Читать книгу The Manny - Holly Peterson, Holly Peterson - Страница 7

‘Hurry, we gotta talk.’ My Korean colleague, Abby Chong, had spotted me across the crowded newsroom as our colleagues completed a live newsbreak of a space shuttle landing. I passed the rows of cubicles and said hello to some of the twenty-something PAs inside, most of them looking like they hadn’t slept in days. I navigated round the portable screening machines lined up outside the cubicles with tapes piled precariously on top. In my ears was the familiar cacophony of ringing phones, the tapping of computer keyboards, and the audio of dozens of televisions and radios going at once. As Abby grabbed my elbow and pulled me towards my door, I managed to pick up three newspapers from the pile.

‘You almost knocked my coffee on the floor!’ I looked down at a few drops on my new blouse.

‘Sorry,’ Abby answered. ‘I’m tired. I’m frazzled. But you’ve got bigger problems now.’

‘Really big? Like your Pope problems?’

‘No. Crazy Anchorman’s off that. Now Goodman wants a Madonna interview.’

‘How do you get from an exclusive with the Pope to an exclusive with Madonna?’

‘The cross thing. The crucifixion stunt at her concert from a while ago. He went to a dinner party last night. Sat next to someone who convinced him she would appeal to the eighteen to forty-nine demo. He decided she was edgier than the Pope. But only after we were here till 4 a.m. doing research. He used the fresh word. Everything had to be fresh. He wanted Pope references in the Bible so he could write a letter to the Pope and quote them. I told him there weren’t any. He said, “He’s the Pope for Christ’s sake, find them!”’

‘Well, I won’t be working on Madonna either. I don’t produce celebrity profiles. It’s in my contract.’

‘Well, you’re not going to get another contract when you hear what shit you’re in.’

I figured she was overreacting. Abby was always calm when we were live and rolling, and a nervous wreck the rest of the time – like now. Her black hair was clipped on the top of her head like a witch doctor and she was wearing a bright violet suit that looked simply awful on her. She pushed me into my office and closed the door behind her.

‘Sit down,’ she said, while she paced around the room.

‘You mind if I take my coat off?’

‘Fine. But hurry up.’

‘Just give me two minutes please?’ I hung my coat on the hanger behind my door, sat down and took my cranberry scone and coffee out of the bag. ‘OK, Abby. What’s got you so wound up this time?’

She leaned over the top of my desk with her arms straight out. She didn’t hesitate, no niceties, just delivered the fatal news.

‘Theresa Boudreaux granted the interview to Kathy Seebright. They taped it on Monday in an undisclosed location. It’s airing this Thursday on the News Hour. Drudge already has it on his website.’ She sat down and her left knee bounced uncontrollably.

I laid my head face down on the desk with a thunk.

‘You’re screwed. No other word for it. I’m sorry. Goodman’s not in yet, but apparently our fearless leader called him fifteen minutes ago to give him the news. So the two big cheeses already know.’

I struggled to look up. ‘Is Goodman trying to reach me?’

‘I don’t know. I tried your cell, but it went straight to voicemail.’

I fished my cell phone out of my purse by pulling the cord for my earpiece. The ringer had been in the ‘off’ position since last night and I had forgotten to switch it back. Six messages. I plugged the phone into the charger on my desk. Nausea roiled up inside me. It didn’t help that I’d swallowed a bunch of vitamins on an empty stomach. I ripped apart the cranberry scone, picked out a few berries and lined them up while I thought about my next move. ‘Give me a sec to figure out how to handle this disaster.’

‘I’m here waiting.’ She leaned back in her chair with her arms across her chest. Abby was a very pretty woman who, at forty-two, looked young for her age with her straight hair and creamy Asian skin. She was head researcher on the show, and during live broadcasts always sat off-camera five feet from our anchor Joe Goodman. On the console in front of her were thousands of index cards with any fact and figure a pompous newsman could want in an instant: type of armoured tank most commonly used in the Iraq War, number of passengers killed on Pan Am flight 103 and biographies of important historical figures like Kato Kaelin and Robert Kardashian.

I rattled off some options. ‘I could just apologize to Goodman right now before he comes charging in here. Preemptive action is always good.’ Deep breath. ‘I could listen to my messages to see if that Boudreaux lawyer bothered to give me a head’s up that his client was talking to another network. He only promised me the interview on Friday. No wonder he didn’t return my calls over the weekend.’ I moved the piles of broadcast tapes to create some space on my desk and they slid on the floor like a mudslide.

‘I thought the interview was yours.’ Abby was trying to help. ‘Really I did, especially after your charm offensive trip last week – I thought you’d nailed it down. Goodman’ll be here in fifteen minutes. Check your messages first so you sound on the ball, even though …’

‘Even though what?’ Even though I had lost the biggest ‘get’ of the year to a perky blonde: Kathy Seebright, America’s official cutie-pie. As insiders, we knew her as the woman with the sugary smile who would chomp a man’s testicles off and spit them in his face. ‘Why did I tell Goodman on Friday that we had a done deal? I should have known it doesn’t count till the tape is rolling.’ Even Abby didn’t know I’d left work early on Friday to take my daughter to her ballet class. They’d probably assumed I was out greasing the wheels for the interview.

Sometimes sexy women like to act stupid because it helps them get exactly what they want. Theresa Boudreaux was one of those types: a bodacious waffle-house waitress with a devilish streak. Unfortunately for a certain high-ranking elected leader, she had the wits to go to RadioShack and buy herself a nine-dollar phone-recording device. She then used it to tape her dirty phone calls with US Congressman Huey Hartley, a powerful, sanctimonious, married-for-thirty-years politician from the solidly red state of Mississippi. When network news anchors lose interviews like this one, they get mean and scary. That’s why producers call them anchor monsters, whether they just lost an interview or not. They’re scary people even when they’re trying to be nice. But no one was being nice to me that day.

For a moment, I thought I’d be fired. In my defence, I really thought we had it. I grabbed my cell phone.

Message number four was in fact Theresa Boudreaux’s lawyer calling at ten last night. What a sleazebag. Just after the Seebright interview was in the can, he thought he should tell me that things had changed.

Jamie. It’s Leon Rosenberg. Thank you again for the flowers on Friday. My wife thought they were beautiful. Uh, we need to discuss some changes in the plan. Theresa Boudreaux has had some concerns. Call me at home tonight. You have all my numbers.

I dialled Leon at work, fury raging inside. His irritating assistant Sunny answered. She never knew where he was, didn’t know how to reach him, but always put me on hold to ‘see’. I waited two full minutes.

‘I’m sorry, Ms Whitfield. I’m not sure where he is right now, so I can’t connect you. Is there a message?’

‘Yes. Could you please write this down verbatim: “I heard about Seebright. Fuck you very much. From Jamie Whitfield.”’

‘I don’t think it’s appropriate to write that down.’

‘Mr Rosenberg won’t be surprised. He’ll think it’s appropriate given the situation. Please pass it along.’ I hung up.

‘That’ll get his attention.’ Charles Worthington gave a nod of approval as he strode into my office, found a place on my couch and grabbed a newspaper. Charles was a fellow producer who did all the investigative work on the show. A thirty-five-year-old fair-skinned African American, he grew up as part of the black Creole elite in Louisiana. He was short, thin and always immaculately dressed. Charles spoke in a soothing voice, with a discreet Southern drawl. We’d worked together for ten years, growing up in the business side by side. I often referred to him as my office husband, even though he was gay.

The phone rang thirty seconds later.

‘Yes, Leon.’

‘Jamie. Really. That’s so rude; she’s just my secretary, and she’s all shook up now. And very embarrassed.’

‘RUDE? RUDE? Why don’t you try unethical? Unprofessional? Fraudulent?’ Charles leapt from the couch with two fists clenched, giving me the rah-rah sign. ‘You said we had a done deal. How many letters did I write that little sex vixen client of yours? How many times did I bring big Anchorman Goodman to try out her soggy pancakes? What’d you do, grant the interview to Kathy Seebright at ABS and shoot the Theresa Boudreaux No Excuses jeans ad the same day? And, why did she go with a woman anchor anyway? Doesn’t fit the bill.’ Vixens like Theresa always go for the male anchors who can’t concentrate on the proper follow-up question because they’re discreetly rearranging the bulge in their pants.

‘Jamie, try to calm down. It’s just television. At the last minute, Theresa decided that Kathy would lob easier questions in the interview. She got scared about your guy. He does have a reputation for going for the jugular.’

‘And I’m sure it was all her decision, Leon. You had no input whatsoever.’ I rolled my eyes at Abby and Charles.

‘Now look,’ said Leon. ‘I promise I’m going to make this up to you. I’ve got some O.J. Simpson sealed court documents that would blow the roof off that little network of yours and I can sure …’

I hung up on him.

‘What was his excuse?’ asked Charles.

‘Same thing every time we lose one to her: “Seebright seems so much sweeter than Joe Goodman.”’

How had I let this interview slip through my fingers when we had it solidly in the bag? Why hadn’t I taken extra steps to secure her? And why were we doing this interview in the first place? Just because Hartley was a controversial, pro-family politician with four children? Did his prurient behaviour deserve all this media coverage? Absolutely.

Hartley wasn’t a deeply entrenched Christian conservative, but his ferocious anti-homosexual, pro-family oratory singled him out as one of the most outspoken Southern politicians. About eighty pounds overweight and six feet four inches tall, he usually walked around the lectern to speak so he could tower over the audience, rattling his fist in the air as his jowls jiggled. His grey moustache and goatee highlighted his enormous mouth and protruding lower lip. He had crystal-blue eyes and a perpetually sweaty bald spot that reflected the camera lights. He helped win the 2004 elections for Mississippi and the White House by supporting the drive to put the anti-gay-marriage referendums on ballots in twenty-four states. That White House strategy brought all the mega-church crowds out in their Greyhounds and was a major factor in the triumph of the Republican Party. Now he’d already jumped on the anti-gay bandwagon again for 2008: lobbying to put the ancient anti-sodomy laws on the ballots in the thirty-odd states where they weren’t already on the books.

I tried to accept the magnitude of my screw-up before I walked into executive producer Erik James’s office. That way, I wouldn’t argue. Arguing was never a good idea when Erik was angry. He was behind his desk finishing up a call when his assistant showed me in. I stared at the dozens of Emmy Awards lining his top shelf. He had worked for NBS for almost twenty years, at first executive-producing the Sunday news shows and then launching the multi-award-winning ratings bonanza Newsnight with Joe Goodman.

He hung up the phone and stared me down. Then the diatribe began.

‘You talk a big game.’

‘I don’t mean to.’

‘And your follow-through is lacking.’ He pushed his chair back, walked around to the front of his desk and took off his gloves. At five feet six, Erik had a pot belly like a pregnant woman two weeks past her due date. Even though he was standing a safe distance away, his stomach was almost touching me. ‘YOU! SUCK!’

‘I do not!’

‘DO TOO!’ He waved his hands in the air like King Kong. One of his suspenders popped and he furiously clawed at his back trying to reach it. Now he was really pissed off.

‘Erik, Leon Rosenberg assured me …’

‘I don’t care what he assured you! How many times did you go down there? What were you doing, shopping?’ That was low. No question I was the only Newsnight producer with a rich husband, but I’d worked my behind off for over ten years for this guy and I’d broken more stories than any producer on his staff.

‘That’s really unfair. You know I’ve killed myself to get this story.’

He flared his nostrils. ‘Last I checked, you didn’t get me any story, F-fuckin’-Y-I.’

‘I, I …’

He sneered at me. Then he reached into a huge glass jar on his desk and gobbled a fistful of jellybeans. ‘Get out o’ here,’ he mumbled, and some of his Kelly-green spit landed on my shirt, next to a coffee stain.

The battle was over for now. We’d start fighting for another angle on this Theresa Boudreaux story together as a team again in the morning. This wasn’t the first time I’d gone through this. Not that my defeat didn’t depress me, but I refused to let it derail me. The pressure was intense to break some news and advance the story. Every tabloid in the country had published cover photos of Theresa, many with a question mark, ‘Hartley’s Heartthrob?’ Right-wing radio talk shows chimed in with their unwavering support of Hartley while they trashed the bloodthirsty members of the liberal media elite.

Ultimately, as the story played out, Theresa gave nothing away to Kathy Seebright, she’d merely gotten her to confirm that she knew Hartley, that they were ‘close’. So, at that moment, my bosses and I were having a meltdown over nonsense. But histrionics over nothing are the price of entry in the network news business.

Back in my office, I applied some lipstick very carefully as I tried to take control of my day. I stopped for a moment with the compact in my hand and stared out the window at the Hudson River. The anxieties piled on: a major professional screw-up, my insufferable husband, Dylan and his troubles. My watch read eleven o’clock – Dylan had gym before lunch: perhaps the exercise had already cheered him up. He had asked me to cancel his play dates that week. Obviously the humiliation at the game made him want to hide behind his door after school and get lost in a Lego robotics trance, but I told him I wouldn’t cancel anything, believing that interaction with his friends was curative. I felt bewildered about what else to do with him except follow the routine and make sure he didn’t close in on himself. When I get very depressed, I eat KitKats. As I tore the wrapper off with my teeth, my cell phone rang.

‘Honey, it’s me.’ I heard honking and car brakes screeching in the background.

‘Yes?’

‘I want to apologize.’

‘All right. Let’s hear it.’

‘I’m sorry about this morning. I’m sorry I was difficult.’ A siren whizzed by.

‘Difficult?’

‘Sorry I was impossible.’

‘You were.’ I took a bite of chocolate.

‘I know. That’s why I’m calling. I love you.’

‘Fine.’ Maybe I could forgive him.

‘And you’re going to love me more than ever.’

‘Oh, really? And why would that be?’

‘Well, you know my success with the Hadlow Holdings deal has had some ripple effects.’

‘They owe you big.’

‘And they’re giving me something big.’

‘OK. And what might that be?’

‘The question is, what are they giving my wife?’

‘Phillip, I have no idea. It’s not cash, so what is it? How can they repay you?’

‘They asked me that very question.’

‘And …?’

‘How does pro bono work for Sanctuary for the Young sound?’

My charity. The board I had served on for a decade that supported foster children. The organization was broke, almost going under, they could barely serve the desperate kids. My eyes welled. ‘You didn’t.’

‘I did.’

‘How much help?’

‘Lots.’

‘Like how much?’

‘Like they’re going to treat it like a regular account.’

‘I can’t believe you did this. It’s going to change everything.’

‘I know. That’s why I did it.’

‘I don’t even know what to say.’

‘You don’t need to say anything.’

‘Thank you, Phillip. It’s totally amazing. You didn’t even tell me you were considering this.’

‘You give them a lot of your money, and a lot of your time, but I wanted you to give them something even more substantial. I know what they mean to you.’

‘So much.’

‘I know.’

‘I love you back.’

‘Item two: there is something you need to do for me before my flight to Cleveland.’

‘Where are you, anyway?’ I asked. ‘I can barely hear you with all those horns honking. Are you in Times Square?’

‘I’m actually rushed as all hell. Are you going to pick up the kids?’

‘Just Gracie. I couldn’t deal with her expression this morning. I’m going to pick her up in her classroom, but ask Yvette to meet me outside to take her home. Then I’m hightailing it back to the office.’

‘Perfect. I need you to stop at home before you get Gracie.’

‘I won’t have time.’

‘This is critical.’ Phillip suddenly sounded like a British boarding school headmaster. ‘I need you to go home. Go into my office. Turn on my computer. Get the code for my new safe. The screen will automatically ask for my password.’

‘Phillip, can’t this wait?’

‘Please do as I say, for God’s sake!’

‘No. I’m not doing as you say. I’ve had a shitty day so far and I’ve got more work to do. I’m telling you, this is most definitely NOT a day I am going to be leaving the office for a long time. I can’t tell you how much the pro bono thing means to me. You know that. But I still can’t do this right now.’

‘Honey. This isn’t an ask. This is a “you gotta do this for me now”. I’m travelling for three days and before I take off I need to know that this is handled.’

‘This is really so important?’

‘Yes, beautiful.’ He laid on the charm with a soft voice. ‘It is. I love you. Please. I’m going to owe you huge.’

I decided I would make a quick stop at home after picking Gracie up, perhaps without anyone even noticing I’d left the office. ‘Hurry up. What is the password?’

No answer.

‘Phillip, I will do this for you, but I am very rushed too. What is the password for your home computer?! Couldn’t you have thought of this this morning?’

‘I was distracted this morning. By Dylan of course.’

Tapping my pen on a notepad, I sighed. ‘You were telling me the password …’

‘Uh …’

‘Phillip! What is the password?’

‘The password is Beaver.’

‘What? You’re kidding.’

No answer.

‘Phillip, your password is Beaver? That is so lame. Is this on your work computers too? In a stuffy law firm like yours? What happens if your IT guy has to get into your account?’

‘Why should I care about an IT guy?’

‘Phillip, I can’t believe you want me to type in B-E-A-V-E-R.’

‘Yes. I’m sorry. It’s a private password. I’m the only person who knows it and now unfortunately for me you do too. I’m a horn-dog, so shoot me. Now go into my office when you get home and type B-E-A-V-E-R into my computer. Get the new safe code, it’s hidden in a document titled “Kids’ Activities”, it’s 48-62-something …’

‘And then what?’

‘On my desk, in the in-box, under some bank stuff, or just on a pile to the right on top of the desk you’ll see a folder marked Ridgefield. I need you to put it in the safe.’

‘Why?’

‘Carolina.’

‘Carolina what?’

‘First it’s the nail scissors. Then she puts a pile of newspapers to be thrown out on top of my desk as she’s dusting, then by accident, she grabs important folders, then she throws everything out. I lose everything. And I can’t risk losing this.’

‘Phillip, please. You’re being crazy neurotic. I’ll call her up and tell her not to touch your desk.’

‘Every day I tell her not to touch my nail scissors or my collar stays or my favourite Mont Blanc pen, and every day I can’t find any of them. She doesn’t listen.’

‘You know that husbands are more work than children, don’t you?’ My body was now splayed over my desk like a banana peel.

‘I never would be asking you this, but in this age, you never know.’

‘You never know what?’

‘Never know anything! It’s the information age! Everything is stolen from people’s trash, their mailboxes, their computers.’ Phillip was now in calm, lawyerly I-know-everything-there-is-to-know-on-the-planet mode. ‘I come from three generations of lawyers, and I am trained and versed in making prudent decisions. This is a prudent precaution and I’m going to Newark airport, no way to stop on the East Side. I want to leave knowing this is taken care of.’

‘Why can’t I just do it tonight when I get home?’

He’d lost his patience. ‘For the last time, I beg you, please stop questioning me. It’d be so much easier for me today, if, for once, just this once, you could just do as you are told.’

I harrumphed and went straight home, where I didn’t exactly do as I was told.