to defend myself here. “Well, I help people,” I pronounce. “I—fix things. Dig up the scoop, you know? Action news gets action, all that?” I attempt a little laugh. This conversation is getting a little close to the bone.
“I know that,” he replies. “But I’m asking, what’s the scoop on you? Not TV-you. You-you. Franklin says you never talk about friends. Love. You’re all about work.”
“You’ve gotta make choices,” I say slowly, thinking this over. “TV is relentless. Inflexible. You want nine to five? Sell shoes. Someone who doesn’t understand you have to feed the beast—well, they’ll fail. I refuse to fail.”
Stephen nods. “So you sacrificed…”
“Not ‘sacrificed,’” I correct him. “I didn’t really ‘give up.’ I—got.”
“Got what?” Stephen persists. “Some Emmy statues on your bookshelf? That’s all good, of course, but they’re not going to be much comfort in the long run. And, from what I hear,” he says with a smile, “they’re not terribly obliging in the romance department.”
Whoa. I look around for an exit, or at least an exit strategy. I decide, again, on diversion.
“So how did you and Franklin meet?” I ask.
Stephen bursts out laughing. “Good try,” he says, nodding. “You don’t want to talk about it, we won’t. Butyou should know Franklin thinks you’re special. And he worries about you.”
Silence again. A plume of winey steam wafts from the pot as Stephen adds a second cup of burgundy. I stare into my glass, trying to think of something to say. But it’s Stephen who continues, now looking a little sheepish.
“I’m sorry, Charlie,” he apologizes. “I’m too nosy for my own good. I should work for one of those tabloid shows, or something. But I feel like I know you, now, because of Franklin. And since you—TV hotshot and all—are basically a loner, I can’t stop myself from wondering why.” He shrugs. “Just ignore me.”
Good idea. “Maybe I’ll get it right next lifetime,” I reply. Maybe a husband. Maybe kids. Maybe I’ll even pick an occupation where my face doesn’t matter, I promise myself. I hand Stephen the pile of chopped-up greens and pour myself another glass of pinot noir. Time to change the damn subject.
Chapter Five
“H
i, it’s Charlie McNally. I’m away from my office or on the other line right now. Leave a message after the beep, and I’ll call you back.”
Beep. Call received today at 9:01 a.m.
“Ms. McNally, this is the nurse at Metro Cat Hospital. I know you planned to pick Botox up this evening, but we want to keep her a little longer. She’s fine, don’t worry, but we can get her temp down more quickly if she’s here. When she’s fully recovered, we’ll drop her off at your apartment, as usual.”
Poor little Toxie. I ESP her a quick kittie-get-well message, then punch in my code to retrieve the next voice mail. I instantly regret it.
“Charlie,” Angela’s voice rasps through my speakerphone. “Ratings, ratings, ratings! Tick, tick, tick. It’s 9:06. Where are you? What’s your story? Call me.”
There’s an inspiring way to start a workday. I glare at the phone, seething. I can’t imagine anyone more irritating.
“Begone, you have no power here,” I say, pointing dramatically at the receiver and channeling my best Glinda. Unfortunately we’re not in Kansas, the phone does not explode and I know the wicked witch of the newsroom does indeed have power.
I stare at the phone as if it’s a living creature. I wouldn’t put up with this in a relationship. Someone who’s disrespectful. Critical. Demanding. Unappreciative. Someone who tells me I don’t look good enough to be on TV.
I’d have read the signs long ago if it were a guy.
And what would I do? I’d just dump him. Before he dumps me. So why not just handle this job the same way? I can still be married to journalism, sure. But maybe it’s safer to find myself a new little love nest where the
“I know that,” he replies. “But I’m asking, what’s the scoop on you? Not TV-you. You-you. Franklin says you never talk about friends. Love. You’re all about work.”
“You’ve gotta make choices,” I say slowly, thinking this over. “TV is relentless. Inflexible. You want nine to five? Sell shoes. Someone who doesn’t understand you have to feed the beast—well, they’ll fail. I refuse to fail.”
Stephen nods. “So you sacrificed…”
“Not ‘sacrificed,’” I correct him. “I didn’t really ‘give up.’ I—got.”
“Got what?” Stephen persists. “Some Emmy statues on your bookshelf? That’s all good, of course, but they’re not going to be much comfort in the long run. And, from what I hear,” he says with a smile, “they’re not terribly obliging in the romance department.”
Whoa. I look around for an exit, or at least an exit strategy. I decide, again, on diversion.
“So how did you and Franklin meet?” I ask.
Stephen bursts out laughing. “Good try,” he says, nodding. “You don’t want to talk about it, we won’t. Butyou should know Franklin thinks you’re special. And he worries about you.”
Silence again. A plume of winey steam wafts from the pot as Stephen adds a second cup of burgundy. I stare into my glass, trying to think of something to say. But it’s Stephen who continues, now looking a little sheepish.
“I’m sorry, Charlie,” he apologizes. “I’m too nosy for my own good. I should work for one of those tabloid shows, or something. But I feel like I know you, now, because of Franklin. And since you—TV hotshot and all—are basically a loner, I can’t stop myself from wondering why.” He shrugs. “Just ignore me.”
Good idea. “Maybe I’ll get it right next lifetime,” I reply. Maybe a husband. Maybe kids. Maybe I’ll even pick an occupation where my face doesn’t matter, I promise myself. I hand Stephen the pile of chopped-up greens and pour myself another glass of pinot noir. Time to change the damn subject.
Chapter Five
“H
i, it’s Charlie McNally. I’m away from my office or on the other line right now. Leave a message after the beep, and I’ll call you back.”
Beep. Call received today at 9:01 a.m.
“Ms. McNally, this is the nurse at Metro Cat Hospital. I know you planned to pick Botox up this evening, but we want to keep her a little longer. She’s fine, don’t worry, but we can get her temp down more quickly if she’s here. When she’s fully recovered, we’ll drop her off at your apartment, as usual.”
Poor little Toxie. I ESP her a quick kittie-get-well message, then punch in my code to retrieve the next voice mail. I instantly regret it.
“Charlie,” Angela’s voice rasps through my speakerphone. “Ratings, ratings, ratings! Tick, tick, tick. It’s 9:06. Where are you? What’s your story? Call me.”
There’s an inspiring way to start a workday. I glare at the phone, seething. I can’t imagine anyone more irritating.
“Begone, you have no power here,” I say, pointing dramatically at the receiver and channeling my best Glinda. Unfortunately we’re not in Kansas, the phone does not explode and I know the wicked witch of the newsroom does indeed have power.
I stare at the phone as if it’s a living creature. I wouldn’t put up with this in a relationship. Someone who’s disrespectful. Critical. Demanding. Unappreciative. Someone who tells me I don’t look good enough to be on TV.
I’d have read the signs long ago if it were a guy.
And what would I do? I’d just dump him. Before he dumps me. So why not just handle this job the same way? I can still be married to journalism, sure. But maybe it’s safer to find myself a new little love nest where the
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