by Lauren Clark
Namely myself.
The rest of the week flew by without major incident.
After a ‘come to Jesus meeting,’ Alyssa was on her best behavior. Drew relaxed back into his groove. Best of all, the Ask Anything tapings were going smoothly, now that Tim was handling the interviews. All we had to do was get through Friday.
When I got up Friday morning, my own sanity batteries sufficiently recharged, I found one yellow Post-it note patiently waiting for me in the center of the granite countertop in the kitchen.
Funny thing was, there used to be sentences—or at least phrases—on those little sticky-backed squares, followed by, “Love always, Chris,” or, “I miss you,” and, “Can’t wait to see you tonight.”
This morning’s communication consisted of three neatly printed words, right next to a dish of half-eaten egg whites and a glass of tomato juice.
“Can’t do lunch.”
I stared at the letters, trying not to get upset. We’d made the plans, had reservations at that cute new bistro. A mini-date. We needed to spend some time together…doing…something. I ran my fingers through my hair and tugged on the ends, thinking.
So much for that. My promise to be patient and understanding “no matter what” sounded a bit foolish right now. Could he not rearrange an appointment? Was it life or death? Didn’t I deserve more than a Post-it note cancellation?
It was starting to become very apparent—no, obvious—that Chris didn’t think so. And I wondered if anything would change. Like, if we won the lottery, Chris got a big raise, or after a dozen of his high-paying clients signed contracts for ten years, would we ever spend time together again?
I wasn’t so sure.
The Post-it caught my eye again. Now, there was no telling when Chris would be home.
I could call his assistant. Or his cell phone. I could leave him a voicemail.
Or I could leave the house and grab coffee with Candace. Call my daughter and get the update on life at Berkeley. Had she fallen in love with any new boys this week? Gone to the beach with friends? Learned to surf?
Maybe I should head out to the gym or go to work early. I’d get twice as much accomplished. Anything rather than moping around here like a lost puppy.
I laid another Post-it inches from Chris’s. In larger block letters than his, I printed one word. “Fine.”
I stood back and looked at it with satisfaction. There.
I felt better already.
Chapter 11
Most Fridays, producers all over America scrambled for news. We brainstormed and dreamed up spin-offs on health care reform, global warming, and the latest identity theft schemes. Some producers I knew actually prayed for natural disasters (without loss of life). Personally, I preferred to let Mother Nature handle things. It was better that way.
The National Weather Service, however, couldn’t have predicted Friday’s crisis.
The now-infamous “event,” captured live on WSGA’s ten o’clock show, was hands-down, the biggest of the year. Ask anyone. They’d agree.
That night, for one hundred and fifty thousand loyal and unsuspecting WSGA viewers, the fist-to-face connection commanded shock and awe.
For me, the directors, cameramen, and everyone who slogged it out behind the scenes, the TKO was long overdue. Payoff, you might say, for the chaos that erupted most evenings, minutes before airtime.
Elbows on the counter, I chewed the corner of my newly manicured thumbnail, and chided myself. Everything was fine. Like every show before this one, I had gone through the scripts line by line, put the stories in order, timed out segments to the last second.
Sometimes, putting together a newscast was like solving a complicated puzzle. Tonight, though, everything had fallen into place. A big meth bust, a dramatic water rescue, and school budget woes rounded out the A-block.
Joe cued Alyssa and Tim.
Both anchors read their parts, taking turns, with just the right amount of concern. Alyssa pouted and preened her way through each story. Tim was the perfect balance, serious and broad-shouldered, with a jaw chiseled like a sculptor’s creation.
So far, so good.
The first commercials ran without a hitch, I noted with satisfaction. Then, the third spot ran twice in a row, putting us thirty seconds over our budgeted news time.
The Carpet King owners, who paid for the advertisement, would be thrilled, of course. Free publicity. The new kid, however, would probably catch hell for the goof-up.
I scanned the rundown for something to cut. “We’ll trim weather.”
Joe nodded his agreement, his bushy eyebrows furrowed. “Ten seconds.” he cued the anchors. It was time to go back on-air.
The mistake hadn’t been missed in the studio. Even though their mics were off, it was easy to see Alyssa and Tim were miffed at something. Likely, it was the commercial snafu.
Alyssa narrowed her eyes and jerked a finger at the television next to the anchor desk. Tim shook his head. Alyssa, her mouth moving, pointed again, this time with more emphasis.
“Five seconds, people. Let’s get through this .” At the sound of Joe’s sharp reminder, Alyssa and Tim resumed their happy demeanors.
Joe glanced in my direction, pointed to his headphones, raised an eyebrow, then rolled the health and fitness segments. I half-watched the video, now curious what Joe had heard.
“What?” I raised an eyebrow.
“Some lover’s spat over that commercial.” Joe pulled his headphones back, then stroked his wiry beard. “It seems the Carpet King girl has been seeing Tim in her spare time.”
I wasn’t surprised in the least.
“Can’t resist the ladies, that Tim. Drives Alyssa crazy,” Joe added with a shake of his head. “I heard she chased him with a baseball bat, but got his car instead.”
Not what I wanted to hear.
“Tim hasn’t fixed the windshield yet.” Joe chuckled. “Probably shouldn’t bother with the mood she’s in tonight.”
I winced. Alyssa and Tim needed to get through another ten minutes.
Sure enough, after a few humorous sports bloopers, the pair resumed their playful banter.
I exhaled my worries. We made it! Alyssa and Tim had pulled it together. Brilliant job.
Until the Carpet King commercial ran a third time.
Before I could blink, Alyssa’s face faded to ash gray and then flushed scarlet. She stared at the monitor, eyes narrowed into slits, while Tim tugged at his collar with one finger, intently focused on a speck of dust on the anchor desk. Alyssa pursed her collagen-injected lips and jutted her chin.
I’d seen that look before. It wasn’t a good sign. Like the space shuttle countdown gone terribly wrong. T-minus ten, nine, eight…
“She’s gonna blow!” Joe whispered and leaned into his mic, throwing me an apprehensive glance. He pushed one of a million black buttons. “Twenty seconds,” he warned. Only Tim responded with a nervous nod.
The tiny hairs on my arm stood at attention. I swallowed hard and prayed for something, anything. My mind raced with possible options. Divine intervention? A lightning strike? A power surge? Anything to knock out the signal in our entire viewing area.
Then it happened.
We were back on air. Mics open, video cued, we waited. Alyssa, now purple-faced, slammed both hands down on the desk. Tim, poised to read from the teleprompter, jumped at the sound. When he opened his mouth, nothing came out.
As if in slow motion, Alyssa stood up and raised one perfectly creased arm of her ivory linen suit. She molded her shell-pink manicured fingers into a fist. Tim turned and reared back in horror at the look of pure menace on Alyssa’s face.
She cold-cocked him. Blood spurted from Tim’s nose. He fell back like Humpty Dumpty.
We went to commercial.
Chapter 12
I sprang into mommy-mode and ran toward the studio. Five seconds later, Drew met me at the huge double doors, breathing hard. No doubt, he’d witnessed the whole event on the huge plasma screen
in his office.
At six feet tall and one hundred forty-five pounds at best, Drew wasn’t known for flying like Superman toward the scene of the crime—but then again—this wasn’t your usual crisis. With surprising force, Drew yanked the studio doors open and vaulted through, his pale face twisted into contorted control. I could guarantee his lips were barely holding back a fiery volcano of four-letter words.
Alyssa launched into full-scale sobs when she saw us. Her breasts heaved under her suit jacket, which threatened to pop an entire row of buttons. I ran toward her, reached across the desk, and grabbed Alyssa by the shoulders. Her body recoiled under my touch.
She blinked slowly when I bent down to get closer. Tears dangled on her lashes. Her bottom lip trembled like a girl who’d been stood up by her high school prom date. Alyssa looked small and frightened, her skin blotchy, black mascara running down her cheeks in rivulets. A stab of sympathy hit my chest. Beneath all of the makeup and stuck-up airs, Alyssa was just a kid. A kid with some pretty large emotional issues.
Whether or not she realized it now, the right hook she landed on Tim spelled disaster for her career. The fact that the blow was broadcast across our viewing area made the problem two hundred times worse. My mind raced with the possible repercussions. Hate letters? Bad ratings? A lawsuit? All distinct possibilities.
“Crap! Dammit! Come on!” Drew spouted all at once, trying to revive Tim.
From my angle, I could only see part of an olive pant leg and one wing-tip shoe. I let go of Alyssa and stepped back to survey the situation myself.
A closer look revealed most of Tim under the desk, legs sprawled like he’d been in a bar fight. A tiny cut slashed across his nose matched the deep burgundy of the blood smeared across his top lip and mouth.
Drew sat back on his heels, shoulders slumped. If I had to guess, he was probably thinking a full-blown, heroin-induced hallucination would be better than dealing with the fallout from these two.
I caught my breath. My brain hurt from the stress. Tim wasn’t moving. Drew wouldn’t speak.
We can’t let the show end like this. Think, think…
The only sound in the room came from what seemed the twentieth consecutive promo the guys ran to fill time.
We can do better than this. What if…
My mind started racing with options.
I started to pace. Then glanced at Alyssa. Just in time to see her make a grabbing motion at her throat and start to hyperventilate. One hand attached to the desk, Alyssa’s head lolled from side to side. For all of her beauty and practiced sophistication, she now looked no better than a fish flopping on a dry deck, gasping for its last breath.
I can’t let her do this. It’ll only make things worse.
For a split second, I contemplated slapping her cheek. I did the next best thing.
“Calm down, Alyssa! Everything’s fine.” I shouted six inches from her face, like a football coach to a losing team. “ Everything’s fine ,” I repeated.
I yanked her out of her chair, pushed her against the wall, and clapped my hands in front of her face. Once. Twice.
A flicker of recognition connected in the turquoise of Alyssa’s eyes. She inhaled and coughed, then shook her head vigorously from side to side, her blond curls bouncing. With deep, shredded breaths, she pointed to Tim, who still hadn’t come around. Her pink-tipped index finger extended in his direction.
“I’ve killed him,” she whispered in a ragged voice. “He’s…dead.”
Drew jerked his head away from Tim long enough to glare in her direction. The look was enough to freeze water. He mumbled something that sounded a lot like stupid idiot , but I wasn’t about to ask him to repeat it.
A few heads poked through the studio door. Finally.
Drew scrambled to his feet, cell phone buzzing. He snapped it open, slid it into the crook of his neck, and stalked off as he murmured angrily.
Okay. This wasn’t working.
“How about someone get bottled water, a couple of towels, ice, and some band-aids?” I asked. “We need some help.”
A camera guy rushed out the door to get the supplies.
One of the engineers waved an arm to get our attention. “The phones are ringing off the hook. What do you need me to do?”
Everyone’s eyes swiveled to Drew, who had just hung up. Before he could reply, Tim started to stir and moan. The sound sent a chill up my spine. Drew grimaced at the noise. Shut up, Tim! I bit my lip and hoped Drew wouldn’t decide to kick him in the teeth.
“Get these two upstairs to my office!” Drew roared as he stomped around the studio. “Transfer all calls to me. If I’m on the phone, it’ll go to voicemail. That’ll have to be good enough.”
Drew stopped pacing long enough to help Tim get to his feet. Alyssa made her way out the door, wobbling all the way on three-inch heels.
I glanced up at the clock ticking away seconds. It was 10:27. Three minutes left. Joe could run commercials until then, or…
“Drew,” I piped up before I could stop myself. “We need to wrap up the show.” I picked up Alyssa’s earpiece and cradled it in my hand.
He stopped in his tracks. Drew swiveled around and gave me a level look. “Well, what do you suggest? Joe can continue to run commercials, more promos, whatever it takes.”
“Let me handle it,” I said with a surge of determination. “It’ll look better than just to run more commercials and leave viewers hanging.” Chin up, I paused for emphasis. “It’s my show, too. I don’t want to see the newscast fall apart.”
Drew blinked at me, then rubbed his eyes like he was seeing an apparition. All at once, his face cleared. “Right. You’re right. Go ahead,” he said abruptly, and turned on his heel. He disappeared out the door of the studio, letting it click shut behind him.
The reality of what I’d decided caught me when I slipped on a spare earpiece and heard Joe’s voice. “Well, well. You gonna wrap this thing up and call it a night? That takes some guts.”
The prompter scrolled forward to the last story. I snapped the microphone to my jacket, thanking my lucky stars I had worn a tailored blazer instead of a casual top. My hands gripped the desk in anticipation. A flutter of nerves swelled my chest.
Joe chuckled at my reaction. His gravelly voice filled my head. “Relax, Mel. You only need to fill about a minute and a half. Here we go.”
The light on the camera flashed red.
Smile. Deep breath.
“Finally tonight…we leave you with an invitation.”
Pace yourself. Slow down.
“Mark your calendar and make plans now to attend the annual Boys and Girls Clubs of Central Georgia Gala.” Out of the corner of my eye, I watched video of last year’s event fill the screen.
Everything’s fine. One, by one, the lines of the teleprompter floated by.
My hands loosened their grip on the desk. I kept talking. My voice stayed even. Just a few more seconds and the show was finished.
Joe’s voice filled my ear. “Wrap it up, Mel.”
No problem.
“I’m Melissa Moore. Thanks for joining us for WSGA News at Ten. Goodnight.”
Chapter 13
So, I didn’t have on any makeup and probably looked like I hadn’t slept in a week. Getting on set and finishing the newscast had been the right decision.
It mitigated the damage. We didn’t leave the viewers hanging. We didn’t look completely unprofessional…
Still calm, I walked into the control room and scooped up my script. My cell phone had vibrated itself right onto the floor. I snatched it up as everyone else headed for the door. My pulse sped up and slowed down.
“Don’t go anywhere,” someone warned. “Drew’s called a meeting. Fifteen minutes.”
I nodded and flipped open the phone. Eight missed calls, all from Candace. Before my finger found the screen, the phone buzzed again with the intensity of a small earthquake. Candace again. She would keep calling until I answered.
Privacy was paramo
unt, especially in light of what just happened on set. I didn’t want anyone to overhear our conversation. I walked slowly and purposefully out of the room, down the hallway, and answered the phone.
“Hey—”
“ That should have been your top story, Mel!” Candace cut in, assuming her best mock-journalist voice. “Battle of the psycho news anchors! A fight to the finish, no holds barred. We’ll have the full details. Stay turned for WSGA News at Ten.”
I stifled a laugh and shook my head, pausing at the doorway to the back parking lot of the building. With the toe of my shoe, I pushed open the heavy metal door and walked outside.
“Funny,” I deadpanned.
But Candace was right. WSGA News had a well-deserved reputation for serving up a menu of bold, violence-tinged, sometimes bordering on the edge of R-rated stories. Any shooting, car crash, robbery-gone-bad, or twisted sex scandal secured a top spot in the late newscast, provided we could get video and a great sound bite.
I helped with the arm-twisting, string pulling, and calling in favors. Challenging? Yes. Stressful? Definitely. Rewarding? Absolutely. In short, my job was to make sure everything came together in the end. My job, however, did not involve our own employees becoming the story .
Candace coughed. I hadn’t heard a word she’d been saying. Her voice was tinged with suspicion. “Melissa?” I’d missed at least the last five minutes of the conversation.
“Sorry,” I said guiltily.
“Well, what’s so funny…strange, I mean, is that Tim didn’t even try to stop Alyssa.” Candace paused. “What did he expect? Someone to swoop in and save him?”
“I think he was shocked,” I replied, the image of the fight flashing in my mind. “But, Tim’s the one who decided to have a relationship with her. So, the way I see it, no one can save Tim…except Tim.”
I meant it as a joke, but the comment launched Candace full-force into a complete and thorough Dr. Phil analysis.