Boss Girl

by Nic Tatano

  "That's my legal name," said the Monopoly Guy. "And that was the name I used as an anchor. My stage name is Bryan Carswell."

  Stage name?

  "Bryan is an actor," said Amanda, as the Monopoly Guy's smile joined her own.

  The words hung in the air as we all put the pieces of the puzzle together.

  Oh, you've gotta be kidding…

  I looked at the man, then back to Amanda. "You mean to tell me—"

  She nodded as she folded her arms and leaned against the door. "This whole thing was a publicity stunt."

  Stacy tossed her pen on the table and stood up. It was clear she was not amused by this turn of events. "Do you realize you could go to jail for this? This is a flagrant abuse of the justice system. I could be disbarred."

  "The only people who know about it are in this room," said Amanda. "Attorney client privilege prevents you from doing anything. You were operating in good faith and had no knowledge of what we were doing. He gets a large amount of money in an annuity three years after the statute of limitations runs out, provided he keeps his mouth shut, and for what I'm paying him I know he will. If he ever says anything, he automatically forfeits the annuity. As for the rest of you, I didn't want you to feel as though I put you through all of this for nothing, so you are being compensated for your roles." She reached into her purse, pulled out several envelopes, and handed one to each of us.

  "Why didn't you tell us?" I asked, as I took an envelope.

  "You guys are all very smart, but you had to be kept in the dark on this," said Amanda. "And as you can tell, Stacy wouldn't have gone for it."

  "No lawyer would have gone for it," said Stacy, still seething.

  "That's why you couldn't know. Meanwhile, the rest of you aren't actors and never would have been able to pull it off. Though Neely came close to getting an Academy Award for her Scarlett O'Hara thing. You all had to actually believe the lawsuit was real to sell it. If you knew it was a publicity scam it would have shown through; somebody would have slipped up. And Stacy, you had to think you were actually defending clients against a serious charge. I hope this token of appreciation will make up for the stress I've put you all through."

  I opened my envelope and peeked inside. My eyes grew wide as I saw a cashier's check made out for fifty thousand dollars.

  "What the hell, stress is overrated," said Neely, after looking at her check.

  "Where the hell did you get this money?" asked Madison.

  "It just goes under legal expense for the entertainment division. Don't worry about it. Trust me, guys, every possible loose end has been taken care of."

  Rica got up and walked toward the man, still ticked off despite the money. "You're a friggin' actor?" she said, hands on hips.

  Monopoly Guy nodded. "Ever since I left television news."

  "So you really were an anchor in a previous life?" asked Jillian.

  "Yeah, a bad one," he said. "That stuff about West Virginia was all true, even the line about my ratings. I knew I couldn't get another job in news, but I was comfortable on camera, so I started auditioning for commercials and bit parts. Being bald and funny-looking might not work in broadcast journalism, but it is an asset in Hollywood and New York."

  "I put him in several roles during the years I was working as a casting director," said Amanda. "I knew he'd be perfect for this part. He knew enough about the news business and is a terrific character actor. And he still had actual resume tapes from his anchor job, which we needed to make the whole thing seem legit."

  Rica's eyes narrowed as she looked at the man and folded her arms. "I'd still like to kick your ass," she said.

  "And I'd like to grab yours," he said, smiling.

  "Dream on," said Rica.

  "Look," said Amanda. "Our ratings are going through the roof. CGR is seriously on the map. And the bonus to all this is that you've opened the doors for all sorts of women over thirty to get back into the news business."

  "You put us through hell," said Stacy, obviously not feeling the check in the envelope was worth the trouble.

  "Sometimes you gotta go through hell to get to heaven," said Amanda.

  * * *

  Actually, hell would have been a walk in the park compared to Thanksgiving.

  I'd decided I wasn't going to let Mother stand in the way of my feelings for Gran, nor let my dear grandmother suffer the fallout of our little courtroom altercation, so I hopped on the mostly empty train early that morning and took the Metro North local out to Old Southwich. Besides, The Snack had given me a pep talk, so I was ready for battle, with my game face on.

  I half expected to see torch-bearing townspeople who would drag me to the stake as the train rolled into the station, since I had, after all, given Old Southwich a reputation that would resemble the real Babylon. Some Connecticut television reporter had dug up a little family history and traced me back to Bootsie (those damned leaks never stop!), which resulted in a cavalcade of matrons doing spit-takes with their vichyssoise when the story broke at the annual Hartshaw charity auction. But, there was no angry mob to greet me. I simply found the lone taxi I'd summoned spitting steamy exhaust into the chilly air. (I did, however, see some graffiti decorating a Broadway show poster on the train platform that read, "For an absolutely lovely evening, do call Sydney Hack." Only in Old Southwich would a trollop get such a genteel notation in perfect penmanship.)

  The memories flooded back as the taxi navigated the old streets of Old Southwich, past the overpriced boutiques and restaurants that served fru-fru watercress sandwiches that left you hungry an hour later. We headed out into the country, such as it is in Connecticut. As we turned past the gate into the Hartshaw estate I felt my pulse quicken. Half excitement to see Gran, the other half bracing for what surely would be an onslaught of Mother's barbs flying from one side of the table over the turkey carcass to the other.

  Most of the leaves were down from the maples that lined the brick basket-weave driveway, but the reds and oranges on the ground framed the picture of the one place I'd found solace in this entire town. The cab pulled up to the stone mansion, and the crisp fall air greeted me as I paid the driver and got out of the back seat. The door opened before I had a chance to knock.

  Oh yeah, I'm Gran's favorite, in case you hadn't guessed by now. (Much to Mother's dismay.) She was waiting by the door with a big hug. "Sydney, so good to see you," she said.

  I kissed her on the cheek, taking in her warmth while casting a wary eye for Mother lurking in the shadows. "You too, Gran," I said.

  She took me by the hand, the same way she did when I was a little girl. Her skin was a bit rough and wrinkled now, but the touch was still warm. "Come. I'll make you some hot chocolate and then you can help with the turkey."

  My steps on the beige marble floor echoed through the foyer as we headed toward the back of the house. Gran, though eighty years old, still walked with a spring in her step, and it could be argued that she looked better than my mother. The hair had gone totally gray, but she had maintained her tall, slender figure, while her knowing green eyes still sparkled out of a relatively smooth face that belied her years. "Anyone else here yet?" I asked.

  "No," she said. "Just you and me till about noon."

  I exhaled and my blood pressure dropped like a stone. "Good," I said, as we entered the kitchen.

  I closed my eyes for a moment as the smells of Gran's kitchen took me back. The fresh herbs, her favorites being cilantro and rosemary, sat on the black and white tiled island, and sent a wonderful, fresh aroma into the room as they waited to become important ingredients in her Thanksgiving dinner. The hanging array of copper pots provided the only color to the room. The kitchen had so much stainless steel I'd imagined it as a funhouse when I was little, enjoying the distorted reflections while learning how to cook. (Mother, it should be noted, could burn a salad. Hence, it was imperative that I be able to fend for myself on my infrequent visits to her home, lest I overdose on ramen noodles.) Gran poured some milk into a saucepan a
s I looked into the side of the refrigerator and smiled at the funny face that looked back. She placed the pan on the stove and turned on the gas while I hopped on one of the old pine stools that lined one side of the island.

  "How is your dear father?" she asked, as she pulled a coffee mug from a shelf and dropped a few marshmallows and her own homemade hot chocolate mix into it.

  "You know Dad, always traveling with his job. But he and Caroline are happy as ever, still living in San Francisco." (I didn't call Caroline "mom" in front of Gran, but she knew we had a close relationship.)

  "He's such a good man," said Gran. "He's taught me a lot over the years."

  "He has?"

  "Yes, about first impressions. They're usually wrong, don't you know." She stirred the milk as the steam began to rise from the saucepan, then poured it into the mug, dropped in a spoon and handed it to me.

  I wrapped both hands around the warm china and took a sip. The rich mocha with a hint of marshmallow warmed my body, while the flashback brought by the taste did the same for my soul.

  "By the way," said Gran, "I have a surprise for you."

  I sat up straight. "Oooh. What is it?"

  "Not till your mother gets here."

  * * *

  The seating arrangements at Gran's Thanksgiving dinners haven't changed since I was a child. She sits at the head of the table (my grandfather passed away at a young age) while her children line one side of the table and their children (all boys, except for me) line the other. Though I am seated directly across from Mother, I do take comfort in being surrounded by my two favorite cousins, Patrick and Roger. Both, though they maintain the blueblood attitude along with residences in the proper Connecticut zip code, have a warped view of life which always makes me laugh. Patrick, an attorney in his early forties, is known as the "king of the pre-nup" in this state, his reputation solidified since he's now on wife number four and has yet to pay a dime of alimony to the previous three. (He's also on mistress number fifteen, but that's beside the point.) Roger, just turned fifty, rode the Hartshaw name to a Congressional seat and has already survived two sex scandals in Washington, one of which received national attention when he was caught by an elevator camera being serviced by a female staffer. While that doesn't sound like anything unusual for a Congressman, the story took on a life of its own when the woman, after being unceremoniously let go from her job, revealed to the world that she had been born a man before taking a long trip to Sweden. The "ewwww" factor of this lovely piece of news, along with the fact that the woman had changed her name to Jennifer from, of all things, Dick, was a headline writer's dream. But, the Hartshaw name having the lifetime warranty Teflon coating that it does, he was re-elected after outspending his opponent ten to one.

  Back to the dinner. Mother had not even spoken to me yet and we were almost completely through the bird, which was acting as a buffer between us. She was wearing her "constipated since 1988" face, while I was laughing it up with my cousins. The topic of CGR had not even come up, since, and let's be honest here, the making of money trumps any indiscretion in this family.

  Except, of course, if you're a girl.

  Every time Gran looked at me she winked. She was up to something.

  And I was still waiting for that surprise.

  "Bootsie, dear," said Gran, putting down her fork and folding her hands. "You must be so proud of Sydney. Running her own network and all. Very few women rise to that position."

  Oh, shit. What the hell is this?

  If this is Gran's surprise, well…

  Patrick leaned over and whispered in my ear. "From what I've read, you have more than one position."

  I nearly choked on an olive as I stifled a laugh, then elbowed him in the ribs. "You should talk," I said.

  Otherwise, the conversation had stopped. Everyone at the table knew the throwdown was about to happen, and no one wanted to have a mouth full of candied yams when the first volley flew on a weird parabola across the turkey. Roger wiped his mouth, dropped the napkin in his lap, then leaned forward toward Mother. "Yes, Boots, she's really going all the way in that industry, don't you think?" He shot me a smile, then leaned back for the show.

  Instigator.

  "I have remained silent thus far," said Mother, nose in the air, looking slightly to the side.

  "Oh, shit, here it comes," I said. My cousins snickered. Patrick did that whistle thing from the Clint Eastwood movie The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly. I looked at Gran, who for some reason was smiling. She usually puts a stop to this stuff.

  "My daughter," said Mother, "and her carrying on like a common—"

  "Trollop?" I asked.

  Her eyes narrowed.

  Re-jected! I channeled Rica and shot the death stare back.

  "It's all over the newspapers," said Mother. "I cannot even go out in public anymore. And the fact that she's having sex with much younger men—"

  "She's an attractive single woman," said Gran. "People do have pre-marital sex… you know."

  "Wow," said Roger. (Everyone knows the story of the Buick.) Patrick then pulled out his cell phone and began recording the proceedings.

  Mother's head snapped back as she took the surprise shot from Gran. She glared at Gran.

  My sweet old Gran debuted a death stare of her own. Who knew?

  Mother looked at me, then at Gran, then back to me.

  The room was deathly silent. It had become a blueblood spaghetti western showdown at the Old Southwich corral.

  "Those men are almost young enough to be your children," said Mother.

  "Yeah, maybe in Arkansas," said Patrick, under his breath.

  "You know," said Gran. "When I was young I dated a much younger man."

  "I find that hard to believe," said Mother. "You're just taking her side. As you always do."

  "No, no, 'tis true," said Gran. "I was twenty-five and he was only eighteen."

  Mother shook her head. "Women didn't do such things back in the day. You're making this up. "

  "No, I'm not," said Gran. Then she reached in her lap, pulled out a yellowed piece of paper and unfolded it. "And back then I couldn't tell anyone that I was seven years older…" She looked directly at Mother. "…when I married your father."

  Had Mother's jaw dropped another inch I could have shoved an entire drumstick into her mouth.

  Gran passed the paper across the table to Mother. I saw the words "Certificate of Marriage" across the top. Mother's eyes bugged out as they raced across the old document. Then Gran turned to me.

  "You see, Sydney, you may think you started this whole trend of older women dating younger men, but in reality, it's in your genes. I was the first cougar in this family."

  I grinned from ear to ear, as Mother continued to stare at the document. Her eyes glazed over and it looked as though she were in imminent danger of falling head first into the gravy boat.

  "Now," said Gran, "who wants pie?"

  * * *

  Not that this group needs mistletoe to hook up, but any excuse to give a tonsillectomy to a co-worker is welcome at CGR.

  Welcome to the network Christmas party, which, along with the usual flashy cocktail dresses and free-flowing booze (I know, really, how is this different from any other day around here?), has a kick-ass band and a few rooms just off the ballroom for anyone who needs to freshen up. And since our reputation is all about sex, I had the decorating committee hang mistletoe all over the damn place. One little sprig just won't do it for this group. I'd decided, for the time being, to grab a drink and park myself under one bunch, and I must say I'd really been enjoying the assorted holiday greetings from the male members of the staff, many of whom have come back for seconds.

  Sure as hell beats getting a fruitcake.

  I was torn about one thing, however.

  I really, really, really wanted to plant one on The Snack one time before Jillian takes him off the market for good. Actually, I'd like to do more than just kiss him, but we won't go there. We do have scruples, you know
.

  Of course, I had a nice little Christmas surprise for the two of them, which I would deliver shortly. (No, I'm not going to tell you. It's a surprise, so you'll just have to wait.)

  Okay, you twisted my arm, so I'll give you a hint. Ever since The Snack's testimony when Big Red asked him the question, we all figured he'd run right out that night and say the "L" word to Jillian. But what we didn't consider was that fact that they're both too smart to race headlong into anything, so each has been holding back waiting for the other to say it first. It's almost gotten to be a running joke. We'll all be at dinner, and Jillian will look deeply into his eyes, and say, "You know what I'm thinking?" And he'll look back at her, thinking she's going to crack, and say, "What, Shortcake?" (She loves the nickname coming from him, but God forbid anyone else uses it or you get the hung-over Little Mermaid glare.) Then she'll break the trance and say, "I think I'll order dessert. You wanna split some chocolate mousse?"

  Anyway, the gift was in my purse and I'd give it to them at the proper time.

  * * *

  I'd been waiting for ten o'clock, and thankfully the weather report was right on the money; it was cold outside and the skies were crystal clear. You'll see my reasons presently. I walked over to Jillian and the Snack who were standing near the Christmas tree, holding hands while sipping drinks. "I have something for you," I said to Jillian.

  "I thought we weren't exchanging gifts till Christmas Eve?"

  "We aren’t, but this is actually something extra for both of you." I handed Jillian a bright red envelope. "You've both been so special to me this year, and I couldn't have made it without either of you."

  She opened it and pulled out the card. "Gift certificate for a hansom cab ride." She showed it to Shawn and he smiled. "Thanks, Syd. That's really nice. I've always wanted to see New York from a horse-drawn carriage."

  "That's very sweet of you," said Shawn. "Thank you. It's a wonderful gift."

  "You didn't read the fine print," I said.

  They both looked closer. "Oh, it expires tonight," said Jillian, the sparkle fading from her eyes.