It Girl

"Let's just say Katrina is not on Angelo's Christmas card list," said Scott. "I only brought her here once."

"She's a gavonne," said Angelo.

"A what?" I asked.

"Italian slang for a person with no class."

"I'll have to remember that," I said. "So Scott, you do this every day?"

He nodded. "When I first started Angelo noticed I was buying nothing but pastries after the show. He told me I was approaching the vampire shift the wrong way."

"I've been getting up at two in the morning for years," said Angelo. "Sugar is not your friend on this shift."

"Anyway," said Scott, "he invited me to stop by for breakfast. And I've been coming here every day at three-thirty sharp ever since."

"Well, save a chair for me, Angelo," I said.

***

At one minute till seven my heart slammed against my chest for the first time in my television career. I'd never, ever been nervous, but this was more pressure than I'd ever felt.

And even though I was putting up a brave perky face, Scott noticed. He knows me too well.

He reached over and gave my hand a squeeze. "Hey. You're with me. Nothing can go wrong."

He looked into me with those incredible eyes of his, and seemed to suck whatever anxiety I had out of my body. I felt myself melt into the leather chair as the tension evaporated. Then I felt a burst of energy and took care of the most important thing: I yanked down my skirt as far as it would go, which, for some reason, wasn’t very far in the leg chair. Gavin must have designed the thing. I tried shifting into different positions, but no matter what I did America would get a great shot of my thighs.

"Thirty out!" yelled the floor director.

Half a minute before millions of Americans woke up with me.

Half a minute before every TV critic in the land sat poised holding a red pen filled with venom.

Half a minute before my first guest, the President of the United States, would be ushered from the green room.

The old line hit me. Americans worship success. But they root for failure.

"Ten out!"

So, this was it. They say there are forks in the road of life, moments during which your future can take off or do a swan dive into the dumper.

And as the light red light on top of the camera lit up, I knew this was a make or break moment.

***

The next day I knew how Sally Field felt when she won the Academy Award.

They liked me! They really liked me!

The reviews were positive across the board, from television critics to entertainment magazines to the Big Apple tabloids. My life felt like one of those movie posters with one line quotes from critics, like, "You'll stand up and cheer!" or, "The best morning show host since Katrina the bimbo!"

In reality, no one stood up and cheered at that hour of the morning, but apparently the country was comfortable with me. Some highlights from my own personal movie trailer:

"Veronica Summer brings a long overdue dose of journalistic credibility to The Morning Show."

"Summer is smart, informed, upbeat, and obviously has good chemistry with her college buddy Scott Winter. She looks like a solid choice out of the gate."

This one was my favorite, touching on the fact that I had no idea what a Louis Vuitton purse was supposed to look like during a fashion segment. "Nice to see a morning anchor who knows more about the Middle East than designer handbags. Her interview of the President was tough but fair."

However, as someone who has made a living being a credible journalist, I was a bit put off by the amount of ink used to describe my appearance. And it was a barrel of ink.

"The spunky copper-top has a mound of red tangles and killer legs bound to get any man's motor running in the morning."

"Scott Winter's wife must be incredibly trusting to let him spend the middle of the night with a woman who should be in the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue."

"Only a matter of time before Playboy makes Ms. Summer an offer."

But the most telling comment came from Hal the newsstand guy. Actually, it was more of a scary prophecy that he offered as I arrived for my daily haul of print and chocolate.

"So, big star now," he said. "Guess you'll have some handmaiden pick up your papers from now on. Just remember, I knew you before you were famous."

"I can still do my own shopping," I said. "But if I ever do get the big head, please let me know."

"I won't hold back, Freckles." He turned to take some money from another customer, then looked back at me. "So, how you gonna handle the dating thing now that you're a household name?"

"What do you mean?"

“Well, I guess if I was in your shoes, I’d be wondering if a guy was really interested in me or my salary.”

CHAPTER SIX

Hal's prophecy, such as it was, would apparently be put to the test very soon.

Two weeks into my new job and six weeks since I "threw Alexander off the porch" my friends thought it was time for me to put myself back on the market. My love life, or lack thereof, was the subject of our Sunday brunch conversation.

"I met a guy who I think might be a good match," said Layla, attacking a slice of london broil.

"See if he wants to have dinner at four," I said, stifling a yawn as I sipped a virgin mimosa. (Orange juice.) "He'll save money taking me to the early bird special."

"So, who is he?" asked Savannah, even though I knew damn well the two of them had already conspired on this project.

"You two reading off a prompter?" I asked.

"Smart ass," said Layla.

"I know how your devious minds work. Just get on with it."

"His name's Rob. He's a media buyer for an ad agency. Smart guy, funny, extremely cute. Thirty, never married. He already knows who you are."

"See, that's not fair," I said. "He knows what I look like and I don't—"

Layla interrupted me by shoving her iPad under my nose with a photo of this prospect, who, I had to admit, was extremely cute. My eyes widened and I absent-mindedly licked my lips.

"You were saying?" asked Savannah.

"Her prompter went out," said Layla.

Suddenly I was waking up. "He's uh, attractive."

"Yeah, right," said Layla. "Did you think I would fix you up with a guy who rings bell towers? Anyway, I told him you were available and that you two might hit it off."

"So," said Savannah, "I made a call and got you two a reservation for Saturday night at The Firefly."

My eyebrows shot up. "The Firefly? That place is booked six months ahead."

"Not if you know the owner," said Savannah. "And, we got you show tickets." She slid an envelope toward me.

I opened it up and saw two orchestra seats to the hottest Broadway musical. "How did you get…"

Savannah playfully batted her eyelashes and shrugged.

"Never mind," I said. "I don't wanna know."

"So you're good for Saturday," said Layla. "Rob will pick you up at six."

"Guys, I really appreciate this, but I've been spending Saturdays in bed."

"Yes, and y'all need some company in there," said Savannah.

I exhaled and shook my head. "I'm guessing I have no say in the matter."

"No," they said in unison.

***

A few minutes before my date, I knew I was in big, big trouble.

Because I was ready to go to bed. And no, not with Rob the media buyer or anyone else for that matter. Bradley Cooper could have walked in naked and I would have handed him the remote and told him to not to wake me. Though the thought did cross my mind that a wild night of sex might serve as an adequate sleep aid.

The week had been a roller coaster of sleep cycles. A few hours here and there, but not a single night with eight hours straight.

And right now I wanted about twelve hours of uninterrupted snoring.

Trust me, if my friends had not gone through all this trouble to get me "back in the saddle" as Savannah had put it, I would have called the guy and asked for a rain check. That not being an option, I slugged down one of those energy drinks (to which I had become almost immune), drank two cups of coffee and downed a chocolate bar. If that wasn't enough caffeine to get me through the evening, so be it, and my date could carry me home.

Still, despite my lack of energy I had managed to get gussied up enough to make a nice impression. (I should also mention that since I scored this gig, I am sought after by the paparazzi constantly, so I have to get dressed up and put on makeup just to shop for groceries. No more shoving my hair into a baseball hat and going out in sweats, which pisses me off.)

The doorman rang the buzzer, which told me my gentleman caller was here.

I looked at the clock and shook my head, knowing I had to stay awake for at least four more hours.

Great way to approach a first date, huh?

***

Rob the media buyer came as advertised, appropriately enough. His photo didn't do him justice, as he was even cuter in person. About five-ten, slender, with sandy brown hair and hazel eyes, he wore a sincere smile that brought long dimples into play.

Had I been wide awake, I probably would have been as excited as a schoolgirl and ready to jump his bones.

Alas, I was already fighting the sandman as we placed our order in the city's trendiest restaurant, which looked like a throwback to the gaslight era. Antiques everywhere, the only light provided by candles. A bubbling fountain in the center. Rose petals on the tablecloth. If I were in the mood I would have considered it incredibly romantic. Though we had a corner table in the back, I was getting constant stares. I politely smiled at everyone as I wondered if it would break some etiquette rule to dine while wearing sunglasses. I would make it a point to face the back of the restaurant any time I eat out in the future.

Rob was indeed a good match as we did have a lot in common. Thankfully he was carrying the conversation, as I found myself drifting in and out of consciousness. A quick look at the huge old grandfather clock told me I had three and a half hours to go. I was considering falling asleep during the play with the excuse that I was bored.

"The ad rates for your show have gone up since you started," he said. "Madison Avenue likes you."

"Good to know," I said.

The conversation segued nicely to sports, with his favorite teams, the Giants and the Mets, also being mine. His words began to fade and got a hollow sound as the tuxedoed waiter arrived with the soup course. He slid the china bowl in front of me and I tried to focus, but suddenly the world began to spin. I saw little black spots and knew from past experience I was about to pass out.

I grabbed the arms of my chair but I couldn't stop myself and the world went dark.

When I awakened, my vision cleared and I saw Rob and a waiter standing over me, both fanning me with napkins. My face felt very warm.

I had fainted, and gone head first into a bowl of lobster bisque.

"Do you need a doctor, Madame?" asked the waiter with a French accent.

"I'm fine," I said, right before I passed out again.

***

My eyes flickered as bright sunlight spilled onto my face.

Obviously, it was no longer Saturday night. I stretched my eyes open and looked up at industrial white ceiling tiles and a large fluorescent light that definitely wasn't the one in my apartment.

"Morning, sunshine."

I leaned up and saw Layla and Savannah seated at the foot of the bed, which was also clearly not my bed.

I was in a hospital room. "What the hell happened?" I asked.

"You passed out on your date," said Layla, who got up and moved toward the bed. "Twice. He called nine-one-one and they brought you to the emergency room, then checked you in for the night."

Savannah stood up. "I'll go get the doctor and let him know you're awake."

"What time is it?" I asked, as I stretched my arms out and yawned.

"Eleven on Sunday morning," said Layla. She sat on the edge of the bed. "I was beginning to wonder if you were ever gonna wake up. You've been out about seventeen hours."

"How did you know I was here?"

Layla reached for the end table, grabbed a bunch of newspapers and handed them to me. "Well, everyone kinda knows you're here."

I sat up and looked at the front page of New York's most popular tabloid. There I was, passed out on a stretcher, hunks of lobster in my cream-covered hair and mouth hanging open like a trophy bass, under the blaring headline.

MORNING ANCHOR GOES BOBBING FOR LOBSTER

"Dear God!" I said.

"Yeah, not exactly a Kodak moment."

I unfolded the paper and turned to the article.

Veronica Summer apparently doesn't need a spoon when eating soup.

The new co-anchor of The Morning Show did a header into her twenty dollar bowl of lobster bisque last night while dining at The Firefly, one of Manhattan's hottest restaurants. Her dinner companion, a young man who was not identified, called 911 after she passed out, was revived, and passed out again. A waiter at the restaurant confirmed Ms. Summer had not had any alcohol. She was taken to NYU's emergency room and admitted for overnight observation. Blood tests revealed no alcohol or drugs in her system.

A source close to the show tells us Ms. Summer has been exhausted trying to adjust to the early morning shift and suggested the weird hours and lack of sleep may have finally caught up with her.

No word on if she'll be back on the set Monday morning.

I rolled my eyes, dropped the newspaper and slapped my head back on the pillow as a doctor entered the room.

"Well, good morning, young lady," he said, sticking out his hand. "I'm Doctor Heller." He was perhaps forty, short and pudgy with thinning sandy hair and hazel eyes peering out of a moon face.

I shook his hand. "Veronica Summer. Sorry to tie up one of your beds for nothing."

He picked up the chart hanging on the foot of the bed and looked at it. "From what I can tell, a bed is what you need. When's the last time you had a good night's sleep?"

"Last night?"

"I meant before we checked you in here."

"A few weeks ago, before I took a morning anchor job."

"Yes, I watch your show. You're obviously doing a good job faking being awake. Your friends tell me you're having a lot of trouble adjusting to the overnight shift."

"I can't sleep more than four hours at a time. And it's also depressing the hell out of me. I've got no life. My whole life revolves around trying to get to sleep."

He nodded. "Have you been taking anything to help you sleep?"

"Wine. Over the counter sleeping pills. Melatonin. Nyquil. I've tried everything. Not at the same time, of course. Nothing works for more than four hours."

"Before you started working this shift, what usually helped you get a really good night's sleep?"

"Sex."

He bit his tongue and smiled. "I, uh, don't think your insurance covers that."

"Sure, it'll cover Viagra for guys but when women need some help, nooooo."

He laughed, pulled a pen and prescription pad from his pocket and started writing. "I'm going to prescribe a strong sleep aid. And this one should be more effective than a boyfriend and won't get you pregnant."

"Ooooh, I like a doctor who's a smartass."

"Occupational hazard when you work in the emergency room. Anyway, this medication has been very effective with my patients who work unusual shifts, like you. Now there is a small chance of a side effect. People have been known to drive while asleep—"

"I don't have a car and I don't know how to steal one. Just give me whatever it will take to knock me out."

He smiled and nodded as he ripped the prescription from the pad and handed it to me. "By the way, you had a ridiculous amount of caffeine in your system. Try to cut back. The thing that's helping you wake up for your show is also keeping you awake when you're trying to sleep. It takes quite awhile for caffeine to get out of your system. If you can simply get your sleep cycle adjusted, you won't need it."

"Got it. Thanks, doctor."

"I'll get you discharged. For today, go home and rest." He nodded at my friends and headed out.

"You know," said Savannah, "you may have something with your idea."

"She's right," said Layla.

I threw back the covers and started to get out of bed. "What idea?"

"Sex to knock you out," said Savannah.

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, and you see how my attempt to start a relationship last night ended up."

"Maybe you don't need a relationship," said Layla. "Maybe you could go the friends with benefits route."

"Now I know how Katrina Favor did this shift for so long!"

***

If I needed a reason to feel more positive about the job, she was sitting on the interview set waiting for me. Yes, one of the key carrots in the bunch, Senator Sydney Dixon, was my guest on Monday morning. Thankfully the extended stay in the hospital had recharged my batteries a bit. I'd also ditched the coffee and switched to fruit that was high in natural sugar, figuring things like dates and raisins might perk me up but not keep me awake at night. I still desperately wanted coffee, but was determined to give the natural high a try.

The Senator stood up to greet me as I approached the set and extended her hand. "Veronica, so nice to meet you."

"My pleasure," I said, as I shook her hand. Her turquoise eyes locked with mine, and I saw what was known in media circles as the look. The one that went right into your soul, seemed honestly sincere, as opposed to the usual blank glare you got from politicians who forgot your name ten seconds after you told them. It was part of the reason she was such a media darling and often received positive coverage bordering on bias. Reporters generally liked her personally, and she seemed genuine in return.

Voters loved her for any number of reasons, not the least of which was her appearance. The forty-five year old Senator from New Jersey is a stunner, a redhead like me but she's strawberry to my copper. Her body would be the envy of any twenty-year-old, as the former Marine drill sergeant has maintained her perfectly toned figure. But her buffed physique is a contrast to her incredibly sexy face, complete with high cheekbones, full lips, a sharp nose and a distinctive sultry whiskey voice that drives men crazy. It's like a cross between Demi Moore and Lorraine Bracco, and the moment you hear it you know who's speaking. She's known as the Tower of Power in Washington: a six foot babe who can turn heads in an evening gown and crack heads when she needs to. She also answers to Big Red from her days in the military.

That military service is an asset, as is her seemingly perfect normal family. Married to her high school sweetheart who is a school teacher, she's managed to raise two squeaky clean college age kids who spend their summers working with various charitable organizations. If there have ever been any skeletons in her closet, they've been exorcized. No one has even been able to come up with anything remotely resembling a scandal about the woman.

Put it all together and she's a slam dunk for the next Presidential election. I know it, the public knows it, and the network sure as hell knows it. Yes, there's this thing called bias which drives viewers crazy; in this case the networks are jockeying for position to get in the good graces of the woman who will occupy the Oval Office for four, and maybe eight, years.

That's not to say I agree with everything she stands for, because I don't. But since I'm an old school journalist I'll never share my opinions about politics, religion or social issues.

Anyway, she hasn’t officially kicked off a campaign with it being three years away, so today's visit is actually about things going on in the Senate. But there was a problem with one of the cameras, so we had a chance to make small talk while it was being fixed.

"I read about your hospital visit, are you feeling better?" she asked.

"Yeah, once I rinsed the bisque out of my hair. But you should know it does make a wonderful conditioner."

She laughed as she leaned back in her chair. "I'm not surprised you passed out. I couldn't imagine getting up at that hour every day. Though if I run for President, I know it'll be a couple of years without a break and crossing so many time zones I won't even know who I am. I wouldn't want to be one of those candidates who gets up to make a speech and forgets where they are."

"Hey, we love those sound bites. Speaking of the campaign—"

"Ah, nice try, Veronica. No announcement today. I haven't decided."

"Hey, you can't fault a girl for taking a shot."

"Look, I live in North Jersey and I've watched you for a long time. I know you're a solid reporter." She leaned forward and lowered her voice. "As opposed to some other morning show hosts."

"Thank you, that's very kind."

"So what do you want to talk about—"

"Ah, nice try, Senator."

"Hey, you can't fault a girl for taking a shot."

We shared a laugh, and I could see how the woman could charm even the most hard-boiled reporter.

Fifteen minutes later her interview was in the can. It was a spirited give and take; she didn't dodge any tough questions, I didn't lob any softballs, and she avoided anything that sounded rehearsed. She talked rather than recited. Again, I didn't agree with everything she said, but I couldn't help but like her personally as I walked her to the door.

"So, I was talking to Gavin," she said, "and he told me that should I decide to run you would be assigned to the campaign."

I nodded and smiled, thankful that Gavin was actually sticking to his word on something. "Yeah. So we could be tired together."

"Well, maybe by then you'll have learned some tricks and can give me advice. We redheads have to stick together. Although I'm not sure the rest of the media could deal with two spunky ones on the same plane."

"True. As far as attitude is concerned, we could have been separated at birth." We laughed as we reached the door. "Here's one piece of advice I can give you right now, Senator: be prepared to have no social life."

"Already there, honey. Sometimes I go weeks without seeing my husband."

"At least you have one."

"Don't worry, Veronica, Mister Right is out there."

I held the door open for her, revealing a waiting limo. "Thanks for coming by, Senator, and it was great to meet you."

She shook my hand and smiled. "Pleasure was mine. I'll see you again soon."

I watched her energetic walk to the limo, waving at a few pedestrians as she moved.

Funny, the carrot Gavin had dangled was a carrot top. Ironic, huh?

And suddenly the thought of a campaign and Air Force One gave me a shot of energy that topped anything in a coffee mug. Maybe I could do this after all.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Upon further review, maybe I can't do this after all.

Three months into the new job, and I've realized my old boyfriend was right. I still don't want him back, but he was right. I'm not a morning person and never will be. You can't force an owl to be a chicken. (That one's from Savannah.)

This truly has become the job from hell. Forbidden fruit, as Alexander would put it. I can almost hear him saying, "I told you so. You should have run off to Connecticut with me and you could be baking cookies, servicing me every night, and thanking me for the opportunity."