Morning Glory (7 page)

He spoke without preamble. “I’ve won eight Peabodies, a Pulitzer, sixteen Emmys, I was shot through the forearm in Bosnia, pulled Colin Powell from a burning jeep, put a washcloth on Mother Teresa’s forehead during a cholera epidemic, had
lunch
with Dick Cheney.”

“You’re here for the money,” I said.

“That is correct.”

I extended my hand, and Mike grudgingly shook it. “So,” I asked, as the stage manager started counting back down to on air, “do you happen to have footage of that thing with Mother Teresa? It would make great promo.”

Colleen gaped at us. “Oh,
fuck
.”

The camera’s on-air light went hot. She snapped into her stage persona, smiling like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth and addressing our four viewers. “Welcome back to
Daybreak
, folks.”

Welcome back
, I thought,
and don’t touch that remote. Things are about to get interesting
.

.  .  .

“I’ve taken the liberty of bringing along this rider to my contract,” Mike said, handing me a not-insignificant stack of papers.

“A … rider?” I stuttered.

Still on air, Colleen did her best to read from the teleprompter while eavesdropping on our conversation.

“Of course,” said Mike. “After all, you’re forcing me into this through the terms of my contract. I thought I’d return the favor.”

“I see.” I flipped through. Ten pages.
Ten
. Lenny was going to kill me.

“Please note those are champagne mangoes there on page six,” Mike said, practically cheerful. “Not Haden. Way too stringy for my tastes.”

“Mangoes,” I repeated blankly. And leather furniture on page three. And was this … a budget for neckties?

“Which way to my dressing room?” Mike Pomeroy asked.
This had better be worth it
, I warned myself.

“Stay tuned,” said Colleen, a little too quickly, “for tips on how you, too, can fight the battle of the bulge.”

I wondered if those tips included tropical fruit?

The next few hours were eaten up in a whirlwind of activity as Lenny, the
Daybreak
assistants, and all the interns we could round up scuttled around trying to redo Paul’s dressing room—step one: jettison the cot—and fulfill the terms of Mike’s ridiculous rider. I knew that every last one of them would spend the evening complaining to their significant other over a glass of beer.

I didn’t care. Even if I had a significant other, this would be the first time since I took the
Daybreak
gig that he wouldn’t hear me whining. I’d bagged
Mike Pomeroy
. He was going to anchor my show.

My. Show.

“
My
show,” Colleen said to me as soon as she was off the air. “What are his demands, exactly? My past anchors and I have always had a pretty equitable split when it came to what topics we cover. Is he going to cook? Do fashion segments? Gossip?” She flung out her hands. “Papier-mâché?”

“Well …,” I said. We were walking down the hall toward her dressing room, and I was trying to keep her rant to a low roar, at least until we were safely behind closed doors.

“Is he going to have three-year-old octuplets barf on him like I did last year?” she wailed.

I ushered her into her dressing room. “Colleen,” I said. “The thing I respect most about you is what a team player you are.”

“Oh God.” She plopped down on the chair in front of her vanity. “I don’t like where this is going.”

“And you know as well as I do that Mike Pomeroy is going to raise the profile of this show a great deal.”

“So I’m chopped liver, that’s what you’re saying.” Colleen spun in her chair and looked in the mirror. “Maybe if I had crow’s-feet and a penis and had pulled Mother Teresa out of a burning jeep or whatever …”

“Colin Powell in the jeep. Mother Teresa in the cholera epidemic.”

“Colonel Mustard in the library with a revolver!” said Colleen with a wave of her hand. “Who gives a shit! Don’t tell me—millions of viewers, right?”

“One can only hope,” I said.

“You know what I hate?” she said. “That male anchors can keep getting old and what they gain is ‘gravitas.’ ” She made air quotes. “What I gain is falling Q ratings.”

I gave a sympathetic head nod.

“I’m a journalist too, you know,” she said.

Of sorts. But now was the time for mollification, not explaining to Colleen the difference between a Pulitzer winner and a pageant queen. “Here’s the thing. Back in the eighties, someone gave him story refusal rights, so—”

Colleen paused in the midst of checking her eyelids for forbidden creases. “You’re kidding me. He does know this is
morning
television, right?”

“I’m sure,” I said, hoping I sounded far more convinced than I felt, “that over time, he’ll want to do a broad range of stories.”

Colleen laughed mirthlessly. “Face it, I’m going to be making turkey meatballs with Mario Batali for the rest of my natural life. Fantabulous.”

Ooh, could we get Mario? That would be a huge step up from Celine Dion’s dude.

 8 

L
ogically, I should have been flying high. After all, I’d gotten exactly what I wanted. My own show. On a network. Hosted by my favorite television reporter of all time. It was Becky Fuller’s Christmas wish, all wrapped up with a big red bow.

But Mike Pomeroy seemed determined to make me pay through the nose for it.

The rider? Ridiculous. Story approval, promo approval, champagne-freaking-mangoes! His dressing room demands alone were going to eat into the budget surplus I’d allocated for the new sound mixer. I guess I was going to have to give up one of my three pennies in order to get the show I wanted. But if it worked … oh, if it worked, it would all be worth it.

I hoped.

Mike was as disgusted with the state of the studio as I’d been baffled by it on my first day.

“How do you guys manage not to get lost down here?” he asked, as I gave him the not-so-grand tour.

I sidestepped a cable. “You’ll be surprised how quickly it becomes second nature.”

He looked unconvinced.

“Your digs in Bosnia were nicer, I take it?” I asked.

“Oh, I see,” he said. “You’re comparing your mid-Manhattan television studio with a war-torn, bombed-out nation that suffered a mass genocide. Not only apt, but incredibly sensitive as well.”

Point taken. “You’re here to make news, Mike, not for a spa vacation.”

“I’m here to make an ass of myself on national television,” he corrected.

“Six million dollars,” I singsonged.

He sighed. “Did you at least install the wet bar?”

I ignored that and kept going. “Colleen’s dressing room is at the end of the hall. She’s really been looking forward to seeing you.”

This was not precisely the case, but neither was it an out-and-out lie. Like all employees of
Daybreak
, Colleen was relieved to see that we’d filled the cohost position. She just wasn’t thrilled about the package it came in. I wanted to shut them both in a room until they hashed it out, but I feared that the bloodbath would necessitate my finding
two
new hosts.

“Great,” Mike said. “Happy to hear it.”

Really? I smiled in surprise. Oh, good, maybe this would work out after all. I paused in front of Colleen’s dressing room. Mike kept going.

“Um …” I pointed at Colleen’s door. Mike stopped in front of his.

“This one mine?”

“Yes,” I said. “But Colleen is waiting—”

Mike opened the door and surveyed his new domain. I trailed after him.

“You got me all the newspapers,” he said approvingly. “And the mixers. And the tropical fruit plate. I hope you remembered the mango situation.”

“Well,” I said, my tone dry, “you were pretty clear in your rider.”

He sat down on the nearest chair, rested his feet on the vanity, and picked up a bunch of lychees. “If Colleen wants me, I’ll be right here. Pass the
Washington Post
, would you? I’ve already seen the
Times
.”

“But—”

“Right. Here.” He raised his eyebrows, then turned his attention to the newspaper.

I hurried back to Colleen.

“Where’s Mike?” she asked.

“Oh,” I said lightly. “In his dressing room. Let’s go over and say hi.”

No go. Colleen looked at me like I was crazy. “I thought he was coming in here to meet me.”

“Oh, well …” I searched around for an excuse. “He’s just getting settled in, you know? Wouldn’t it be nice if you just dropped by to welcome him to the—”

“No,” she stated. “He should come in here.”

Right. I nodded and turned on my heel.

Back at Mike’s, I found him exploring the papaya and an article on Yemen.

“Hey, Mike,” I said, imbuing my words with a casual bonhomie I did not feel, “what’s up?”

“I was thinking,” he said, “about the paint color in here. Not very relaxing, is it?”

“It’s beige,” I said flatly.

“Mmmmm.” He held up the skin of the mango. “What about something more like this?”

I glared at him. “You want a reputation as a diva around this network, Mike? I can make that happen.”

“No you can’t,” he replied. “And you wouldn’t, even if you could.”

He had me there. “Okay,” I said. “We can discuss paint colors after you see Colleen. I think you’ll love what she’s done to
her
dressing room.”

“Nah,” he said. “I think I’ll stay right here. She can come in and tell me about her room if she wants.”

I resisted the urge to stamp my foot like a toddler.

“No hurry,” he added, and returned to his paper.

I headed back to Colleen’s.

She met me at the door. “
No
.”

And, back to Mike’s. He took one look at my frustrated face and almost burst out laughing. “Did you tell her I had
papaya
in here?”

I reminded myself that Mike Pomeroy was one of the best newscasters in history as I clomped my way back to Colleen’s dressing room to relay the papaya message. As if it would do any good.

“He has a
tropical fruit plate
?” Colleen shrieked. “That is so typical! I’m the one doing all the work around here, and I’m the one with the smaller room, the smaller salary, the smaller—”

“Ego?” I suggested mildly. “You’re right. You work hard. And right now, I’m just asking you to—”

“I can’t believe he’s pulling rank like this.” She tossed her head and then checked her reflection in the mirror. “And it’s a little odd that he won’t deign to meet me now. He was plenty keen on the idea at the last Correspondents’ Dinner.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah!” cried Colleen. “When he grabbed my ass and asked me if I wanted to go back to his hotel room for a little—”

I threw my hands in the air. “Enough! I don’t need to hear any more.”

“Because he’s your
hero
?” Colleen said with a sneer.

“Because he’s being a big baby, and so are you.” I sighed. “Look, he’s an asshole. I’m with you there. But you, my dear, are the host of a morning show that last week got beaten by a rerun of
Sanford and Son
on TV Land.”

“You’re kidding.” But she sounded defeated.

“Unfortunately for you, and even more unfortunately for me, we’re going to have to put up with him, because asshole or not, he’s
our only hope
. So I suggest you man up and get in there.”

The look she gave me at the words “man up” reminded me that not only had she already survived half a dozen male anchors, but that we were currently kowtowing to the childish behavior of yet another.

“Nice speech,” said Colleen. “But I’m not going in there. Figure something else out.”

Easier demanded than done. I stood in the hall between the dressing rooms of my feuding cohosts, and tried to come up with options. A prop guy walked by. “Hey,” I called to him. “You have any marking tape?”

Five minutes later, ten steps from Mike’s room and ten steps from Colleen’s, standing on a pair of twin phosphorescent Xs, the cohosts of
Daybreak
stood like the petulant children they were and stared at me while I did a rundown of the week’s schedule.

“We’ll be shooting Mike’s promos all this week, and on Friday, we’ll finalize the new format. We’ll need to rehearse the opening, of course, and some segues.”

“Who’s going to say goodbye?” asked Colleen.

“I beg your pardon?” I blinked at her.

“At the end of the show,” she clarified.

I shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t care.” I looked at Mike, who’d avoided even glancing at Colleen throughout the entire conversation. Surely, a newsman of his stature wouldn’t quibble over such a little thing either. “Mike, you don’t—”

“I’ve always said it.” Mike studied his nails.

“Oh no,” said Colleen. “I’ve been saying it for the last eleven years. My audience expects certain things from me and—”

“Who do you think the public would rather hear from last?” asked Mike. “Someone who’s won every broadcasting honor on the face of the planet … or the former Miss Pacoima?” And then he marched right back into his dressing room and slammed the door.

“Arizona!” Colleen shouted after him. “I was Miss
Arizona
!”

And I was getting a headache.

When the staff convened for Mike’s introductory meeting, I noticed a few of the younger producers getting that same starry-eyed look I’d had the first time I met Pomeroy in the flesh.

I wondered how long the illusion would last for
them
.

I stood at the end of the conference table, in front of a huge dry erase board covered with the schedule of stories for the week. Here at least, I was back in my element. Wrangling divas wasn’t my thing. Making a news show happen? That I adored.

“Okay,” I said, pointing at the board. “So we’ve got the Bird Whisperer confirmed for Tuesday—thanks, Sasha.”

The producer nodded. I’d already learned she was the animal lover on staff. If I ever needed a stupid pet trick to round out the show, Sasha was my go-to gal.

“Wednesday we’ve got Al Green outside on the plaza. … Colleen, you want to do the interview with him between songs?”

“Oh no, let me,” Mike deadpanned.

Colleen scowled, saving me the trouble. “Fine,” she said. “Whatever.”

I put a red C next to the Al Green slot. “And then, we’re doing that piece on water safety for children.…”

“Not my thing,” said Mike.

Another red C. “There’s the rundown of the new shows on the fall television season.…”

“Oh, yeah,” said Mike. I brightened. “That’s a no.”

I slumped. “Special Olympics?”

His eyebrow crooked. “What do you think?”

Everyone in the room looked from him to me, but if they were expecting a repeat of my behavior toward Paul McVee, they could keep on living in fantasyland. I needed a host, even if he was being a bitch about it.

“Well,” I said halfheartedly, “Newt Gingrich just wrote a book. We weren’t going to do an interview, but—”

“Oh, I’ll do that,” said Mike, sitting up in his chair. “I’d love to fry that jackass.”

“Um …,” I said, taken aback. “I guess that’s … okay.…” I put a blue M next to Gingrich.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Colleen’s expression. Pissed. Then Lenny’s. A mix of surprise and disappointment. Then Mike’s.

Smug bastard.

After the meeting, Lenny met me out by the Craft Services table. The donuts, I noticed, were the same ones as ever.

“What’s up, boss?” Lenny asked me. “You hired this guy to do what? One story a week?”

“What do you want me to do?” I asked, exasperated. I began piling pastries on a plate. Problems like this called for plenty of butter and sugar. “I can’t fire another anchor, unless we want to get stuck with the guy who counts on his hooves.”

“And you can’t make Colleen do every story on the docket, either.”

“He’s Mike Pomeroy,” I said. “A legend. Who am
I
to tell him what to do?”

Lenny didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. Right: I was the executive producer. And if the dude who ululated his way through this job thought something was off in my performance, I needed some serious help.

Just then, the legend himself came sauntering up, smacking loudly on an apple. I doubted horse face could have outperformed him. He gave me a long, appraising look.

I stood even straighter. Maybe he’d been impressed by my leadership skills at the meeting. Maybe he was rethinking his campaign of punishment for forcing him onto the show. Maybe we could finally get a real working relationship started.

“It’s interesting Jerry hired you,” he said.

Maybe not. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” He took another bite. “No polish, no pedigree, that haircut. What was he thinking?”

I narrowed my eyes and put another Danish on my towering plate. Fine, Mike, play it that way if you want. Be as rude as you want, as difficult as you want, as ornery as you want. You’re still going to sit on
my
set and read
my
news on
my
show.

“Just wondering,” he finished, and then, without looking, he tossed the apple core into the trash behind me. “Score,” he said, pumping his fists in the air. He grinned and walked off.

Score indeed. I watched him go.
Okay, alpha dog. You’ve made your point
. But I would not let him walk all over me. If he thought he could piss me off enough to fire him, he was wrong.

Mike Pomeroy’s criticisms might be bad for my morale, but he was still good for
Daybreak
.

“Sweet guy,” said Lenny. “One wonders how he ever got such a bad reputation.”

“You mean that he’s tough to deal with when it comes to stories?” I asked. “He just has high standards.”

Lenny shook his head. “No way. There’s this guy he used to work with up at
Nightly News
? Says he made his life hell.”

“Adam Bennett?” I asked, remembering what the cute producer had told me the day I met him in the elevator.

“Oh, him too?” Lenny said.

Too
? Shit.

Mike and I next clashed swords after filming his promos. We sat in the editing room, going over all the clips we had prepared. I wanted to advertise the hell out of his new position. People missed Mike Pomeroy on
Nightly News
. If they found out they could see him in the morning, even on
Daybreak
, it might bring in his old fans.

Especially if he was spending most of his mornings frying Newt Gingrich.

Except right now, Mike Pomeroy seemed satisfied to sit in a dark room watching promo clips and frying me.

“Okay,” I said wearily. “What about this one?”

A shot of the courthouse came up, then a close-up on Mike’s ruggedly handsome face. “Coming soon to
Daybreak
,” boomed the voice-over, “one of the most legendary newsmen of all time.”

On the screen, Mike trotted up the courthouse steps carrying a briefcase and looking like a refugee from a John Grisham film.

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” said one of the most legendary newsmen of all time. He leaned back in his chair. The film editor, who looked like he might burst into flames if his skin was ever exposed to natural light, paused the recording as the
Daybreak
logo sparkled its way across the scene.