It Girl

by Nic Tatano

  I was already on set when the Senator strolled into the studio during the commercial. I stood up to greet her, got the look, and shook her hand. "Senator, nice to see you again."

  "You too, Veronica. How's that ankle?"

  "Oh, you saw that story, huh?"

  "Everybody saw that. My immediate reaction was, hey she's a smart girl using the old ‘fake sprained ankle to get the guy to carry me’ trick."

  "Well, the story was actually true."

  "Hey, no one would blame you for going after a guy like Dexter Bishop."

  "You like him?"

  "I'm married, I'm not dead. Anyway, you two look good together."

  Good God, I'm even getting it from the next President of the United States. What did everyone see that I didn't?

  "Ten out!" yelled the floor director.

  I sat up straight in my chair as Senator Dixon did the same. Adrenaline shot through my veins like it always did during a big story, except this one had personal implications.

  The floor director counted me down and the red light atop the camera came on. "And welcome back. Joining us this morning is Senator Sydney Dixon, just back from that wild session in Washington. Senator, thanks for coming by."

  "My pleasure, Veronica."

  "So, let's get right to it. Is the proposed Senate budget dead, or do you think there's hope of some bi-partisan support?"

  "Well, Veronica, I'm sorry to say you can stick a fork in the bill, because it's done. We're not getting any help from across the aisle, so we're going back and re-drafting a new proposal which will hopefully be more appealing to our friends in the other party."

  "So does that mean—"

  "However, I do want to share some other news this morning."

  "You're moving forward on the farm bill?"

  "No, I'm moving forward on the campaign. Today I am officially announcing my candidacy for President of the United States."

  ***

  I was walking on air as I escorted the Senator to the door. "I absolutely cannot believe you announced this on our show."

  "Like I said, we redheads have to stick together."

  "I can't thank you enough for thinking of me."

  "Sure thing. Well, I'm off to make the rounds with your competition."

  "As long as you stopped by here first, fine with me."

  She turned to face me as she reached the door and handed me a plain white business card with nothing but a phone number on it. "Listen Veronica, that's my private number. Anytime you need something from me, don't hesitate to call."

  "Thank you, that's very kind."

  "Hey, Big Red's gonna take care of you."

  ***

  As if this day hadn't been great enough, tonight was the night I was going to exorcize the demon known as Selina and make that girl's head spin like Linda Blair in The Exorcist. Yes, Margaux the French maid had an appointment at seven with Bradley, bringing new meaning to the term "room service." I had my hair up, which would come down later. A big pair of glasses, which would be removed later. And my costume under a raincoat, which would come off later. I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do with the feather duster Savannah had given me, so I left it home. Layla kept reminding me that I really didn't need Bradley, but I explained to her that there was a difference between want and need. And right now I needed to want what my sister wanted because she needed whatever guy I wanted but didn't necessarily need. Got it?

  Bradley had already given me a room key in case I arrived first, but I was determined to make him wait. Savannah said a little bit of torture would help turn the tables in my favor. I got off the elevator on the top floor of the old hotel and followed the sign that directed me to room 2314. I passed a pair of french doors with the sign "Presidential Suite" and found Bradley's room right next door. No one else was in the hallway so I removed the raincoat, took a deep breath, knocked and said, "Housekeeping" in a bad French accent.

  Bradley opened the door. "I didn't need anything … " His eyes widened as he saw my outfit.

  "Monsieur, would you care for turn down service?"

  "I'm not turning down any service from you."

  Damn, Savannah was right. I'll just tuck your Johnson away in my pocket for the rest of the evening.

  "Oui," I said, as I moved into the room and he closed the door. I noticed a room service tray filled with food next to a table near the window.

  "Good God, Veronica, I didn't expect this."

  "Who ees thees Veronica? I am Margaux." I folded my arms. "Are you seeing another woman behind my back?"

  He smiled, ready to play along. "No, of course not. This is all for you. Would you care for some champagne?"

  Bradley looked like his clothes had been covered with itching powder as he sped through dinner, obviously impatient to get to the main course, Margaux. I continued to torture him during the meal, running my foot up his leg and making a big production number of eating chocolate covered strawberries and then seductively licking my fingers. I'd gone easy on the champagne, not wanting a replay of last week.

  "Let me freshen up," I said, getting up and heading toward the bathroom.

  "Not going anywhere," he said. His look told me I'd left Selina in the dust.

  I grabbed my purse, entered the bathroom and closed the door. I was about to touch up my makeup when I heard voices from the next room coming through the heating vent. It was obvious the two people were having a wild tryst.

  But what I heard made me stop. The woman's voice sounded so damn familiar.

  I needed to get my ear closer to the vent so I hopped up on the vanity stool.

  And what came through next nearly made me fall off.

  "Big Red's gonna take care of you."

  Ho-lee shit! My eyes widened as I realized Senator Sydney Dixon was in the Presidential suite.

  The man's voice was muffled, as he was probably farther away from the vent. But I could tell it belonged to someone much older.

  Someone who wasn't her husband?

  Could it be? Could the slam dunk candidate and the next President be so stupid as to have an affair? And who the hell ever heard of a female politician cheating?

  Nah, obviously she and her husband were just enjoying a weekend getaway in the Big Apple and he had a deep voice. But the next words that came through the vent shot that theory to hell.

  "Of course we can keep doing this. I'm not gonna let my husband give up his teaching job. A candidate can't ask for a better job for a spouse."

  Damn.

  "Hey, Margaux, you okay in there?"

  Bradley's voice brought me back to reality. But what I'd heard was more important. This could be the story of the century.

  I needed visual confirmation.

  I knew I had to somehow get in that room.

  I'm wearing the same uniform as the maids in the hotel … even if the hemline is a foot higher …

  Time for more reporter's tricks. I pulled out my cell, looked up the number to the hotel, and dialed it.

  "Good evening, hotel—"

  "Oh, sorry, I was trying to dial room service."

  "One moment, I'll connect you."

  It only took a few moments to connect. "Room service, may I help you?"

  I lowered my voice, trying my best to sound as husky as Senator Dixon. "Good evening, we're in the Presidential Suite. Could you please send up a bottle of champagne right away? Like in five minutes?"

  "Certainly, madame. It is on its way."

  "Hey, Margaux! You're date's gettin' cold out here!"

  Now I had to stall Bradley for a few minutes. Incredibly, getting even with Selina had to go on the back burner. I grabbed some money from my purse, left the bathroom and found him already undressed, and in the antique oak bed. He patted the side. "Need a little of that room service over here. I wanna be … tucked in."

  I forced myself not to roll my eyes at that one. "In a minute," I said, grabbing the ice bucket. "I need some ice."

  His face tightened. "Ice?"

&nb
sp; "Yeah. Be right back." I headed for the door.

  "You can't go out looking like that."

  Well, actually that's part of the plan, but … "Oh, right." I grabbed my raincoat and put it back on, then headed out into the hallway just as I heard the elevator ding.

  A young room service waiter, probably around twenty with short dark hair, was carrying an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne in it, headed toward the suite.

  I put up my hand. "Excuse me … "

  "Can I help you?"

  "Yes, and you can help yourself." I pulled a hundred dollar bill out of my pocket. "How 'bout you let me deliver that champagne."

  "You serious?"

  I reached out and shoved the bill in his shirt pocket. "Deal?"

  He held out the bucket. "Knock yourself out."

  I took off my raincoat and handed it to him. "Hold this."

  His dark eyes widened as he saw my outfit. "Uh, we don't allow working girls in this hotel."

  "Do I look like a hooker?" He raised one eyebrow and smiled. "Don't answer that. But I'm not."

  "Stripper?"

  "No!" But thank you for thinking I have the body for it.

  "So, is this some sort of elaborate practical joke?"

  "Something like that." It was clear the kid still didn't believe me. "Look, if I were a prostitute or a stripper I wouldn't be giving you money. It generally works the other way around."

  "Yeah, you've got a point. Sorry." He studied my face for a moment, then his eyes got that look of recognition. "Hey, aren't you Veronica—"

  I put one finger on his lips. "Look, I'm undercover on a story." I pulled out another hundred and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. "You never saw me here."

  "Damn, I need to switch my major to journalism. But yeah, you were never here."

  "Wait at the end of the hall. It'll just take a few minutes."

  "Oh, hold on." He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket. "They have to sign for this. Give them the top copy."

  "Sure."

  He took my raincoat. I set my cell phone to record video, then slid it into my pocket, the lens peeking out. I took the bucket and the room service ticket, headed for the door to the suite, then politely knocked. "Room service," I said, in my bad accent.

  "Just a minute," said the male voice. I heard footsteps moving toward the door, the deadbolt being turned.

  Then the door opened and what I saw knocked the air from my lungs. It was all I could do to keep my jaw from dropping.

  The man wasn't the Senator's husband. But he was someone every American would recognize.

  He was our network’s main anchor, Bill Recker.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  My heart slammed against my chest. Oh my God, he's going to recognize me!

  "Well, come in, young lady," he said. For once the my-eyes-are-up-here thing was working to my advantage, as his were laser locked on my boobs. "Syd, did you order champagne?"

  "No," came the answer from the Senator.

  "Compliments of zee house," I said, as I walked to the table and set the bucket on it.

  "How nice. I didn't know maids delivered room service," he said, tightening the sash on his hotel robe. I noticed the bed sheets were already rumpled and there was a pair of fur-lined handcuffs and an actual whip on the nightstand.

  "Monsieur, we are, how you say, shorthanded," I said, careful not to make eye contact even though mine were distorted by huge glasses. My hands were shaking so I put them behind my back. I took a quick look to the right and saw the Senator, also in a robe, seated at the desk, talking on the phone. She was only a few feet away and thankfully not paying attention to me.

  "Well, I must say, the housekeeping department is certainly looking good."

  It should be noted that Bill Recker has a reputation as a major hound. He's married, but right up there with Roper the Groper, though the silver-haired smooth talker has movie star looks and can charm the skirt off any woman.

  "Thank you, monsieur."

  Recker grabbed the bottle from the bucket, poured two glasses, and handed one to the Senator. I backed up a step hoping my cell phone was getting a decent two-shot. She smiled, took the champagne, reached out, grabbed his crotch through the robe and gave it a squeeze.

  Whoa!

  Meanwhile, I couldn't depend on just the video, because everyone knows those things can be doctored. I pulled out the room service check, which was printed with her name on it, and handed it to Recker. "Please sign."

  "Oh, certainly," he said. He took a pen and signed the ticket.

  But I was not going to give him the top copy. That was mine. His name on her room service check. His fingerprints on it as well.

  Talk about a paper trail.

  I turned to leave when his words stopped me.

  "Wait just a minute, young lady," he said.

  Uh-oh. Busted. Beads of sweat began to blossom on my forehead.

  I turned as he grabbed his wallet from the desk, opened it, pulled out a twenty and handed it to me.

  "Merci," I said, taking the money. I headed for the door. "Have a pleasant evening."

  "Oh, we will," said Recker. "Please thank the manager for the champagne."

  Hmmmm … I was dressed like a hooker and taking money from married men. Do the math.

  I pulled off the top copy of the ticket, careful to handle it by the edges and shoved it in a pocket as I left the room. The room service waiter was leaning against the wall. "That was fast," he said.

  "I told you, five minutes."

  "Yeah, I guess a real hooker would have taken longer."

  "Funny." I finally exhaled as my heart downshifted, then handed him the bottom copy of the check. I took my raincoat back and put it on. "Listen, you guys have security cameras in this place, right?"

  He nodded. "Yeah, but just in the lobby. It's an old hotel. We're not exactly high tech."

  "You think the person manning the security office would enjoy a big tip?"

  He smiled. "He's a student like me. I know he would."

  "Lead on, my young friend."

  Ironically, I now needed a security guy to leak some video. Funny how that works, huh?

  ***

  An hour later I had broadcasting gold in my purse: a time stamped security cam copy of both Bill Recker and the Senator entering the hotel a few minutes apart; a room service slip with her name, his signature and fingerprints on it (in a Ziploc bag); and a great piece of video from my cell phone of the next President of the United States grabbing a network anchor by his Johnson.

  But wait, there's more! (That's my game show host tease.)

  The kid manning the security cameras went back a week and found the same thing on the previous Friday. And the Friday before that. And the one before that. So this was a regular deal with the two.

  I clutched my purse close to my body with one hand as I rode home in a cab.

  But broadcasting gold or not, there were a whole bunch of problems with breaking this story. And as the cab pulled up to my building and I got out, it hit me that I might be making more trouble for myself.

  -First, breaking a story about a Presidential candidate being unfaithful would be huge, but how would my network feel about fingering its main anchor as the man in her life? Would they consider making the relationship public to get rid of an overpaid anchor with slipping ratings?

  -If the network did let me use the story, Recker would no doubt be fired. Not only for the morals clause violation but the bias factor. He'd have no credibility covering the campaign of a woman with whom he'd had an affair. Therefore …

  -If Recker was fired, would I get The Chair now? Would the network pull me off mornings with the ratings off the charts? The current substitute anchor, Jeff Garlen, would be heavily campaigning for the job.

  -And what about Dance Off? Would they use my commitment to prime time as an excuse to not give me The Chair if Recker was immediately fired?

  -Finally, what would happen if Gavin simply killed the story and dumped
me permanently in the doghouse for even suggesting we run it?

  -Worst case scenario: Bill gets fired, they give the job to someone else, I bank fifteen million over three years and then find a nice reporting job with normal hours.

  It was like the math formula from hell. If A then B which equals C. Way too much to think about as I got out of the cab and headed into my building. I was going to need serious help sorting it out. The good thing was that no other reporter had any clue about the story, and the two people involved had no idea I was the person in their hotel room. So I had time. But I also knew that every politician considers himself bulletproof; sooner or later they all screw up. The exclusive had an expiration date, but I had no idea what it was. And it was too risky to just sit on the story. I'd kick myself forever if someone else broke it.

  Right then, though, I was still wired. When a reporter finds a huge story, the adrenaline kicks in at a level that's hard to believe, a rush that courses through your veins and gives you an incredible natural high. It takes a while to come down from the excitement. So I was headed for a little help in the form of a big bottle of wine I had in the fridge as I entered my apartment.

  I tossed my keys on the kitchen table and took off my coat.

  Then I went cold as I realized I was dressed as a French maid.

  Bradley!

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  I totally forgot about him! He was still back at the hotel probably wondering if I got kidnapped when I went out for ice!

  I whipped out my cell, which I had put on vibrate during my clandestine spy mission, and saw he had called four times. I quickly dialed his number. He picked up on the first ring. "Veronica, my God, are you okay?"

  "I'm fine, Bradley. God, I am so, so sorry."

  "I've been worried sick about you. I've been looking all over the hotel for you. What the hell happened?"

  "I know this will sound hard to believe, but I stumbled onto a huge story and I lost track of time."