Morning Glory Page 5

  Colleen rolled her eyes, exasperated. “Missing McVee,” she said. “Shocker.”

  Lenny jumped in, “McVee doesn’t always come to these.”

  The hell he doesn’t. “Punch in, punch out” was now permanently off the plate for my anchors. I turned to one of the interns sitting behind me and gave her a sweet smile. “Tell Paul we need him, please.” And if he dared to make some kind of pervy crack about her shoes, I’d have his head.

  “Okay then,” I said. “Hi, guys. I’m Becky Fuller. So …” I tapped the edge of my folder against the table. “Let’s just dive in.”

  And dive in they did. For the next few minutes, it seemed like I was being besieged from all sides by story ideas, scheduling crises, inane queries, and every bit of demographical indecision known to mankind.

  “Tomorrow, Rocco di Spirito wants to make lasagna,” said one producer.

  “Great,” I said.

  “I told him we did that last week with the Barefoot Contessa, but he’s insisting. What do I do?”

  Oh. Not so great.

  Lisa, whom I recognized as the entertainment reporter, piped up, “For next week, I want to do a piece on juice cleanses—all the celebs are doing them and they have amazing powers of rejuvenization.”

  “Rejuv—”

  “My idea,” she barreled on, “is that I get a juice cleanse and then we can, like, measure my toxins.”

  Her toxins?

  “For the psychic pet interview,” another producer asked, “the living room set or on stools? And do you want a parakeet or an iguana?”

  “ABC says we can’t have Eva Longoria until three weeks after Good Morning America gets her. What do we do?” asked a third.

  A fourth spoke up. “You think you’ve got problems? They’re only offering us the third lead of the Patrick Dempsey movie. Do we even want him?”

  “Look,” said a fifth, fed up with the trials of dealing with celebs and their demands. “I’ve got a real story. A great story out of Tampa about a retirement account scam. Great victims, great visuals, but we’ve gotta move quick, since they’re dropping like flies. Should we send a team or use local talent?”

  “A team!” said a sixth producer. “When the sound mixer in the control room is on the fritz again? It’s going to cost at least ten grand to fix it, and I have no idea where we’re supposed to get that money, unless it’s from the news budget.”

  At this point, Ernie Appleby, the Daybreak weatherman, pulled two giant metal weather vanes out from under the table. One was topped with a rooster, the other with a horse. “I’d like to do a feature on weather vanes. They are fascinating. Like, did you know the word ‘vane’ is from the Old English ‘fana,’ which means ‘weathercock’?”

  That shut everyone up for a moment. Except for the fourth producer, who snickered. We were all frozen by the sight of Ernie’s weathercocks.

  And then another producer meekly raised her hand. “For that piece on baby food,” she asked, “do you want an actual baby? And if so: White? Black? Hispanic? Asian? Brown-haired, blond-haired? Teeth? No teeth?”

  They all stared at me, expecting answers. And as the silence stretched on, Colleen rolled her eyes at Lenny. Paul McVee chose that moment to make his entrance.

  He leaned casually against the door frame. “Ah, here we all are, getting together to figure out how to go about making the worst show on television even more pathetic. That I certainly wouldn’t want to miss.” He glared down his nose at me and said in a voice of pure derision, “Now, what do you want?”

  They all looked at Paul, then back to me. They all thought I was a loser, from Paul and Colleen all the way down to the intern taking notes at my back.

  They hadn’t seen anything yet.

  I took a deep breath and turned to the first producer. “Tell Rocco,” I said, “that if he insists on lasagna, he’ll be bumped.”

  I focused on Lisa. “ ‘Toxins’ can’t be ‘measured.’ And the word is ‘rejuvenation.’ ”

  I swiveled to face the second producer. “Living room. Parakeet.”

  To the third: “Tell Longoria’s people she can’t plug her next movie unless we get her within a week of GMA.”

  To the fourth: “I don’t want the third lead, I want Dempsey. Tell his people if they’ll do it we’ll run him in the first hour and let him talk about recycling or endangered falcons or whatever it is his thing is.”

  “Ernie,” I said to the weatherman. “Weather vanes? Are you kidding me? Come on.”

  “The Tampa story sounds great,” I said to the fifth, “but we’re going to have to use local talent. Because”—I looked at the sixth—“we have to get that sound board fixed. Look for the ten grand in the budget. I noticed the hair and makeup number is way too high.” I glanced at Colleen. “You can share your hair person with Lisa on her days.”

  Colleen gasped, horrified by the notion.

  I tapped my pen against my chin. “Let’s see, did I forget anything? Right. Asian baby, no teeth. And let’s do lesbian parents if we can.”

  The producer jotted that down. Everyone who wasn’t writing furiously was staring at me, mouth agape. But I wasn’t done yet. Not by a long shot.

  I nodded to Paul McVee. “Oh, and Paul? You’re fired.”

  6

  Paul began sputtering.

  “FI-RED,” I repeated. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something unexpected flash across Colleen’s face. Shock, yes, but also … was that respect? Or was I just misreading her ability to work around the Botox?

  I picked up my coffee cup and took a sip as the ex-anchor of IBS’s Daybreak exited stage left. I heard the door shut—slam, actually. I heard a whole lot of deafening silence as every other employee of Daybreak sat in utter astonishment. And then, even more astonishing, I heard someone start to clap. And then a few more people joined in.

  I gave Lenny a tiny, smug smile over the rim of my mug, and hoped no one noticed that the knuckles on my hand had gone corpse-white.

  We tried to continue the meeting after that, but a funny thing happened—no one had any more questions. Eventually, I gave up and dismissed them, and everyone practically bolted from the room. After all, there were emails to send and phone calls to make and the juiciest bit of gossip IBS had seen in months to share: The new executive producer of Daybreak had fired the anchor on her very first day.

  Had I heard the news, I might not have believed it myself.

  Even Colleen vanished, possibly to contact her agent and get him to double-check her contract. Colleen didn’t worry me, though. She was prickly, but she was solid—possibly the only solid aspect of the entire show.

  And now I’d scared the entire staff into realizing this.

  “Well,” said Lenny, once we were alone.

  “Well,” I said, and took another sip. I was going to run out of coffee soon, and then what would I do with my hands? I was pretty sure they would shake if they weren’t gripping the mug so hard.

  “Well, I guess I should see about that new sound mixer,” Lenny said.

  “You do that.” I finally relinquished my stranglehold on the mug, but then immediately started flipping through the nearest folder.

  “What …” He hesitated. “What are … um … you going to do?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe go have a chat with Jerry Barnes?”

  “That sounds like a good idea,” said Lenny. “Considering.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “Considering.”

  Jerry’s assistant had already heard by the time I got up there. Little wonder, given the labyrinth I had to traverse to escape from the Daybreak set.

  “He wants to see you,” she told me. “But he’s out right now.”

  “Oh,” I said. So Jerry had heard too. “Should I come back later?”

  She shot me a look. “No, it means you should go find him.” She lifted her phone receiver. “Want me to get you his present coordinates?”

  Thanks to the assistant, I was able to intercept Jerry at the
corner of Fifty-ninth Street and Fifth Avenue. He was checking out the display at the Apple store when I caught up to him.

  “You,” he said, looking at a waterfall of candy-colored iPods.

  “Hi.”

  “Congratulations. You broke Daybreak.” Still no eye contact. Was that how things worked here at IBS?

  “Well, now, Jerry—,” I began.

  “First day and you flushed your anchor, with no money to pay for another one.”

  “He was lowering the morale of the show,” I argued.

  Now he turned to me. “Is that even possible?”

  I stood my ground. It was possible now. I had morale, and damn it, I was going to make sure everyone else did too, if I had to shove it down their throats. Or up other orifices.

  “You must have people under contract,” I said. “Local anchors. Reporters. I’ll find one. Promote from within. It will be good for people on the show to see that.”

  Jerry didn’t look convinced. “Go nuts,” he said. “Find someone great. Just can’t cost me a penny.”

  He turned and started down the street. I called after him. “What if I give them one of my three pennies?”

  “That’s enough pluck out of you,” he called back.

  Oh no it wasn’t. If I was going to find a new anchor—and not just any anchor, but one who would help me revitalize the show—I was going to have to find a whole new vein of Fuller pluck to mine. I was going to have to gird my loins, roll up my sleeves, put my nose to the grindstone, and engage in other metaphorical hardworking activities—and quickly, or Daybreak would indeed end up even more broken than before.

  As soon as I got back to the office, I pulled the audition tapes of every newsman IBS had under contract with even a modicum of screen time. There had to be someone promising in here. Some plucky, personable newscaster just aching for a little bit of national exposure. Someone like me, who’d maybe been overlooked before because they didn’t have the proper pedigree, but was chafing at the bit to show what they could do. And I’d pull them from obscurity and show them off to the world.

  Hey, a girl could dream.

  At least, she could dream for the first forty-three audition tapes. After that, things got a little hairy. Or toothy, in the case of the latest candidate, who appeared to have borrowed the mandibles of a horse for this broadcast.

  “It was another nail-biter on Wall Street today …”

  “And he’d know from biting,” Lenny grumbled. He was seated by my side and was no more enthused by this process than I was.

  “… As the Dow rose eighty points, only to plunge two hundred points right before closing.”

  “He’s not that bad,” I said.

  “Sure,” replied Lenny. “Put a saddle on him and he’s good to go.”

  I clicked off horse face and began rifling through our remaining DVDs. “Okay, who’s next?”

  Lenny stretched and rose. “Sorry. Gotta get home and see the wife and kids.” He looked down at me, still studying the pile of tapes. “You have kids?”

  “What?” I asked. “No.”

  “Husband?” he tried. “Boyfriend?”

  “Me?” I said. “What? No, no.”

  He laughed. “Oh, I’m sorry. What a stupid question. Of course, because you’re hideous and repulsive.”

  I shook my head. “Damn it, where did I put that Miami DVD?”

  “Or something like that,” he added, then grabbed his jacket.

  I waved him off. Even if I did have a boyfriend, or a husband, or kids, they couldn’t begrudge my staying late on my first day at my own television show. Especially given that if I didn’t find a solution to the problem I’d caused this morning, I might sink the show for good.

  Eventually, however, the rest of the staff left me alone in the twisted passageways of the studio, and as the rooms went dark and still around me, I began to wonder what the screens in my office had to offer that my laptop in my apartment didn’t. So Chinese takeout and pajamas it was. I boxed up the rest of the audition tapes and headed out.

  I hit the lobby, balancing files, my briefcase, and the box of DVD jewel cases. My friend the security guard had also left for the night. But I wasn’t entirely alone.

  “Hey there,” said a voice. “If it isn’t Mike Pomeroy’s Number One Fan.”

  I turned. The handsome young man from the elevator was coming through the front door, a bag of takeout in his hands. “Oh, God, that was embarrassing. I can’t believe you saw that. I may have to have you killed.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “I’m Becky Fuller,” I said.

  “Wait a second.” The guy held out his hand. “The EP who took out McVee? You’re a legend already. I believe you might have me killed if I step out of line. I’m Adam Bennett. I’m a producer upstairs at 7 Days.…”

  I shook his hand.

  “So,” he went on, “word’s out you’re looking for a new anchor.” He checked out the DVDs at the top of my pile. “Oh, no, this guy? You can’t use him. He’s practically Mr. Ed.”

  “He’s not so bad,” I said, but I couldn’t convince even myself. “I mean, as long as we remember to keep our hand flat when we feed him a carrot.”

  Adam laughed. “You always work this late, or you moonlighting at an evening program?”

  “No,” I said. “Well, sometimes I stay this late. Yes. Basically yes. Pretty much.”

  He laughed again, then held the door open for me. “Good luck, Becky Fuller.”

  “Thanks, Adam Bennett.” I went through the door, then stopped on the street for a moment and watched him through the glass. Another untucked dress shirt, his hair mussed by the wind on the plaza. Cute guy. Bet he knew it, too. Bet no one ever gave him lip at a staff meeting. Bet his dating life put mine to shame.

  Shake it off, Becky. I knew I’d better head home. I had a long night ahead of me.

  Back in my apartment, I ditched the box, kicked off my heels, and dug into my General Tso’s while I checked my mail. The usual new-apartment junk: offers to switch my Internet service provider, cleaning services, credit cards. Not even a catalog to distract me from the task at hand.

  I could, perhaps, devote a little time to setting up the rest of my apartment, but I’d already decorated most of the available wall space. One of the downsides of leaving New Jersey for New York was getting used to Manhattan square footage. Not that my lack of real estate mattered much. I might be paying a huge chunk of my pathetic salary on a closet, but it could be a storage unit for all I utilized it. I wasn’t exactly throwing dinner parties here. I wasn’t even throwing weekend stay-cations with a dedicated lover.

  And with that thought, I finished up the rest of my supper and ditched the carton it came in. Okay, that was a nice break. Now back to work.

  But two days and eighty-six audition tapes later, I was beginning to wonder exactly how many photographs of my feet I’d have to give Paul McVee in order to get him back. How much groveling would I be able to force myself to pull off in order to keep the show from falling apart?

  This evening, I was reviewing audition reels with Lenny via phone. Wife and kids or no, sometimes the guy was going to need to work late.

  “The sports guy from St. Louis isn’t bad,” said Lenny, “Let’s watch him again—”

  “No,” I said. “We need some gravitas.”

  “Colleen doesn’t give us that?”

  “We need people to trust us,” I continued, ignoring the crack. “If something breaks on air, we need to be able to cover it credibly.”

  Lenny chuckled. “You think we can actually cover breaking news. God, that’s cute.”

  “Get ready,” I said. “ ’Cause it’s going to turn a lot more serious. I will make this show a contender, or die trying.”

  “I’m coming to believe that.” He sighed. “Hold on a minute, I gotta say good night to the kids.”

  “Thank them for lending me their father tonight. I’m sorry to be keeping you busy so late.”

  “Will d
o.”

  While Lenny saw to his familial duties, I went back to the tapes. The goober from Sacramento. The plastic surgery victim from Miami. This guy from Pittsburgh … wait. I didn’t remember Pittsburgh. I stuck in the tape. A snowy landscape popped up, along with a young reporter wearing a long wool coat and a scarf wrapped almost up to his nose.

  “Thousands gathered around to see if the small creature would see his own shadow,” mumbled the reporter through his scarf. He peered at the screen, as if struggling to see something written behind the camera. “And, sadly for us,” he went on at last, “according to Punxsutawney Phil, this bitter winter is far from over.”

  But this dude’s audition was. I leaned forward to press “Eject.”

  “Back to you, Mike,” the guy said, as the video cut to the head desk at the studio. The anchor was Mike Pomeroy, who, for just a second, flashed a smirk and rolled his eyes.

  I laughed.

  “I’m back,” came Lenny’s voice in my ear. “What’s funny?”

  “Yesterday,” said Mike, his demeanor switching right back to somber, “the State Department held a top-level security briefing on the proliferation of nuclear weapons in rogue states.”

  “Um … did I miss anything brilliant?”

  I paused the DVD. On the screen, Mike Pomeroy held a news sheet and looked gravely into the camera.

  “Becky?”

  I studied the image of Mike Pomeroy, a glimpse of a real newscaster tacked on the end of the audition tape of a wannabe. The juxtaposition wasn’t doing Punxsutawney Putz any favors.

  “Earth to Becky,” Lenny said as Mike began interviewing the secretary of state. “You there? What was so funny? Did you put Seabiscuit back on?”

  “No,” I said, as Mike grilled the official about enriched uranium. “But I think I found a thoroughbred.”

  And I hurried right out to share the news. Jerry Barnes’s secretary said her boss was attending some charity event at the Met, and I found him, tuxedo-clad and impatient, waiting to enter with his impeccably preserved blond wife. He was, it turned out, totally unimpressed by my brain wave.