Fate and Ms. Fortune (4 page)

O
N A NORMAL BUSINESS DAY,
a network news operation is a hub of chaos that works itself into a deep-fried frenzy until the anchors bid adieu, and the director and the team of producers, stage managers, technicians, and camera crew put away the Tums.

But when catastrophe strikes, a plane blowing up over Scotland, the collapse of the World Trade Center, the death of the pope, terror clutches the hearts of even the most hardened news-gathering professionals. For the effort, talent, and luck required to get on the air with all the facts and footage, and most important, before the other guys, brings the normal behind-the-scenes craziness to a whole other level.

At
Daybreak,
however, it didn’t take shortened deadlines to ignite already short fuses. Gretchen and cohost Kevin O’Shea so detested each other, staffers seemed less worried about the broadcast than a boxing match. In fact, right before air, the goal was to keep the prizefighters in their corners until the bell rang.

Ultimately, it was the job of Simon Kaplan, executive pro
ducer and twenty-year veteran of the Century Network, to make sure that once the show was in progress, there was no sparring between the opponents, let alone any come-from-behind knockout punches.

Like the time
Daybreak
did an investigative report on the dangers of tanning booths, and at the end of the segment, Gretchen turned to Kevin to ask if he’d ever had a tanning treatment. He sputtered, then froze before Simon cut to commercial.

Gretchen claimed she had no idea that his sun-kissed glow came as a result of his being a part owner in a chain of tanning salons. She was simply engaging in friendly on-air banter.

No wonder dear Simon had facial tics, and spent the entire two hours in the control room chewing gum, cracking his knuckles, and muttering his oft-used phrase, “Oh fucking well.”

So how best to describe the woman for whom I awoke before God each weekday morning so that when she greeted viewers, she looked not only polished and professional, but good enough to screw (her words, not mine)?

Well, she once asked me to wipe her ass because her manicure wasn’t dry (I said sorry, wet polish made me sick). She used to call me Tweety Bird because Robin was the name of her ex-husband’s cat (until I started calling her ma’am because Gretchen was the name of my ex-husband’s bookie). And her latest edict was that I wear a pager, like a prisoner’s monitoring bracelet, so that I could be summoned should her stubborn rosacea peek through the powder.

Though she was an award-winning broadcaster, and the best in the business at excavating the truth from guests with informational treasure, the mere sound of her heels clickety-clicking across the studio floor made me shake. In fact, so great was my inner loathing, the only way I could stand in her personal space day after day was to imagine her either being
dissed by fellow diva Katie Couric, or being sent back home to local affiliate WCNC-TV in Charlotte.

In fact, from the moment I began cleansing her southern-belle pores to when I applied the last of the loose powder, I had to hold my tongue and also my makeup brushes so I didn’t accidentally jab a handle into her neck.

Tonight, especially, I would earn my keep, as three people informed me that Gretchen spent the day slugging tequilas at her Westhampton beach house, then fell asleep in the sun. Now her face looked like a farmstand tomato.

But before I could take the Gretchen challenge, I had to find a place to park my mother.

I was bringing her down to the greenroom when I ran into one of the stage managers.

“Oh thank God you’re here.” Benitez stopped me. “Simon needs you.”

“Hey Benny Boy. This is my mom. Mom? Benny. So he’s freaking?”

“Hi Mom. No. He’s having a massage. Of course he’s going crazy.” He looked at my fancy attire. “What did they get
you
out of?”

“A bar mitzvah on Long Island. You?”

“What did they get me out of?” He laughed. “Angelina.”

“Oh my God. You are such a perv! Did I not just tell you this is my mother?”

“Oh yeah. Sorry ma’am…Anyway, Simon’s in the control room…”

“Let me get Gretchen in the chair first.”

“She’s in hair. Go. I’m not kidding. He’s chewing his cheek.”

“So much excitement.” My mother clapped. “I’m so glad I’m here.”

“Oh me too.” I sighed. “Okay, you know what? Follow me.” I grabbed her hand and brought her into Gretchen’s dressing room. I’d find out what Simon wanted, take her back to the
greenroom, fetch Gretchen, and, God willing, the two would never meet.

“This is where you work?” My mother beamed. “It’s so clean. Not like your apartment.”

“Didn’t I tell you when it comes to my job I’m very neat? Everything has a place. See all the bins and baskets? I can reach for cotton balls, moisturizer, whatever, without even looking.”

“Too bad you can’t live like this at home. You’d be a much happier person.”

“Oh I know…I’d still be divorced, but I’d know where I left my scissors.”

“Funny. Now what can I do to help? Answer the phone? Organize drawers?”

“Not unless you join the union or the circus, although around here, it’s the same thing.”

Just as with the party invitation I never would have accepted had I known how it would turn out, I wouldn’t have rushed off to find Simon if I’d had an inkling what he was about to ask of me.

I knew, of course, that he was just back from his honeymoon with wife number three, socialite Adrian Hughes, and that people were already betting on how long the marriage would last. Not that I would wager on another couple’s union. Hell, I hadn’t even bet on my own.

Meanwhile, it turned out that the pressing matter was a personal favor, which for someone with my training meant only one thing. “Of course I’d be happy to do Adrian’s makeup,” I said. “Does she have a special event coming up?”

Although he was sure Adrian would love to take me up on the offer, this favor was, well, bigger. Seems her daughter was interested in learning the makeup trade and Adrian would be so grateful if I took Sierra under my wing for a little while. “Sierra?” I winced. “As in Madre?”

Thing about being asked a loaded question by Simon is that
it is never multiple choice. More like fill-in-the-blank with only one right answer. Whatever Simon says you do. Still, he couldn’t expect me to say yes without clarification. Were we talking a few days? A few weeks? Did she have experience? Did she understand she’d have to be at work before dawn?

Given the chance, I would have marked his answers wrong. Sierra was a twenty-two-year-old college dropout who moved to New York with her mother only because the judge at her bail hearing remanded her to parental supervision due to her inability to function outside rehab.

“Look, I’m shooting straight with you Robyn. Adrian and I could really use your help here, so I’m bringing her in tomorrow. We gotta get this kid off the party wagon.”

“The party wagon.” I gulped. “Tomorrow…Wow. So when did she become interested in makeup? Was she working in the business out in LA?”

“That’s a no. She’s never worked.”

“So much for comparing medical plans.”

“What can I say? The family’s loaded. But don’t misunderstand. She’s got a lot of enthusiasm for this. You know kids. They love being around celebrities. It’s glamorous.”

“Not at five
A.M
.”

“She’s cool with it.” He cracked his knuckles. “It’s probably when she gets in anyway. Oh, and one other thing. She has to be called by her full name.”

“Fine. I can’t really think of any nicknames for Sierra.”

“No, I mean her whole full name. Sierra Paige Mather.”

“Wait. What? Why?”

“Must be a California thing. Who the hell knows.”

“But that’s crazy.”

“I found if I say it really fast, Sierrapaigemather, all three names blend together like one of those long Indian names.”

“Simon, some mornings I can barely say my own name…I’ll just call her cutie.”

“It won’t work.”

“Why not? Who doesn’t like being called cutie?”

“Wait until you see her.” He puffed out his cheeks.

The buzz from Gretchen’s dressing room made my stomach churn. At first I thought it was hunger pangs, as I’d been so nervous about my performance at the bar mitzvah, I hadn’t eaten a thing. But that wasn’t it. The nausea stemmed from recognizing two familiar voices.

“Oh my God.” I walked in on my mother slathering pink lotion on Gretchen’s face. “What are you doing?”

“I wasn’t sure how long you’d be.” Gretchen’s eyes remained closed.

“Not you. I meant my mother. Mom, step away from the talent…”

“Relax, Robyn. I’m very much enjoying this refreshing treatment…I understand your mother taught you everything you know about makeup artistry.”

“That’s right.” My mother winked. “Dear, I noticed you’re out of witch hazel. Remember I told you, always keep an extra bottle on hand. It does wonders for—”

“Thanks Mom. Really. You’ve been a huge help…Do you remember where the greenroom is? I think you’ll be more comfortable in there.”

“Don’t be silly,” Gretchen said. “We were just chatting about mah-jongg. I haven’t played in years…used to love the game.”

“I was just saying how I’m moving in with you. Temporarily, of course. But as soon as I can find two other people who want to play, we’ll make it a foursome.”

“Perfect!” I grabbed the bottle from my mother. No! She’d just covered Gretchen with insect repellent. Please God. Not the one that made her break out in hives when we did that remote from the Everglades. The only way she’d be able to go
on the air was if she wore sunglasses and a hat from the Camilla Parker Bowles collection.

But no time for an anxiety attack now. I had less than twenty minutes to get her ready.

“Mom, do me a favor.” I started wiping thick, greasy globs off Gretchen’s face.

“Sheila Holtz. Beep beep. At your service.”

“Open this roll of paper towel and split all the sheets up so they make a nice, big pile.”

“What for?” Gretchen peeked with one eye.

“It’s an idea I read in one of my journals,” I lied. “Paper towels make great test palettes.”

“We need Gretchen in fifteen.” Benny returned, now in uniform: headset, microphone, clipboard. “Hey Gretch? As long as you’re here, can we get you to do the local promos?”

“Go to hell.” She threw a tissue box at him. “Do you see what I look like? Get Kevin Kiss Ass to do them…Who was that little man?”

“Who? Benny? We’re going to his retirement party next month, remember?”

“Hey Gretch,” Jay, a line producer, bounded in. “Okay, so here’s how this plays out for now. Because the Holy Father just passed, we’re keeping it low key. For twenty-six years Pope John Paul II has been a great religious and moral leader who traveled the globe in the name of peace, he helped bring about the end of communism, he took on Castro, yada yada yada…”

“And don’t forget he was the first pope to ever step foot into a synagogue,” my mother added. “That’s very important.”

“Mom. Shhh.”

“What’s O’Shea working on?” Gretchen sneered. “Oh wait. I bet he’s on his way to Rome as we speak…another
Daybreak
exclusive. Kevin O’Shea kisses the pope’s ass…”

“No, he’s here, Gretchen…but Simon wants you to handle the Farrell Carew interview. He’s the author who wrote the
book about how the pope only named bishops and cardinals who opposed masturbation, birth control, and premarital sex, so now the next pope is coming from a group that may not be the brightest or the best, he just bought the program…”

“Jesus Frank Christ!” Gretchen bellowed from the chair, knowing if she jumped and smudged her makeup, it would cost us precious minutes we didn’t have. “He’s only dead for a few hours and people are screaming,
‘Santo subito,
sainthood now!’ Why the hell are we giving airtime to some writer who got lucky with a publishing contract?”

“Although the author makes a good point,” my mother said. “Maybe if all those priests got a little hokey in the pokey every once in a while, they wouldn’t be molesting little boys.”

“Mother!” I led her outside.

“The guy’s not a definite yet.” Jay cowered. “Let me get back to you…”

“Don’t you love it?” Gretchen seethed. “You’ve got all these liberal New York Jews running the news division…no respect…”

“What did she say?” my mother gasped.

“Nothing. She’s letting off steam…Prebroadcast jitters.”

“Robyn, get me ready this instant! I need to see Simon mas pronto.”

“Coming, Gretchen.”

“If you ask me,” my mother whispered, “you should make her look a little orange.”

“Good thinking,” I whispered back. “Because I can afford never to work again.”

I couldn’t remember the last time I pigged out, but if ever I’d earned the right to eat a pint of Chunky Monkey, tonight was it. And shame of it was, it had started out great.

I’d gotten a no-hassle ride to the bar mitzvah with a teacher friend of Rhonda’s. I looked svelte in my new, little black dress
that cost more than my zipcode (actually, it was my friend Julia Volkman’s old, black dress, but she’s so rich, she wore her clothes for a season, then gave them away), I killed with my comedy routine, and then got the number of a guy who could line up a meeting for me at Showtime.

If only the God of Favors hadn’t decided I’d reached my quota. Sorry, Robyn. Four is the limit. Now we return to our regularly scheduled torture:

My mother wanting out of her marriage, leaving behind a husband/heart patient who was unfamiliar with major appliances, let alone minor ones.

My mother moving in with me and making me clean my room or be grounded.

My mother insulting my boss by telling her she was a bigmouth anti-Semite with a dingy smile who would be lucky to have a Jewish dentist give her a much needed set of veneers.

My job going from bad to worse now that Simon was siccing his spoiled brat stepdaughter on me. At least I couldn’t blame my mother for that one.

Until we left the studio and I discovered that I most certainly could.

We had just gotten to the car when she slid into the passenger seat and informed me that I should drive because lately her night vision was bad. Not that her day vision was so great either.