The Fall Girl

by T. B. Markinson

  “Nope. You hungry?”

  “I am, but before we go, I need to do something.”

  Her face scrunched. “Everything okay?”

  I approached Cora and pulled her into a hug. She resisted momentarily and then eased into my arms.

  “You’re going to make me cry,” she mumbled into my shoulder.

  “It might make you feel better.”

  “It won’t do wonders for my makeup.” She held on tighter.

  I laughed. “That’s the least of our concerns.”

  “What am I going to do?” Her shoulders shook.

  “What you always tell me to do.” I stroked her hair. “Take it one day at a time.”

  She laughed somewhat into my shoulder. “You’ve been holding onto that one for a long time.”

  I pulled away and cupped each of her cheeks with my hands. “Maybe, but it works. You’ll get through this. We’ll get through this.” I snatched a tissue from her desk and cleaned the mascara smears. “Let’s get out of here before the employees realize you have a heart. That would be bad for business.”

  She chuckled. “I’d have to have a heart attack to prove that.”

  “Do you think you could arrange that on camera? The media coverage could boost MDD.”

  “Why do I ever confide in you?”

  “I wouldn’t if I were you.” I tapped the side of my head. “All the drugs and booze have scrambled my brains.”

  “Is that your excuse for wanting to hire Darrell?”

  I staggered back a step. “How in the world?”

  “We’re in the media biz. Trying to keep a secret is about as effective as shoving a birth control pill in your vagina instead of swallowing it.”

  “That image is appalling. Do I get a last meal before you fire me?”

  “Only because I’m hungry and no one else is banging down my door to be here for me.” She hooked her arm through mine, and we made our way to the elevator. “I may even let you have dessert before I lop off your head.”

  ***

  Cora’s hotel suite overlooked Central Park. The remaining remnants of daylight gave me a glimpse of the park where I’d run, which seemed like a lifetime ago. I actually had to pause to think how many years had passed since I was a resident of this vibrant, albeit soul-crushing, place.

  Two years.

  Lights along the Manhattan skyline slowly flickered to life, the sky tingeing a soft shade of purple.

  Cora swept into the room in jeans and a crimson cashmere sweater. “You always were a thinker.”

  “Hard to believe I used to live in the city.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  “Sometimes.” I turned around slowly, my eyes soaking in orange, yellow, and scarlet accents. Cora sat on a massive off-white half-circular couch with a round metal coffee table in the middle. “Not sure I could come back, though.”

  “I gave up hope when you asked Claire to marry you.”

  Unsure about what to say, considering she was recently separated from her husband, I opted for, “Shall we order pizza?”

  “Already did.”

  “Efficient as ever, even when…”

  “My life is falling apart. No need to tap dance around it.”

  I took a seat on the couch. “How’s Sly taking it?”

  Cora twirled a gold bangle, which would make Ivanka Trump jealous, around her wrist. “We haven’t told him yet. He’s away at school.” She waved a hand, capitulating it was a weak excuse.

  “Do you think you can keep the”—I struggled to find the correct word and settled on—“situation private?”

  “Not a chance. Sly will be home this weekend, and Silas and I plan to break the news. Prepare him for the onslaught.”

  “And the cover story is irreconcilable differences?”

  She looked out the window for many moments. “I’ve been thinking about that since we talked. If Janie and her source know, how many others do, too?”

  I remained mum.

  “It wouldn’t look good if I’m caught with my pants down.”

  “Not after the Fancy Pants story.”

  She pulled a leg underneath her body and cradled a pillow. “Do you think I should confess? Would that make it better, or will I still be condemned by the public?”

  I inhaled deeply. “It’s impossible to predict how it’ll be perceived. I think we can defend ourselves with the truth. You aren’t a politician who’s been preaching to your masses about staying faithful.”

  She faced me. “There’s a but coming.”

  “There’s always a but, isn’t there? Like it or not, you and I, as owners of MDD, are public figures. We hobnob with the likes of Jack Humphrey. Dine with politicians. Go on media blitzes. We can’t escape public scrutiny.”

  “I’ll be crucified on Twitter. A woman who committed adultery—”

  “There’s a double standard for sure. I’ve been doing some research since our meeting. Close to ten thousand times per day, women on Twitter are called either sluts or whores. Each day.”

  “The downside of free speech.”

  “It’s a bitch, isn’t it? Free speech is vital to our business, and yet, it can also destroy—”

  “Me,” she whispered.

  I’d been thinking of Mean Heather’s victims but changed my focus. “Only if you let it. Do you want to end up like me?”

  Her face screwed upward, confused.

  “I lived with a lie—lies, for years. It nearly killed me. You of all people know.”

  Cora nodded, blinking tears away. “You haven’t asked me why.”

  “Why what?”

  “Why I cheated.”

  “It’s not my business. Or anyone else’s.”

  Her eyes laser locked on mine, and I understood completely. Soon, everyone would be postulating about the why. Every aspect of Cora’s life would be poked and prodded like a corpse on a medical examiner’s table.

  “Of course, if I did confess, we could spin it. A real-life test case to show how the Twittersphere devours women.”

  “Would you really want to put yourself out there like some kind of sacrificial lamb?”

  I couldn’t decipher from her steely-eyed stare if she was considering or not. My newspaper sense said no. Cora was strong, but she wasn’t stupid.

  The hotel phone rang, and Cora gestured for me to answer it. I made arrangements for a staff member to deliver the pizza, while Cora slipped into the bathroom to reapply her war paint. Even in the privacy of a hotel suite with her closest friend, she couldn’t let go. Not completely. I worried for the first time if the resilient and defiant Cora Matthews would be able to hold up for what was to come.

  ***

  Hours later, Cora finally broached the Darrell issue by pulling printed news articles out of her workbag.

  I skimmed them, already aware of their content. The Wall Street Journal was demanding shorter stories by their writers and cutting its Greater New York section. If that wasn’t enough, they were encouraging employees to accept buyouts and announced layoffs loomed in the not too distant future. The New York Times newsroom would suffer cuts as well and was considering scrapping their own metro coverage. The New York Observer was ditching its print edition and going completely digital. Facebook and Google were swamped with accusations of spreading fake news, filter bubbles, and contributing to the downfall of true journalism after the surprising outcome of the 2016 presidential election.

  I set the pile to the side, preparing for battle.

  She tapped the papers with a slender finger. “And you think now’s the best time to hire Darrell?”

  “Legitimate journalism can’t fall to the wayside.”

  “And profits?” She waved her spoon after taking a bite of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream.

  I scooped out a bite from the carton. “Will have to come from other sources. There has to be a way to balance it.”

  Her jaw dropped. “JJ! The cr
own jewels in the newspaper business are admitting defeat, retreating, and licking wounds. Our site is swamped with useless stories about celebrities, cat photo contests, and other drivel. And you’re proposing we branch out by doing actual journalism for the public good? Who do you think owns Matthews Daily Dish? Jeff Bezos?”

  I waved exaggeratingly. “Don’t be silly. He owns The Washington Post.”

  There was a sparkle in her eye I found encouraging in spite of her combative voice and the flourishing of her spoon as if she wanted to remove my brains one scoopful at a time.

  “It’ll fail,” she said in a voice that sounded more interested than not.

  I licked frozen cookie dough off my spoon. “In all likelihood, it won’t be the bread and butter of MDD.”

  “More like the iceberg that took out the Titanic.”

  “I’m willing to go down with the ship.”

  “With Darrell Fucking Miller? He drove Mile High into the ground.”

  “True. But he was going through a bad time. He’s changed over the last year or so. Besides, can you think of a better option? He hates anything that stinks of sensationalism. He’ll give us credibility, not to mention all of his contacts.”

  “You still aren’t selling me.”

  I leaned on my forearms. “We want to be a different online media company. A legitimate news source, in addition to the other stuff. To accomplish that, we need to include news, especially local news.”

  “From all fifty states?”

  “That’s the goal.”

  She rubbed her forehead. “Let’s put that issue aside for now. Why Darrell?”

  “He’s cheap. No one else in the business will hire him.”

  She stopped mid-bite. “You really need to work on your delivery.”

  “I’m not talking to a board of directors. You know me. You know why I got into journalism. For the same reasons you did. Is Darrell a pain in the ass? Yes. Is he stubborn? Most definitely. Is he a dinosaur of print media? Most assuredly. Hey, maybe we can call his section ‘Dinosaur News’ and dress him up as Fred Flintstone. Could be the right gimmick.”

  She rolled her eyes. “What does Claire think?”

  “She’s worried about money, although I think she’s relieved Darrell has a new project to throw himself into now that Ian is back in school. She’s been concerned about his psyche. He’s never had so much free time on his hands. When Claire came home the other day, Darrell and Ian were painting our house.”

  “Inside or outside?”

  “Outside, but the upstairs needs a fresh coat. Maybe I can slip that into conversation.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Why doesn’t he paint his own house?”

  “He already did.”

  “Didn’t he think of asking you two first?”

  “Claire had mentioned the house needed a new coat, but we couldn’t afford it. He took it upon himself to do it.” I paused, “He’s actually doing a nice job.”

  “You lead such a strange life. You practically live with the man you fired. Now you want to hire him.” Her voice was operatic. Cora helped herself to another massive bite of Ben & Jerry’s, all the while soaking in the glorious lights of Manhattan with a look of sadness. “You know this means you’ll have to slum it with the likes of Janie to keep feeding your pet project.”

  I straightened in my chair. “I have an idea about that.”

  Intrigued, Cora stabbed the ice cream dead center in the tub, leaving her spoon standing straight up. “Do you care to share?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Two weeks later, Darrell tiptoed behind me and Avery through the maze of glass offices, as if afraid making the slightest sound would cause everything to shatter.

  “Here ya go. You have the luxury of not having glass walls.” I tapped the white barrier.

  Avery, per my request, had appropriated an office from a closet next to the staff lounge to become the hub of the local news with Darrell as the head and, at the moment, the only full-time employee in the department. “Anything you need, just ask Avery and she’ll get it for you. George and Tara will be by later to see how they can help.”

  “Cora is waiting for you in your office.” Avery avoided my eyes instead of staring me down like usual. I wanted to make more of a connection with her, but breaking down the young woman’s barriers was proving to be difficult.

  “Thank you, Avery.” I patted Darrell on the back. “Welcome aboard, old man.”

  He practically shoved me out of his domain. I hadn’t seen that much spark in months. Or maybe he thought he’d suffocate with the two of us in such a small space.

  “Good morning.” Cora stood in my office.

  I sucked in a mouthful of air and released slowly. “You’re here in the flesh. I was expecting to see you on the monitor.” I pointed to the screen, which was shrouded in blackness.

  “It seemed appropriate to be here on Darrell’s first day.” Her smile had bite.

  “Ah, you want to witness firsthand the beginning of the end.”

  “When you talk like that I realize I was a fool to give in. You took advantage of me when I was at a weak point.” She eased into my seat behind the desk, a master of owning the room.

  “I remember a time when you didn’t mind when I took advantage of you.”

  “Please. I always had the upper hand when we dated.”

  “Can I get you a cup of coffee?” I was stalling for time.

  “No need. Avery sent someone.”

  “Shall I ask Darrell to join us?”

  “I’d rather eat my own eyeball.” Her smile didn’t diminish. Not a good sign.

  I sat in the chair usually reserved for visitors. “Cut to the chase.”

  “Is the suspense killing you?”

  Avery appeared with two Starbucks cups. I took a much-needed sip of my Chile Mocha, a new obsession she had somehow unearthed without me sharing that detail with her. Avery left without speaking.

  “Hal’s ready to cut the deal.”

  Laugher shook my body. “And you arrived on the day Darrell started to tell me it was time to sell my soul to Hollywood. You’ve always had a flare for timing.”

  Cora reciprocated with a fuck you smile, oddly bolstering my nerves. Was Cora the no-holds-barred mogul back in top form?

  That got me thinking. “Tell me the real reason why you’re here.”

  ***

  It was nearing midnight, and try as I might, sleep eluded me. I kissed Claire on the forehead. She stirred but didn’t wake. I slipped downstairs into the kitchen. There was an open bottle of red wine on the counter. A cheap bottle I’d picked up on the way home. The idea had been to ply her with wine to ease the blow of my confession. Instead, after getting the kids to bed, she swilled one glass of “Mommy juice,” as Ian liked to call it, and went to bed.

  The bottle was recorked so it wouldn’t go bad, but a partially empty bottle was always weird for me. Back in college, when I started a drink, I had to finish it, whether it be a glass or bottle. Leaving a restaurant before draining my glass was unthinkable. To this day, I couldn’t understand people who left beer in their glass. Even the backwash. How could they?

  As absurd as it sounded, I took it as an insult. To me. To the booze. To my addiction.

  I turned my attention back to the bottle. Could I ease the cork out and take a whiff? Wine wasn’t my go-to, but would one sniff help me settle my mind and go to sleep? Or plunge me off the cliff of no return?

  There was only one way to find out.

  ***

  “Couldn’t sleep?” Claire asked.

  I whipped around in my seat on the back patio, cowering like a puppy who’d just peed on the rug. “Uh, no.”

  She pulled her thick robe tighter. “Aren’t you freezing?”

  I shrugged.

  “What’s with the Walter White impression?”

  “Huh?”

  “I saw you lighting matches—like the scene after he fi
nds out he has cancer.”

  I chuckled. “Oh, that. I can’t light my cigarette.” I held up a box of matches. “I hope this brand is never included in survival kits. Worthless.”

  She took it from me and lit a match with the first strike. I inhaled on my cigarette, sucking deep.

  Claire plopped down in the chair next to me and eyed me cautiously. “Something on your mind?”

  “Many things.”

  “Regretting hiring Darrell?”

  I shook my head. “It’s not that.”

  “Money?”

  “That’s always on my mind.” I took another drag.

  “Craving a drink?”

  I released a plume of smoke, watching it circle upward. “I…”

  She lit her own, and for several moments, our intermingled billows of smoke swirled toward the heavens.

  “I heard through the grapevine that Hal’s in town. He was interviewed by Brenda’s paper.” Claire continued to gaze at the stars.

  “I heard that as well.”

  “Did you sign with him?”

  “Still negotiating, but the concept has changed.”

  Claire slowly brought her eyes to mine. “How?”

  “He no longer wants to make a movie. It’s not a guaranteed moneymaker in today’s market.”

  “Then what’s there to negotiate?”

  “A TV show.” I stubbed out my cigarette in a crack of the flagstone patio and set the butt on the edge of a rock retaining wall to throw away later.

  Claire arched her eyebrows.

  “Think Tish Reynolds.”

  “A morning talk show?” Her voice was loud and annoyed.

  “Okay, that might not be the best example. More like Oprah, focusing on people who’ve made mistakes and want to discuss them—”

  She let out a bark of laughter. “With the tainted Miracle Girl.”

  “Hal phrased it differently, but I think your description strips away the bullshit.”

  “Are you going to do it?”

  I stood and stretched my arms over my head, eyeing the silhouette of our house tucked into a grove of trees. Overhead, countless stars shone, only visible outside city limits. The air was fresh, invigorating. “I like living here. Ian loves it. You love it. It feels like the first home I’ve had since moving for college.” I about-faced. “I enjoy being part of MDD. Journalism is in my blood. I want to keep everything I have. In order to do that, I have to make some compromises.” I shrugged.