Amanda Wakes Up

by Alisyn Camerota

  I gulped a mouthful of air.

  “Good morning, Amanda,” Larry said. “You’ve got two minutes to air.”

  “Sorry, guys, I’m moving a little slowly,” I said, sitting down two feet to Rob’s left, careful not to look at him. “I had an event last night that ran late.”

  “What was it?” Larry asked.

  “It was Benji’s charity fund-raiser honoring Julie Andrews.”

  “Sounds fancy,” Larry said, “like something they wouldn’t let Rocco into.”

  “Or your mother,” Rocco replied.

  “How was it?” Larry asked.

  Rob stopped typing and sat still, pretending to study his notes.

  I paused, trying to decide how to characterize the night, then decided to just go with the truth. I said, “It was wonderful.”

  Rob exhaled and inched closer to me, making the skin on my arm prickle. Focus!

  “Quiet down, everyone,” Larry yelled to the crew. “Move over, Rob. Give Amanda some breathing room. You’re on top of her. We’re live in twenty seconds.”

  “Shit,” I said, my hands shaking. “Can I read through the cold open?”

  “You don’t have time,” Larry answered. “We’re up in ten, nine, eight . . .”

  I tugged on the hem of my dress, which was riding up, and stared at the teleprompter. What are we talking about again?

  “Four, three, two . . .” Larry signaled for me to read into Camera 2 as the prompter rolled.

  “Good morning, everyone,” I began. “New investigations into whether Virginia Wynn’s campaign violated any election laws by allegedly registering undocumented immigrants to vote. Victor Fluke will be calling in with his reaction.”

  I turned to Rob and saw his dimple made a dent in his cheek, as if just for my benefit. “And stick around till the end of the show, when we have a famous pickpocket here to see what he can steal from us! Wake Up, USA! starts right now!”

  The music rolled.

  “Hey, everyone, thanks for tuning in bright and early,” Rob began, fresh as a daisy, as though he weren’t up all night rolling around in my sheets. Of course, this was second nature to him. He’s probably sat here a hundred mornings after various hookups. “Before we get started, let me thank Amanda for a great night.”

  My head whipped toward him.

  “I had the pleasure of watching her emcee a terrific event last night. She helped raise a record amount of money for cancer research.” Rob smiled at me. “And, man, you should have seen her,” he said into Camera 2. “She was spectacular. Anyway, I got lucky, I mean, I was lucky to be a part of it. We’ll show you some pictures later. Now, on to our top story . . .”

  • • •

  8:45 A.M. “You’ve got ninety seconds to get back to the sofa!” Larry yelled to me from the studio door as I raced toward him with the last remnants of the bagel I’d inhaled in the greenroom, trying to shake off my fluttery feeling. “The next guest is Fluke via phone,” Larry read off his rundown as I squeezed past him. “Amanda, you lead.”

  Fuck! My throat tightened. Time to do what I’d promised myself I’d do. I’d prove to everyone, Charlie, Laurie, Suzy Berenson, Rachel Maddow, the Daily Show, Mom, that I was a journalist, not a Fluke stooge.

  Rob started to say something to me, but Larry interrupted.

  “Amanda, Rob, sit down, please!” Larry motioned for us to get back to the sofa. “In seven, six, five, four . . .” Larry pointed to Camera 3. I took a sharp breath.

  “For many months, Victor Fluke has claimed Virginia Wynn violated election laws by registering undocumented immigrants to vote. This morning we have an update. Victor Fluke joins us now by phone.”

  “Good morning, Amanda.”

  This was the moment—to finally ignore the Fluke-friendly angle and go with the real story. “Mr. Fluke, you’ve said that illegal immigrants are sponges on society. But before we get to Virginia Wynn’s alleged action, voters deserve to know your history—”

  “Well, first of all,” he said interrupting me, “nobody knows how many of these foreigners are feeding off the American people, flooding our country, and stealing our success. Then they have children here, but those children should not be U.S. citizens. They’re Ameri-can’ts.”

  “But our Constitution says if you’re born here, you are a U.S. citizen.”

  “Well, I think that’s wrong, and we should send those children back to their real homes. It’s like Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. said: ‘An unjust law is no law at all.’ People should follow their conscience rather than unjust laws.”

  I’d been listening for an opening and Fluke delivered one. “Mr. Fluke, is that what you do? Do you reject laws that you don’t believe in? I’m sure you’re aware of the allegations that you yourself hired an undocumented housekeeper. Did you ignore the very immigration and employment laws you now claim must be enforced?” By the time I got it out, my heart was beating so hard I was sure it was being picked up by the microphone resting on my breastbone.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Amanda!” Fatima yelled in my ear. “Get back to his plan!”

  “Mr. Fluke, as you know, there are witnesses who say you employed an undocumented worker from Haiti for three years as a housekeeper. They also say you bought her a home in Arizona so she could remain in the country. Is that true?”

  “Rob!” Fatima yelled. “Get in there!”

  “Amanda, I’ve got to tell you, I am very surprised to hear this coming from you. This is a smear campaign coming from Wynn’s people, who, as we know, stole the nomination by registering illegals to vote. You realize no alleged maid has ever come forward. The thing that makes FAIR News so trusted is that you don’t engage in rumor and innuendo, that is, until now.”

  “Mr. Fluke, do you know a woman named Martina Harrow?” I asked.

  “Who?” he said. “I’m not . . . familiar . . . with that name.” There was a long pause at that point, during which Fatima and Fluke were both silent.

  “Mr. Fluke?”

  Silence.

  “Mr. Fluke, are you there?” I repeated.

  “We lost him,” Fatima said.

  “Sounds like we’ve lost Victor Fluke,” Rob said. “We’ll fix our audio issues and reestablish contact as soon as possible. Let’s take a quick break. More of Wake Up when we come right back.”

  “We’re clear,” Larry said.

  I took a deep breath and braced myself for whatever was about to happen next.

  “You fluked him!” Jeremy said, coming out from behind Camera 1 and applauding.

  “Wow!” Casanova said, doubling over behind Camera 3 as if needing to catch his own breath.

  “He hung up on you,” Rocco said. “What a chicken.”

  “What a phony,” Larry said. “He must have some real hang-ups about the housekeeper.”

  Rob reached over and touched the top of my hand. “You did it.”

  I gnawed on the inside of my cheek and nodded at him.

  “Amanda, we’ll talk at the pitch meeting,” Fatima said in a serious voice that was impossible to read—until I realized she didn’t know how she felt until she saw the fallout or pickup. “I’m waiting for a call from Benji,” she said.

  “Well, that’s going to do it for us today,” Rob said into Camera 2. “Tomorrow on Wake Up, USA!, a boy who Velcroed his whole house!”

  The commercial rolled and Rob leaned close to me. “We’re foxic,” he whispered.

  I moved away before the crew could see us sitting too close. I was so drained, it was all I could do to gather my papers and stand up.

  “Amanda, can I see you for a second?” Larry asked from his side of the studio.

  “Catch you at the meeting?” Rob said, our eyes meeting. I nodded and he flashed that movie star smile, then bounded out with wh
at looked like an actual spring in his step. I limped over to Larry, who I thought might be about to tell me I’d been fired, but instead he glanced around to make sure no one could hear us, then put his head close to mine. “Something’s going on with Rob.”

  “Oh?” I said, staring past Larry to the studio door Rob had just exited.

  “I’ve worked with the guy for a year. He’s acting funny. He’s happier.” Larry leaned closer to my face, “I think he likes you. And I mean, likes you.”

  I nodded, trying to match Larry’s concerned expression. “Hmm, well, anything’s possible, I guess.”

  “Yeah, so be on guard. I mean, he’s a great guy, but bad news for women.”

  “Um, yeah,” I said, suddenly sane again. What was I doing? Of course Rob is bad news. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

  Chapter 28

  Bury the Lede

  I shut my office door, then leaned against it, sliding down until I landed like a sack of bones on the floor. Resting my head against the door, I tried not to think about last night, because when I did, I got that tingly feeling in my chest. Had he really said that? Had we really done that? My skin shivered, remembering his.

  I had a good twenty minutes until the pitch meeting so I kicked off my pumps then crawled on all fours to my comfy old brown sweats, lying in a pile in the corner. In the past few weeks, out of sheer postshow exhaustion, I’d given up all dress-for-success pretense and begun going to the pitch meeting in my equivalent of pajamas. Today would be no different. I kneeled, yanking my dress over my head, and before I could hang it up was hit with a wave of exhaustion, leaving barely enough energy to pull on the sweatpants. Never before had a scratchy beige carpet looked so inviting. I reached up to my shelf of sweaters, grabbed a beautiful, pink cashmere one, then balled it into a pillow and plopped it on the floor under my head.

  My office phone rang loudly, hurting my ears. Once, twice, three times. I heaved my body back up from the floor and reached for the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, got a minute?” It was Rob’s deep voice. “I want to talk to you. Can I stop by?”

  I felt my heart jump. “I’m actually heading out to grab a coffee before the meeting,” I fibbed, hoping to avoid him seeing the clothing explosion on my floor.

  “Can you swing by on your way out?” he asked. “I’ll make it fast.”

  “Um, sure.”

  I slid my hideous clogs on. Catching my reflection in the full-length mirror: It was all bloodshot eyes and chapped lips. Cinderella really did vanish at midnight last night. I was back to my mere mortal self; from bejeweled in diamonds to downtrodden in brown sweats. Maybe last night’s love potion will have evaporated, too. That would make life so much easier.

  I knocked on Rob’s office door.

  “Hold on,” he called from inside. A moment later, he swung open the door. He was out of his business suit and stood in old jeans and a T-shirt that showed the muscles in his arms. He didn’t look tired, he looked good. It was almost too much for me. So this is how he slays his victims.

  “Oh, look, it’s Amanda Gallo,” he announced to the pod of producers sitting outside his door, quietly working at their desks. “She’s here to drop off some important paperwork!”

  He grabbed my wrist and pulled me inside, shutting the door behind us. Then he put his arms on either side of my head, pinning me against the wall and leaning his body toward mine, stopping before we touched. My lips were near his warm neck.

  “I can’t stop thinking about you,” he whispered. “I can’t concentrate on anything else.”

  “Come on,” I said, fake-trying to push him away. “You always keep your cool.”

  “Amanda, I need to see you again. Have dinner with me tonight.”

  I looked into his eyes, just six inches from mine. I wanted to kiss him right there but stopped myself. An office romance? With Rob Lahr? What the fuck was I thinking?

  “I’m exhausted, Rob. I’ve got to go to sleep. This is all kind of complicated, you know?”

  “No, I don’t,” he said.

  “Come on, an office romance? Everyone butting into our business? Larry’s probably already figured it out. Who’s next? Angie?”

  “How about this?” he offered. “I’ll make dinner for you at my place. Very low profile.” He stared into my eyes, waiting for a response, and in this light, his eyes looked turquoise. “Amanda, we can do this. We have something special here. You must feel it, too.”

  I did feel it, but I didn’t say that. “The pitch meeting is in ten minutes. I’m still reeling from the Fluke stuff. Can we talk about this later?”

  Rob straightened up and let his arms fall to his side. “Sure thing, Principessa. Let me know when. I’ll be here.” He squeezed my hand, then let go and opened the door. “And thank you very much, Amanda,” he announced to the startled producers. “I’ll be sure to look over those time-sensitive documents!”

  • • •

  I lumbered into the Think Tank and dropped into the seat next to Morgan, who overnight had turned his shaggy, dyed-black hair into a spiky Mohawk. I stared at the side of his head, marveling at how much mousse it must take to make hair stick straight up like that.

  “Way to challenge Fluke,” Tiffany said to me. “That was awesome.”

  “Thanks,” I said, feeling a strange combo of tired, sick, and awesome.

  “You should have seen the look on Rob’s face when you went there,” Tiffany said. “He was, like, floored. He was totally not expecting that.”

  Yeah, he was.

  “Rob was speechless,” Jada said. “We were watching his face in the control room. It was like he couldn’t take his eyes off you.”

  Shit! There was that flutter again.

  “I just saw Rob in the hall. He’s in such a good mood today,” Tiffany noted. “Weird.”

  I rubbed my temples.

  “Hey, Amanda,” Morgan said, casually turning toward me. “Are you and Rob fucking?”

  I thought I might throw up on the table. “What are you talking about?” I said with more outrage than necessary, turning to glare at him, but careful not to catch Tiffany’s eye.

  “Nothing,” he shrugged. “It just hit me when I was watching the show today. Neither of you are married. You know, he’s a good-looking guy. You guys have great chemistry on the set. That’s all.”

  The little hairs on my neck prickled like pins. “Spare me your perverted fantasies,” I said too adamantly.

  “Hey, my bad,” Morgan said, shrugging at Tiffany then turning away like he thought I was overcaffeinated.

  “Where is everyone?” Tiffany said. “It’s freezing in here.”

  I was starting to sweat. I stared at the door, wondering if it was too late to get up and run out. I checked my watch and saw I was still wearing Heshie’s diamond-encrusted one. Shit! Had I showered with it on? And what had I done with the rest of the jewelry? God, I’ve got to get home. Just then Rob breezed through the threshold.

  “Hello, Team Fun!” he said to everyone. “How about a hand for Amanda, sticking it to Fluke in epic fashion? She took the bullshitter by the horns.” He turned to me and ignited that sparkling smile.

  I flattened my mouth, trying not to look flattered, or happy, or excited or nervous or guilty, so I was pretty much out of facial expressions by the time I pretended to scribble a brilliant pitch idea into my notebook.

  “Jesus, it’s cold in here,” Fatima noted, coming in and taking her seat. “Let’s move through this quickly so we can get out of here.”

  “Oh, look, Morgan saved a seat for me,” Rob said, sauntering to my side of the table, then grabbing an empty chair from against the wall and forcibly moving Morgan’s chair four feet to the right in order to wedge his own chair directly next to mine. “I think Amanda could use a little body heat.”

  I shot him an icy st
are.

  “Great, now it’s cold and awkward,” Morgan mumbled.

  Fatima put down her iPhone and eyed Rob. “What’s wrong with you? Why are you so . . . excited?”

  “Just livin’ the dream, Fati.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  Rob’s knee moved toward mine, as if by accident, closing the tiny space between our legs until they touched. He left it there and I felt the electrical charge, so I crossed my leg in the other direction.

  “Has anyone heard from Benji?” Tiffany asked.

  “Not yet,” Fatima said warily, then picked up her phone to check it again. “But I’m sure I will. In the meantime, let’s hear some pitches.”

  “I was thinking we should do something on what’s going on in the Sudan,” Morgan started.

  “What are we, CNN?” Fatima interrupted.

  “I saw a special where Clooney went to this village and, I mean, the scale of the genocide is getting worse by the day.”

  “Next,” Fatima said. “Tiffany, go.”

  “So, there’s a new drug coming out to fight acne.”

  “Uh-huh,” Fatima nodded.

  “Basically, it’s like a wonder drug. You wash your face with it and it makes the acne disappear.”

  “Ooh, I like it.” Fatima said. “Book one of our medical contributors.”

  “I think I have our new slogan,” Rob offered, raising his hand. “Wake up, USA! From ethnic cleansing to facial cleansing!” He kicked me playfully under the table.

  I grabbed my pen, scribbled on my notebook, and slid it to Rob:

  Knock it off

  Rob read the message, nodding silently as though he were taking my suggestion under advisement, then lifted his pen thoughtfully and composed a response. He slid the notebook back:

  Have dinner with me

  “What do you think of that, Amanda?” Fatima asked.

  “I’m too tired to think about food.”

  “What?” she said.

  “Um . . .” I swallowed, straining to rehear the intern’s pitch.