Eyes On You Part 3

For the next few minutes I sat there, p.i.s.sed as h.e.l.l by what had happened. Though I'd known Vicky had a reputation as an uber-b.i.t.c.h, I couldn't believe she'd tried to tear my face off in front of everyone. Yes, it had been a mistake to book Baylor, but not one that justified a public reaming. And why had Carter felt the need to come to my rescue? Who did he think I was, Bambi? Maybe he'd been trying to demonstrate solidarity as my coanchor. But he also might have been showing off.

My one consolation about the whole episode: Vicky had looked like the real fool, standing there in a headful of rollers with her whole face covered in what appeared to be s.p.a.ckle.

I probably should have known that Baylor was a regular on Vicky's show, but I rarely watched it: too much braying and pontificating for my taste. I wondered why Maddy hadn't figured it out when she'd vetted the guests. Surely Tom would have known about Baylor. He'd been at the network for ten years. Speaking of Tom, where was he during the s.h.i.t storm?

I ma.s.saged my temples with the tips of my fingers. Had I sustained any damage tonight? Vicky wielded huge power at the network, and I didn't want to end up on the wrong side of her. She was the type who probably kept an enemies list on her BlackBerry.

I glanced at my watch. It was after eight, but Ann frequently worked this late. I grabbed my phone and tapped her office number.

"So you're still here?" I said when she answered.

"Yeah, I'm about to jump on a conference call with the West Coast. Everything okay?"

"Not really. I stepped in some doo-doo tonight after the show."

"With Carter?"

"No. Believe it or not, with Vicky Cruz. I'd love your advice."

"This call won't take long. Why don't you come up in about ten minutes?"

Disconnecting, I looked up to see Alex standing in the doorway of my office. "Have you got time to talk about what happened?" he asked.

"Yeah, we definitely need to talk."

He dragged over the spare chair and sat down. He looked concerned but not rattled. Obviously, a few years in the DA's office had been like a course in unflappability.

"I'm really sorry about what happened tonight," he said. "I'm not going to make any excuses."

"Actually, I'd like to hear a few excuses," I said. "What the h.e.l.l happened?"

"I try to watch Vicky's show, but I've never seen Baylor on it, and the guy said nothing to the booker about being under contract-or to me during the pre-interview. I have a feeling he a.s.sumed we knew he was a Vicky regular and had cleared it with her EP."

"And Maddy didn't discover the connection when she checked him out?"

He sighed. "Actually, she did. She admitted to me a few minutes ago that she found video on YouTube of Baylor on Vicky's show, but since it was the same network, it didn't cross her mind that there would be a problem. It's hard to fault her. At most networks, people share guests."

"Yeah, well, this isn't most networks," I said. "At this one there's Vicky, and then there's the rest of us. You've got to tell Maddy not to make a.s.sumptions-ever."

"I already have."

I shook my head. "I don't get why Tom didn't warn us. He knows everything that goes on around here."

Alex didn't say anything.

"You told him, right?" I said. I was going to clobber him if he hadn't.

"Of course," Alex said, bristling. "I may be fairly new at the game, but I know what the rules are. I sent him an email saying we liked Baylor, and then a follow-up after I did the pre-interview."

"And he said Baylor was okay?"

"He never responded. But that's the way it's been working at the moment. He says he's too busy right now to respond to all emails, but we should consider them read. If there's a problem, he gets in touch."

I could sense there was something Alex wasn't saying. From what I'd seen so far, he was the master of discretion, and I'd need a crowbar to extract anything else. "So does he know about Vicky's outburst?" I asked.

"He didn't seem to be around after the show. Carter said he'd look for him and fill him in."

I sighed. Alex was no more to blame than I was, but that didn't stop me from feeling exasperated. "Okay," I said, "let's move on. But we need to be careful going forward. Get your hands on a list of everybody under contract with Vicky's show, as well as anyone who shows up there on even a semiregular basis. We better stay clear of those people, too."

"Yup," he said, standing up. "Have a good night, Robin."

"You, too. And Alex?" I flashed a smile. "If I ever attempt to run around the halls in face primer, chain me to a chair, will you?"

"Promise," he said. He smiled back, but I wondered if he was annoyed that I'd questioned whether he'd followed through with Tom.

Thirty seconds after he left, I was on my way to the executive floor, one flight above.

"So tell me how you stepped in doo-doo," Ann said as I slumped into the extra chair in her office.

I described the ugly little scene in the newsroom, not leaving out any details. When I'd finished, Ann shook her head, smiling ruefully.

"The bottom line? It's not your job to know who Vicky has under contract, and besides, your using Baylor didn't harm her show in the least. You have nothing to feel bad about."

"You think I should do anything?"

"You aren't considering sending Vicky a gift basket, are you?" she asked wryly.

"Of course not. I just don't want to end up on the wrong side of her. Should I send a short note or email to smooth things over?"

Ann pressed her hands together in a steeple and, with her elbows on the desk, touched her lips to her fingers, thinking. Her nails were always perfectly manicured, and today, I noticed, they were painted gray, almost the same color as her eyes.

"This is totally under the cone, okay?" Ann said finally. "I can't stand the woman. About a year ago she insisted on hiring a personal press person. It's on her own dime, and this guy handles the auxiliary stuff that's out of my team's bailiwick, but I didn't like the way she presented it to Potts, as if my work is somehow lacking. Vicky doesn't believe in the win-win situation, and she has a gift for finding the soft underbelly of any potential enemies. If you apologize in even a small way, it's going to feel like a triumph to her. And she could use that against you."

"Got it."

"Of course, when you b.u.mp into her, be perfectly pleasant. You don't want to look like you're nursing a grudge." She leaned back in her chair, studying me. "Sounds like Carter really played the white knight tonight," she said after a moment or two.

I shrugged. "Yeah, and I could have done without it. Though maybe he meant well and didn't want to leave me hanging out to dry."

"Don't you think it was mostly about covering his own a.s.s? I'm sure he doesn't want to end up irritating Vicky any more than you do."

"True," I said.

"Just watch your back with him, okay?"

"Is there something you aren't telling me?"

"No," she said after a beat. "But as I've advised you from the beginning, he's always going to be looking out for number one."

That was hardly a surprise. It generally came with anchorman territory.

I stood up from the chair and ran my hands through my hair. It was thick with hair spray from the show, and I felt an urge to shower and slip into a pair of jeans. Ann rose, too, and tucked a few papers into her purse.

"How was the rest of the party?" she asked.

"Oh wow, you just reminded me of something," I said, and told her about the notecard.

"How awful. Do you have any idea who could have done it?"

"None. I keep telling myself that a note like that springs from some serious rage, and I'm not aware of ever triggering anything like that in anyone."

"What about jealousy? That's what I'd guess is at play here. You know what people in this business can be like, especially other women."

She was right. I'd seen my share of cattiness and meanness directed at anyone viewed as a threat. At the morning show I'd worked at, the cohost had a real thing about one of the foreign correspondents, a gorgeous woman named Lilly. Whenever the show was about to go live to Lilly in Cairo or wherever, the anchor would watch her on the monitor and say something like, "Fix your hair, okay? It's all smushy on the side." She'd sound all sweet and helpful-like, but it was clearly meant to psych Lilly out.

"I know," I said. "It just always sounds so presumptuous to think that way. 'I bet she's jealous of me.'"

"But consider your life right now," Ann said, snapping off her desk lamp. "The show, the book. There's a lot for someone to be jealous of."

I snorted. "I guess I'll have to tweet pictures of myself from home tonight," I said. "I'll be sc.r.a.ping the mold off a block of cheddar cheese so I can make an omelet for dinner and eat it alone."

Ann smiled. "Yes, but you'll look awfully good doing it."

"You need a lift home?" I asked. Ann's apartment was ten blocks south of mine on the Upper East Side.

"Thanks, but I'm headed downtown for a late dinner with a friend."

"A potential suitor?" I'd sensed at times that Ann was still pining for her ex-husband and that the divorce pained her more than she let on. I kept hoping she'd meet someone.

"No, no. Purely platonic. What about you? You off now to whip up your omelet?"

"Actually, I think I'm going to swing by Tom's office and see if he's still around." As I'd been speaking to Ann, I'd decided that I wanted to make certain Tom had been looped in about Vicky's rant.

I rode the elevator one flight down with Ann and said good night as I stepped off onto my floor. I was more than ready to tear out of there, but I also knew that I'd feel better if I talked to Tom.

Though his overhead light was on, I saw as I peeked in that his desk lamp was off and his laptop was nowhere in sight. I glanced at my watch. It was eight-thirty. Clearly, he was headed to Hoboken by now.

As I trudged back to my office, my phone rang, and I dug it wearily out of my purse. It was Carter.

"Hi," I said. "I was going to call you later."

"Where are you, anyway?"

"Still at work."

"Oh. I dropped by your office on my way out, and it looked like you'd already split."

"I'm about to. I need to go home and pour myself a gla.s.s of wine."

"I'm only a block away in the car. Want to grab dinner? We can rehash what happened."

"Um, sure," I said, caught off guard. I'd just told him I didn't have plans, so he'd boxed me into a corner.

"Let's do the Lambs Club, on West Forty-fourth," he said. "I'll meet you there. Besides a postmortem, there's something else I want to discuss with you. It'll be good to do it off-site."

I did want to get his take on the Vicky smackdown, but considering the look he'd shot me after the show, I suspected he had another agenda in mind. We'd had lunch a few times in midtown but never dinner. I'd go, I decided, but I'd watch my step.

After I signed off, I stood briefly in the corridor. Far down the hall, I could hear faint laughter drifting from the hair and makeup room. It was almost time for Vicky's show to go on the air, and there were people bustling around for that, as well as for the last live show of the evening afterward. Just thinking of Vicky p.i.s.sed me off.

I tossed my phone in my purse and continued toward my office. As I neared, I was surprised to see it was dark. The cleaning lady must have been in already and switched off the lights. That was probably why Carter had a.s.sumed I'd left.

I patted the wall of the anteroom with my hand until I found the light switch and flipped it on. Then I did the same with my private office. The room popped with too-bright light. I'd started to cross to my desk when my eyes were yanked left by a mess on the floor.

It was a bunch of books, lying in a heap. When I'd left my office, they'd been standing on top of the waist-high bookcase, held in place by a big rock I'd brought back years ago from a trip to the coast of Maine. The cleaning lady, I realized, must have moved the rock when she was dusting, and the books had toppled over like dominoes after she'd gone.

Leave them, I told myself. I was already running late, and I'd pick them up in the morning. But I couldn't do that. My brain had started to compute stuff and sputter it out: The rock was still on the shelf. And the three books on the floor were all copies of my book, Seven Secrets. The reference books on the top shelf were standing in place. I felt my stomach dip.

Instinctively, I looked behind me. There was no one around. I set my purse down and crossed the room to the pile. Hiking my dress up a couple of inches, I knelt and started to gather up the books and then gasped.

There was a jagged tear on the back of each book jacket. And each tear was right through my face.

chapter 5.

For a second I just knelt there, my heart thumping. The tear was in a slightly different part of my face on each book, almost like someone had stabbed at my picture with a nail file or scissors.

I flashed back to the message on the notecard. You evil little b.i.t.c.h. You'll get yours. Had the same person done this?

I looked up at the shelf. The metal corner was sharp. So maybe the tears had occurred accidentally. The books might have become dislodged somehow and ripped as they fell over the side, catching on the corner. I twisted my neck so I could see my wastebasket. It was empty, which meant the cleaning lady had been in. It was possible she'd moved the rock while dusting and set things in motion accidentally.

Or was I utterly stupid to believe that?

I glanced back at the book jackets. For the second time in twenty-four hours, thoughts of my stepmother muscled their way into my memory. I was looking at the kind of trick she'd like to play. She'd tear my things. Or stain them. And make it seem as if I was responsible. Go away, I wanted to scream. Get your face out of my brain.

I reached for the books, but as I did, I felt a tremor in my right hand. I squeezed it closed and shut my eyes. Just breathe, I told myself. I took three long, deep breaths.

Finally, the tremor ceased. I gathered up the books, wrestled off the jackets, and tossed those in the trash.

Ten minutes later, I was in the back of the Town Car. As my driver zigzagged south toward the restaurant, past high-rise office buildings pulsing with light, I kept envisioning the torn book jackets in my mind. Up until now I'd convinced myself that whoever had written the notecard was someone outside of the show's staff-the TV critic Mina Garvin, perhaps. That didn't seem to be the case.

When the driver pulled up in front of the restaurant, I instructed him to wait, saying I'd be an hour or so. I approached the maitre d's stand and gave Carter's name. A couple was waiting nearby, and I could tell by their widening eyes that they recognized me. If Carter and I had thought we could enjoy a quiet dinner without being spotted, we were dead wrong. But so what? There was absolutely nothing remarkable about the two of us eating together after the show.