Eyes on You (12 page)

At the end of that magical but melancholy summer, I returned home, ready to start school. I was sure Janice would be gone, banished. But there she was, a sly smile plastered on her face. My father, it turned out, had believed
her
version of events, that I was the true villain, planting evidence against her. She intensified her efforts, locking me in a closet every day. By the end of the year, I was living permanently with my aunt. Though my father visited sometimes, I never returned to my old home.

I was startled now when I looked east and saw the street sign for Twenty-eighth street. I’d been so engaged in my thoughts, I hadn’t noticed how much ground I’d covered. I spun around, wondering if I should retrace my steps to the beginning. To my shock, the senior producer Alex Lucca was standing a few feet behind me.

“Alex,” I blurted out.

Had he been
following
me? I wondered, and then realized how crazy that thought was.

“Oh, hi,” he said, looking surprised. “I didn’t realize it was you ahead of me. I’ve never seen you with your hair like that.”

His hair seemed different, too, tousled in front in kind of a weekend look that went with the tight navy T-shirt and jeans he was wearing. But his expression was as inscrutable as always.

“What brings you here?” I asked. “Is your place nearby?”

“No, but I do volunteer work down this way on weekends. And I like to take a walk up here afterward.” He smiled. “There’s something about train tracks that always beckons me.”

“What kind of volunteer work?” I asked.

“At a halfway house, helping ex-cons with their legal issues.”

“Nice,” I said, impressed. “Is it partly to keep your hand in the law, in case you ever want to go back?”

“I just feel sorry for some of these guys, and it’s a way to assist. I’d never go back to the law professionally.”

I was tempted to ask why, but he’d delivered the last line bluntly, as if it weren’t open for discussion.

“And what brings
you
down here?” he asked quickly. “You live uptown, don’t you?”

“Yes, but I had lunch close by. And train tracks beckon me, too.”

He cocked his head back in kind of an “Ahh” expression. “Though the problem with these is that they end right
here
. I want train tracks that I can follow for hours. Of course, it would help if there were some cafés along the side where they serve a nice Italian rosé.”

It was one of the first vaguely revealing things I’d heard him say, and I smiled in response. “I assume from your name that a love of Italian rosé comes naturally.”

“Yes, my dad’s Italian, though my mother’s a hundred percent Irish.”

That explained the dark hair with the pale skin.

“Fortunately,” he added, grinning, “my father did most of the cooking.”

I had a sudden inclination to ask if he wanted to grab a cup of coffee or even a glass of rosé. It would be good to know him better, especially in light of everything going on. I let the thought pass. I had too much to do. “Well, I should be heading home,” I said. “Have a good weekend.”

He nodded and lifted a hand in farewell.

On the taxi ride north, a text came in from a friend, reminding me that I was joining her and her husband tonight for dinner with an eligible male friend of theirs. I groaned out loud in the cab. I couldn’t do light and breezy, not with everything weighing on me. I pleaded a work-related emergency and begged forgiveness, though I knew that would be the last time she would try to orchestrate my next great romance.

I ordered in for dinner and ate the meal alone, feeling my thoughts darken as the day did. It wasn’t just the doll that was troubling me. It was what might be
next
. Was something else in store for me? As I slipped into bed, I could hear the sound of my heart beating faster.

The rest of the weekend rushed by. I spent Sunday prepping for the
Times
interview. According to Ann and my book publicist, the reporter, Rebecca Cashion, was fair but hardly a pushover.

She arrived at my office at nine the next morning, a photographer in tow. She was fiftyish, classy, with a laid-back conversation style. She took notes by hand though she was also recording the interview. I sensed that it was her way of slowing the pace down a little, making it easier for her to assess me.

The initial questions were about the book and my interest in exploring the secrets that women keep. No curveballs. Then she segued into the show. It was no surprise when she raised the question of chemistry between Carter and me. “Both of you are single, right?” she said.

“Well, I am,” I said, smiling. “You’ll have to let Carter answer for himself.”

She raised an eyebrow. “But he’s not
married
,” she said.

I laughed. “Well, he wasn’t when I left the set on Friday, but I haven’t asked him what he did this weekend.”

I’d caught her off guard with the joke, and she laughed, too. “So it wouldn’t be so terrible if the two of you became an item, would it?”

I smiled again. Keep it light, I urged myself. “Well, I don’t think the network would be very keen on us using the open of the show to fight over whether the toilet seat stays up or down.”

“Right,” Cashion said, her face neutral. She glanced at her notes and reached to turn off the tape recorder. “I think that’s about it,” she added. I recognized the ploy. It was used sometimes by reporters to disarm you before they lobbed one last question, one that could catch you totally off guard.

“Great.”

“Oh—but I do need to clarify a few points about your career. Do you have one more minute?”

“Sure.”

“You broke into TV relatively on the late side. Have you felt that you needed to make up for lost time?”

“I
am
a bit of a late bloomer in TV,” I said, “but that’s not as uncommon as it used to be. Many people toggle back and forth between different types of media these days.”

“Was the book part of a plan to turbocharge your TV career?”

“I started the book before I returned to TV,” I said, making sure not to sound defensive. “I had no clue I’d be lucky enough to land another show.”

“Last question. What do you consider your biggest weakness?”

I’d banked on her asking that. “Besides chocolate?” I said, cocking my chin toward the glass jar of M&M’s on my desk. “I sometimes fail to stop and smell the roses.”

“Would you say you’re fiercely ambitious, then?”

An alarm went off in my brain. In light of my conversation with Potts, I had to be careful how I responded. “I wouldn’t characterize it quite that way. I just love my work. And sometimes a day goes by, and I realize that I’ve been enjoying myself so much, I forgot to break for lunch.”

After she departed, I swung by Tom’s office and filled him in about my conversation with Potts.

“Why would you be looking into crime stuff without checking with me?” he asked.

God, I thought, was
that
his main concern?

“I simply wanted to flesh out my ideas before showing you.”

“Yeah, okay,” he said, shrugging. He started rapping his knuckles lightly on his desktop, as if he had something else on his mind, but he never volunteered it. I told him I’d see him at the meeting and left. As I hurried back to my office, I thought of what Carter had said. Tom might have one foot out the door.

The
Times
reporter returned later to watch the show from just off-set. Carter had been forewarned about her presence, and he did his best to make us both look as good as possible.

With the distraction of the reporter removed, the pit was back in my stomach the next morning. Each time I stepped into the doorway of my office, I’d search the room with my eyes, wondering if another ugly surprise awaited me. I felt anxious, too, about how life might blow up after my revelation to security. Potts didn’t want me drawing attention to myself, and I’d be doing just that. According to Ann, the
Times
piece was not likely to run until Thursday or Friday.

On Wednesday morning, my cell phone roused me from sleep before my alarm had a chance to. It was Ann, calling to report that the piece was in that day’s edition, sooner than expected.

“I wanted to give you a heads-up before you saw it or anyone called,” she told me.

“Is there a problem?” I asked. Her tone was hardly joyous.

“Not really, no. It’s the kind of piece people would kill for, and the publisher will probably love it.”

“
But
. . . ?”

“There’s a quote in there you aren’t going to like.”

“From whom?”

“Unattributed. I just sent you the link.”

“What’s the line?”

“I want you to read it in context. Then call me back.”

I’d been using my laptop in bed the night before; I snatched it from the floor, clicked on the link and began to read, racing over the words. It all seemed good—my book was “insightful and provocative,” I was a rising TV star, totally charming on the air and in perfect sync with my coanchor. Jeez, I thought, what’s not to like?

And then my eyes lit on the line.

“Ms. Trainer got a relatively late start in television and lost ground temporarily after her last show was canceled. But with her new show—and its strong ratings—she’s making up for lost time. And there are some who say she has bigger things in sight. ‘Her ambition is as naked as a porn star,’ says one source at the cable network who asked not to be identified. ‘Don’t make the mistake of getting in her way.’”

Oh
lovely
, I thought. Now I’m Eve Harrington slash porn star.

I called Ann back. “Overall, the piece is great, but you’re right, I hate that quote. Can you find out who said it?”

“You know as well as I do that they never divulge their sources.”

“Who do you
think
said it?”

“I have no idea. I arranged for her to do phone interviews with Potts, Carter, and Tom Golden, but she could have gone to anyone else on her own and convinced them to speak off the record.”

“Like Vicky?” I said. “It’s the kind of sound bite I could hear coming out of her mouth.”

“Maybe,” Ann said. “But I wouldn’t worry about it. The quote will probably jack up your book sales.”

“I’m thinking about Potts. He practically told me I had a ‘lean and hungry look,’ and now this.”

“If he seems put out, I’ll do my best to smooth it over.”

“Thanks so much, Ann,” I said gratefully. “I’d appreciate your help on that.”

“Now that the story’s out, you need to talk to security about the doll.”

“I know.”

It was time. I’d made one shift in my strategy, however. Instead of going directly to Oliver, I’d decided to fill Tom in first. That way he wouldn’t feel that I’d sneaked around him again.

By the time I arrived at work that morning, there were two dozen emails from people congratulating me on the piece, everyone from my book editor to college friends to former colleagues. There was one from my father, too, making me catch my breath. “Terrific story,” he wrote. “Very proud of you.” I shouldn’t have been shocked. He did email me occasionally—from the land of let’s pretend.

The day took off at light speed after that. I sent Tom an email requesting a few minutes of his time, and he replied that because we were crashing two stories, it would have to wait until after the show.

Settling into the chair to have my hair done, I could feel a sense of dread ballooning. As much as I wanted company security on the case, it worried me, too. I was about to light a brush fire without knowing how much would ultimately burn.

“You ready for me?” I called over to Stacy while Jimmy sprayed my hair.

“Yup, all set,” she said.

I’d tried to focus on my notes while my hair was being styled. As I slipped into Stacy’s chair, I took a good look in the mirror for the first time. Despite my walk in the sunshine on Saturday, I still looked pale as a jelly fish. “You’re going to have to work your magic again,” I said.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m on it.”

I closed my eyes as she dabbed at my skin with a makeup wedge. Her touch was relaxing, settling my nerves a little. But after a moment I popped open my eyes and leaned forward.

“That’s the same foundation you always use, right?” I said. I was starting to experience a tingly feeling all over my face.

“Yup. Remember, I’ll add bronzer later.”

“It just—”

The tingling was intensifying, verging on unpleasant.

“You okay?” Stacy asked.

“No,” I exclaimed, jumping up.

My face was burning like hell.

No,
no
, I thought, this can’t be happening.

I spun around one way and then the other, like a wildebeest with a bug boring through its ear.

“What’s wrong?” Stacy exclaimed.

“I—I need tissues. My face feels like it’s on fire.” It was getting worse every second, as if I were walking into a furnace.

Stacy yanked a handful of tissues from a box and thrust them at me. As I swiped at my face with them, she bolted toward the big sink at the end of the room and jerked on the faucet. “Come here,” she yelled.

I threw myself toward the sink.

“Don’t worry about your hair,” Stacy commanded. “Just get your face under the stream.”

At first it stung when the water hit my skin, but after a few seconds I could feel the pain receding.

“You should wash your face, too,” Stacy urged. “With something gentle.” She grabbed a tube, told me to put out my hand, and squeezed a blob of cleanser onto it. As soon as I massaged it onto my face, it started to sting again. I splashed on more water and finally raised my head from the basin. Jimmy had scurried over and was hovering right next to us.

“It’s turning red,” Stacy exclaimed as she handed me a towel. It hurt to even touch the cloth lightly to my skin. I spun around toward the mirrored wall behind me. I caught sight of my face and gasped. It was not only red; a white coating seemed to be forming, like frost on a glass.

“Oh my gosh, are you
allergic
or something?” Jimmy said.

“You definitely used the regular foundation on me, right?” I said, ignoring him and looking at Stacy.

“Yes, of course,” she said. “I’ve heard of people developing allergies over time, but not overnight. Look, we need to treat your face stat. And we should call a derm, too.”