″I thought Lainey′s figure had changed since she switched from newspapers to TV,″ I said, suddenly wishing I′d studied her cleavage more closely. ″But how could you tell she had implants? ″
″You can always tell a cheap boob job by the mile-wide cleavage,″ Jana said. ″Those saline sacs will be sliding down to her belly button by the end of the first year.″
″Ah.″
I tried to console myself with visions of Lainey being stuck with a boob job gone wrong, but her parting shot about taking over the county hospital story had left a smoking hole in my stomach. I′d just assumed the story was mine-a stupid assumption now that she was dogging my heels day and night. I′d already looked into charges that the hospital was dumping homeless people on skid row. It was going to be a huge story. Her huge story now.
Obviously Lainey had taken the lead on the fast track. She′d always been my major competitor for stories even when she′d worked in print. But things were worse now that she was digging her little stiletto heels into my home turf. Now she was more than just my competition. Now she was a threat to my job.
When the waitress came with our check, Jana mentioned that she′d lost her purse the night before.
″Can you believe this, Kate?″ she said. ″I feel just like one of those rich jerks who invites people out for lunch and then doesn′t pay. I′m sorry.″
″Don′t be silly.″
″Do you remember me having my purse at Trish′s house? I thought I brought it there, but I didn′t have it at the Hilton when I got back last night.″
″Let′s see,″ I said, trying to dig up a memory. ″Did it have a woven metallic finish? Bronze colored?″
″Right! My Miu Miu bag-I thought I′d brought it in there with me last night,″ she said. ″Okay, so I left it at Trish′s house. No wonder; I was so distracted about seeing Shaina. Phew! I′ll leave her another message, but I think she and Archer are leaving town. Maybe their son is still there. What′s his name? D′you know?″
″Chaz, I think.″
″That′s right. Chaz must have answered when I called their house this morning. But when I mentioned my purse he just grunted and hung up.″
″No surprise there,″ I said. ″He′s probably still out of it. I smelled pot on him last night. It was pretty strong.″
″Uh-oh. I don′t think Trish knows anything about that,″ Jana said. ″But then, she′s such a Gidget, she might thinks it′s incense. According to her, the boy′s highly gifted with computers, but a little low on the social IQ.″
″Well, last night he would′ve scored high on a drug test,″ I said, reaching for the check.
Chapter 4
A Big Phooey on ″Flat Belly″ Diets
Oh, for Pete′s sake! How many more fad diets will come along that try to open our wallets and extract cash in exchange for unproven claims that they target belly fat? Save your money. Here′s what the average woman can do to trim her waist over time:
1. Cut 150 calories a day from your daily intake.
2. Walk at a brisk pace five days a week for twenty minutes, and build up to thirty minutes per day.
3. Start with a set of ten crunches on the first day, and add sets of ten until you build up to two hundred per day.
– From The Little Book of Beauty Secrets by Mimi Morgan
Something was definitely wrong.
When I returned to the studio that afternoon, I left not one, but two messages on Jonathan′s cell phone. I had to handle some assignment-desk chores for Beatty while he recovered from an emergency root canal; meanwhile, I kept compulsively checking the messages on my landline at home. By five p.m., Jonathan still hadn′t called me back. That would be ten p.m. in London -plenty late enough for his mother to be asleep.
Before leaving the second message for him, I sought out the privacy of a sound booth. I perched on a stool, then listened with mounting tension to his greeting message. In the past, I′d always felt soothed by the sound of his voice, even in a recording. Not this time.
″Jonathan here,″ came his message. ″Leave a word and I′ll ring you back.″
″But you′re not ringing me back,″ I blurted after the beep. ″It′s me. Is your mom okay? Are you? Please call me as soon as you get this message. I love you.″
My tongue tripped over the ″I love you,″ three words that had always rolled off it so easily before. It was almost embarrassing how totally, completely consumed I was by Jonathan. Maybe that was why I′d always felt a little insecure about him. Maybe that was the real reason I′d never let him see me naked in the full light of day. If I didn′t love my own body, why should he?
After leaving the second frantic message, I was afraid I′d come off like a clinging vine.
Fuck that thought-the man hasn′t called you in a week. It′s his fault. My Inner Girlfriend, who′d been feeling emboldened ever since that morning′s shopping trip with the self-confident Evelyn, tried to prop me up.
But then Clinging Vine caterwauled, There must be some reason he hasn′t called you back. Maybe he′s hurt. Maybe he′s lying in a London ditch, dead.
Jonathan hadn′t given me his mother′s phone number, and I didn′t know a single friend of his in the UK whom I could call to check up on him. Not that I′d call them anyway-checking up on a guy with his friends is the quickest way to stamp your forehead with big neon letters that spelled dumped.
Workwise, the day had gone from bad to worse. As Beatty′s fill-in, I had to review and approve every news story for the six o′clock show, including Lainey′s. Just as I′d feared, she′d developed a piece-tipped off by Tipsy Floyd-about how the head of animal control had submitted his resignation over allegations of sexually harassing a city dogcatcher. The story was slugged, ″The dog poop flies.″ It was scheduled to run as the lead that night.
Inside the production booth, I ran her story through a machine and reviewed her intro copy; the results were dreadful. Dreadful for me, that is.
Her story was great.
Chapter 5
Don′t Try to be a Living Doll
Pity the woman who wants to look like a Barbie doll (yes, there are women out there who′ve actually paid big surgery bucks to transform themselves into living versions of the mammary-inflated toy).
If Barbie′s measurements were translated into a real-life woman, she′d be more than seven feet tall, wear toddler shoes, and have an oversized head like an alien. Honestly, she′d be bizarre!
So the next time you want to look like a doll, or even a magazine cover, get ahold of yourself. (Pause to slap yourself across the face.)
Just concentrate on making yourself healthy and strong.
You got that, ladies?
– From The Little Book of Beauty Secrets by Mimi Morgan
I replayed Lainey′s story. In addition to having a well-written piece, she looked absolutely perfect on camera. While other reporters made do with pancake makeup, Lainey used an airbrush wand to spray foundation on her face, neck, and hands so that all her skin tones were perfectly matched on high-definition TV. She had staked out permanent squatter′s rights to the studio′s green room, where she′d spend an hour at a time, painstakingly contouring her features with little brushes and pots of bronzers. But the effort paid off. People had been whispering, ″network material,″ ever since Lainey had stepped into the newsroom.
Also network material was the little safari suit Lainey had donned for her stand-up. She looked ready to beam her next live shot from the Seren geti.
I shot a dispirited glance down at my own standard reporting gear-today I had on my expandable-waist black slacks, paired as usual from a rotating cast of V-necked tops in jewel colors. Today I was wearing cobalt blue to match my eyes. When assigned to cover a formal event, I′d throw on my good silk-and-rayon jacket from Nordstrom, which was roomy enough to cover my hips. Usually.
My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. It was Fish, the private investigator.
″I owe you a round, Kate. Hell, I owe
you a night on the fucking town.″ The ex-detective′s street-roughened voice boomed over a background thrum of clinking and bar chatter. ″Your friend Jana Miller just wrote me out a check for eight grand. Any more socialites where she comes from? I could buy that fishing boat and an island.″
I laughed and said, ″Take it easy on her, Fish, okay? Jana′s nice.″
″Sure she′s nice. It′s the nice ones who can whittle away a man′s balls until he′s got nothing left but a pair of olive pits.″
″I′ll have to take your word for it on that one, Fish.″
I heard a rattle of ice cubes as we signed off. I pictured Fish at the counter of the sports bar that had become his second home. Fish had the beetling brow of a Cape buffalo, plus a tendency to gore challengers when he got riled-or tanked.
Back when he was on bunco, Fish′s drinking habit had fueled one too many bouts of street rage. The final straw had come when he bashed in the head of a con man who′d stabbed a police dog during an arrest. Both dog and suspect made full recoveries, but Fish had been deemed a psychological risk and was forced into early retirement.
I thought the con guy had richly deserved his punishment. Which means it′s probably a good thing I didn′t follow my father′s example and become a cop. With my hair-trigger Irish temper, I might have actually blown off someone′s head by now.
When the six o′clock news show wrapped, I smiled off an invitation from a couple of my reporter friends to join the nightly migration to our favorite watering hole, a restaurant called Bug-tussles. At this point I was craving the solace of solitude, not shop talk.
My spirits rose when I reached the parking structure and saw my new car, a BMW Z4. I′d bought the silver sports coupe used, but its shark-like curves gleamed like it had just rolled off a showroom floor. My James Bond car, Evelyn called it. It was a wildly impractical machine to own, but fun as hell to drive.
When I pulled up in front of my house, I could just make out the edges of a furry, familiar profile. Elfie, my rag-doll cat, was posted at her usual spot in the bay window of the little foursquare house I′d rented a few months earlier in the Trinity Heights section of town.
Once inside, I clicked on the kitchen light. As if to reward my self-restraint for not checking my messages during the drive home, the red light on the answering machine on the faux-granite counter was blinking.
″Hi,″ a familiar voice began. It was Jonathan.
No ″Hallo, luv,″ his usual salutation for me.
My boyfriend′s voice sounded two degrees cooler than usual as he continued, ″There′s been a bit of a cock-up with my schedule and I had to change my plans-right now I′m not sure when I′m coming back. Might be another week or two. Keep you posted, all right?″ he said. ″Cheerio.″
Click.
Chapter 6
Straight from the Bunny′s Mouth
A friend of mine swears that a glass of simple carrot
juice delivers an immediate beauty boost to her skin.
Nutritionists agree that carrot juice helps to detoxify
the liver, ward off acne, and inject your system with
other beauty-boosting antioxidants and vitamins, including:
• beta-carotene
• vitamins A, B1, B2, C, and E
• an insulin-like plant hormone that is reported to be beneficial against diabetes
So, why not take a cue from the bunnies? Eat carrots or drink carrot juice every day.
– From The Little Book of Beauty Secrets by Mimi Morgan
Cheerio?
I glared at the answering machine as if it could transmit my baleful energy through the undersea cables all the way to London, and deliver a thwack on my boyfriend′s forehead. Where was his usual ″I love you″ or even ″Miss you, luv″? There wasn′t the slightest hint of affection in the message he′d left for me. What was up?
″What cock-up with your schedule?″ I demanded of the machine. ″What are you talking about?″
Obviously, Jonathan′s mother wasn′t dying. Obviously, he wasn′t lying in a ditch someplace in a London slum. Obviously, he simply couldn′t be bothered to call before now to let me know what the hell was going on with him.
A throbbing pulse began at my temples, then spread like a wildfire crackling across my scalp; I snatched up my cordless phone to call Jonathan back.
″Down, girl,″ I cautioned my temper before replacing the phone carefully in its base. What was the point of getting angry?
My mind leapfrogged to the worst-case conclusion about Jonathan′s message: The answer must be that he was cooling off on me. I′d heard the tone of voice he′d used in his message once before in the past, from an old boyfriend who′d then proceeded to inform me that he was dumping me for the new TelePrompTer girl. But at least that guy had had the guts to deliver his message in person.
″What gives? First you avoid talking to me; then you leave me a cold-ass message like that?″ I wailed at the answering machine, which sat in stony silence. ″How cheesy. How cowardly. If that′s all you have to say, then as far as I′m concerned you can-you can just…″
He could rot in hell.
In a fit of pique, I deleted Jonathan′s number from my contact list. Okay, maybe that was an overreaction (and I had his number memorized anyway), but his frosty tone had hit me like a gut kick. He′d spoken like we barely knew each other. What the hell was going on?
Advancing farther into the kitchen, I threw open the refrigerator door. Foodwise, the view was barren except for some snap beans and heirloom tomatoes I′d picked up the day before at the farmers′ market. And I was in no mood at that moment for anything healthy. I wanted something with a major sugar kick, and I wanted it now.
According to the wall clock, it was only ten p.m., which meant I still had time to make a run to Thirty-one Flavors for an emergency pint of Pralines ′n′ Cream. Then my eye fell on a bottle of sauvignon blanc that was chilling on the shelf. I′d been planning to share it with Jonathan the next day to celebrate his homecoming from the UK.
There′s nothing more sorry-ass than sitting at home alone, drinking over a guy who doesn′t call, I told myself.
Defiantly I grabbed the bottle, then rummaged around in a drawer for a corkscrew. After a brief struggle to get the bottle open, I poured a generous amount of wine into a green-stemmed goblet.
″To relationships,″ I said, raising the glass in Elfie′s direction. ″Be grateful you′re spayed so you don′t have to play stupid mating games with tomcats. They′ll let you down every time.″
Elfie blinked her topaz blue eyes at me. Her expression was attentive but not overly empathetic. At times like this, it would be nice if Elfie were a dog, I decided. Dogs always seemed to understand when you′re upset.
I decided to turn in. I made my way into the bathroom, grabbed my koala-bear sleep shirt from the hook on the back of the door, and changed into it. Then I brushed my teeth with vicious up-and-down strokes. After propping myself up in bed with a magazine, I sipped the glass of wine. It tasted sour after brushing my teeth.
I clicked on a cable news channel. I couldn′t hear a sound over the thundering internal roar of my continuing mental rant at Jonathan. When I started to punctuate my thoughts with hand gestures, I cut myself off.
How pathetic, I thought. Before long I′ll be like Miss Lonelyhearts in Rear Window, getting piss-ass drunk and holding imaginary conversations with gentlemen callers.
With a firm sense of resolve, I set the wine-glass down on the bedside table. There would be no getting drunk tonight for me. Not because I was afraid of becoming an alcoholic.
It′s simply that when it came to getting an evil buzz on, no wine could ever give me a flavor gasm like a pint of Pralines ′n′ Cream.
Chapter 7
Why You Need to Shun the Sun
Worshipping the sun is so last millennium. The awful truth is, the sun pulverizes and ages your skin every time you step outside. You must always put on sunscreen before you ventur
e outside, and the sunscreen must be the type that blocks both ultraviolet A (UVA) and B (UVB) rays. According to skin scientists, UVB causes sunburn and skin cancer, while UVA causes aging and some skin cancers.
Even if you wear sunscreen, you should still take other measures to protect your skin. Most sunscreens break down in the sun (which they don′t tell you in the advertising). So you need to protect your skin with clothing as well as lotions-for example, take a cue from the ladies of yesteryear and buy yourself a pair of chic driving gloves. And bring a cute parasol or wear a protective hat when you′re in direct sunlight for hours on end. That way your skin won′t look like a leather feed bag by the time you′re forty.
– From The Little Book of Beauty Secrets by Mimi Morgan
When the cell phone on my nightstand buzzed me awake at three a.m. Thursday morning, I grabbed for it eagerly, expecting it to be Jonathan. I wasn′t awake enough yet to remember that I was mad at him. But instead of a London exchange, the LED displayed the number of the Channel Twelve news desk.
I stifled a groan. A call from work in the wee hours meant only one thing: a summons to roll out to cover a crisis someplace. Usually it would turn out to be nothing more exciting than a smoky fire. And every smoky fire looked identical. Seriously; you could use the exact same video to show every predawn smoker in the world and no one would be the wiser.
I answered the cell with my work greeting: ″Gallagher.″
″Hi, Kate-sorry, I know you′re not on call tonight, but I′ve got something crazy going on.″
It was the overnight news producer, Roe. Something ″crazy″ was always going on whenever Roe called. She monitored the police scanner like a jumpy little chicken hawk, pouncing on every squawk that came over the radio. Roe was an expert at working herself and everyone around her into balls of stress. She′d make an excellent news director someday.
″No problem, Roe. What′ve you got?″ I was already turning over to click on the bedside lamp. The sudden burst of activity disturbed Elfie, who′d been curled up in a warm, sleeping lump at my feet. She lifted her head and gave me an offended glare.
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