“Oh, okay,” I said, watching her flit away. I turned to move into the VIP section, but it was blocked by the red rope attached with a big metal clasp to a solid metal pole. I reached down to unlatch the hook.
“Hey! Whaddya doing?” barked a gravelly voice.
I looked up into the barrel chest of a man wearing a black suit jacket with a round pin on his lapel, and deduced he was one of the prince’s security detail.
“Can’t go in there,” he said, looking over the top of my head.
“Oh, sorry, I was told I had to show up here for photos.”
“Who you with?” he asked, not looking down.
“I’m with FAIR News. I’m the emcee tonight.”
“What’s your name?”
“Amanda Gallo.”
The bodyguard looked at me for the first time. “Italian?” he asked.
“Yup.” I nodded, and could tell from the faint crease in his cheek that he approved of the answer. “What’s your name?” I asked, anticipating the connection. Italians loved to compare hometowns and family names.
“Sal Lamarughini,” he said, lowering his lids toward me, with a nod, as if his melodic name were just for my enjoyment.
“Wow, that’s beautiful,” I said.
“So you work for FAIR News?” he asked, stepping back to size me up.
“Yup,” I answered, knowing there was more.
“You’ve got some real Fluke lovers there, huh?”
“I guess,” I said.
“You conservative?”
“Nope.”
He moved his lips around as if gnawing on the info. “I’m forty years in law enforcement and we’re a conservative bunch, generally speaking. But Fluke makes us look like pantywaists. He’s hard core. Funny for a Hollywood actor, right?”
I let out a sniff. “You don’t think he could be, oh I don’t know . . . acting, do you?”
“Yeah, sometimes I do think that. So you like it there?” Sal jutted his jaw toward me. The Italian question mark.
“Yeah, I do.”
“They good to you there?” he continued, his chin punctuating the question.
I paused before answering, wanting to linger here in this moment with my new friend Sal and his seeming understanding that I might work somewhere for reasons other than politics and that I could work someplace and not be defined by it. “Yes, they are.”
He smiled. “That’s all that matters, kid.”
“Thanks, paisan.”
“Ha!” He laughed, then jerked around, as though he’d seen something out of the back of his head and touched his earpiece. “Come on, let’s go! Prince is ready for you.”
Sal pulled back the velvet rope and I saw the prince and princess both lift elegant hands to summon me to the front. I squeezed past the scrum of paparazzi and scooted up next to the prince, unsure of where to stand or where to look. I had a terrible feeling there might be some international protocol that walkie-talkie girl had forgotten to tell me. “Right here! Over here!” the photographers yelled. The prince guided me to his right side and placed a calming hand around my shoulders. I reflexively reached my jittery arm around his waist and gripped his tux jacket, then froze. Shit! I’m pretty sure I should not be touching the prince! Oh, God.
Click, click, click. The cameras flashed white bursts. I forced my face from pained mask to awkward smile and tried peeling my hot hand from its death grip on the prince’s jacket without him feeling it, one finger at a time. Just as I was about to attempt a subtle lift of my arm from around his back, the prince leaned down to my left ear and whispered, “Try to pretend you’re enjoying this.” He straightened back up, still smiling for the cameras.
“All right, everyone. All right. Thank you very much,” he said, gently stirring the air in front of us with his hand, signaling that his patience with photos had expired. “We’ll see you all inside the ballroom.” I saw Sal make a sharp arm gesture, clearing the paparazzi and shepherding the Serene Highnesses through a velvet side curtain.
I stood alone, momentarily lost, scanning the ballroom for walkie-talkie girl to go over my script. There sure are a lot of beautiful people here. I caught the profile of one tall, wildly handsome guy, chatting with a beautiful young woman in a beaded gold gown. The guy’s brown hair casually fell across his forehead, catching the light. He cast a winning smile at the girl, and she laughed coquettishly, so at ease in his tuxedoed life. He must be a movie star, I thought as he turned in my direction. Yes, he does look familiar.
“There you are,” he called, lifting his hand to wave, then flashing that smile at me.
Holy shit. How could Rob look so different here? His cheeks were flushed, and his face more smooth than it looked under Jess’s cakey makeup. Gone was any trace of the waxen facade he wore on the set.
“Wow, Amanda, you look smokin’ hot,” Rob said, walking right up and staring at me.
“Thanks, um, you, too. I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Yeah, PR roped me into it. How about some champagne?”
“Oh, no, I can’t,” I said. “I have official emcee duties.” I felt a quick but distinct vibration coming from my clutch and pulled out my phone to check it. “That’s the rundown,” I told him. “Oh, look, you’ll never guess who we have on tomorrow.”
“Wait, don’t tell me!” Rob said, putting his hand up like this was a real game. “Virginia Wynn?”
“Close,” I said. “Victor Fluke.”
“No way!”
“Ugh,” I said, reading the rundown. “He’s coming on to talk about his plan to get rid of undocumented immigrants. Or, you know, Ameri-can’ts.”
“That’s original,” Rob said.
“Shit. I should go research some immigration stats,” I said, putting the phone back in my clutch and hoping the next time I checked it, it would say something different.
“Don’t worry,” Rob said, stroking my bare arm. “Think of all we’ll have to talk about in the morning. We can show photos from tonight. Viewers will eat it up.”
“Well, then let’s start snapping some selfies, cause I have to leave right after emceeing. I turn into a pumpkin at nine.”
“You got it, Cinderella,” Rob said, grabbing my hand and turning to lead me deeper into the ballroom. A waiter with a tray of champagne flutes came toward us and Rob used his free hand to slide two stems between his fingers, then glided his hand from the tray to me. “Just one,” he said.
“Okay,” I said to humor him, though I planned to put it down as soon as he wasn’t looking.
Without warning, Arthur Dove appeared at my side.
“Well, hel-lo, you two,” he said, sweet as shoofly pie. His evil Twitter twin nowhere in sight as he kissed me on the cheek and gave Rob a man hug.
“Mr. Lahr, you smell good!” Dove said.
Rob nodded, as if he were used to the men of the world complimenting his scent. “It’s my pheromones,” he explained. “I can’t turn them off. Even middle-aged men from Texas can’t resist them.”
Dove laughed. “I bet that’s a real problem, but I wouldn’t know. I just rely on a shower and soap before these events. That’s probably why I’m not in the company of a beautiful woman like Amanda.”
I glared at him. “It’d take a lot more than a shower, Arthur.”
“Ouch,” he said. “What did I do wrong?”
“Gee, I don’t know. Maybe the last ten nasty tweets about me that you’ve sent out.”
“Oh, don’t pay any attention to those,” he said. “It’s all in good fun.”
“Not for me, it’s not. When people tell you to kill yourself, it’s not that much fun.”
“Oh, don’t be so susceptible to that stuff.”
Rob put his arm on my shoulder to steer me away from Dove. “I hear we’ll see you bright and early tomorrow, Arthur.”
&n
bsp; “Yup. I’m the first face you see in the morning and the last one you see at night.”
“Nightmare,” I said, under my breath, moving away.
“You’re hurtin’ my feelings, Amanda,” Dove called.
“What’s going on?” Rob asked when we were out of earshot.
“I’ve had it with him. He acts normal when we see him, then he goes into attack mode if I dare ask Fluke a question he doesn’t like. I think he’s a monster. And I pray after November 8 I never have to spend another morning with him.”
“I don’t know if Arthur Dove’s going to go away that easily,” Rob said.
We walked the rows of round tables with bodacious red rose centerpieces until I spotted our table, directly in front of the stage. I circled, reading the names on place cards just above the soup bowls: Ms. Amanda Gallo, Mr. Rob Lahr, His Serene Highness of San Marino, Her Serene Highness of San Marino, Dame Julie Andrews, Ms. Suzy Berenson . . . I stopped.
“Oh, my God! Rob, look who’s at our table!” I pointed at the place card as though it might self-destruct before he could see it. “We’re sitting with America’s Sweetheart!”
“Yeah, and?” Rob looked like he was waiting for more.
“Suzy Berenson’s my idol. My mom and I watched her every morning when I was growing up. She’s the reason I got into TV news!”
Rob’s dimples flared like he was trying to stifle a laugh. “Well, then, this must be your lucky night!” He clinked his champagne glass against mine, then made his eyes super wide and whispered, “Don’t look now, but your girl crush is right behind you.”
I swung around to see the one and only Suzy Berenson floating toward me, radiating sparkle. She smiled beneficently as admirers circled her, asking for pictures. The flashbulbs made it look like she’d been sprinkled in pixie dust and glittery goodness. I could hear her twinkly laugh as she approached.
“Suzy Berenson, hello!” I gushed, sticking out my hand. “I’m a huge fan, I’ve watched you every morning since I was a child!”
I saw a quick twitch of her left eye, as though a piece of lint had hit her.
“And you were practically a teenager then!” I added, fast. “I mean, you still look like a teenager.”
“Why, thank you,” she said, smiling her sagacious smile. “You’re clearly a woman of discriminating taste . . . and diplomatic instincts.”
“It’s true,” I went on, still holding her hand, refusing to let go. “You were an inspiration for me throughout college. I studied your delivery and tried to emulate you. Not terribly well, according to my journalism professors, but that’s another story.”
Suzy laughed. “Well, I’m happy to hear someone was doing something productive at college. I just did a story in Rhode Island, where college kids are engaged in activities that are, hmm, how should I phrase this, more re-productive in nature.”
“I saw that one! Who knew that universities had such flourishing escort services?” I said.
“I know,” Suzy agreed, then we nodded at each other. I couldn’t stop staring at her.
“Well,” she said, attempting to free her hand, “I was actually just looking for my table somewhere in this vicinity.”
“Oh, it’s right here,” I said, excitedly pulling her to her seat. “We’re sitting together!”
“Then this must be the cool table,” she said, placing her shiny gold clutch down next to my sad silver one. “Oh, goodness, look who’s with us!” Suzy said, pointing at the next name card. “Julie Andrews is at our table!” Suzy grabbed my arm to show me.
“You’ll never wash that arm again,” Rob whispered into my other ear. I tried elbowing him away but he wouldn’t budge. “Julie Andrews is Suzy Berenson’s Suzy Berenson!” Rob whispered, before straightening up and gallantly pulling out my chair, then Suzy’s, on either side of his. “Ladies, shall we sit before the soup gets cold?”
The prince and princess approached the table, smiling regally. The prince nodded at me. “Ah, very good. I see I’m seated next to Amanda. I know how she enjoys photographs.”
Rob took his seat between Suzy and me just as the official event photographer pressed the three of us closer together for a picture. Snap!
“Amanda, I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your last name,” Suzy said, leaning over Rob to face me. “And what’s your connection to our esteemed hosts this evening?” I could swear a golden halo surrounded her.
“Oh, I’m Amanda Gallo, I’m emceeing the event tonight.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful. What a relief,” Suzy said to the table as she smoothed her napkin on her lap. “I thought I had read that some anchor bimbo from FAIR News was emceeing.”
My soupspoon dropped from my hand, clattering onto the saucer, and for a second I couldn’t breathe. My eyes darted to Rob, who looked down into his bowl.
“I thought that was an odd fit,” Suzy continued. “I mean, having a fake news anchor host this elegant affair.”
“Well, that’s funny,” I began, trying to swallow the lump blooming in my throat, “I am from FAIR News. But I assure you nothing about me this evening is fake.”
The prince and princess offered courtesy laughs. “Those earrings are lovely,” the princess said in a sweet Italian accent, attempting, I knew, to change the subject.
“Just a second,” Suzy said, grabbing the side of her chair and turning her body to stare across Rob at me. “You’re from FAIR News? But you seem so smart and . . .” she paused, “sensible.”
“Thank you, I think,” I said.
“Seriously, how can you work there? Didn’t you have to sign a manifesto vowing to prop up Fluke? I just read a Pew study on how much airtime you’ve given him. It’s outrageous.”
“We do have Fluke on a lot,” I said, fighting against the constriction of my throat. “And those are always our highest-rated quarters. Clearly, the American people want to hear what he has to say.”
“We had a Bengal tiger on my show last week. It rated well, too. But that doesn’t mean we put the tiger on every week,” Suzy said.
I turned my body toward Suzy and raised my voice. “Something’s happening in this country. You can try to ignore it and distract yourself by playing with exotic animals but that’s not the way to solve a problem.”
The princess, who had been pretending to search for something important in her purse, closed and rested the jeweled clutch on the table.
“Oh, really,” Suzy said sarcastically. “I admit I don’t watch FAIR News. But I’ve seen clips on the Daily Show. It sure looks like FAIR is giving Fluke a pass. That dreadful morning show, whatever it’s called, that has him on constantly, with that insipid anchor. He’s the worst. What’s his name?”
“Rob Lahr,” Rob said, turning to Suzy and offering his hand for a shake.
Suzy’s body retracted until she bumped into the back of her chair.
“It’s clear you’ve never seen our show,” Rob noted cheerfully, “which is surprising. I’d think a journalist of your ‘caliber,’” and here Rob used air quotes, “would want to watch her competition. You know, to see who’s gaining on her.”
“I don’t consider FAIR News the competition,” Suzy said, with an expression that could curdle the cream of artichoke soup.
“Well, that must make it easier to sleep at night. But if you check the ratings, and I bet you do,” Rob sang flirtatiously, bringing his first finger close to Suzy’s body like he might tickle her, “you know that your show is losing viewers every month and our show is adding them. And in case math isn’t your strong suit, that’s not a winning formula.”
The princess sat stoically, hands folded in her lap, looking down. The prince rearranged his salad and dessert forks.
“Congratulations,” Suzy said. “You’ve cornered the market on low-income, low-information, pickup-driving viewers. They aren’t exactly advertiser friendly. I think we’re do
ing just fine with our upper-income demographic, thank you very much.”
“That’s an interesting business model,” Rob responded, “catering to advertisers over viewers. Let us know how that works out. But I bet you’re feeling a little nervous. I bet you know that your network is a dinosaur. And it may not happen this year, but you’re headed for extinction.”
I suddenly tasted the sharp tang of blood in my mouth and realized I’d pulled a piece of skin from my lower lip with my teeth. “You are in the information business, correct?” Rob went on. “Or do you only do animal stunts and cooking segments? Amanda and I cover news and issues. Do you still call yours a news program?”
I looked at Rob and felt in that moment that he’d gone from being my cohost to becoming my friend.
“Hellooo everyone,” Julie Andrews sang as she approached the table in a flowing peach gown. “Don’t you all look lovely. Sorry I’m late. It looks like you’re already having a grand time.”
“Amanda, you’re up.” It was the walkie-talkie girl, tapping me on the shoulder. “Time for you to begin the program!”
Shit!! I’d never rehearsed the script. I stared at Rob and bit my lip again. He nodded assurance and nudged me up with his eyes. I stood, took a big swig of champagne, and headed for the podium. As my high heels teetered up three rickety wooden steps, Sal Lamarughini appeared from behind a black curtain and offered me his hand.
“Knock ’em dead, paisan,” he said. I nodded nervously and approached the podium.
“Good evening, everyone,” I started, a little too loudly into the mic. “Allow me to welcome the prince and prin-chi-PAY-sa here tonight, along with Dame Julie Andrews,” I read as the teleprompter scrolled. Then the prompter stopped and so did I. It said in parentheses, (AD-LIB INTRO HERE.) Fuck! No one told me I’d have to ad-lib. I shut my eyes, hoping if I couldn’t see the audience, maybe they couldn’t see me. A few long seconds ticked by, then I steadied myself against the podium and opened my eyes.
“Um . . . I’d like to extend a warm welcome to everyone here on this chilly October night. It’s a pleasure to be with you all.” I could see hundreds of blank faces staring up, waiting. “It’s wonderful to be here. First, because I’m rarely up past eight P.M.” A few people offered courtesy chuckles. “But mainly because you’re such an impressive crowd. New York is a diverse place with lots of people holding lots of opinions. In my job as a newscaster during this election season, I interview many of the most opinionated people in the country. But tonight there can be no debate about our mission as we come together to fight cancer. And I can think of no one who better personifies goodwill than Dame Julie Andrews. In her illustrious career, she’s demonstrated how to rise above the fray and face challenges with grace. So tonight, let’s all make a commitment to emulate her sunniness, even if you happen to be confronting a storm cloud.”
Amanda Wakes Up Page 25