I pick up my mug just in time to prevent Botox from knocking it over. My neurotic calico jumps onto my lap, demanding attention, as I scan the closet’s “on the air” section. Black suit. Then, black suit. Black suit. Black suit. Okay, then. Another life decision successfully made. And easier than I thought.
I’m mulling over shoe selection when I hear my desk phone ringing. Sliding in my stocking feet across the hardwood hall, I slip my way toward my office. Botox scampers after me, then hops up to her spot on the windowsill.
“This is McNally,” I say, grabbing the receiver and landing safely in my swivel chair. I can never remember how to answer the phone at home. “I mean, hello.”
“Hey Charlotte, it’s me. I’m at the station. We’ve got a…”
Franklin pauses, so of course I interrupt. “Hey Franko, what’s up? Do we have a photog for today? After we hear from our no-doubt fabulous new consultant, we should head right out to Swampscott. Get exteriors of the Sweeney house. And the high school. And the bar where Ray was last seen. Maybe we can get some neighbors to talk. And we can see if-”
“Charlotte.” Franklin says. “Stop. Listen to me. We’ve got a situation.”
I hear something in his voice I really don’t like. “Yeah?” I say. I lean forward in my chair, elbows on the desk, and realize I’m clenching the phone. “You’re scaring me here, Franklin. What situation?”
I can hear Franklin take a deep breath. For a moment there’s only silence on the line.
I wait. As long as he’s not saying anything, I’m not hearing anything bad. The silence doesn’t last long.
“She’s not going to do the interview,” Franklin says. “She’s not talking. Period. End of story. I just got off the phone with Will Easterly. Apparently Dorie got back to him early this morning. And she told him to tell us two words. Drop. Dead.”
KEVIN O’BANNON CLAPS his hands once, twice, and calls out to the newsroom full of Channel 3 staffers. “Gang? Hello?” the news director pleads. He takes off his trademark navy-blue double-breasted suit jacket as he speaks, hanging it over the back of a nearby computer monitor, loosens his paisley tie, turns back his cuffs. I watch him in amusement. He’s so management school. This is supposed to telegraph he’s one of us. He so isn’t.
“Can we settle down, please?” Channel 3’s news director taps on the microphone clipped to a stand in front of him, but all we hear is a tinny thunk. It’s dead. The tawny blonde seated beside him, ropy pearls and multi-hued bouclé announcing her allegiance to the Chanel mother ship, crosses one toned leg over the other, and pretends not to notice. Susannah Smith-Bagley. The newest darling of news-consultant world. Waiting for her chance to bestow her cutting-edge wisdom and change our lives.
Franklin, Maysie and I are among those leaning on the mezzanine railing that overlooks the crowded newsroom below, watching Kevin continue his struggle to get his troops to stop chatting with one another and pay attention to him. So far, the news director is failing, and the three of us railbirds aren’t helping.
“So how much you think that suit set somebody back?” Maysie whispers, pointing to the newcomer at Kevin’s side. “Not to mention the boob job?”
“Queen Susannah wears what she wishes,” I answer softly. “We, her subjects, must do as she bids. You hear anything about what she’s gonna say? Besides, of course, that we should all come up with more on-the-air cleavage.” I look down, doomed. “Somehow.”
“You’re the brains of the operation, Charlotte,” Franklin puts in. “No one is looking at your…” He pauses. “Anyway, I hear from my sources in San Fran, Susannah’s all about the brand. Give a bad story a good title and it sells. Who cares about the content? Give a story a good title, and ka-ching. Ratings gold.”
“Speaking of suits,” I say, turning to look at Maysie. “What’s up with you? I can’t remember a time I’ve seen you in anything but black jeans. Suddenly now, you have legs. And lip gloss.”
“Well, I just found out,” Maysie begins. “I tried to call and tell you this morning but your line was busy.”
An ear-splitting squeal fills the room, as an embarrassed-looking tech guy adjusts Kevin’s microphone. Everyone snickers. A few cynics applaud.
“You’d think a TV station could get the mic to work,” Franklin comments.
“Tell me what?” I turn to face the ponytailed sports reporter beside me. Maysie and I have been pals since we bonded years ago while divvying up the junk food left in the station’s cafeteria during a sudden blizzard. I’m like her older sister. I can read her better than anyone, except (maybe) her husband Matthew. I can tell she’s holding back.
Kevin claps his hands again. Now there’s no way to ignore him. As he begins his introduction of Susannah, I give Maysie a wide-eyed entreaty. What? I silently mouth the word, trying to look as beseeching as possible.
Maysie points me to Kevin and Susannah, then her watch. Later, she pantomimes.
The only sound now is the jingle of Susannah’s multiple charm bracelets clanking against the mic stand as she confidently adjusts it higher, instantly proving she’s taller than Kevin. She gives him a seemingly apologetic shrug, which serves only to underscore her prominence, and claims center stage.
“Hello, all,” she says. “Get out your calendars, folks.”
Flipping open a logo-covered folder, she holds it up in front of her. I guess it’s a calendar, I can’t see details that far away. Every eye in the newsroom follows her, as she pivots, surveying us. She waits until we’re all silent. “July? Is the new November. The ratings holy grail. We’re gonna milk those demos till the other stations can’t see straight. You’re age twenty-five to fifty-four? A woman? We want you watching Channel 3. And we’ll do anything to get you here.”
The murmuring buzz picks up again as a roomful of newsies begin individual calculations. How will that affect me? Am I in? Or out?
“Dollarwise, Envirobeat. We’ve discussed your roles,” Susannah continues, pointing to the franchise reporters and producers of those segments. “Now. Charlie Investigates.” Susannah scans the room, apparently looking for me and Franklin.
I give a tentative wave. “Up here,” I call out.
Every face in the room turns up to look at me and Franklin. I can feel my face tighten as I stoically keep smiling, pretending I know what’s coming next. Susannah consults her folder again, then looks back up at us, too.
“I’m simply thrilled to announce that Charlie and Frank have come up with another…” she pauses “…very important story. We’re keeping the details under wraps, because those investigative types are such secret squirrels! But we want you to know we’re going all out to promote their superdynamite July scoop. We’re counting on it for big, big numbers.” She taps her folder. “You’re the first to know. We’re branding it Charlie’s Crusade.”
Susannah nods, self-satisfied, as if she’s just invented alliteration and now expects someone to applaud.
I give Franklin a tiny kick in one ankle. “Nice one, Frank,” I hiss. “We’re screwed. She doesn’t know about Dorie’s ‘drop dead’ decision, I imagine.”
Franklin, frowning, opens his mouth to answer. I wave him off, as below us, Susannah continues to outline her grand scheme.
“Now, one more agenda item before it’s time for the noon news,” she says. “With the Red Sox grabbing such a huge fan base this season, I’m happy to announce a decision made just last night. We’re starting a new weekend show. We’re branding it-Red Sox Nation. And it will feature our newest anchor, Maysie Green, the Sports Machine.”