Eyes On You Part 2

"Of course," I said. I loved the shot of me in the red dress.

"Oh, by the way, I nearly forgot the best news of all," my main publicist, Claire, announced. "The book's ranking high on online retail sites. That's a very good sign."

"We can probably thank my coanchor for that," I said. "He's been nicely pimping the book on the show."

"True," Claire said. "But when I've been pitching, it's been pretty clear that you've built your own following. And people really love the show."

The convergence of the book and the show had been pure luck, but it was clearly going to drive up sales. And I would gladly take them any way I could get them.

My a.s.sistant, Keiki, was off that day, dealing with a labradoodle in surgery, so I had the office to myself. I grabbed a coffee in the kitchenette down the hall and then jumped online. I reviewed the tweets the show had generated last night and skimmed through various news sites, looking for emerging stories as well as tidbits that Carter and I could bat around in the up-front chat section. I saved a half hour of my morning to put the finishing touches on a ratings a.n.a.lysis I'd done. Our executive producer, Tom Golden, hadn't asked for it, but I knew he'd find interesting what I'd discovered. I wanted to read it over in hard copy before I turned it over to him.

When I briefly checked email, I noticed that someone-I couldn't tell who from the address-had nicely emailed a half-dozen photos of me from the party, probably taken with a phone. I was beaming in every shot.

That's the way I'd remember last night, I told myself, and I'd just purge the note from my memory.

At noon I headed to the newsroom. There were about twenty desks bunched there, occupied by producers, writers, and bookers. Our set, which was also used by several other shows with modifications, flowed directly from the newsroom. It was a futuristic-looking s.p.a.ce that made me think of the bay of a Hollywood movie s.p.a.ceship, hurtling toward another galaxy. I felt a rush every time I stepped on it.

My first stop was Maddy's desk, which was empty. With a twinge of guilt, I realized she might have called in sick, and I'd never followed up on how she was feeling. But one of the other interns told me that Maddy was here, just away from her desk. I took a few minutes to check in with each of the three senior producers about the rundown for the night's show, knowing that it was still subject to change.

When I strode back into my office, I found Tom sitting in the one spare chair, eyes glued to his iPhone and tapping his leg to a beat only he could hear. He was short and slim and wiry, but he tended to fill up whatever s.p.a.ce he was in. Like most of the EPs I'd worked with, he was powered by a nervous, almost manic energy.

"Cool party," he said as I dropped into my desk chair.

"I'm glad we could entice you from Hoboken on a Sunday."

"Usually, Larry hates me going out on a Sunday night, but he's a fan of yours now, so he was happy to make an exception."

"I appreciate that."

"What price tag would you put on that apartment-ten mil, maybe?" he said, rubbing his close-cropped beard. "More?"

"Bettina's? I have no clue, Tom. I really don't."

For split second I thought of telling him what had happened last night and seeing if he'd make a guess about who the culprit was, but I quickly changed my mind. Tom, I'd learned over the past several months, liked maneuvering behind people's backs at times, and I wasn't sure if I could trust him to be discreet.

"So any big changes in the lineup?" I asked. "When I find you sitting in my office, something's usually going on."

"Yeah, we've got something I think we oughta run with today," he said.

"Great. Let me hear."

"Have you been following this cheating-politician double hitter? Hitchens, that Southern senator, is dumping his wife, and she's naming another woman. And then there's a state senator in Oregon whose wife showed up at the statehouse yesterday and left about ten Hefty trash bags of his stuff on the steps. She told the press he's banging his secretary."

"I saw the Hitchens story but not the other one."

"There's nothing new here-and nothing kinky, like Anthony Wiener, or even weird, like Sanford's Appalachian Trail bulls.h.i.t-but it's a story that people never get tired of. Why can't these dudes keep it in their pants? Is a guy who's hardwired for politics also hardwired to cheat?"

I reminded him about our story on baby divorcees.

"We'll b.u.mp that. It'll keep."

I didn't relish segments about cheating husbands, but I'd found a way to detach myself when we covered them. "Sounds good," I said.

Tom stroked his beard, thinking for a moment. "I'm going to put Alex on this. But because we're short on time, I need you to give him a hand, okay?"

Alex was a fairly new hire, brought in to replace one of the launch producers who hadn't panned out. He was in his early thirties, I guessed, a former a.s.sistant DA who'd made the switch into TV a couple of years ago. Though he was hard to read, I liked working on stories with him. His ideas were fresh-edgy, even-despite the fact that his work was always totally b.u.t.toned up.

"Of course," I said. "But won't Charlotte want this?" She was the senior producer responsible for baby divorcees.

"She'll get over it."

I knew she'd be miffed, but that was her battle to fight with Tom.

"Who do you like for guests?"

"For starters, we need a jilted wife. I doubt we got a shot at Jenny Sanford or our dear former governor's wife, but it doesn't hurt to try. We also need a marriage expert. And most important, someone who really knows politicians, who's been on the campaign trail, for instance. You two use your own judgment, and let me know who you find."

"Okay. I'd better move."

I found Alex Lucca in the newsroom and pulled my chair up next to his desk. After making a list of potential guests, we started working at light speed. The marriage therapist was easy; we simply told the one we'd booked for baby divorcees that the topic had changed. She was a total media wh.o.r.e, game for anything, and wouldn't have flinched if she'd been asked to speculate on what went wrong with Adam and Eve.

We struck out, natch, with the big names like Silda Spitzer and Jenny Sanford, as well as about ten other jilted political wives, but finally, a woman in Brooklyn, whose flagrantly unfaithful husband had been in the New York State a.s.sembly, agreed to come on.

"She looks like she's from the cast of Real Housewives," Alex said. "Do we want to go that s.k.a.n.ky?"

I smiled. "Yeah, as long as we secure someone smart and cla.s.sy as the third guest."

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Charlotte staring at us. Maybe she'd put two and two together and figured out that Alex had been given the story that should have gone to her. Or maybe she just liked to look at him. He had wavy black hair and a permanent two-day scruff that contrasted strikingly with his pale white skin and hazel eyes. He wore the same basic look every day-dark pants or jeans and a super-crisp white shirt. I'd heard that some of the girls called him GQ behind his back, which I was sure would have annoyed the h.e.l.l out of him.

Next we plowed through names for the last guest. Some of the ones we called were tied up with fall political campaigns; others didn't want to discuss the topic on the air.

"Wait, here's somebody," Alex said at last, gazing at his computer screen. "Jack Baylor. Political a.n.a.lyst who writes for Politico. And he's the author of The Women They Marry, all about political wives. The book's old, but I a.s.sume it's still a subject he's willing to sound off on."

"Perfect. Is he here in the city?"

"Think so. I'll try to track him down."

"Just let Tom know we've set our sights on him."

While we'd been working, I'd spotted Maddy enter the newsroom. With Alex in pursuit of Baylor, I made my way to her desk.

"You really feeling better or being a trouper?" I asked.

"Definitely better." She lowered her voice. "I just needed a good night's sleep and a lot of Midol."

"Glad to hear. I need you to give Alex a hand now. We've lined up guests for the new segment. Make sure you book their cars right away. And do a background check on the two new guests to be sure there are no loose ends."

By the time I returned to Alex's desk, he was on the phone, talking to Baylor's a.s.sistant; from the sound of the conversation, it seemed like the guy would be able to make it. I stood up, ready to head back to my office, when Charlotte walked over and planted herself in front of me.

Though she was in her late twenties, she dressed like a recent college grad and not always in a way that seemed smart to me-at least if she hoped to be on the fast track. Today she had on a short yellow sundress that seemed all about showing off her b.o.o.bs. Her curly blond hair was up in a ponytail, a total surrender to the humidity.

"Is it true Alex is working on the replacement for baby divorcees?" she said.

"Yes. But we're not killing divorcees, just b.u.mping it."

"That leaves me with no segment tonight," she said, clearly annoyed. "I should be handling the new one."

Often producers loved losing segments. Charlotte had to know that in her case, it reflected her weakness at pulling a story together quickly.

"Why don't you talk to Tom about it? I'm sure he can explain his reasoning."

"Thanks," she said coldly, and walked away.

When I'd tried early on to offer Charlotte guidance, she'd acted defensive and brushed me off.

The two o'clock rundown meeting was the first time I'd seen Carter that day. As he entered the room, about a minute after I'd arrived, he offered me a friendly smile and nod, nothing different than usual. If he had been trying to give me a romantic opening last night, he seemed to have changed his mind today. Or maybe he'd decided that his best bet was some hot make-up s.e.x with Jamie.

People who'd been milling around took seats, and Tom started to review the plan for the night's show. The first segment was about dogs traveling in the cabin of planes-how more and more people were having their pets designated as "service dogs," supposedly necessary for emotional support but really so the dogs wouldn't have to travel in the hull of the plane. It was the kind of story that would stir a strong reaction from both pet lovers and people who didn't like sitting next to a yappy Pomeranian all the way from New York to L.A.

The cheating-politician story would be the third segment of the show. Alex announced that we were expecting confirmation from our third guest momentarily. I flashed him a smile. As Tom had said, there was nothing groundbreaking about the topic, but it would be good, juicy stuff.

It doesn't get sweeter than this, I thought as I leaned back in my chair. I was on a show I loved, with people working hard and enjoying themselves. It had taken nearly two miserable years to reach, but I'd done it. I let my eyes rove around the table. Sitting in the mix were the six people I'd invited to the party-Tom, Carter, the three senior producers, and the booker for the show. I was certain none of them had written on the notecard. I felt liked by everyone in the room, or at the very least, respected.

The show that night was like being on a bullet train: fast and exhilarating. The politician segment was stronger than I'd imagined. Baylor was terrific, both smart and insightful. And though the ex-wife could have been a cast member of Real Housewives, her hurt was raw, and you couldn't help but sympathize.

"What's your takeaway about people flying with their dogs in between their legs?" Carter asked as we wrapped the show.

"Clearly, there's abuse of the system going on," I said. "But it sounds like some people may actually need their dogs for emotional support."

"You aren't thinking about getting a dog, are you, Robin? I mean, not for plane travel but just to have. A cute little pug, maybe?"

"Come on, Carter," I said. "Don't you realize I'm much more of a black Lab kind of girl?"

"Okay, forget planes for a second. What about bed?"

"Bed?"

"Yeah, how do you feel about dogs in beds?"

I laughed out loud. The director gave the ten-second countdown. "It depends on what type you're talking about, but either way I'm not going to answer," I said. "Good night, everyone. We'll see you tomorrow." I was still laughing after we'd wrapped.

"Killer show," one of the crew yelled as Carter and I rose and unclipped our mics. "You guys were on fire tonight."

"Thanks," I said. "It felt really good." I turned to Carter. "Dogs in bed. I'm going to get you back for that one."

"I look forward to it," he said. He smiled and held my gaze tightly, the way he'd done at the party last night.

Ahh, I thought. So he really is up for some serious flirting. I could play along a little, and enjoy myself in the process, but I had no intention of taking it beyond that. I smiled back and stepped off the set. Carter wandered off in the opposite direction, and I started to look for Alex, eager to hear his feedback on our segment. Suddenly I caught the movement of something bright red off to the right, like a streaking flame. I turned my head. Vicky Cruz had just barged into the newsroom, her face covered in some kind of makeup primer and half her head full of Velcro rollers.

"Where's your producer?" she demanded, charging toward me. Her green eyes were hard with rage.

"You mean Tom?" I asked. I wondered what he'd done to make Vicky nearly foam at the mouth.

"I have no f.u.c.king clue what his name is," Vicky said. "I just want the guy in charge."

"He's probably in the control room," I said. I had no sympathy for the hissy fit she seemed ready to throw, but I also knew that with Vicky, it was smart to be diplomatic. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"How did Jack Baylor end up on this show?" she snapped.

By this point the whole newsroom had gone silent except for a monitor playing commercials before the eight o'clock show.

"You mean how did we make it happen?" I asked. "The old-fashioned way. We just called and booked him." Did she have something against Baylor? I wondered. Like she'd dated him and he'd dumped her? Well, tough. That wasn't our problem.

"You decided to book him?" Vicky's voice was nearly a snarl. Where in the world was this going: On the far side of the newsroom, behind where Vicky was standing, I saw Alex rise from his chair. He was going to take the blame, but I couldn't let him.

"Yes," I said.

Vicky took a step closer and eyed me with cold calculation. "You had no f.u.c.king right to do that," she yelled. "Don't you dare ever try anything like that again."

chapter 4.

I couldn't believe she was talking to me that way. I started to respond, to ask what the problem was with Baylor, when I sensed someone come up behind me. Then Carter was standing right next to me. c.r.a.p, I thought. What I didn't need at the moment was a dude playing action hero.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not getting what the issue is, Vicky," Carter said. I could tell by his tone that he was being careful, trying not to make the situation worse, but also signaling he wouldn't let Vicky flatten him like a tank.

"Baylor belongs to my show," she told him. "She had no f.u.c.king business calling him."

"Belongs to your show?" Carter said, clearly puzzled.

Vicky let her face sag in mock dismay at his ignorance. "Baylor's been under contract with my show for the past year," she said. "He is not allowed to discuss politics on another program without express permission from me or my executive producer. Of course, if you want to invite him on to talk about Justin Bieber's latest hairstyle or the size of Kim Kardashian's a.s.s, be my guest."

"I'm sorry," I said. "I wasn't aware of any contract."

"You didn't a.s.sume, based on how often he's on my show, that there had to be a contract?" Vicky snapped.

"Look, Vicky," Carter said, "as Robin said, we're sorry. We're all big fans of you and your show, and we would never intentionally poach a guest of yours. You can spank me right here in front of everyone if it makes you feel any better."

Vicky let out a breath between her pouty, collagen-pumped lips. She seemed appeased."Don't tempt me," she said after a moment. Then she turned on her heel and charged out of the newsroom.

All around me, I sensed people exhaling. I looked at Carter. "Maybe she's just having a bad hair day," I said sarcastically, though inside I was fuming. Before Carter could reply, I stalked back to my office and slammed the door.