The station anchor cut in. “Thanks, India. Now let’s cut away for a moment to take a look at the scene in San Francisco’s financial district, which seems to have been the hardest hit. This is KNSF-TV, reporting live from the streets of San Francisco, which two hours ago experienced a seven Richter scale earthquake…”
The camera moved from the reporter and began panning the streets.
The anchor continued. “What’s been the human toll, India?”
She answered in a voice-over, of the scenes of debris and abandoned cars and buses. Sirens whooped past and in the distance. “So far there have been no reports of fatalities, though it’s a little early. We can all hope. The area hospitals are treating the many injured, some seriously…”
Hardwick turned the volume down. “Who’s the girl? Anybody know?”
The Continuity Director Krista Kellogg spoke up. “Ham and I were just out there. I think she’s just a staff reporter. Just out of journalism school. Stanford, I think. Good hair, speaks well, very poised, bright-eyed, sharp. Think she was briefly a weather girl for a short time not too long ago. At the time we were there she was covering City Hall. The scut work they stick the newbies with. The fact I was from the New York office interested her a whole lot.”
Hardwick steepled well-manicured hands in front of his mouth, still watching the screen. “Pushy?”
“No,” Hamilton Ivorson, the news director, answered. “I kinda got the feeling she was careful to keep low key. Cool. Calculating-like. But the hot-eyed ambition is there. Simmering.”
The station manager, John Kopp, spoke up. “You thinking what I’m thinking Sumner?”
Hardwick turned from the unfolding drama. “What are you thinking, John?”
“That Joanna Barnes is six months pregnant with those twins and we’re going to need an early bird anchor to take her place in a few weeks before she drops her litter on the air, and nobody in their right mind wants to go to work at one o’clock in the morning.”
Hardwick stood. “Except an ambitious West coast kid who’d kill for the chance to get to New York.”
“You got it, Sumner. What do you think, Ham? She’d be your ambitious kid.”
Hamilton Ivorson studied the screen. “When do you want her to start?”
“Can Joanna hold out another month? Give the girl a chance to break in?”
“It might be dicey, but I don’t see why we shouldn’t try. Uh, what’d she say her name was? Did he say India? Krista? You remember?”
Krista Kellogg, frowned, thought. “Yes. It’s India. I know it stuck in my mind because it’s unusual. Last name? Cox, I think.”
Ham Ivorson interrupted. “Wait. No. She said Fox. I’m sure. Yes. Her name’s India Fox.”
“Go get her,” Hardwick said, turning the sound back up.
CHAPTER FOUR
One month later
AMERICAN AIRLINES FLIGHT #1123 banked over the city into the landing pattern at Kennedy airport. India followed the Manhattan skyline, rosy in the setting sun, trying to quell the soaring elation that she was flying into her plans a year ahead of schedule. She’d gotten the job at KNSF-TV, of course—done what was necessary. India Fox always knew what was necessary. No reason to get squeamish. And no reason to think New York would be demonstrably less horny than the Stanford faculty.
The earthquake had been a stroke of luck. And she’d promised Georgie a grope, but he was too bashful to take her up on it. That had surprised her. Why wouldn’t somebody do what they wanted to do so badly? He was even grateful afterward that she’d dragged him out into the streets. He’d gotten some terrific shots, a big fat raise and some better assignments, as she’d predicted. And he could have had a free feel as well. Well, as far as that went she would have lifted her skirt if that’s what S it took to get him out on the streets.
Dumb.
The call from New York hadn’t really surprised her. Her on-the-scene-disaster reporting was a lifetime opportunity. She’d just prayed someone was watching as she rose to the occasion, smooth as silk. The broadcasting gods had aligned and they were watching in New York, which she had barely hoped for, and now she was on her way. No more weather girl, city council crap for her.
The 757 bumped down and India began to laugh. “Move over, Amanpour. India Fox is on her way.”
CHAPTER FIVE
SUMMER HARDWICH SCRIBBLED his signature several times, then handed the papers to his secretary. “Okay Sylvia. Send this India Fox kid in. Give me fifteen minutes with her, then come in and tell me I have an appointment with…oh, think of somebody.”
“Yes, Mr. Hardwick. Should I have anyone show her around?”
“Do it yourself. She’s toured the broadcasting studios with Krista. Just want to make her feel at home up here in exec. That we’re human. These out of town kids think we have three heads.”
“Yes, sir. And you want me to interrupt in fifteen minutes.”
“Yeah. Rescue me.”
The network news vice-president stood when India came in, making his voice hearty. These new recruits were always a bit nervous at their first meeting with the big boss. He took in the expensive, couture-cut suit, the shining hair, the perfect makeup. The perfect legs.
Also that India Fox didn’t look at all nervous.
“Come in, come in, India. Great name. I hope everyone’s been treating you well.”
“Very well, Mr. Hardwick. I feel at home already.”
“Sit down. Sit down. Tell me a little about yourself.” He glanced at his watch.
He began by listening to her with half an ear, then leaned forward and began to watch her carefully as she went into her background—about her childhood years spent in embassies and seats of government around the globe. No, India Fox wasn’t some corn-fed hayseed from the Midwest, dazzled by her first trip to the Big Apple. This was a sophisticated and worldly young woman. And dazzling to look at. He wondered how long she’d be happy working when most of the city was asleep.
No, this young woman had a bigger agenda than that. The ambition glowed around her like a halo.
Sylvia knocked briefly and poked her head in. “Don’t forget you’re to have lunch in twenty minutes with Joe Stockholm at the club, Mr. Hardwick.”
“Put him off, Sylvia. Miss Fox and I aren’t through here yet.” He turned to India. “Are you free for lunch? We can continue our discussion over a bite and glass of wine. I’d like to hear more of your thoughts on the sub-continent’s political turmoil.”
“If you’ll give me a minute to make a call, I’d be delighted.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean for you to cancel something.”
“It isn’t a problem. I was going to see…an old school friend, but we can do that any time.”
When she smiled at him serenely it occurred to Hardwick that she wasn’t going to make the call in front of him. So it was a male “friend” who had to be pacified.
“Go along with Sylvia. She’ll show you an empty office. I’ll see you in ten minutes. Phone the club, Sylvia, and get the table by the big windows.”
Her face was expressionless. “Right away, Mr. Hardwick.”
As she followed Sylvia out the door India felt excitement rising in her chest. She pushed it down. Fifteen minutes into her first meeting with the network president and she was off to lunch with him. God, how lucky was that! The early morning anchor bit receded into the distance. Oh, she’d put in her time there like a good, loyal employee, but, if she played it just right, she had the ear of the big boss. Her chips were falling neatly and waaaay ahead of schedule. When she was first offered the job, she’d guessed she’d be talking to the night owls and early birds for a year. Could she shorten that to six months? Maybe less if certain things went her way.
Sylvia opened the door to a small, unused office and left her.
India pulled out her phone and tapped in a number. When it didn’t answer, she left a message. “DeWitt? Can’t make it to lunch today. Had a big, lucky thing come up. Will explain when I see you.
I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Kiss, kiss, ‘bye.”
She pulled out her compact, touched up her nose and slicked lipstick over her mouth. Before she put the mirror away, she winked at her reflection. “‘Political turmoil in the sub-continent,’ my ass.”
CHAPTER SIX
IF SUMMER HARDWICK had thought he’d impress India by taking her to the Harvard Club, he was wrong. He discovered she’d been there many times.
“Well, back then females were only allowed in the dining room on Wednesdays. When we were in town, my father would bring me.” She surveyed the dark wood, overstuffed leather chairs. “It hasn’t changed a bit. Even smells the same. Leather and cigars.”
It wasn’t lost on Sumner that her father had graduated only ten years before he had. Being a father figure to India Fox hadn’t occurred to him.
When they were seated, he said, “The lobster pasta is excellent, or the lamb chops.”
India studied the menu. “Oh, they still have the Maryland crab cakes. I used to love those.”
“Good. I’ll have that, too. A bottle of the Viognier suit you?”
“Perfect.” After the waiter had gone, India rested her chin in her hands. “So you went to Harvard. Did you study Journalism?”
He felt faintly disappointed at her question. “You giving me the ‘what was your major’ routine?”
But her laugh made up for that. “God. Is that what it sounded like? Actually no. I wanted to know if I had the background for what it takes to get your job.”
“You want my job?”
She grinned. “Not a chance. Not yet, anyway. You’re safe. I want to be a reporter. Go abroad. I have great language skills for the most miserable parts of the world.”
He raised an eyebrow. “And they are?”
“I spoke Hindi before I was three. I was born in New Delhi, had native amahs until I was five. As my father’s postings changed, I learned Farsi, Iraqi Arabic, well, Beirut Arabic as well. French in Morocco. I picked up Italian and German later in school in Switzerland.”
“That’s impressive. No Spanish?”
“I get along. So, you see, I’d have to brush up a bit on some of them, depending where I was sent. Some of those languages I have aren’t the classical, literary vocabularies. I picked up the idioms with the amahs and nannies in the embassies. Bargained with merchants in the bazaars. But I don’t consider that a drawback. I can talk to the people in the streets. And when you learn a language as a child, it’s pretty much hard-wired for life. It’s one of my biggest assets.”
He picked up his glass. “You have a lot of assets, India Fox,”
Her full lashes lowered modestly.
When the waiter had poured the last of the wine, her watch said two-fifteen.
Their conversation had turned on a variety of subjects, from theatre to the latest news.
Sumner Hardwick gazed across the table, clearly enchanted with this new hire. He cleared his throat. “Would you like to go somewhere else?”
India didn’t answer right away. Then she said, “Where?”
His voice was rough. “The network keeps an apartment over on Park.”
“I see.” She was quiet for a moment. “Sumner, No. You’re a charming and attractive man. But it wouldn’t be a good career move for me to sleep with you.”
He studied her for a moment, a half-smile hovering around his mouth. “Maybe it would be.”
“No. Not in the long run. And you see, that’s what I always think of.”
“You’re very direct.”
“I find it saves a lot of time.” She leaned to pick up her handbag from the floor, then looked up and smiled. “I’ll probably always wonder if I just made a mistake.”
Sumner laughed and stretched his hand across the table. “So will I. But you’re probably right. No hard feelings—and I’ve enjoyed these past two hours tremendously.”
She took his hand. “I will tell you I came very close to ‘yes.’ ”
He chuckled. “India Fox, you are not what I expected, I’ll tell you that.” His hand rested in the small of her back as they made their way out of the dining room.
***
SHE HAD DINNER with DeWitt Hemmings, a bond trader she’d gone out with a few times at Stanford. He was a New Yorker—extravagantly educated, pretty, Hugo Boss stylish, and didn’t interest her much, but he knew a lot of people. People can pop up unexpectedly and be useful. Never hurt to keep up old college ties. He had been understanding about lunch. New Yorkers pretty much knew about the vagaries of luck.
Later that night, as she brushed her teeth and washed her face getting ready for bed, she told herself, “I know I was right in turning Hardwick down. I’m not squeamish, but my instincts are good. That invitation was smooth. As silk. Sumner Hardwick has bedded a few newbie female reporters in his time and I wanted him to remember me, not as the latest tumble, but the one who said…not now. And with the skills to make it big. I am the different one. I’ll use whatever I’ve got when I need to.” She reached for her jar of night cream. “Today, I didn’t need to.”
She hummed as she massaged the La Prairie Caviar over her face, a ritual she’d kept to no matter where she was—sailing, on safari, in a base camp hiking Mt. Kilimanjaro, skiing in Chamonix. Her face would get her places others couldn’t go. Her other attributes would get her to more.
Now, get to bed, sweetie. This will be the last late time beddie-bye for you for a while. Tomorrow I’ll be talking to the nation’s night people or the early, early birds. With some breaks, not for long. And I’ve already had my third big lucky chance ahead of schedule: my heavy-breathing escapades with the Dean, the earthquake, and Harvard Club crab cakes with the boss.
After she brushed her teeth she looked in the sink mirror. “Do I have to start over now on three new bits of luck? What’s the rule on that?”
India’s slumber was untroubled by anxieties about her new job. Her plans had been carefully made, things had fallen neatly into place ahead of schedule. She would be ready for the next stroke of luck. Nobody said three was all you got.
CHAPTER SEVEN
December 2010
THE YEAR BEFORE the network had moved the earliest news programming to four a.m. They and the other New York stations had found the earlier hour wasn’t just for insomniacs. Other cities were also finding exciting and growing ad revenues for the earlier hour. Late shift workers were grateful, along with suburban commuters, the parents of fussy or nursing new babies, and the occasional late night clubber. The courted demographic from thirty-five and under was higher in the early hours than any other time of day. And, they were less likely to be online. Brushing their teeth for bedtime or putting their pants on to get to a commuter train, or pacing with a squalling or suckling infant. It was a truism in the business that once a television set was turned on in the morning, it was likely to remain on that station the rest of the day.
One of the first things that occurred to India as she began her day in the dark was, “Am I talking to people just ending their day or just beginning?” God forbid she would set their teeth on edge being perky and gabby. She would be calm and knowledgeable, start the day gently, low key.
Dewitt Hemmings complained, “My God, India. You have no social life. You get up at one in the morning, when other people are just beginning to have the real fun.”
She’d smiled. “It won’t be for long, Dewey. And I’m new to the city. It isn’t if my dance card was all that full.”
“I’d fill it up, if you’d let me.”
And that was another advantage. It was nice to have an occasional dinner, and get all gowned-up for a look-in at some big fancy charity fund-raiser with the handsome scion of a Wall Streeter. But it was convenient to have an excuse to leave early without a total brush-off with DeWitt. That was what he was. Convenient.
After nearly a year she was beginning to be recognized. The station had made a small effort to herald in the new morning anchor when she’d started out. Being spectacular to look
at had enlarged on that effort. India was even beginning to get some actual fans from the wee-hour milieu. A few proposals that she assumed were from the males winding up an alcohol-laced round of the late bars.
India had found an apartment in a newish building on Roosevelt Island, that small needle of land in the East River, directly under the Queensboro Bridge. The island had access to the city by a cable tramway, but the network had been generous and had a car pick her up and take her home because of her idiosyncratic hours. At one o’clock in the morning it was a welcome perk. She got to the station at one forty-five, went on at four, signed off at seven, then planned the next day’s broadcast, looking at the news stories and trends around the world.
But today, India tripped along Fifth Avenue with the rest of the Christmas shoppers ogling festive holiday window displays. She buried her nose in a mink muffler against the stiff icy breeze that swept snow flurries up the fabled street. Her working day was over at ten a.m., leaving her a full day of Christmas shopping. Her father was now with a think tank in Washington. It would be the first time she wouldn’t be able to go home for Christmas, which made her a little sad, but she brushed the sentiment off. There would be lots of times now when she’d be far, far from her Mummy and Daddy’s hearth over the holidays. She hoped sooner, rather than later. She was beginning to feel restless with the early morning gig.
She had run into Sumner as she left the building. He’d caught her sleeve and moved her out of the traffic going in and out of the big revolving glass doors.
“India, I’d hoped to see you before you left for the day. There are some things I’d like to talk to you about. Well, tomorrow will do. Make time, will you, after your broadcast. Just come up. I’ll let Sylvia know you’re coming.” Then he hurried to the curb where his chauffer stood by the open door of a big black Mercedes.
India waved then turned to hurry off to her Christmas shopping. What’s that all about? I don’t see him all that often, but he always has a few words to say. Nice, complimentary things. He always notices what I have on because he always looks me over pretty carefully. I’ve had lunch several times when they’d been with the same group at the table. But not another like the Harvard Club thing. Which is good, I suppose. I’m beginning to daydream if he’d be good in bed, which is another way of saying I’m either not getting laid enough or I’m getting impatient to get on to greater things. He wants to see me tomorrow. Maybe the one thing will take care of the other.
I Am India Fox Page 2