Morning Glory (10 page)

I probably should
not
have had that glass of limoncello at the end of the meal. It made me feel so … liquid. Adam also tasted like citrus. I wondered if he still rowed regularly. The breadth of his shoulders would indicate he did. Now I understood why he liked to keep his shirt untucked. Draw some attention away from the phenomenal, triangular shape of his …

He rolled on top of me, and I totally lost my train of thought.

“You know what?” I gave in. “What’s the big whoop? Mike’s done this before. He knows what he’s doing.” I tightened my grip around him.

“Yeah,” said Adam, and then a second later he stopped doing whatever that delicious thing he was doing to my neck. “Um …”

“Mmm-hmm?”

He bolstered himself up on his elbows and looked down at me, his face a mix of annoyance and resignation. “He didn’t, by chance, open a bottle of forty-year-old Bruichladdich, did he?”

I stared up at him, wide-eyed. “How do you know that?”

He sighed and slid off me, and I got the distinct impression that our evening of fun and games had just come to an unceremonious halt.

“When I was working with him, if there was something he didn’t want to do—cover the Olympics or the Oscars or, you know, something people might get a tiny twinge of pleasure from—the night before, he’d go on a bender.”

“
What
?” I sat straight up.

“Classic self-sabotage,” Adam said. “And it always started with the Bruichladdich. I’ve fished him out of dives all over the world, looking like Rocky before they cut his eye.”

I started breathing hard again, and this time, it had nothing to do with the half-naked man sitting next to me. Okay, okay, okay …

I held my breath, then let it out. “No. This is ridiculous. I’m not going to chase him. He wants to screw this up, that’s on him.”

I cast a glance at Adam, who looked utterly unconvinced by my little speech.

“Damn it,” I said under my breath.

Adam sighed again. “Start at Elaine’s.”

I sprang off the couch and sprinted for the door. The second I hit the hallway, I looked down at my barely covered chest.

“Shit!” I ran back to Adam’s. He met me at the door, holding out my blouse.

“Thank you!”

“Oh, please don’t,” he replied, chagrined. “Don’t thank me for ruining our night.”

I gave him a quick kiss. “Later.”

If I didn’t get fired.

 11 

E
laine’s was one of those immortal Manhattan restaurants that natives worshipped and non–New Yorkers knew only if they were deeply into Woody Allen. When I asked directions from the doorman in Adam’s apartment, he looked at me like I’d just gotten off the bus. Then again, it might have had something to do with the mussed state of my hair and lipstick.

The bar at Elaine’s boasted an impressive population of Who’s Who and an even more impressive whiskey list, but no sign of Mike. I tracked down Elaine herself for my next clue.

“Pomeroy?” she said with a wry and disturbingly knowing smile. “He left a few hours ago.”

Crap. I was going to kill him for real. In one fell swoop, he’d threatened my (practically pathetic) career
and
my (finally looking up after a generally equally pathetic) love life.

I tried the Algonquin bar up the street. Seems he’d hit that one, too. Ditto Bond 45.

Kill him, kill him, kill him. I didn’t know if it was the lighting design in those bars or what, but I’d definitely started seeing red.

At Smith’s Bar, a helpful patron related—after I plied him with an overpriced shot of Lagavulin—that Mike had headed toward ‘21’ Club.

This time, I took a taxi. My feet had started developing blisters sometime during the second hour of my search, and I’d slipped off my heels. I could have been in bed with
Adam Bennett
right now. I could have been in my
own
bed, asleep even. I could have been anywhere in the world tonight. Instead, I was tracking down the star of my show before he ruined my entire life.

Honestly, I was surprised they let me through the door at ‘21’. My hair was a mess, my shirt was buttoned wrong, my feet were bare, and I’m pretty sure my skirt was twisted front to back. But let me in they did.

Maybe they were used to crazy news producers hunting for Mike Pomeroy. Probably never so early in the evening before, though. Welcome to the world of morning news.

And there he was, in the back, entertaining a table of people I was embarrassed to see in my state of dishabille. It was like a Who’s Who in Television party. Every single one of them made more in a year than the combined lifetime income of my entire family.

And yet, I marched forward. “Mike,” I said.

He turned to me. “Uh-oh. The missus.”

I stomped my way, barefoot, to the table, fuming.

An MSNBC luminary grinned at me. “Incoming.”

“Jesus, Pomeroy,” said a twelve-time Emmy winner from CBS. “They’re getting younger and younger.”

I reached him and clamped a hand down on his shoulder. “Mike, I need to talk to you.” He reeked of the rotting smoky smell of very expensive scotch.

“Why?” Mike said. “Is the baby mine?” He held up a high five to another anchor. “Up top, man.”

I shook my head and dragged him out of the chair. It was easy, given how intoxicated he was. The others looked on, surprised.

“Outside,” I said. “Now.”

But I couldn’t wait until we were on the street to start my lecture. I was far too angry. “I’ll have you know,” I said, seething, “that this show is
very important to a lot of people
—including, but not limited to,
me
.”

A few more patrons turned in our direction.

I almost shoved Mike out the door. He stumbled into the street.

“Don’t you get it?” I asked. “This is my
ass
on the line here!”

Mike stopped dead. He spun slowly to face me. “Actually, your ass is irrelevant. You’re a footnote. It’s
my
ass. My reputation. My integrity. Mine.”

I took two steps forward until we were face-to-face. “You are egotistical and selfish.”

Mike didn’t blink. “I’m
on-air talent
.”

Enough. “All right, let’s go.”

“Where?” Mike asked.

“Home.” I whistled for a cab. Mike flinched and covered his ears.

I directed the cab to take us to Mike’s place, and when we arrived, he practically slammed the taxi door in my face. “Okay,” he growled. “I’m home. You can leave.”

“No way,” I said. I marched up to the front door of his building and waved him inside. “Let’s go, Pops.”

He trudged after me.

In some ways, Mike’s apartment looked pretty much as I’d expected it would. Expensive, in keeping with his multimillion-dollar contract, and masculine—though thankfully he’d declined to hang the walls with the taxidermied remains of his hunting trophies. And yet, there were a few touches that seemed more like the Mike I’d once idolized than of the jackass who’d been showing up to work all week. Beautiful artwork adorned those walls that weren’t covered in bookshelves crammed with first editions.

So there was a side of him that wasn’t a total troglodyte. Good to know, since he certainly wasn’t showing it at the moment, as he blundered his way into the kitchen to pour himself a nightcap. I chose to believe that one more, at this stage, wouldn’t hurt him.

I took a stance in front of the door. He stuck his head out of the kitchen, looked at me, and burst out laughing.

“I’m glad you’re amused,” I replied, stone-cold.

“You’re alone tonight,” he slurred. “Makes sense. Let me guess. You meet a guy, have”—he waved his scotch glass around—“three dates, and the whole time you have nothing to talk about but your job.”

I refused to let any emotion cross my face.

“And he conveniently loses your number.”

I blinked, and he got a triumphant gleam in his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding, like he’d just uncovered some great state secret. “So, apart from your obvious father issues—did he leave you? Die?”

I blinked again.

“You’ve got that repellent ‘moxie’ going on—”

“Shut up,” I said. “Fifteen minutes ago I was a ‘footnote.’ So why are you suddenly so fascinated by my psychological scars?” I gestured at his apartment, at all the photos and mementos of his life. The souvenirs he’d brought back from trips abroad. The pictures of his family. The framed snapshot of the time he’d gone fishing with the Clintons. “Look at all these stories you could be doing, based on things you’re actually interested in. Modern art, hunting and fishing …”

I grabbed a photo off an end table. “Is this your grandson? I didn’t even know you had grandkids. You could do parenting segments. You could bring your family down to the show and—”

“Those ungrateful shits?” said Mike. “No thank you.” He snatched the photo from my hand. “The tour is over, fangirl. Go back to your sad little life. Go away.”

“Not on your life.” I sat on the couch. “I’m staying right here to make sure you don’t bolt again.”

Mike shrugged. “Suit yourself. Sleep tight.”

“Oh, I’m not going to be sleeping, thanks.” I sat ramrod-straight and stared at the wall.

He gripped the photo even tighter in his hands and left the room. So apparently he hated the ungrateful little shit enough to take him into the bedroom? Interesting.

I remained where I was, determined to keep my word. I would stay awake. I would. I needed to be alert enough to wake him up tomorrow, to get him on the air.

“I’m awake,” I whispered. “Awake, awake, awake.”

Awake
 …

.  .  .

It was raining outside. The droplets were pattering on the window, behind the lace curtains my mom had hung in the bedroom when I was six years old.

She poked my shoulder.

“Ten more minutes, Mom,” I said, and rolled over.

In response, she yanked off my blanket. “Let’s go, fangirl.”

I opened my eyes.
Fangirl
. I was asleep on Mike’s couch.

I sat up. Mike was standing over me in a robe, poking me with some sort of tribal rain stick. I grabbed my BlackBerry. Three
A.M
. Phew. We were safe.

“You want breakfast?” he said to me, still wielding the rain stick like he was an old lady with a sharp-edged umbrella.

“I …” I rubbed my eyes. I wanted to curl up and go back to bed. Or to bed at all. Mike flipped on a light, and I squinted. He looked fabulous, like he’d just come back from a week at a spa. I caught sight of myself in the hall mirror.

Hagsville.

Mascara was smeared beneath my eyes. My hair, through the combined magic of a makeout session with Adam, a frenzied race through the streets of Manhattan, and a night on a leather couch, had all the qualities of a particularly intricate bird’s nest. My shirt had seen better days. I was actually
missing
buttons now.

Years from now, would Becky Fuller’s only lasting claim to fame be that she once lost buttons in Mike Pomeroy’s sofa?

“I’m making breakfast.” He vanished into the kitchen.

I dragged myself over to the island and watched him crack eggs into a bowl.

“You ever seen a real egg?” Mike shoved one under my nose. I blinked wearily at it. “This one is from a pastured hen in Maryland. I get them delivered once a week.”

“So New York chickens aren’t good enough for you?” I asked.

Mike started whisking.

“We have to go,” I said.

But he wasn’t listening. “Now, the beauty of a frittata is it can be made with any ingredients. Anything you have on hand.”

He checked out the contents of his refrigerator, his mood so cheery you’d have thought he’d gotten laid last night. As someone who’d very narrowly—and very regretfully—
missed
getting laid, I remained unamused.

“Come on,” I tried again. “Get dressed.”

“You want me to starve?” He pulled out a bunch of vegetables. Chanterelles, shallots, tomatoes.

Actually, if I was going to be perfectly honest, it looked pretty good. But I wasn’t in the mood for gourmet breakfasts. I was in the mood for a double shot of espresso and an anchorman on my morning show. Stat.

“I need to be in tip-top shape. I’m about to appear on television in front of … oh, six people?” He started chopping.

I yawned. “At least eight.”

“You’re going to love this, I promise.” Mike started warming up a pan on the stove.

“Mike,” I pleaded. “
Come on
.”

In order to get him to put on his suit and shave, I promised to watch the frittata as it browned in the oven. The scent of sautéed shallots and mushrooms wafted up to me out of the warm oven, but I refused to be tempted. Even though the frittata was certainly enough for two, I would not allow this lunacy to continue. We had donuts at the studio. Mike was just trying to give me a heart attack.

I gave myself five minutes to make myself presentable. I used Mike Pomeroy’s mouthwash, scrubbed my face with Mike Pomeroy’s soap, and stole one of Mike Pomeroy’s shirts.

I found him in the kitchen, the frittata on a plate. “Aren’t you done with that yet?”

He placed a finger against the dish. “Still too hot. See, what a lot of people don’t know is that the frittata is meant to be eaten at room temperature. It was invented in Italy for the afternoon repast.”

I slammed my hands down on the countertop. “Hey, Mike, guess what? I
don’t care
about your epicurean breakfast. We’re going to be late.
Let’s go!
”

And so I dragged the great Mike Pomeroy—kicking and screaming and nibbling on room-temperature frittata—to his first broadcast of
Daybreak
. We were late to the staff meeting, which meant everyone stared as we came in. Mike looked impeccable. I looked like I’d gotten caught in a freak tornado.

Lenny gave me a once-over. “Where have you been?”

“Long story.” I sat down beside him and tried to smooth my hair.

Mike ambled over to the empty chair next to Colleen. “She spent the night at my place.”

Every last person on the
Daybreak
staff stared in shock. Colleen’s jaw dropped.

Mike nodded at her, his expression lascivious. “Morning, Pacoima.”

Everyone was still gaping at me. “Oh, come on, people, please. I slept on the couch.”

“Until I woke her up with my African rain stick,” Mike said brightly.

“African …,” began Lenny.

“…  Rain stick?” Colleen finished.

Sasha and Tracy and Lisa and Ernie all goggled.

I leveled dagger eyes at Mike.
Shut up, you ass
. Moving right along. “All right,” I said, affecting my best executive producer voice. “Today is Mike’s first show. Big day for us. So let’s run through the lineup one more time.”

I’d gotten Mike here. What he chose to do now was up to him.

After the meeting, I washed up. I was attacking my hair in the ladies’ room when I saw in the mirror Colleen standing behind me. She was holding one of her suits.

“Always keep extras,” she said. “I’ve been vomited on by enough octuplets, shat on by enough bald eagles, and had enough blenders filled with summer gazpacho explode on me over the years that I’ve got an entire second wardrobe in my dressing room.”

I took it from her. “Thank you.”

“I mean, if your hips fit in there.” She gave me a once-over. “You … didn’t sleep with him, did you?”

I groaned. “No. I chased him all over Manhattan and then stood guard at his door to make sure he didn’t ditch us at the last minute. I care about the
show
. That’s all.”

She regarded me for a long moment. “I know,” she said at last. “That’s why you get the suit.” And then she left.

I changed into Colleen’s suit and decided, in a fit of kindness, not to tell her the skirt was big on me. I finished putting myself back together, dabbed in vain at the dark, baggy circles under my eyes, and gave myself one last pep talk.

Becky Fuller, you are the executive producer of
Daybreak,
a national morning show. You have landed yourself a cohost who is one of the greatest television news reporters of all time. And
,
against all odds, he’ll be premiering on the show this morning. You did it
.

And just as I was starting to feel pretty good, my head decided to stick in a caveat:

But don’t celebrate yet. He could still fuck it all up. And he might do so just out of spite
.

I sighed. Given Mike’s attitude this morning, it made sense to prepare myself for the worst. Still, we had several things going for us. Mike Pomeroy, possibly because very few people on earth realized what a jerk he was, had one of the highest Q ratings of any broadcaster on the network. Women loved the mix of his distinguished, silver-haired air and the wicked charmer glint in his eye, and the reaction to our promo spots had been overwhelmingly positive, especially among the largely untapped male market. Maybe we’d be the morning show that got the guys watching. Maybe they’d switch from CNN or MSNBC and check out
Daybreak
. Wouldn’t Jerry be pleased if I pulled off
that
little coup?