The executives turned around. On-screen, I saw the Daybreak kitchen set. And in front of the stove, tying on an apron … was Mike Pomeroy.
I grabbed a remote off the table. “Sorry,” I said, turning up the volume. “Hope you don’t mind. Hey, Mike Pomeroy has a nervous breakdown on set, that’s news, right?”
Mike cracked a few eggs into a bowl. “Thought we’d change things up a bit today,” he said, starting to whisk.
I stared at the screen, my mouth a perfect O.
“In the fifteen hundreds,” he said, “the Italians invented a meal for their afternoon repast. Something they could make using the ingredients they had available.”
“Holy shit,” I whispered. I didn’t care that all the NBC execs were staring at me. I didn’t care that I’d probably just blown this interview. Mike Pomeroy was cooking. On the air.
“I’ve been making frittatas for about twenty years,” he said, adding in some chopped veggies he must have stolen off the crudités platter from Craft Services. “Ever since I was taught how on a naked weekend with an Italian movie star who shall go unnamed.” He winked at the screen. “Occasionally, I make them at home. But only for people—only for people I really care about.”
I dropped back into my seat.
“The key to a frittata,” Mike told the camera, “is to use a really hot pan. Because that, my friends, is what makes it”—he paused dramatically—“fluffy.”
I cracked up laughing. The executives all turned to me, bewildered.
“Sorry,” I said, still chuckling. “It’s an inside—sorry.” And so much better than “flocculent.” That would have made the frittata sound diseased.
My BlackBerry began to buzz. I pulled it out of my pocket. Adam.
“Are you watching this?” he asked when I answered.
“Yes.” I nodded, blown away. “He said ‘fluffy.’ On air.”
“I know.” Adam paused. “What are you going to do?”
I looked at the executives. At the beautiful desk. At the opportunity I was about to destroy.
“He’s not going to ask you twice,” Adam said.
Deep breath. “Sorry, guys,” I said to NBC. “I gotta go.”
I started running the second I cleared the elevator. The streets were packed with morning commuters, and I jostled my way through the throng, ducking slow-moving tourists, racing against the lights, playing chicken with taxicabs. I raced down Sixth Avenue, cut through back alleys and arcades, kicked off my shoes, and sprinted through Bryant Park—and there, at the IBS plaza, on the big screen, I could see Mike. He was still making his breakfast. He was still explaining to the world exactly how you’re supposed to flip a frittata.
I hurried through the lobby and into the elevator. I ran through the tangled hallways of the Daybreak offices and burst out onto the edge of the set. Mike was just pulling his completed, perfect, fluffy frittata out of the oven.
“Now you have to let it cool a bit,” he was saying. Of course. Because frittatas were eaten at room temperature. I remembered.
Everyone was standing there, staring at Mike with the kind of awe that I was feeling. Colleen’s mouth was open. Lenny had gone white. Even Adam was there, watching the proceedings with a disbelieving smile.
Mike looked up from his work and caught sight of me.
“Later this week,” he said, “I’ll show you how to make fantastic beignets. Or, as the rabble like to call them”—he smiled at me: his real smile—“donuts.”
I threw back my head and laughed.
Adam came over to me. “You know, he’s still the third-worst—”
“Oh,” I said. “I know it.”
Colleen approached next. “No NBC?”
I shook my head.
“Good, because it was nice to finally have a decent producer around here.” She studied Mike in his apron; he looked surprisingly in his element there on the kitchen set. “Oh, and Gidget? I want a tropical fruit plate.”
On Anna’s first morning at Daybreak, I presented her with her very own gift bag. She gave me a coy smile, then pulled out a T-shirt. The front read: WELCOME TO DAYBREAK. The back? OH, FUUUUUUUUUU—
“I love it!” cried Anna. She threw her arms around me. I sent her over to Sasha and Tracy to get settled in, then surveyed my domain. On top of new doorknobs, we’d gotten a new sound system and an upgrade to our set. Things were bustling: Merv and Lenny going over some of the shots, the producers and stage managers scooting around. I saw Colleen and Mike walking down the hall together—and Mike being totally unsubtle about the way he placed his hand on Colleen’s rear end.
Yeah, that was going to be one hot mess when it went south. I could only cross my fingers and hope their on-air battles were the better for it. But I didn’t want to obsess over that now. I caught him before he disappeared into her dressing room.
“Hey, Mike,” I said. “Come take a quick walk with me before the show. Come on,” I coaxed. “Real quick.”
On the plaza, I grabbed a copy of the New York Post from one of the vendors and turned to Page Six. “Listen to this: ‘His gravity leavens the silliness of morning TV, making an incongruous but somehow perfect match.’ ”
Mike rolled his eyes, but I kept reading. He might not like the idea of rave reviews of his “performance,” but I did, and so did the IBS execs.
“ ‘It turns out,’ ” I went on as we strolled down the plaza, “ ‘that after forty years in the TV news business, the real Mike Pomeroy has finally arrived.’ Not bad, huh?”
He nodded, then spoke again. “By the way, I’m getting my prostate checked next week. I thought I might take a crew with me—”
I clapped my hands with excitement. “That’s a great idea!”
Mike shook his head. “Jesus, I was kidding.”
“Seriously, though,” I said, “it would be a real public health message. And they have these little cameras now that go right up your—”
“No.”
“Aww, come on, Mike …,” I said as we walked off together, into the sunrise.
About the Author
DIANA PETERFREUND is the author of Secret Society Girl, Under the Rose, Rites of Spring (Break), and Tap & Gown. She has also published two fantasy novels for teens about killer unicorns: Rampant and Ascendant, as well as several short stories. She was raised in Florida, graduated from Yale University with degrees in geology and literature, and worked as a journalist and food critic before turning to fiction. Diana Peterfreund lives in Washington, D.C., with her husband.
About the Screenwriter
In 2006, ALINE BROSH McKENNA wrote the screen adaptation of The Devil Wears Prada, garnering her nominations for the WGA, BAFTA, and Scripter Awards. In 2008, she wrote the original screenplay 27 Dresses. She also shares credit on the romantic comedies Three to Tango and Laws of Attraction.
McKenna recently adapted Benjamin Mee’s memoir We Bought a Zoo, which Cameron Crowe is attached to direct. Currently, she is writing a new version of Cinderella for Disney.
McKenna is a magna cum laude graduate of Harvard University. After graduation, she moved to New York where she co-wrote the book A Coed’s Companion for Pocketbooks. In a summer film class at NYU, she wrote her first screenplay, which she sold to New Regency Productions.
McKenna lives in Los Angeles with her husband and two children.
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