by Nic Tatano
"Oh, shit," said Neely.
"By the way," said Jillian, "if this makes you feel any better, you looked gorgeous last night."
I sat up straight in my chair. "Huh?"
Jillian handed me a New York tabloid, open to the gossip page. There I was, in all my sequined glamour, heading for the limo with Scott Harry in tow.
Oh, shit.
"At least the caption is complimentary," said Neely.
I read it aloud. "Red Queen paints the town blue. CGR's va-va-voom exec Sydney Hack doing the hot spots with local anchor Scott Harry."
"So do we call you va-va or voom from now on?" asked Rica.
"Very funny," I said. (Though deep down I must admit that being called attractive with a 1950s term was kinda cool.)
"By the way, Madison stopped by before you got in," said Jillian.
"Oh, shit," I said, not laughing. Could this day get any worse?
"Oh shit nothing," said Jillian. "She's beaming about the overnights. The ratings are great. Put all the crap with Scott and the Monopoly Guy aside, we're a hit."
"People are sampling," I said, shrugging off the news. "That's all."
"People were sampling the first day," said Neely. "That always happens for a new show, then the ratings drop by half the second day. In our case the ratings have actually gone up each day this week. You should be thrilled. We're all thrilled. All this other stuff with Scott and the lawsuit means nothing as long as the ratings are up. Look on the bright side."
"Whatever," I said, still trying to sort things out in my head as I stared at my desk blotter. "Did she say anything about the picture in the paper?"
"She said you looked great and wanted to know where you got the dress," said Neely. I was still looking down at my desk when her finger reached across and lifted my chin. "C'mon, sweetie, the product is a hit, we're getting tons of publicity and we're all getting nailed more than a house on a remodeling show. These are just a few bumps in the road. It's not that bad."
"Not that bad? I've just had more sex than a girl at a frat party for reasons that now make no sense, Scott thinks I'm interested in him again, my ass is splashed all over a tabloid in four colors, and I'm being sued for not sleeping with bald men."
"Do you have any idea how ridiculous you sound?" asked Jillian.
"If you were in my shoes," I said, "you'd see things differently."
"Ah, suck it up," said Rica.
I glared at her.
"Okay," she said, "poor choice of words. Get tough. You can handle this."
(I know, at this point you're saying, "Jeez, the girl has hot and cold running men at her beck and call and she's complaining?") I'm sorry, but I want everything perfect.
And I'm going to have it.
The Red Queen will not be denied.
* * *
The world looks better at the beginning of a new week.
The girls took me out last night and it felt good to let my hair down, though between my copper top and the tabloid picture, my days of being able to hide are over. The parade of older men coming over to our table was getting to be annoying, so Rica decided it was time we all learned how to perfect the death stare. Being Italian, with those dark features, she's got an advantage. (Not that she really needs it with that voice when she says, "Get lawst, buddy.") But it was still interesting to try putting up a force field while three sheets to the wind. Jillian has too much class to pull it off, and let's face it, blue-eyed strawberry blondes aren't terribly scary. Rica said she ends up looking like a hung-over version of the Little Mermaid. Neely, meanwhile, squints too much and ends up with something resembling an angry squirrel. Me? Well, I made the mistake of wearing a tight angora sweater, so no man was looking at my eyes anyway. Rica says I have potential and am a work in progress, though Neely said I reminded her of Patrick Swayze in Ghost when he's trying to move the soda can in the subway with his sheer will.
Despite the fact that the death stare is a tactic for evenings, it will be appropriate this morning, since we're having our first meeting with the Monopoly Guy and his team of attorneys in the hope of making this thing go away quickly. Of course, the chances of that happening are the same as me going down the aisle with Scott, or of Neely being celibate for Lent.
Today, of course, my game face is different. Oh, I still have some make-up and my dress is too short for business, but Neutron Syd is in the building.
Death stare or not, I'm here to kick ass. As are the rest of the girls.
Stacy Heller, our attorney, had us all gather an hour early to brief us and told us we had to "draw the curtains on our anger" since it was fifty-fifty that Rica might, at some point, actually take the Monopoly Guy out in the hall and kick the living shit out of him. She'd already told us not to expect a settlement, that this is all part of the game with lawyers marking their territory. We insisted on meeting in our conference room, since Stacy said it is important that we remain on our own turf. The Monopoly Guy's attorney bitched about it but caved. If the guy wants money, he'll have to come over here to get it. I had no idea that so much about law was psychological warfare. Get this, Stacy's got a pot of ice-cold coffee and very stale donuts on a silver tray in the middle of the table, part of that "revenge is a dish served cold" thing. We, of course, have the hot steaming java in our cups and fresh Danish.
I like Stacy immensely. She's a ballsy little thing, and, like Rica, I'd want her in my foxhole because I get the feeling she wouldn't fight fair.
The intercom buzzed with the news that the enemy had arrived. Stacy, Madison, and Amanda took seats at the table, while the girls and I grabbed chairs that lined the wall behind them.
A polite knock on the door preceded the contingent that followed. We all stood up as the Monopoly Guy entered first, followed by the people who he obviously hired to fight fire with fire. Two hot young male attorneys who looked fresh out of law school. (Future anchors?) And… what the hell is this? One statuesque mid-thirties redhead with a briefcase.
Hey, woman, you're wearing my Red Queen outfit.
I stared daggers at her. Jillian leaned over and whispered in my ear. "Down, girl."
Big Red sized me up, threw her shoulders back, and gave me a quick glare. (Redheads don't like other redheads in the same room… we like being the novelty.) I tried to stand taller and fired what I think is the death stare back at her, though I'll have to wait for Rica's review.
"Good morning," said our attorney, extending her hand to her counterpart. "Stacy Heller."
The towering redhead shook it. "Kate O'Hara." She turned toward the rest of the group. "My associates, Stan Karven and James Florell. And the plaintiff, Mister Todd Jones."
Stacy finished the introductions as I sized up the opposition. The two guys were, I decided, just window dressing. I'm guessing the subliminal message they'd be going for in the courtroom was that men could work for women without having to sleep with them. (Though considering Ms. O'Hara's appearance, I'm sure these two wouldn't complain.)
But Big Red was all business, despite the pale green eyes, porcelain skin and killer legs that cried out for a career on a modeling runway, or a street corner. The red hair was brighter than mine, a little more fire engine to my copper, and cut straight, to hit the shoulders, with some bangs that worked well for her. I guessed she was about six feet tall as she stood in a burnt sienna business suit, skirt at the knee and low heels complementing her well-turned ankles. Her jacket accented her broad shoulders, kind of a throwback to the stuff Linda Evans wore on Dynasty.
She's the glamazon attorney. She looked as though she could snap Stacy like a twig, but our girl stood toe to toe with her and didn't back down.
Meanwhile, in the shallow end of the genetic pool, the Monopoly Guy was even uglier up close, and his apparent tendency to bathe in cheap musky cologne announced his arrival at our end of the room. If he was forty-five years old, his face didn't get the memo. Bald as an egg, with indentations on each side of his forehead that looked like he'd been whacked with the poin
ty end of a steam iron. His handlebar moustache attempted to draw your attention away from deep-set beady brown eyes and puffy jowls which made you wonder if he was storing acorns for the winter. He was eyeing the donuts like a starving man in the desert. (Newspeople cannot resist free food. Remind me to tell you about the laxative brownie episode sometime.)
"This guy was an anchor?" whispered Rica? "On what planet?"
(He is obviously what is known as a "piece of the furniture" anchor, who generally starts in one small market and doesn't have the talent to go anywhere else. The audience grows fond of him, like a favorite old recliner they're too sentimental about to throw out. Doesn't matter if he turns into a mountain troll, they'll still watch him because he's been there forever.)
Monopoly Guy is short, maybe five-six, and built like a fireplug. I look at him and keep thinking that with the right hat and a white beard he's got a future as the real-life version of the Travelocity Roaming Gnome.
Stacy started the meeting as soon as everyone was seated. "Ms. O'Hara, why don't we cut to the chase and you can just tell me what you're looking for, and maybe we can make this unpleasant situation go away with a minimum of animosity."
"Very well," she said, as she pulled some documents and a legal pad from her briefcase. "My client has suffered emotional distress from this ordeal—"
Stacy cut her off. "Excuse me, emotional distress? He applied for a job and didn't get it, like millions of Americans do every day." Well, that didn't last long. She was setting the tone right away. So much for the minimum of animosity.
"In addition," said O'Hara, "we contend that the hiring practices of this network do not comply with federal guidelines, and that you are also in violation of sexual harassment laws—"
"Your client is not an employee so he can't file a harassment charge—"
"My client was not hired simply because of his age and the fact that the female executives of your network do not find him sexually attractive." Her voice was measured, almost staccato in delivery, without emotion.
"I think she's a cyborg," whispered Neely.
Meanwhile, Monopoly Guy was not paying attention to his attorney or what's going on; he was apparently trying to flirt with me. Was this some fishing expedition to see if I'd nail anything in pants? He gave me a quick smile as he sucked in his gut and thrust out his chin, trying to create a jawline that was probably last seen during the Reagan administration. I had planned to give him the death stare, but what the hell, I'd play along. I ran my tongue over my lips just to yank his chain, and his eyes widened.
"It's TV," said Stacy. "In case you hadn't noticed, it's filled with pretty people. Sexually unattractive people are kind of hard to find these days on the tube." Stacy noted that the Monopoly Guy was now staring at the donuts with the same lust he'd been throwing in my direction. "Help yourself, Mister Jones." The guy waited one nanosecond before pouncing on a donut, while he began to fix a cup of coffee.
"But this is a news broadcast," said Big Red. "The rules do not apply—"
Stacy interrupted again. "And where do you see the word news anywhere on this network?"
"Fine, so you call it a report. It's all semantics. Everyone knows it's a newscast."
Stacy put up her hands. "Look, we can argue all day, but let's get to the bottom line. What does your client want? What figure makes this all go away today?"
At this point it should be noted that Monopoly Guy has prepared his coffee (not noticing the milk is curdled) and is about to take a bite of a jelly donut which is so petrified that if New York were suddenly nuked, we'd all be vaporized but the donuts would survive.
Big Red wrote down a figure on the legal pad, tore off the page, and slid it across the table to Stacy. (Why the hell she couldn't just say it out loud is beyond me. I guess she wanted to read Stacy's reaction.)
Stacy raised one eyebrow. "You gotta be kidding. Two point four million?"
As luck would have it, she said this just as the Monopoly Guy, now back to leering at me, took a big bite of the donut, realized it had an expiration date of 1999, then tried to wash it down with very cold, very old coffee. He gagged just as Stacy finished her sentence.
"You okay, Mister Jones?" she asked. "Or do I take it that you're as flabbergasted over the amount as I am?"
Nice.
He coughed a few times, wiped the powdered sugar from his mouth, and managed to get out the words, "I'm fine," though it sounded like he was underwater. He shook his head as he looked at me. I took a sip of my own coffee and smiled as the steam rose from the cup, then shrugged at him like I had no idea what was wrong with his brew.
Stacy flipped the paper back to her counterpart like a card dealer in a casino. "Offer rejected."
"This will be the only day an offer will be made," said Big Red. "If I don't have a check by the close of business today, we're going to court, and then all the dirty little secrets of this network will be out in public. Surely the damage from that will far exceed the amount we're asking for."
"We don't have any secrets," said Stacy. "In fact, half of them are already in the tabloids, so that ship has sailed already. You want to go to court, take your best shot. And let me save you the trouble of hanging around the office all day. No way in hell we're cutting you a check."
"Very well," said the attorney, gathering up her documents and reloading her briefcase. "We'll be in touch." We all stood as they got up and left the room, the Monopoly Guy coughing the whole way.
Stacy moved to the door and closed it. "Okay, that was round one."
"I thought there was going to be a negotiation," I said.
She shook her head. "I wanted them to think there would be, but I had no intention of offering anything. If we settled this case it would open the floodgates for everyone else who applied for a job. Always get their hopes up and then pull the rug out from under them. It demoralizes the client, who thinks he's going to walk away with an easy victory."
"You really think we can win this," I said.
She nodded. "No doubt." She started to pack up her things and then changed the subject. "Before I go I'd like to get all your impressions of the plaintiff."
"Not your typical anchor by any means," I said. "There are a few bald guys on the network, but there aren't many. Where did he work again?"
"He spent eleven years in a small town in West Virginia," said Stacy.
"Not surprising," said Jillian. "He looks like a one-market anchor."
"He looks like an ad for a laxative," said Neely. "The before part of the ad."
Rica cracked her knuckles. "I could take him. No problem."
"I meant," said Stacy, "your impressions on his marketability in the broadcast industry. He's been out of the business for a long time."
"Well, I haven't seen his tape," I said, "but strictly based on appearance he'd have a hard time getting hired anywhere for an on-air job."
"Any other thoughts?" asked Stacy.
"That is one big cold redhead," said Neely. "You think I should send Vance over to defrost her?"
* * *
Despite the imminent threat of a jury trial that would create more national headlines, we're back to the business at hand of running the network. Week two is going so smoothly it's almost on autopilot, while the buzz about the product continues in the newspapers and entertainment magazines. The action in the loft has slowed down to a more normal level, though I'm still going to have to adjust the budget for the linen service.
And with everything going so well on the air and in the bedroom, we can spend a little time on an exciting new project that Amanda assigned to Neely.
Simply known as The Manual.
Well, that's not the official title, and we don't even have one yet, but the concept is simple. We're going to put together a how-to guide for every woman over thirty who wants a younger man, and we're supposed to come up with every possible scenario. Amanda has already got a publishing deal in place and wants to strike while the iron is hot, so we're fast-tracking this thin
g. She also likes Neely's creativity and thinks her traditional Southern Belle biscuits-and-buns philosophy will add a nice touch.
(I also think Amanda wants to lighten things up a bit for us, as we're much more productive when we're having fun. While the lawsuit and the source of the leak are still in the back of my mind, I'm not letting those things dominate my life.)
So we're at Neely's place tonight, gathered around the gas fireplace in the living room that has nicely taken the chill off the room. Since this is her project she wanted to host a little "launch party" and start collecting ideas. And since we're on our second pitcher of vodka-something-or-other, coming up with stuff should be a breeze. My muse is always more productive minus a few brain cells.
One look at her townhouse tells you she's perfect for the job. While she may spend more time looking at ceilings than Michelangelo, her place has a real homey feel to it. The living room is classic, filled with dark wood antiques and vintage leather furniture. Lace curtains filter out the light, creating interesting shadow patterns on the hardwood maple floors. She's always got fresh flowers in a vase (probably because men send them to her all the time), so the faint scent of roses hangs in the air. But the bedroom wouldn't be found in a decorating magazine, unless you pick up a copy of This Old Bordello. It kinda looks like Martha Stewart had been called in to decorate a brothel, with things like little pink ribbons accessorizing the ropes hanging down from the slats of the canopy bed. She's even got one closet filled with "play clothes" which includes, not surprisingly, a Catholic schoolgirl outfit. She claims it is actually the same one she wore to high school and is damn proud that it still fits perfectly. I do question, however, that the hemline was probably not the same back in the day or that the outfit came with patent leather black platforms. Had Neely showed up for Catechism class like that, the priest would have been the one going to confession.
"Chapters," she said, sitting on the floor next to the fireplace. She put a yellow legal pad in her lap as she sipped her drink. "Shout 'em out."