut. A bran donut!”
He laughed. “You’re a weird one, fangirl.”
We reached the van. Joe had already packed up the camera equipment and had gone to bum a cigarette off someone from CBS. We leaned against the open cargo step and watched the circus go on without us. As the adrenaline ebbed, I started feeling the chill of the morning mountain air. I was shocked that my BlackBerry wasn’t ringing off the hook yet. I wondered how many of the news programs were running our footage of Willis’s attempted escape. Mike’s footage.
I sneaked a peek at my anchor. He seemed relaxed now, and definitely a little smug as he watched the other, younger newscasters hoofing it up the hill to give their Johnny-come-lately reports. I smiled. Mike Pomeroy may have had a few years on today’s talking heads, but that just meant he was light-years ahead of them when it came to talent.
Perhaps I could afford to be a little smug myself. After all, I’d been the one to recognize it in him.
After a while, Mike spoke again. “So I have that one grandkid,” he said. “From the picture?”
“Yeah?”
“His name is Alexander. My daughter lives on the Upper West Side with her husband and her son—with Alexander. I haven’t seen them since I got fired from Nightly News.”
I stiffened, stunned by this information.
“First I was embarrassed,” he said. “And then, when I got back on TV … well, after all I’d accomplished, to be forced to come back like this.”
If he’d been getting naked right there in front of me, I wouldn’t have been more shocked.
“Truth is,” he admitted, “I’d screwed things up with my kids long before I was canned, anyway. I was never at home, and even when I was, I was answering every phone call, watching TV out of the corner of my eye all the time.”
I took a deep breath. That sounded far too familiar.
“My marriage failed,” he said. “And then another. You know how it is.”
“No,” I replied. “I’ve never been married.”
“Yeah well, you’re even worse than me. You’d sleep in the office if you could.”
“I’ve got more monitors there, yes,” I said with a rueful laugh.
But Mike wasn’t laughing. “Let me skip ahead for you. I’ll tell you how this all turns out: You end up with nothing. And that’s what I had before you showed up.”
It was like he’d punched me in the stomach. I turned to face him, but he wasn’t quite meeting my eyes.
“So … what I meant to say was … thank you.” He nodded with finality and looked up at me.
“Wait a second,” I said coyly. “Did you just say something nice?”
“Told you I could banter.” And then I saw Mike Pomeroy’s real smile. Not the rictus mask he’d wear on the show whenever we told him to act cheerful, but his actual smile. It was a little lopsided, but intensely charming. Nice counterpoint to the silver hair and the gravelly voice. Unexpected, and welcome.
I wrapped my arms around myself and squeezed. “So should we head back?”
He grabbed his coat off the back of the passenger seat and draped it over my shoulders. “Sure. I’ll round up Joe.”
I wrinkled my nose. The jacket had a decidedly gamy odor. “Mike,” I whined. “Is this where you put your pheasants?”
We were welcomed back at the IBS building like soldiers coming home from the war; I was surprised there wasn’t a ticker tape parade on the plaza. Ernie was the only one who seemed less than thrilled about our last-minute live broadcast, and I was in such a good mood, I might have offered to do his segment on the weather vanes.
A little drunk on our victory, I went up to Jerry’s office as soon as the ratings came in.
“What do you think?” I asked him.
“They’re not … awful,” he said.
Damned right they weren’t awful. They were actually phenomenal. I perched on the edge of his desk. “So how much longer can we get?”
“With these …” He tapped his pencil against the sheet. “A year. A pretty comfortable year.”
I giggled, then clapped my hand over my mouth. I’d done it! Or, um, Mike had done it. But still. Mike had been my idea, so …
Jerry shook his head as he regarded me. “I underestimated you, Becky.”
“That is so true.”
He cleared his throat. “NBC called. They want to know how much time you have left on your contract.”
“What?” I slipped off the side of the desk and barely saved myself from going splat on his carpet.
“The Today show wants you.”
“WHAT?” I repeated, inanely. The Today show? Maybe I had gone splat on the carpet. Maybe I’d bashed my head open and was hallucinating all of this. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.” He frowned. “And now I’m wishing we had a real contract with you. Just in case.”
I tried to give my best casual laugh. I’m not sure I was particularly convincing. Still, I’m proud to report that I made it out the door before I started my victory dance.
But I couldn’t celebrate. Not for real. Not yet. So while the rest of the Daybreak staff went out to party triumphantly over finally being taken seriously in the building, I headed straight to Schiller’s. Adam was there with his friends, as usual. God, he looked good.
After a moment, he saw me. I waved. He looked down into his drink. I almost turned and bolted, but then he sighed, put down his beer, and came over.
“Outside to talk?” I suggested.
“Yeah,” he said. “Think so.”
On the street, I launched into my prepared apology without preamble. “I was wrong,” I said. “I was scared. I was stupid. And I was a coward.”
Adam blinked at my confession, but his gaze didn’t soften. “More,” he said. “I think there was something more you wanted to say.”
There was. There was much more. But this would do for a start. I took a deep breath. “I made myself believe you were every person that’s sailed past me in my life. That you were going to dismiss me, or make light of me. But that’s not you, Adam. You’re … good and strong and kind. Not to mention really skilled at charades.”
He thought about it for a moment. “That’s not bad.”
Another deep breath. “They were going to cancel the show.”
His lips parted in surprise.
“Yeah. I couldn’t tell anyone.
That’s why I’ve been doing what I’ve been doing. That’s why I’ve been so desperate. But somehow, through some crazy mix of hard work and low inhibitions and really good luck, we saved it.” I laughed. I still couldn’t believe it. “But the thing is, the second I knew everything was okay, the person I wanted to tell was you.”
And now he smiled.
“Because the thing is … because I didn’t really believe in myself before, I was afraid of what you’d think if you discovered that I was a failure. That I’d destroyed the show. But now, now that I haven’t, now that I actually have a future, what I really want is to know that you’re proud of me. Is that crazy?”
“No,” said Adam. “It’s the only thing that makes sense.” And then suddenly we were in each other’s arms, and I knew exactly how right he was.
We celebrated at Schiller’s. We celebrated with an after-cocktails dinner. And then we headed back to Adam’s house for even more celebrating.
As we grappled our way toward his bedroom, ripping off clothes as we went, I marveled that not once that evening had I thought about turning on the news. Maybe Mike was right and I needed to find a little balance, before I lost it all.
“What time is it?” I asked Adam. “Midnight?”
He chuckled. “I think it’s closer to nine.”
“Nine!” I exclaimed. “Oh my God it’s late!”
A second later, I heard my BlackBerry go off from inside my jacket pocket. I jumped off Adam and scurried out of the bedroom, clad only in my shirt. Now, let’s see. Where did my blazer go flying? I padded around the floor, searching for my clothes in the dark.
“Not again!” Adam yelled from the bedroom.
“Just a minute!” I called back. Ah, there it was. I snatched up the phone, walked into the kitchen …
And threw it in the fridge.
The next morning, happy with my show, happy with my man, happy with Mike, happy with the world, I paraded around my office, giving orders and feeling the love. I met with Mike to brief him on our plans for next week.
“So tomorrow we’re doing the Supreme Court justice hearings at the top of the hour.”
“Great,” said Mike, making a note of it.
“Oh,” I added. “Anthony Bourdain called. He wants to come on and do a segment with you about—”
“Bourdain?” said Mike. “Love him. Not doing that.”
I furrowed my brow. Huh? Not doing it? I couldn’t have heard him correctly.
“But say hi to Tony for me,” Mike added. “I owe him a bottle of Patrón.”
I gaped at him. “So you’re saying you’re friends with this guy but you won’t appear on your show with him?”
“That’s it, fangirl.” Mike slapped his hand against his notebook. “Come now. We did one good story together and now you think I’m your sidekick? Sorry. Don’t think so.”
I let out an indignant gasp as he started to walk away. “Wait!” I called. “I saved your life, remember? Or was that all just bullshit? You can’t do a couple of stories for me?”
He didn’t turn around; he didn’t even fucking turn around. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t think last week meant the world to us, but I didn’t think it had meant nothing, either. I’d let him have his story! I’d praised him for his hard work! I didn’t want a sidekick, I wanted some goddamned respect. I was his executive producer and he was acting like he did me a favor every time he spoke on camera.
I shook my head. “What is wrong with me?” I asked no one in particular. “What am I doing here, beating my head against the wall for? I could go to the Today show, where you don’t have to poke Matt Lauer with a stick to get him to eat a donut or two.”
Now he stopped. “The Today show?”
Yes, you pompous ass! You’re not the only bit of talent around this show. “They offered me a job—”
“Of course they did,” he muttered.
I lifted my chin. “But I said—”
“—Time to trade up?” Mike suggested.
“I said no, you paranoid mule.” Jesus, what a drama queen. No wonder he’d ended up in front of the camera.
But Mike was already well into his tirade. “I don’t know why I trusted you. All that awful enthusiasm and the bullshit about me being your idol—”
“Did you not hear me?” I railed. “I said no. But God, what if I did go? Could anyone blame me, really? Come on, Mike. If you had ever done one thing I asked, made one S’more, anything—”
“You don’t care about this job!” he cried. “You only care about grabbing every brass ring, climbing every ladder. What’s enough for you, Becky Fuller? News president? Network president? Santa Claus?”
You know what would have been enough for me? A tiny bit of gratitude that I’d put him back at a news desk. A dash of team player attitude when I asked him to talk to Taylor Swift or Tim Gunn. A soupçon of respect for the idea that morning shows, fluff and all, actually did offer something of value to their audience.
Adam could give me that, and he produced serious news stories. Why couldn’t Mike offer the same amount of professional courtesy? And you know what? Adam had even warned me about this, sometime in the middle of all the celebrating last night. I’d just been too high on life to believe him. I’d told him about Today, and I’d told him I wasn’t leaving IBS, and he said that maybe I shouldn’t be so hasty.
I’d chalked up his reticence to his lingering hatred for Mike Pomeroy. But once again, Adam was right.
Enough of this bullshit. I was better than this, and NBC, at least, recognized that.
“You want to hear something really ridiculous? Until ten seconds ago, I had actually decided to turn my back on the best job I’d ever be offered. Isn’t that absurd?”
“Yes,” Mike agreed. “Go. What’s stopping you? Go.”
I clenched my jaw and my fists. How could he say all this to me, after the governor’s house? I could barely form a coherent sentence, I was so upset. “If you had ever—ever treated me with some loyalty and trust and friendship—things you seem incapable of … I would be leaving in spite of you, not because of you, you miserable, selfish, lonely, egotistical asshole!”
I stopped, breathing hard. I couldn’t believe the string of insults that had just shot out of my mouth.
Neither, apparently, could Mike, as he turned and stalked off. But I wasn’t left alone. No, everyone was staring at me now. Lenny, Colleen, Merv, Sasha, Tracy, Dave—the entire Daybreak family had just heard my outburst.
Well, at least this time they hadn’t caught it on camera.
One of the interns came running down the hall. “Oh, hey, Becky!” she said, and leaned close. “You have a call. It’s the Today show.”
Perfect. Perfect timing, too.
21
The next morning at eight sharp, I walked through the front doors of 30 Rockefeller Plaza. NBC. I was wearing my nicest suit, my finest heels. My hair was perfect, my makeup understated. I was interviewing at the Today show. They were going to headhunt me right out of IBS.
And I couldn’t wait. Screw Mike Pomeroy. He had no idea what he’d just lost.
I met with two executives in their conference room, a gorgeous space with polished tables and a bank of monitors on the far wall. It was like Becky Fuller heaven. Every monitor showed a different morning show. Half a dozen cheery hosts and hostesses greeting the day and their audience. There, at the bottom right corner, was Daybreak.
“We want the show to have that real youthful energy,” said one of the executives.
“You’ve done such an amazing job of revitalizing Daybreak,” said the other.
“Thanks,” I said, dragging my eyes off the Daybreak monitor. “I appreciate that. And it’s … it’s really great to be here.”
Behind the second executive’s head, Mike and Colleen were arguing. As usual. It was amazing—you could actually see the increased dynamism between my two hosts as they tore each other to shreds.
I wondered what they were saying today. I hoped Colleen was g
etting him good. She looked like she was, at least, if his thundercloud of a face was anything to go by. Good. The Asshole deserved it. I wished them many long years of ratings-boosting battles.
Actually, strike that. I hoped the Today show ratings smashed them to smithereens. Maybe then Mike would realize how valuable I’d been to him. I mean, would anyone else have even put his governor story on the air? Would any other producer have trusted him enough to make that call? I know Adam wouldn’t have. Too much bullshit, too much water under the bridge. I was the only one who’d still believed in Mike. Shame he didn’t believe in me.
“We’d like to get you aboard as soon as possible,” said the first exec. Right—the interview.
“Oh, great!” I said, trying to turn away from the Daybreak screen and focus. “Um …” Okay, that was weird. Mike had just stormed off the set. “Sorry,” I said, distracted. “It’s just … usually this segment is a two-shot with Colleen and Mike but … Mike’s not there.”
They looked at me stupidly.
“Never mind!” I said, my tone cheery. “They must have changed it. Anyway, sorry. You were saying?”
“We wanted to ask you what your plans are for sports coverage,” said the second exec, clearly taken aback by my inability to pay attention to their offer.
“Right,” I said. “Sports coverage.” Okay, something exceedingly weird was happening on Daybreak. Someone had taken a handheld camera and was following Mike down the hall to the Craft Services table. We’d been very careful not to take the cameras backstage; we didn’t need anyone seeing the kind of conditions we worked in. But there they were, in our cluttered hallways, zooming in on our scuffed folding tables as Mike gathered up a bunch of food. What the hell?
The NBC people were eyeing me suspiciously.
“Right,” I said. “So, um, with respect to sports coverage, I think we should reach out to women through their kids. It’s not that big a step from being a soccer mom to being a real fan—oh my God, what are they doing?”
Morning Glory Page 18