It Girl. Nic Tatano
salary is never to be made public. Never, ever. I don't want newspapers referring to me as a five million dollar a year anchor, and I don't want people in the newsroom resenting me because of my salary. When I sign this contract I want it buried in that warehouse at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark."
"Fine with me. If you don't tell anyone, it will never get out."
"No leaks to the tabloids."
He shrugged and said, "Yeah, sure. Not a problem." I studied his face, looking for anything that might confirm my suspicion that he was the leak to Page Six, but I saw nothing. If the guy had a tell, I'd have to figure out what it was.
We chatted for about an hour, going over the parameters of the job, what was expected, my stories in the field and after-hours appearances. Of course, I was pretty much giving him the husband-tuning-out-wife-bobblehead, nodding at everything while my daydream had already time-warped a few years into the future. It showed me covering the presidential campaign and anchoring the evening newscast.
I left at ten, heading directly for my lawyer's office with contract in hand, but I knew I'd sign it.
And then I learned something. I'd often heard anchors who make millions bitch about all the pressure they were under, and I'd always scoffed at it, thinking, yeah, must be real tough taking home that much dough.
I wasn't scoffing anymore, as I broke out in a cold sweat.
***
When you're a single woman living in a one-bedroom Manhattan apartment that costs two grand a month, you dream of a walk-in closet.
This job comes with one. Sadly, it's located at network headquarters.
It also comes with a clothing allowance. Actually, if you imagine your sugar daddy is a billionaire. All of my new clothes cost me nothing.
The wardrobe consultant took me shopping on the company dime and now I have about fifteen new outfits that will supposedly make me look my best, blend with the set, set off my hair and eyes, etc. While I usually slip into a size seven quite easily, a few things needed slight alterations. So I've been on a pedestal in one of the network's wardrobe rooms while a middle-aged pudgy woman named Nancy sizes up the turquoise skirt I'm currently wearing. I kept looking at the rack holding my new wardrobe thinking everything hanging on it probably cost more than I made last year.
Nancy was about to go to work on altering the skirt when she was interrupted by a polite knock on the door. "You decent?" I recognized the voice as Gavin's.
"Yeah, come on in," I said.
He opened the door and walked into the fitting room, sleeves rolled up and red tie loosened. I noticed he had a sizable bay window that was previously covered by his suit jacket. "Just checking on the wardrobe progress. Nancy, how are you?"
"Fine, Gavin." Nancy stepped back and pointed toward my skirt. "Okay?"
Gavin walked completely around me, checking out my outfit, which, I must admit, felt a little creepy. Okay, my skin crawled. He ended up facing me and smiled, then turned to Nancy. He held up four fingers and she nodded. "Okay, you two have fun." He turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.
"What the hell was that all about?" I asked.
"Gavin likes to have input on the clothes before they hit the air."
"Well, we already bought 'em." I furrowed my brow. "What was the deal with him holding up four fingers?"
"That means I need to hem this skirt four inches shorter than it already is."
It was already about three inches above the knee. "Good God, I'm not Noelle with the world's longest inseam. This skirt will be up to my ass."
"Gavin's a leg man," she said. "And you've got a pair of good ones. They'll never see a day behind the desk anyway, since the female host always sits in the leg chair."
"The leg chair?"
"Yeah, it's the one at the end of the couch. Scott's behind the coffee table, but his co-host gets the leg chair which offers camera two an unobstructed view. You'll also be required to wear stilettos or platforms."
"And all my hemlines will be halfway up my thigh?"
“When you stand, anyway. When you sit, well … ”
Here's the thing about my new shift. Getting up at two in the morning isn't a big deal.
Knowing you have to fall asleep eight hours earlier, is.
I'd gone to bed at six, a ridiculous hour for someone who's been a night owl her entire life.
And all I could think of was, "I have to fall asleep. I have to fall asleep." And of course, I couldn't.
At seven, I got up and drank a glass of wine.
At eight, I took an herbal sleep aid.
At nine, I turned on the light and picked up a novel.
Somewhere around ten, I fell asleep, and was in the middle of a wonderful Christian Bale dream when the alarm jolted me out of bed.
"Alexander, hit the snooze button," I muttered. Before the fog cleared and I realized that I had thrown my dog off the porch and the snooze button would not exist for the next three years.
I wasn't remotely rested for the biggest day of my career.
I staggered to the shower with all the energy of an extra in a zombie movie, thankful that I'd been told not to bother with my hair and makeup with the phrase we have people to do that for you. Just as well. I would have looked like I'd combed my hair with an eggbeater.
The hot water from the shower woke me up a little. When I emerged my Siamese cat Pandora was waiting at the bathroom door with a happy face, as if to say, Cool! You're up! You're nocturnal too! Let's play!
I threw on jeans and a sweatshirt, having been told not to put my outfit on till I got to the studio. No wrinkles on the morning show. (Clothes or face.) I grabbed the hanging bag that contained my outfit, headed out the door and one minute later found a lean, middle-aged man in a dark suit standing next to a limo with the engine running.
He tipped his hat at me and smiled. "Morning, Miss Summer. I'm Charlie."
"Morning," I said, thought it came out "mohreen."
He laughed as he pointed at my mouth. "Forget something?"
"Huh?" I brought my hand up to my face and felt the toothbrush sticking out of my mouth. I yanked it out, and shook my head. "Dear God."
"It's a tough shift to get used to," he said, laughing as he opened the door for me.
I considered spitting out the toothpaste but the thought of paparazzi lurking in the shadows stopped me, so I just swallowed it and got into the car, which was toasty warm. I leaned back, closed my eyes, and immediately fell asleep.
***
One nanosecond later, or so it seemed, the sound of the car door opening awakened me.
"Good luck today," said Charlie.
"Thanks," I said, stifling a yawn as I got out of the car and staggered toward the door. I actually heard my heel clicks on the pavement, the streets being quiet without any traffic.
The door swung open as I approached and I was greeted by Scott's cheerful smile and obviously over-the-top perky face. "Morning, sunshine!"
"Bite me," I said.
"Yeah, I've been there," he said, ushering me in the door and wrapping one arm around my shoulder. "You'll get used to it."
"I feel like shit. I probably look like shit, but I can't focus my eyes enough to look in the mirror."
"You