Natalie felt like she had rapid onset vertigo. The room was spinning so fast she had to grip the table to keep from leaning into Hal. “I’m sorry, sir, but are you saying you want us to compete against one another for the White House job?” she asked, hoping she’d managed to keep the panic out of her voice.
“Yes!” The Chief laughed as if Natalie had asked a hilarious question.
“Jeah!” Ryan punched his fist into the air. “I love games.”
Natalie swallowed hard. Ryan leaned across the table toward her. “I know you’re more experienced with news than me, Nat,” he said, saving her most loathed nickname for this prime moment, “but I got to warn you, I’m a quick learner.”
The Chief nodded. “The fact that the two of you are so different will make it that much more fun.”
Natalie heard the Chief’s words but none of them made any sense, like the way the word fun now seemed to rhyme with hell.
Under the table her phone buzzed. She glanced down.
MATT: And that’s just surprise number one.
Natalie was trying to remember if auto-da-fé was a method of suicide involving throwing herself out a window or setting herself on fire when the doors to the conference room flew open, delivering three What Girls into the room, all wearing their karate-shirt minidresses and carrying red jars.
“Now I have a fun surprise,” the Chief continued, still abusing that word, as the women placed the jars in the middle of the conference table. “We want to bring the people some relief. And you know what people like?”
Natalie studied the jars and saw that they were glass containers filled with red candies in various shapes.
“Candy,” the Chief said as Ryan exclaimed, “Red Hots!”
“Yes.” The Chief beamed. “And red sours and red taffy. People, this is what we need more of on ATN.”
Andrea looked like she might be sick. “Red dye number forty?”
“Titillation. Delight. Relief,” the Chief said, pronouncing each word with the excitement of a child on a sugar high. “Natalie, dig in. Have some fun. Tell me, why do people like candy?”
“Um, it tastes good?” she asked tentatively.
The Chief seemed to like her answer. “Yes. It stimulates the senses. It awakens an excited response. It satisfies a craving for distraction.”
“Candy makes people happy,” Ryan added, helpfully.
“Yes, my boy. And that’s what we need. We need to make our customers feel joy. They’re burned out from all the negativity we’ve been giving them. We must find new ways to generate an excited response.”
“I bet he thinks the Fourth Estate is a vacation house,” Andrea said under her breath.
The Chief looked around the room. “Take this week’s PanAmerican Summit for example. We’ve dedicated too much airtime talking to serious PhDs about melting ice, a depressing future environmental crisis none of us can fix.”
Natalie’s eyes flicked to the wall of TVs where ATN was featuring a panel of twelve pundits over a banner that read, “Friends With Gas: Colombia’s Oil Appeal.” Whatever dull climate change coverage bothered the boss, Natalie had missed it.
“There’s another way to get at that same story. One filled with the kind of excitement and diversion the people crave. Through characters. Through the rich, beautiful people who occupy the White House and the exotic, devious foreigners they work with.”
Andrea was staring a hole in the conference table.
“Let’s begin with Rigo Lystra,” the Chief said. “The rape charges against him are very exciting. They involve celebrity, sex, scandal. And an important question of prejudice. A young man’s future is at stake. So many men can relate to this. How can we know what’s true? If unprovable out-of-nowhere accusations can take him down, no one is safe!”
Natalie and Andrea looked at one another, straining to hold back an eyeroll. Had the Chief missed the fact that Rigo’s accuser had reported a rape immediately? That Rigo had left the country to jet-set off to Bali? Who exactly was stealing his freedom?
Bibb, who had been busy on her iPhone, now placed it on the table in front of Ryan and pointed at a message on the screen.
Ryan glanced down to read and yelped, “This is huge!”
“What’s huge?” the Chief asked.
Ryan pulled out his own iPhone and started typing away feverishly.
Placing her elbows on the table, Bibb rested her chin on her hands girlishly as she said, “Chief, I think we have an exciting development in the Colombia rape story. Ryan, care to explain?”
“I have one of our star reporters from the New York bureau on that,” the Chief said dismissively. “He’s close to learning where this kid is.”
“Sir! I have an exclusive!” Ryan blurted. Then he looked to Bibb and, after she nodded her approval, continued, “According to my source, Venezuela wants to kidnap Rigo and make him stand trial in Caracas. The US Secret Service took him away for safekeeping. He’s at the Colombian embassy on Massachusetts Avenue.”
Natalie felt a pit open in her stomach, remembering the conversation she’d had with the associate producer. She’d been right. Of course it was Secret Service. And now Bibb was feeding Ryan the story! No, this isn’t Bibb’s fault. You could have pursued your instinct but you didn’t. This is on you, she scolded herself.
The Chief looked concerned. “How good is your source, my boy?”
“Solid. White House,” Hal said firmly, looking from the Chief to Ryan, then smiling smugly at Bibb.
Wait. Hal did this?
“And,” Ryan continued excitedly, “I was just invited to play hoops with the White House communications director this week,” Ryan said, winking at the boss. “He used to work for my dad’s last chief of staff. It’s a good connect.”
“This is fantastic, wonderful,” the Chief said, sitting forward. “Ryan, I want you outside that embassy. And keep working those relationships. Bibb, let’s keep Ryan there live till that kid leaves the embassy.”
“Awesome!” Ryan said.
Andrea let out a long sigh. Matt was shaking his head. Natalie felt like she might asphyxiate on frustration. The Chief seemed to be enjoying the tension in the room. Natalie imagined him envisioning Last Reporter Standing: Editorial Meeting as a new, behind-the-scenes show about the newsroom.
“And now, how about Natalie?” Bibb purred. There was a cat-who-has-just-committed-canary-genocide look on her face that confirmed what Natalie had suspected: Bibb had a plan, and Natalie knew it did not involve her own success.
The Chief looked delighted by what he was about to say. “I’d like Natalie on the First Lady’s migraine.”
“Sorry?” She was certain she’d heard that wrong.
The Chief was serious. “I’d like you to dig into the migraine angle. How long has the First Lady had these headaches? Are they real? If so, do they stop her from performing other wifely duties?”
Natalie tensed, hoping that didn’t mean what she thought it meant. She realized she must have been visibly gritting her teeth because Matt gave her big eyes that either said Don’t Fuck This Up or I Need to Pee Real Bad.
“I recognize that headaches are a serious issue and impact many people,” Natalie said, doing all she could to keep from screaming. “But I’m wondering if maybe the medical unit might be better suited to tackle that angle? I bet one of our doctors would have great insight. And I could do something a little more squarely focused on White House policy. Like—”
“Excuse me,” Matt piped up. “Matt Walsh, hi. I’ll be producing Headache At 1600. America’s Royal Pain. Chief, I want to let you know both of us are excited about this assignment and can’t wait to get started.”
Producing me? Natalie heard the words but couldn’t process them.
“You’re a funny one, my boy,” The Chief’s eyes weren’t smiling. “But let’s not make light o
f headaches. Twenty-eight million American women experience migraines. Headache meds are huge advertisers. This is a story that brings it home.”
“The parent company has a big pharma division,” Hal whispered to Natalie, as she leaned away.
Driven to the far corner of her chair and desperation simultaneously, Natalie said, “Why not do boys against girls? Andrea and me versus Ryan and Matt?”
The Chief shook his head. “Out of the question.”
Bibb’s eyes flashed with disapproval. “That kind of talk is inappropriate, Natalie. Gender is not a factor in assignments.” She shook her head. “Besides, as you know, Andrea and Ryan are already accustomed to working together. They are a well-oiled team. I’m sure you and Mike—”
“It’s Matt,” Matt put in.
“—will do very well,” Bibb finished, ignoring him. Something in Bibb’s tone suggested she thought exactly the opposite. Something that kindled Natalie’s competitive spirit. She looked at the Chief, weighing her options. She could say no and get sent back down to general news purgatory. Or she could play the game, get the White House job, and do the work she believed in. Eventually. Candy now, protein later.
“I’m in,” Natalie told the room, with fake enthusiasm. She felt something in her soul contract and burrow into a ball. Might that be your professional integrity? She silenced the voice in her head. “When do we start?”
The Chief was beaming. “Wonderful. It looks like we have our plan. Each night I’ll circulate the VOP. This is only for our internal use. So Ryan and Natalie know where they stand and what they have to do to improve. Sound good?”
Natalie glanced around the table. Bibb was scowling, which seemed like a good sign. Ryan gave her a thumbs-up, which could mean anything. Matt was nodding, engaged. Andrea was looking jaundiced. Hal was staring at Natalie’s legs.
“Arrange it!” the Chief boomed happily. “This is going to be great! Two stories full of intrigue. Two stories that will make you believe rich people’s lives are worse than yours! I’ll see both of you on TV!”
The screen went black.
Bibb turned to Andrea, all business now. “Andrea, you’re going to have to postpone your trip home, I’m afraid.”
“Of course,” Andrea said quietly.
Natalie felt like a knife had been plunged through her own chest. She looked at Andrea from the corner of her eye, holding back the impulse to scream no!
Bibb was gazing adoringly at Ryan who leaned forward to grab a handful of Red Hots. “We’ll get you the best crew we have.”
As Andrea leaned over to gather her things, Natalie heard her whisper, “My money’s on you to kick Ryan’s ass. No one who thinks a filibuster is a sex act should be allowed to cover the White House.”
For a moment Natalie froze, then her heart filled with affection as she realized what Andrea had said. “Thank you.”
“If you can push through their bullshit, you can still do some really spectacular reporting at ATN. It’s hard but it happens.” Andrea paused before adding, “You’ll just have to live up to your name.”
Natalie’s breath caught. “Oh I’m not related to Jessica Savitch. I—”
“Savage,” Andrea interrupted and smiled. “I’m saying, be savage. You got it in you. I can tell.”
She turned and walked toward the door. As Ryan caught up with Andrea, Natalie heard him say something about “making sure the camera crew uses the Caucasian Blur filter on me because it really makes my skin pop.”
Bibb was right behind him. “Good luck, Natalie,” she said with a smile that shared almost no genetic markers with genuine. “Watch your hair.”
As soon as they were gone, Natalie walked over to Matt. “How long did you know this was happening?” she demanded, aware that Hal and the What Girl were staring.
Matt stood and shrugged. “Long enough.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? Whose side are you on?”
“Mine,” he said.
“Natalie, you’re going to do great,” Hal interrupted, crowding into her personal space as the What Girl let out a low snort of laughter.
“Thanks, Hal, but can you give us some privacy,” she snapped, then seeing Hal’s stricken face, regretted it.
The What Girl pulled out her phone and walked out of the room tittering and typing with Hal walking too close behind her.
When they were gone, Matt shook his head. “You’re too wound up. You need to calm down or you’re never going to win this thing.”
“Thanks for the moral support,” Natalie said. “I cannot believe that just happened.”
“It’ll keep happening until you get tips like Ryan’s,” he grumbled as he tapped something out on his phone.
“Oh thanks. And what do you recommend?” She scowled.
“Unless you take up golf or hoops, I suggest you start sleeping with someone in the White House. Adam Majors is single.”
Her mind flashed to an image of Adam Majors in bed, referencing his briefing binder for answers to questions like “Does this feel good?” The next moment she felt a wave of self-loathing for entertaining the thought.
This was Matt’s fault. He was like some kind of gremlin, bent on torturing her.
“Why are you doing this?” Natalie asked.
“I need you to succeed so I can ride your coattails,” Matt said, his tone of voice shifting from ready-for-combat to let’s-try-mediation. “With this merger, my future at Beltway is up in the air. I need to make myself a burrow at ATN. And you need me, so it’s win-win. You can show me how to work the dysfunctional network and I will give you wisdom about how to make DC buzzworthy.”
“Maybe you should be the one sleeping with Adam Majors.”
“You’re focused on all the wrong things,” he went on, ignoring the comment. “There’s a network full of reporters who would kill or die to be in your position. Why don’t you try to make it work?”
“Isn’t that what I’m doing? By agreeing to this charade?” she demanded.
“That’s not enough. You’ve got to step up your game. You can’t afford to continue like this.” He did a sweeping motion up and down her body. “You need new hair. Maybe a spray tan. And get some fitted clothes that show off your body. You do have a body, don’t you?”
Natalie stood agape. Was she really going to take style advice from a man who looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy’s cousin? “You are one to talk. Are you aware pleated pants went out of style in 1992?”
Matt flinched. Was it possible she’d hurt his feelings? Was it possible he had feelings?
He shook his head. “I’m not criticizing you. I’m just trying to help,” he said and walked out the door.
Just trying to help. Everyone was just so helpful. She stared after him, considering her next move.
7
On Taking Liberties
It was 8:45 p.m. and Natalie was at her sad temporary desk, sandwiched uncomfortably between a retaining wall and a garbage can on the outskirts of the newsroom floor. Whoever had replaced the furniture after the Chief’s town hall meeting earlier that day had wedged the tiny aluminum desk into the mix, positioning it so Natalie could barely see the TVs, but offering her an unobstructed view of the What Girls up at the news desk. The vibe up there was like cheerlead squad auditions: No Outsiders Welcome.
Having discovered, too late, that after 7 p.m., ATN was in a veritable food desert—no restaurants nearby, no delivery in under ninety minutes—Natalie had gone through four bags of vending machine pretzels. The growl in her stomach was made worse by the sounds of the What Girls sharing freshly delivered organic salads just feet away.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry we didn’t think to ask if you wanted anything!” one of them had called out when she’d caught Natalie eye-drooling at the food. “Whoops!” they’d tittered, then gone back to looking incredibly busy on their iPhones, meaning
they were probably YikYaking or BackStabbing or some other app she’d never heard of that had nothing to do with news.
That was an hour ago. Now, Natalie watched them giggle as Hal, perched opposite a What Girl with big blue eyes, beseeched her for help with a birthday gift for his sister. “Please try it on,” he said as he held out a piece of lime green fabric that looked alarmingly like a sports bra. “She’ll be so angry if I get it wrong and I swear you’re her size. Just please put it on real quick?”
The Whats seemed unfazed. “Hal, why are you buying your sister a bra?” one teased.
“Wait, do you also want us to try on some lingerie for your mom?” another asked, prompting tittering all around. The scene was troubling in more ways than Natalie wanted to count.
She moved her chair around to block out the Hal Show and get a better view of ATN’s prime-time news show, TalkTalk Live. Nelly Jones, her predecessor at the White House, was on set looking arrestingly beautiful in a dare-to-bare spaghetti strap dress, her golden gams flashing from behind a see-through desk, her once straight amber hair now undulating tresses of champagne blond.
Where is it written, Natalie wondered, that the higher you climb the blonder you get? Or does it work the other way around?
Nelly finished teasing her first hour-long special—Who Hates the Bunny: America’s Assault on Easter—and the show cut to boxes of pundits shouting at one another over live pictures that alternated between the summit dinner now underway at the White House and Ryan McGreavy stationed outside the Colombian embassy. Every time Ryan popped up in his superhero stance—hands on hips, legs just beyond shoulder distance apart, chest jutted forward—Natalie felt a tiny little stab in her heart. He looked born for the part of news hero. All he lacked was the cape flying behind him.
During the six hours since Ryan had broken the story of Rigo’s embassy sanctuary, the other networks had descended on the site at Seventeenth Street, drawing an impressive crowd of protesters—mostly women—now chanting, “Hey hey, ho ho, Crusoe’s rapist has got to go.”
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