Twitter Girl

“Honey, I’m just gettin’ started.

***

The phone rings just as I hit my hotel room at midnight. I’m tired but exhilarated, and when I see it’s Ripley I take the call. “You’ve reached Twitter Girl. For sarcasm, press one—”

Beep. “Damn, Cassidy, you were hilarious tonight.”

“I guess a few days off from being snarky will pay dividends.”

“It must have built up while you were out of a job. God, that tweet about the moderator… I couldn’t stop laughing.”

“Well, the campaign people were very pleased.”

“Okay, enough about your new job. You turned Becker’s head yet?”

“It might already be spoken for.”

“You’re kidding me! Say it aint so! Who is it?”

“The drop dead gorgeous twenty year old flight attendant on our plane. She disappeared into his office for twenty minutes then came out needing lip gloss. Don’t think she was inflating his life jacket for use as a flotation device.”

“Well, shit, Cassidy. So I’m out before I even get there.”

“I wouldn’t say that. There’s a huge age difference between her and the Senator. What could they have in common?”

“Duh-uh. You’re seriously asking what might attract a middle-aged guy to a hot younger woman? Earth to Cassidy…”

“Sorry, it’s late. But anyway—”

“You said something in your text about runner-ups?”

“No shortage of seriously attractive guys in this campaign. Between the adorable strategy guy in New York, the hunky advance man and the hotties on the plane, it’s like a cute guy buffet.”

“Okay, see you when you get back. At least now I know who the competition for Becker is. I’ll have to go to DEFCON 1.”

And where Ripley is concerned, that means seriously dressing up for her volunteer job. Her “A” game will turn mine into an “F”.

***

I’m already buckled in for the flight home and watching through the window as the Senator gives a last minute interview on the tarmac to a TV crew with Frank standing at his side. Becker wraps it up and shakes hands with the reporter and photographer before heading toward the plane. Frank enters first and walks toward the seat next to me.

But I’m laser locked on the front of the cabin. Senator Becker steps into the center aisle and hands Jessica his coat. She hangs it up, turns around and gives him a big hug.

He hugs her back with a big smile on his face, then kisses her on the cheek as Frank plops down next to me.

“They’re not terribly discreet, are they?” he says, shaking his head as he stares at them. “Someone should say something.”

“No kidding.” I’m still looking at the front of the plane where they’ve broken the embrace but Becker is now holding her hands. “Frank, I realize I’m new and this is probably not my place to say this, but don’t you think you should be the one to do something about it?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I mean, it’s only a matter of time before we have reporters on the plane and they see it. Aren’t you worried about his image? How old is she?”

“Nineteen.”

“Good God, Frank, people can’t see the next President running around with a teenager.”

“What can I say, he likes ’em young.” Frank leans over and lowers his voice as the Senator heads toward the back of the plane. “No one’s had the guts to talk to him about it. Including me.”

Becker smiles at me as he passes. “Great job last night, Cassidy.”

“Thank you, Senator,” I say. He opens the door behind me and disappears into the meeting room. (Or should we call it the multi-purpose room?)

“You know,” says Frank, “I think we’d all consider it a personal favor if you’d say something.”

“Me? Are you out of your mind? I’m not going to tell the Senator he’s looking like a cradle robber. I hardly know the guy.”

“I meant say something to her. Maybe coming from a woman she doesn’t really know it might sink in. Go on, you’re not shy about saying anything. Go talk to her.”

I’m not wild about the idea, but I know how reporters think. And if a member of the media sees that kind of behavior with a woman that young, Becker is done. Besides, we need to keep the dream alive for American women that he’s available. I get up and walk toward Jessica, who is busy locking things away for takeoff.

She turns to face me and smiles. “If you want something to drink, I’ll bring it to you as soon as we’re airborne.”

I shake my head. “It’s not that.” I gently take her arm and pull her away from the aisle into the doorway so no one can see us. “It’s your… behavior.”

She furrows her brow. “Excuse me?”

“Look, I know you’re young and all but if the media sees you in a clench with the Senator, it won’t be good.”

Her face tightens a bit. “Really?”

“Sweetie, the media would eat it up, and not in a good way. It would be a huge scandal.”

“So I’m not allowed to hug my own uncle?”

To say my face is turning beet red is putting it mildly. “Oh my God…”

Jessica studies my expression for a moment, then smiles and starts to laugh. She grabs my hand. “You thought… Uncle Will and I—”

“Please ask the pilot to make an emergency landing at the nearest hospital so I can have my foot surgically removed from my mouth.”

She slowly nods. “Yeah, I know what this is about. Frank told you to say something, didn’t he?”

“How’d you know?”

“He basically initiates new people into the campaign with a practical joke. I’ve seen some good ones but this takes the cake.” She looks around to make sure no one’s listening. “You gotta get even.”

“Oh, trust me, Jessica, I will. Payback will be a stone cold bitch.”

“And just so you know, we’re a really close family. Uncle Will is my mom’s brother, and when my dad passed away he helped raise me. He’s been like a father to me. I really don’t want to be a flight attendant but he only wants people he can trust on the plane.”

“That’s nice to hear. Anyway, I’m sorry this happened.”

“Nothing to apologize for. I’m used to it. Nothing is sacred on this campaign so it’s good preparation for the real world.”

“By the way, may I ask how old you are?”

“Twenty-five. Why?”

“You’re mature beyond your years.”

“Thank you. Oh, we’re about to take off, so you need to buckle up.”

“Sure thing.”

“And please let me know if I can help you get some revenge.”

I turn and head back to my seat staring daggers at Frank, while the rest of the passengers are biting their lips and doing their best not to laugh. “Okay, guys, you’ve had your fun.” Everyone bursts into laughter as I pass them and take my seat, then look at Frank. “I will get even.”

“I would expect nothing less.” He extends his hand. “Welcome to the campaign, Twitter Girl.”

Jessica’s voice comes over the intercom as the plane’s engines fire up. “Please fasten your seat belts as we’re about to take off. Once we’re at a cruising altitude I’ll be bringing coffee through the cabin. And I cannot guarantee what will be in it… Frank.”

Oh, I like this gal.

I sit back and melt into the soft leather seat and just as I’m about to flip my phone to airplane mode, it beeps with a text.

And as I read it, my blood runs cold.

CHAPTER FIVE

@TwitterGirl

President Turner in NYC today. Over/under on gaffes is four. Bet the mortgage on the over.

“Cassidy. All is not as it seems. You’re still a reporter. Start digging.”

The text did not list a sender. In fact, when I hit reply button I saw something I’d never seen before.

Sender unknown.

This of course had made for a very stressful plane ride home.

After my blood pressure calmed down, I considered the possibilities. The text was from someone in another campaign. It was from a former employee of the Senator who had an ax to grind. Those were the most likely.

Or the worst possibility, it was someone who knew the truth. What that truth might be was anyone’s guess.

But when journalism gets in your blood, it’s as addictive as any drug. Tell a reporter there might be a story, and the reporter will always check it out, no matter how lame the tip might seem. The thought of another reporter getting a scoop because you didn’t bother to do a little legwork drives everyone in the news business. It’s not fear of failure, but fear of getting beaten.

My brother Sam, who is also a digital whiz, said the text was obviously from what is known as a “burner phone” which is disposable and therefore untraceable. He also thinks it’s from someone in another campaign, but wants me to keep my eyes open. Gotta love my brother, he’s always trying to protect me.

Between that text and the quick end to my dinner with Becker’s deputy campaign manager, my reporter radar is up. I’m going to start quietly poking around.

Is Will Becker all that he seems?

Inquiring minds wanna know.

***

Meanwhile, after the “Will Becker is off the table rollercoaster” I went through last week thanks to a combination of my own suspicions and Frank’s practical joke, Ripley and I are officially kicking off our own campaign to turn the Senator’s head by ignoring him. My best friend had been disappointed after hearing that he was spoken for, but she perked up when I told her that he was not in a relationship with his niece. (Of course, had they been from Arkansas, an actual uncle–niece romance would not have raised an eyebrow.)

Anyway, Ripley is dressed to the nines (as far as office attire is concerned) as I lead her into the Manhattan campaign headquarters for her first day as a “volunteer.” She removes her coat with a flourish and this brings every male in the room to a screeching halt. Jaws drop and eyes widen as they lock on her like a heat-seeking missile. The women who had simply glared at me give her the death stare. She follows me toward Becker’s office, sashaying in a form-fitting red dress that shows off her bikini-perfect body even though it has a high neck, long sleeves and a knee-length hemline. Cut-out shoulders offer a little tease of perfectly toned skin while four-inch matching stilettos complete the package. Her outfit is sort of a combination between conservative and slutty, which only Ripley can pull off. I’m thinking I wasted my head start. She has taken ignoring a man to a new level, as no red-blooded male could possible feel indifferent looking at her in that outfit.

Becker’s office door is open and he’s on the phone as we arrive. “Yeah, I think we have more work to do in New Hamp…(long pause) shire…”

Said long pause was caused as he looked up and saw Ripley. She flashes a smile at him as his eyes bug out and jaw drops.

Yep, I’ve seen it before. He’s been hit by the DeAngelo thunderbolt, which renders men momentarily speechless and unable to function, like some sexual Star Trek phaser set on stun.

I hear a voice on the other end of the phone. “Will? Will, are you still there?”

“Huh? Oh yeah,” he says, as he turns his attention back to the phone call. “I’ll get back to you this afternoon as soon as I run this by the staff. Talk to you then. Bye.” He tries to hang up the phone but misses the cradle.

I turn to Ripley and roll my eyes. She bats her lashes and smiles.

Round one to my best friend, no contest. A knockout by a knockout. The judges are unanimous.

Becker hangs up, moves around his desk toward us and extends his hand toward Ripley. “You must be Cassidy’s advertising friend I’ve heard so much about.”

She shakes his hand as I handle introductions. “Senator, this is Ripley DeAngelo. Ripley, Senator Becker.”

“Great to meet you,” she says. “I really admire what you’re doing and hope I can contribute in a small way.”

“Hey, it’s great to have another person to brainstorm with our team,” he says, eyes locked on her as he still hasn’t let go of her hand. He places his other hand on top. “Should help to have someone who’s not in politics. Sometimes we’re too close the problem. I really appreciate you volunteering.”

“Well, my agency can spare me from time to time. Of course, you can do that if you own it.”

“I guess so.” He turns to me. “Oh, Cassidy, Tyler is waiting for you in the conference room. Wants to run some stuff by you this morning.”

“Sure.”

He turns back to Ripley and gives her that famous smile. “And I’ll give our newest volunteer a tour.”

They head out the door as I watch for a moment before I’m off to see Tyler. I have to admit, they look like a couple on the top of a wedding cake right off the bat. There’s some obvious sexual attraction there by the Senator.

Hey, she’s my best friend. I’m happy for her.

Yeah, let’s go with that.

***

“T.G., welcome home!” Tyler’s face lights up as I enter the conference room. “You kicked ass in Iowa.”

“Thank you, but it was the Senator who kicked ass in the debate.”

“Yeah, but you started closing the lid on Marvin Hensler’s coffin. A few more tweets like that and he’ll be dead and buried.”

“Hell, Tyler, he doesn’t have a shot anyway.”

“Yeah, but the best way to wake up his followers is to show that he’s stupid.”

“I think he does that on his own quite well.”

“But you help take it to another level. You’ve heard the term national joke?”

“Yeah. What about it?”

“That’s what you’re doing to candidates like him. Some of the late night talk shows used your line. You should demand royalties.”

“Hey, a job in the White House would be payment enough. So what are you up to this morning?”

“Wanted to go over some homework for you.”

“Homework?”

Tyler reaches over to the next chair and grabs a bunch of manila folders stuffed with papers. “The staff has compiled all the stupid things the other candidates and the President have said over the years.” He plops them down in front of me.

“I would think it would fill an entire library.”

“Good point. Perhaps if Top Dog gets in office we can get a pork barrel project for that. National Museum of Idiocy. Anyway, familiarize yourself with this because you can make these little sound bites rear their ugly heads and nip the candidates in the ass.”

“Okay, it’s a lot of reading but it will be fun.”

He pulls a zip drive out of his pocket and hands it to me. “Here’s your travel version. I printed it out so you can make notes in case you’re old school.”

“Actually, I am when it comes to journalism. I may be Twitter Girl but I’m like Robert Redford in All the President’s Men when it comes to investigating a story.”

“I love that movie! That scene where he works the phones and writes stuff on the legal pad—”

“That’s me. And that’s the most accurate film you’ll ever see about how reporters actually work.”

He nods and pulls his laptop in front of him. “Now to something fun. Do you have any plans Sunday afternoon?”

“Well, like most New Yorkers I was gonna sit down and watch the Giants playoff game. Why, do you guys need me to come in?”

“No, not at all. So you like football?”

“I love football.”

“Great. I’ll put you on the ticket list.”

My eyes light up. “You guys actually have playoff tickets?”

“Top Dog is a season ticket holder and he likes to take the staff on outings. A team building sort of thing to get away from the campaign.”

“But I just started here. Surely some people who have been here awhile are entitled to them.”

“Most of our people aren’t from this area. Not a whole lot of Giant fans on staff so the ticket is yours. By the way, this isn’t a private box, so you’ll be sitting out in the cold.”

“Fine with me. After Iowa it will feel like the beach. You going?”

“Unfortunately I have to go to a wedding.”

“Who the hell gets married on a Sunday during playoff season?”

“Jets fans. They knew their team would be awful, as always. Anyway, I’m taping the game so don’t you dare call me and tell me how it went. Big Blue all the way.”

***

Sam rolls toward the dining room table on this Saturday night carrying a bunch of dishes like a seasoned waiter along with a bottle of wine in his lap. I lick my lips as he slides a plate of cajun seafood Alfredo in front of me. Ripley already has her fork and spoon at the ready as she adores his cooking. Sam leans over and starts carpet bombing her fettuccine with freshly grated parmesan, as he knows she’s a cheese fanatic. She digs in immediately, twirls a ball of pasta with a shrimp and pops it in her mouth. She closes her eyes as she savors it and licks her lips like a cat. “God, that’s better than sex. Sam, you’ll make someone a great wife.”

“Cute,” he says, as he moves to the head of the table. I’m older but he’s the man of the house, so he sits at the head. I like tradition that way. By the way, Sam has had a major crush on Ripley since he hit puberty and says he would die if she ever knew. Of course it’s so obvious the way he dotes on her that she figured it out long ago, but thankfully he doesn’t know she knows. (Even my brother the genius is a typical man in that when it comes to women he misses the obvious.) I’ve always wondered if there weren’t such an age difference if those two would make a good couple.

“So,” says Sam, grabbing the bottle opener, “how’s the political version of The Bachelor going? Has there been a rose ceremony yet?”

I cock my head at Ripley. “She’s out of the gate like Secretariat,” I say, just before I stuff my face with pasta.

Sam turns toward Ripley as he pops the cork on the wine and beings pouring her a glass. “Ah, do tell.”

“Nothing to tell,” says Ripley, too busy shoveling food in her mouth to bother looking up from her plate.

“Horseshit,” I say. “Becker nearly tripped over his tongue when he saw her in that red dress.”

“The one with the high neck and the cut-out shoulders?” asks Sam. I nod. “She looks great in that. Of course, she looks great in everything.”

Ripley looks up and smiles at him. “You’re sweet,” she says, talking through the pasta, though it comes out, “Yur sreet.”

I point my fork at her. “Becker gave her a personal tour of the office.”

“And that’s all it was,” said Ripley, coming up for air and a sip of wine.

“Oh, come on, I could tell you two had a connection.”

“Maybe so. But all he did was ask about you.”

My fork is suddenly suspended in mid-air inches from my mouth.

“And the plot thickens,” says Sam.

“Continue,” I say. “What did he ask?”

She puts her utensils down and dabs her lips with a napkin. “Let’s see… has Cassidy ever been married? Is she seeing anyone? What does she like to do for fun?”

“You serious?”

Ripley nods. “Yep. Anyway, I didn’t react in a jealous high school manner because I am keeping the pact.”

“You two have a pact?” asks Sam, putting down his utensils and resting his chin on his hands. “Oh, I can’t wait to hear the details of this.”

“We’re both supposed to ignore him,” says Ripley.

Sam furrows his brow. “I don’t understand. I thought this guy was the ultimate catch for you guys. Why would you both ignore him?”

“Men always want what they can’t have,” I say, reaching for a piece of hot Italian bread. “Dating 101.”

“Yeah, you have a point,” says Sam. “But you two aren’t exactly shrinking violets. What constitutes ignoring him? Grabbing his ass only once a day?”

“Hush, little brother.”

“I’d agree to that,” says Ripley, “if you wanna amend the pact.” She goes back to attacking her food. “I almost forgot. After I basically gave him a dossier on the care and feeding of Twitter Girl he did invite me to the football game this weekend.”

I drop my fork. “You’re going to the Giants game? You hate football.”

She shrugs. “Thought I’d give it a shot.”

“Hell, Ripley,” says Sam, “you think a tight end is one of your requirements for a boyfriend.”

“That’s why I got this,” she says, as she leans down, reaches into her purse and pulls out a paperback titled NFL Football for Dummies. “I’ll be cramming tomorrow morning.”

I roll my eyes. “You can’t become a football fan in a day. Name one of the Giants.”

She searches the heavens for an answer, then looks at me and smiles. “Frank Gifford!”

“He retired in the sixties and he’s eighty years old! You only know him ’cause he’s married to Kathie Lee.”

“You said name one Giant and I named one. So there.”

“Name a current one.”

“I’ll know them all tomorrow.”

“Really. How much is a touchdown worth?”

“Uh… ten thousand dollars?”

Sam shakes his head and laughs. “Man, I’d love to be a fly on the wall when you talk football with Senator Becker.”

“I’ll record it on my cell,” I say. “I can sell it to ESPN for a fortune.”

***

The cold wind slaps us in the face as Ripley and I head down the concourse toward our seats. One look at her face tells me my best friend is not at all wild about dealing with the elements in pursuit of the ultimate catch. (Her idea of camping out is taking a nap on the sun porch in May.)

“Why couldn’t we have gone to a Broadway show?” she asks. “At least there’d be heat.”

“You can go home if you like, I’ll tell him you weren’t feeling well.”

“Hell no, dear friend. I’ll freeze my ass off for a shot at Becker’s.”

“Thought so. We’ll get you some hot chocolate when we get to our seats.”

“I think I’ll need a stronger antifreeze,” she says, pulling her suede coat tighter around her. “Couple of dirty martinis should warm me up.”

I stop and turn to face her. “Oh, would you like some paté to go with it?”

“Great idea—”

“You’re at a friggin’ football game in New Jersey! You can have a hot dog and a beer!”

She face tightens. “Really? There’s no place serving hot hors d’oeurves?”

I roll my eyes and continue toward our section, which is around the forty yard line. I pull the tickets out of my pocket and see we’re both in odd numbered seats. “Hey, we’re not sitting together. We’ve got seats nine and eleven.”

She shoves her hands in her pockets and adjusts her hat. “Let’s just get there.”

We turn into the tunnel and I hand my tickets to an usher who points to our row. We head down the steps and I see the seat between nine and eleven is occupied.

By the Senator.

I stop, grab Ripley’s arm and lean over to whisper in her ear. “Becker’s sitting between us.”

“Really? Hmmm, interesting. You think he planned it or that’s just the tickets we got?”

“Guess we’ll find out.”

“Maybe he wants a three-way with the hottest members of his staff.”

“Yeah, that will get him elected.”

We head down the steps to our row. The Senator spots us as we arrive and stands up. “Hey, you made it. Hope it wasn’t too much of a hassle getting here.”

“Nah, no big deal,” I say, as I slide past him and grab seat number nine as Ripley plops down in number eleven. I turn to face Becker and take in his outfit. Jeans, Giants ski jacket, stocking cap, wire-rimmed glasses. “You dress down really well.”

“I can blend when I have to. If I sat in a private box people would bend my ear for three hours and I’d never get to watch the game.”

“I never would have recognized you,” says Ripley.

“By the way, we’ll have a limo to get you guys home.”

We’re interrupted by two new arrivals, Andrew and another hot guy I haven’t seen. Ripley hasn’t met either one, and when she looks at me I gather by her “tell” (according to my brother) that she’s not at all disappointed by the runner-ups.

The Senator introduces them. The new contestant in hot guy roulette is a political consultant named Vinnie Franco and looks as Italian as his name. Tall with black hair, deep-set dark brown eyes, a rugged face. One of those guys with a heavy beard who always looks like he has a five o’clock shadow. The jury’s out on the rest of him until I see what’s under the goose down parka. Vinnie grabs the seat next to Ripley while Andrew slides by and sits next to me.