Fate and Ms. Fortune (13 page)

“Duh.” She yawned.

“You are not going to Phoenix,” I said. “Either of you.”

“You’re not the boss of me.” Sierra glared.

“Actually, I am…That’s why tomorrow after the show, I want you to go over to Chanel and invest in the best set of brushes Simon can buy. Then get yourself some nice black
pants and tops, maybe a good pair of shoes because you’ll be on your feet a lot, then show up at five
A.M
. every day ready to learn whatever I can teach you.”

“Maybe after I come back from Phoenix.”

“You tell her.” My mother patted her hand. “And just so you know, you’re not the boss of me either.”

“I am as long as you live under my roof. You want to go to Phoenix on some wild-goose chase, then first you have to talk to Daddy and explain yourself…believe me, I’ve just figured out the key to happiness and I’m doing this for your own good…Hello?” I picked up my cell. “No, I haven’t heard from Kevin. He’s your…coanchor…Well, have Simon call his house and his cell. Maybe try his driver…Gretchen, I’m sure he’s on the way in…What do you mean he left a note?”

I’
M
J
EWISH,
but what little I’d retained about my heritage from my years attending Hebrew school could fit on a Post-it note. And ever since my parents stopped going to their temple because they didn’t care for the new rabbi, it was as if I too had become an occasional Jew.

I still lit the menorah on Hanukkah, attended Passover Seders, and fasted on Yom Kippur. But put to the test, could I actually explain the significance of these holidays? Frankly, it all boiled down to this: They tried to kill us. We won. Let’s eat.

And yet, I had always appreciated the Jewish laws pertaining to death, for our rituals are not only humane but smart. We quickly bury our dead in a simple pine box. We gather at the mourner’s home for a week to share their grief. And together we recite the kaddish, the beautiful mourner’s prayer that reminds the living to live, and not to die with the loved one who was buried.

And though it normally made no sense to compare religious practices with work rituals, I did notice a similarity when crisis struck. Petty tiffs were put on hold. Union nitpickers
stopped threatening to report minor infractions. Producers, writers, and crew, fueled by adrenaline, worked without a break. And somehow the anchors maintained their buoyancy, managing not only to look good but to sound good, even when there was little new to say.

But never had I experienced the flawless synchronization of religion and reporting as when the pope died, and these two monoliths, the Vatican and the press, did what they did best. Carry on with tradition. In fact, there was so much beauty in the pageantry and prayers, the profound loss was felt by people of all faiths.

That’s why I was never more proud to be a part of this news team, though my efforts had no bearing on the success of the broadcasts. In fact, my even being there went largely unnoticed, except, interestingly enough, by Gretchen.

Each time I powdered her face, she would clasp my hand and thank me for being there. I suspected, however, that her gratitude had more to do with the fact that I had opted not to humiliate her when I found her naked and on all fours yelling, “Giddyup little doggy.”

But mostly she was clinging to me because she was in shock, as was the entire network, that Kevin O’Shea was missing in action.

Not that there wasn’t a bullpen full of weekend anchors available to fill the void. Yet none who could erase his boyish glee, like that of a young pitcher who was getting his first shot in the big leagues, and it was in the ninth inning of the last game of the World Series.

Unfortunately, their overanxious zeal was unbefitting this somber time, leaving Simon in the untenable position of having to walk to the mound to calm the rookie relievers while simultaneously screaming at producers to go find his fucking ace.

Rumors were thrown like curveballs. He was headed to Vatican City. He was passed out at a bar. And my favorite, he
was getting hair extensions and couldn’t leave until the glue dried.

Meanwhile, Simon instructed Gretchen to tell viewers that Kevin was en route to Rome, which prompted calls from his counterparts at
Today
and
Good Morning America.
“Rome my ass!” they teased. “You’ve got three guys on assignment there now. Where is he really?”

With suspicions up, Simon had to inform Kevin’s wife, Anne, who was generally clueless. Sure enough, she suggested that Simon call the gym. Sometimes he lost track of time in the sauna.

What neither Simon nor Anne knew, nor I until that day, was that there was no gym. Only a hotel down on Thirty-fourth and Lex where he and Gretchen apparently “worked out.”

Gretchen, mindful that her mic was hot, scribbled a message during a commercial break:

“Fortune! Off the set. We’re trying to check Gretchen’s lighting and you’re blocking her.”

“Go.” She pushed me.

“Why me?”

She answered with her eyes. How can I leave in the middle of the year’s biggest story to hunt down a man I supposedly despise?

I was dazed, starved, exhausted, and desperate for my alarm
to ring so the nightmare would be over. But when I turned around, it was just beginning. My mother was flirting with a cameraman, while a now braless Sierra sat on a stage manager’s lap. Where were the cute little summer interns when you needed them most?

“Getting some fresh air.” I waved good-bye.
And never coming back.

If anyone had a reason to run away, it was me. But just as Gretchen suspected, Kevin had beat me to it, holing up at their hideaway hotel. According to Antonio, the coconspirator, housekeeping had found him passed out in his room after dining on scotch and Sleep-Eze. Which explained how he missed the eleven calls to his cell.

Apparently he was showering and had assured Simon he would be at the studio in an hour. Now all Simon had to do was pray that Kevin was not only sober enough to read the teleprompter, but that Antonio didn’t keep the tabloid reporters on speed dial. A “Just Asking” blurb in tomorrow’s Page Six would be disastrous:

When I reported in to Gretchen, I couldn’t help but ask if she trusted Antonio not to alert the gossip mongers. “Damn right we trust him. The little douche bag is taking his family to Italy on what we pay him.”

Then, generous soul that she was, she gave me the rest of the night off, except it was now almost eleven, and I had to be back at work by five
A.M
. But shlep back to Brooklyn? I
couldn’t bear the thought. Not when that’s where my mother and Sierra were headed. “Don’t worry, darling. Sierra Paige Mather doesn’t mind sleeping on the couch.”

She
doesn’t mind? I mind! I might as well spend the night in Kevin and Gretchen’s already paid-for room, and hope he hadn’t finished the scotch. But just as I headed back into the hotel, it hit me that I did have a place to hide. An excellent place.

“Shhh.” I pet a barking Rookie as I let myself in. “Remember me? The nice girl who fed you? Let’s make a deal. You don’t tell Ken I was here, and I’ll give you an extra green treat.”

Smart doggy. He wagged in favor, which was good because I wasn’t leaving. I was now only a few blocks from the studio, so I could sleep until 4:30. Heaven! A few blissful hours alone in a king-sized bed with five hundred-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets.

I threw my bag on Ken’s couch and scouted out the place for, let’s see, the third time that day. And each time it was a self-tour. So why not continue the stroll and check out the fridge? God willing there was real food, and enough of it not to notice Goldilocks helped herself.

Rookie followed, barking when I opened the refrigerator door. “I’ll share. I promise.” He wagged his tail. “Wow! Three kinds of beer, spare ribs, is that a tomato…gross, an apple, no thanks, I’m stuffed from the last one. Ah! The bag of goodies Ken was carrying when I spotted him on the street…cheese, stuffed mushrooms, prosciutto…Yum! And since it was intended for me in the first place, how could he mind?”

I was breaking into the Gouda when I saw his answering machine blinking. “Should we see who it is?” I asked an even happier Rookie, who was gnawing at a spare rib. “He’ll never know.”

“Ken? Hi. I don’t know if you’ll remember me. We were on a panel discussion together a few years back…This is Rachel Waldman…”

Rachel Waldman? My Rachel Waldman?

“It’s the funniest thing. I just heard through the grapevine that you’re single again, and amazingly enough, haha, so am I…I was wondering…would you like to meet for drinks? Talk old times? We were quite a team on Torts-R-Us. Haha.”

“That bitch!” I grabbed a spare rib for myself. “Can you believe her?” I asked Rookie.

I played the message again to make sure I’d heard right, and she sounded like an even bigger backstabber the second time. But now what? Call her back and tell her friends didn’t let other friends call drunk?

“It’s like being sixteen again,” I said to Rookie as I crawled into Ken’s bed. “You’d like a guy, then your friend decides she likes him too, and makes her move. Jeez! Grow up already.”

A confused Rookie stared up at me and barked.

“Come here boy.” I patted the bed. “It’s you and me against the world.”

Then I realized he wasn’t waiting for an engraved invitation. He was too small to jump. I picked him up and watched him circle the bed, sniff for the best spot, lick himself, lay his head on my feet, and, I swear, sneeze like my grandfather.

“Are we happy now? Damn. You don’t suppose Ken keeps makeup remover around…Didn’t think so. Okay. Night, Rookie. Sweet dreams.”

I’m not sure what woke me. The erotic dream or the sound of the phone ringing. But the dream might explain why I was in a sweat. Damn whoever was calling for interrupting the best sex I’d had in…ever.

I lay there trying to figure out who had been on top of me. I’d e-mailed Derek Jeter, but he’d yet to reply. All I knew was
that this guy smelled of cognac and cologne, had swimmer abs and these dazzling, rum-colored eyes.

Rookie barked and I looked at the clock. Twelve goddamn thirty. Who would call now?

I walked into the kitchen as a woman was taping a message. It was probably his ex-wife. They were notorious for calling at all hours. But no, Nina’s voice wouldn’t sound this familiar.

“Anyway, sorry to be calling so late, sweetie. I’m still on the coast…Call me back…It’s very important that we talk…”

Oh my God. It was Mira Darryl. And though I met celebrities all the time, it was still a thrill. “Hello?” I picked up.

“Who is this?” she asked.

“Who is this?” I replied.

“I asked you first.”

“It’s…Sierra.”

“Sierra Paige Mather?”

Oh my God! You know her?
“Who?” I shivered.

“A friend of mine from LA…Her daughter’s name is…oh never mind.”

“Can I help you?”

“Yes. Is Ken there?”

“Um…he’s asleep.”
Not lying yet…
“He had a rough day.”
Also true.

“Well, this is quite important. Can you tell him that Mira is on the phone?”

“How about I take a message?”

“Do you know who I am?”

“Someone named Mira who is a little pushy?”

“This is Mira Darryl.”

“Wait. Let me get a pen…How do you spell that?”
Couldn’t deny it. Having fun.

“You don’t recognize my name?”

“Uh, no. Sorry. Are you the lady who comes to clean on Fridays?”

“Jesus Christ. Is he dating twelve-year-olds now…Look…This matter cannot wait, and since he’s not answering his cell…”

“Okay. Okay…Rookie, go get Daddy…Tell him he’s got a phone call…Thatta boy.”

“Hi Rookie,” she oozed. “It’s Mira? Remember me?”

“What’s wrong?” Pause. “He won’t wake up? I guess the sleeping pills knocked him out.”

“Fine!” She snorted. “I’ll leave a message. Do you think you can get it right?”

“Not usually.”
This call may be monitored for quality assurance.

“Tell Ken that Kyle has asked me to marry him and…I don’t know how to answer.”

“Ken. Kyle. Maybe it’s time to start with the Ls?”

“What?”

“Nothing…Okay. I’ve got it…Kyle wants to marry you…what should you do?”
Hello, Page Six. How much do you pay for exclusives?

“Good. Now continue…Kyle is wonderful, but so are you, and I know I told you that we were through, but I think about you a lot…I worry about you…I’m so confused and you understand me so well…”

“Whoa, slow down. I graduated from Penn State, not Katharine Gibbs…Okay, let’s see…He’s really wonderful…but so are you…”

“Oh fuck! Just tell him to call me first thing in the morning. I don’t care how early.”

“Good-bye?” I said to a dial tone. “She is not a nice lady.” I turned to Rookie.

He barked in agreement. Good doggy.

Now I was torn between not wanting to waste another precious minute of sleep and wanting to return to our regularly scheduled fantasy, in which I was being made love to by a man who was getting me so hot, I would never change the channel.

Unfortunately, too much time had elapsed and the images were mere fragments. But I didn’t need Freud for the analysis. Yesterday I’d had two accidental penis sightings, Kevin’s and Ken’s. I was sleeping on pillows with traces of a wooded scent, and feeling pent-up demand for the mornings I would arouse David, then playfully climb aboard for a steamy wake-up call.

If only I could replay this dream on demand, like an HBO movie. And not have to focus on the clock’s loud ticking, Rookie’s scratching, and my own self-loathing.

How could I have interfered in Ken’s personal life when I didn’t know or even like him? It was his business if he wanted to go out with a two-faced lawyer who would urge her best friend to hook up with him and then go behind her back to do the same. Ditto for getting back with a fickle Hollywood star who would drop him again as soon as the wind blew east.

So why was I feeling possessive, like a dog marking his territory? Maybe other women chasing him upped his value, though that wasn’t what normally inspired me…It had to be something else that was drawing me to Ken. His testy bedside manner? His presumptuous demands? His extreme negativity?

Of course! I was destined to cure the emotionally disabled, one sorry dude at a time…provided they were irresistibly sexy and had a goose down comforter with sumptuous sheets…But who was I kidding? I was so conflicted about my feelings. Time for the old list of pros and cons. Luckily, Ken kept paper and pen at his bedside.

Pro: (1) We have a history even if we don’t know what it is. (2) He is sooooo hot oh my God what a body I love his hands. (3) Smart, successful, not in bankruptcy. (4) Weird sense of humor but at least he has one. (5) Contacted by his dead friend to pay attention to him.