Eyes on You (8 page)

“I hear the Queen of Mean paid you a visit last night,” he said, his hands behind his head. There was an odd edge to his voice, I realized. Challenging.

“She didn’t exactly pay
me
a visit,” I said. “She was looking for you, and I happened to be the first one she ran into with her machete.”

“Look, I’m sorry I wasn’t around. But we’ve got to make sure we don’t step on her toes again.”

“I know,” I said. “I’ve asked Alex to put together a list of who’s under contract with her, as well as her regular guests, so we can steer clear of them.”

“Good,” he said. He picked up a stray pencil from the conference table and began flicking it back and forth. There was still that edge in his tone, as if he had an ax to grind.

I smiled, trying to lighten the mood. “I could also start watching her damn show, but please don’t make me do that.”

“Did you let Dave in on what happened?”

“Dave?” I said.

“Yeah, Dave Potts, our president. What other Dave is there?”

“Of course not,” I said, flabbergasted that he’d think that. “Why would I want to ratchet things up? More important, Tom, I’d never go around you.”

“Well, he seems to know all about it.”

“It wasn’t from me. I hope you know me better than that.”

He dropped the pencil. “Okay,” he said. “Never mind.”

But as I sat later in hair and makeup, I was still stewing about it. Had Carter told Potts about Vicky’s tirade? Of course not. He wouldn’t want to escalate the matter, either. And then it hit me
—Vicky
was probably the tattletale.

How absolutely juvenile, I thought, to run to Potts over such a minor issue.

Back in my office, I closed the door and let my eyes fall shut, fatigued by this latest political bullshit. On-set, I sometimes drank coffee from a mug with my name on it, and as I hurried into the newsroom, I asked one of the production assistants to make it black for me tonight.

“Ready to rock and roll?” Carter asked, smiling as I slid into my seat. Good. All back to normal.

He started the up-front section by mentioning some of the tweets and emails we’d received since last night’s show. “We hit a nerve with two stories in particular,” he said. “Pets on planes—and cheating politicians.”

“Ahh,” I said. “So
both
our dog segments were winners.”

“I saw that coming,” Carter said, laughing.

As he started to read through some of the other tweets, I took a swig of coffee from the mug that had been left for me. The instant the liquid filled my mouth, I sensed something else in there—something brittle and crunchy. I felt like I was going to gag.

Instinctively, I swiveled to the right and lowered my head. I spat everything into my hand, letting the coffee run through my fingers. And then I saw what I’d almost swallowed. A huge cockroach was sitting in the middle of my hand.

I fought the urge to retch. I flicked the bug hard from my hand and brought my other hand to my mouth, pressing tight.

“Stay on Carter,” a voice commanded in my earpiece. Then: “Jesus, what’s going on?”

Carter continued to talk, though I could barely focus on what he was saying. I shot a desperate glance at him and raised my index finger, trying to signal that I needed more time. Then I tore off a piece of paper from my notes and dabbed frantically at my mouth. I took another breath, filling my lungs with air. I nodded then to show Carter and the director I was all right.

“I see I’ve rendered Robin speechless with my ramblings,” Carter said, smiling. “Let’s take a break, and then we’ll be back to talk about raising rich kids. Don’t knock them. As we’ll see, it’s not always easy being a billionaire’s baby.”

As soon as we cut away, Carter immediately reached out and touched my arm. “You okay?” he asked.

I shook my head in disbelief. “There was a stupid cockroach in my coffee,” I said. “Not a small one, either. One of those huge water bugs.”

“You’re kidding,” Carter said.

Three seconds later, Tom and one of the production assistants came stampeding onto the set, along with Stacy, the makeup artist. Carter related what had happened.

“A
water
bug?” the PA said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen one on this floor.”

“Well, one showed up here tonight,” I said. I glanced down, and there it was—or at least half of it—lying limp on the floor, just to the right of my chair.

“Jeez,” the PA said, following where my eyes had gone. “At least it was dead.” He tore a handkerchief out of his jeans pocket and scooped up the bug.

“Where did this coffee come from, anyway?” I demanded.

“From the thermos I keep behind the set,” he said, hitching his chin in that direction. “I poured the coffee myself. The bug must have crawled in before I brought the mug out here.”

“Was I on-camera when I spat it out?” I asked.

“No,” Tom said. “We were on Carter.” He told the PA to open me a bottle of water.

“Here, let me touch up your mouth,” Stacy said. “You’re all smeary.”

As Stacy worked, her hands flying, I could see the three guests for the first segment milling around on the edge of the set. Finally, I swiveled my chair forward again.

“One minute. You okay now, Robin?” the director said in my earpiece.

“Yes, thanks, Stan,” I replied.

“You sure?” Carter said softly as the guests started to move in our direction.

“Yeah. Of course, you’re such a pro, you would have just swallowed the freaking thing.”

He chuckled. “Only because I practiced eating bugs in Boy Scouts. If you’re lost in the woods, that’s a survival tactic.”

“Good to know I picked up a new skill today.”

I did my best for the rest of the show, but I never felt fully in the groove. Once, when my thoughts wandered back to that disgusting crunchiness in my mouth, I almost gagged.

The second the show ended, I was out of there. I wanted to be home in the tub with Mozart playing.

On the car ride uptown, I noticed a text from Maddy. “Tried to catch u after show,” she wrote. “So sorry about what happened. Do u need anything?”

“Thx,” I texted back, touched by her concern. “I’m okay.” I was lucky the incident hadn’t ended up on the air, or it would have been all over the Internet.

A few minutes later, as the driver cut through Central Park headed east, another text came in, this one from Ann asking me to call her.

“Will you ever drink coffee again?” were the first words out of her mouth when I reached her.

“Wait, you
heard
? Where are you, anyway?”

“I’ve been downtown all afternoon at a meeting, but one of my team was in the newsroom at the time. She saw the commotion and asked what had happened.”

“She wasn’t with a reporter, was she?”

“No, she was with our dear friend Vicky. We’re setting up a profile of her, and she was deciding on the best place for her photo. I don’t think she’s set foot in the newsroom in years, but that’s where she wants the shot taken.”

“Wait, don’t tell me
Vicky
saw what happened.”

“I’m sure she was too busy focusing on her own needs to notice. So other than nearly swallowing a cockroach, how are you doing?”

“I had one great piece of news today. My book’s in the top hundred on Amazon.”

“Really?” Ann said, sounding surprised. “I mean, I’m thrilled for you, but I thought they kept saying it was only a niche book.”

I laughed. “Maybe they say that to most of their authors so they don’t expect too much.”

“Bravo, then. We’ll have to celebrate. By the way, you didn’t see Carter after the show tonight, did you? He said he wanted to talk to me, but he’s not picking up on his cell.”

“No, I just got the hell out of there tonight.”

“He did the same thing last night. Asked me to call him, then wasn’t around.”

There was no way I was going to mention my dinner with Carter to Ann. She’d take it the wrong way. “Well, you know Carter. International man of mystery.”

“You doing anything exciting tonight?”

“I’m going to soak in a tub and try to figure out what’s wrong with my work karma this week.”

“
Please
. Your karma’s just fine.”

“Oh yeah? For one thing, Tom’s annoyed with me—he thinks I squealed to Potts about the Vicky incident.”

“Robin, you need to relax a little.”

In an almost Pavlovian response, I leaned back against the leather car seat. Though it wasn’t dark yet, the streetlamps in the park were on, shimmering in the twilight.

“Can I ask you something?” I said. A thought had begun to stir in me over the past twenty minutes. “Do you think there’s any chance that the roach in my coffee wasn’t just a fluke?”

“You mean someone
put
it there?” Ann said.

“Yes. Last night after I left you, I found that someone had been in my office and messed with copies of my book. Or at least I think they did.”

“Messed with them how?”

“The jackets were torn—like someone had ripped them. It might have been accidental, but after the note at the party, and now, with this bug thing . . .”

“You think someone is out to get you?”

“I don’t think anyone is planning to murder me and shove my body through a wood chipper. But someone may be trying to mess with my head. Last night I thought I was being followed down my block.”

“Robin, the note at the party was vicious, but I think you have to view it as a onetime thing from some hater. I can’t imagine anyone here has it in for you. People respect you. Isn’t it entirely possible that a cockroach fell into your coffee and drowned?”

“Someone on the crew told me that he’d never seen a bug like that on our floor.”

“Robin,” Ann said, “I want you to take a deep breath. You’re starting to sound a little paranoid.”

The words hurt.

“That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?”

“It’s not a criticism. I’m just looking out for you. TV can be insane. You knew that when you came back into it. You need to calm down—about Vicky and Tom and roaches, everything. Or you’re going to start to burn out.”

“Of course,” I said. “I appreciate your concern. Have a good night.”

Half an hour later, as I sat curled on my couch with a glass of wine, I still felt stung by Ann’s comment. I checked my phone a few times before going to bed, wondering if she might have sent an apology. Nothing.

The next morning I woke determined to keep my mind only on my work. As I headed back from a confab in the newsroom with Alex, Claire emailed me saying that
The New York Times
had decided to run a short profile of me. Fabulous! I thought. It was ridiculous to let things get under my skin when I had so much good stuff going on. I asked the publicist to coordinate with Ann, who would need to be involved, too.

When I hurried into my office a few minutes later, Keiki announced that Ann had just left a message. Rather than phoning her back, I texted, saying I was tied up but would call later. I knew it was bratty of me, but I still felt slightly bruised. Besides, I’d begun to wonder if I’d been leaning on Ann too much lately. She’d been a good friend over the past years—and that included opening the door for me to sub at the network—but because we worked together now, I’d been turning to her more frequently for guidance. It wasn’t totally fair of me, and breathing room might be warranted.

Everyone seemed to eye me when I slipped into the rundown meeting later. Obviously, the whole damn office knew about the roach.

“You recover from last night?” asked Lamar, one of the senior producers.

“I’m fine,” I said, smiling. “Except if you look closely at my forehead, you’ll see two antennae have started to sprout.”

People laughed. Carter did, too. It was the kind of comment I knew he would have made, and it seemed to do the trick, demonstrating to my coworkers I wasn’t flummoxed by the experience.

The show was strong that night. Good topics, good guests. I drank bottled water instead of coffee. Carter, I noticed, was wearing what seemed to be a new navy suit cut perfectly for his body. As he dashed from the set after the show, I wondered if he’d already found a hot little replacement for Jamie. I entertained a momentary twinge of desire—and then shook it off.

On Thursday I realized I was done sulking about Ann. I’d blown her remark out of proportion. Around mid-morning, I picked up the phone and called her office.

“So you’re still speaking to me?” Ann said.

“Yes,” I said. “Sorry if I acted like a bit of a drama queen.”

“I’m sorry if it came out brusquely,” she said. “Want to grab lunch on Saturday? It’s Matthew’s weekend in East Hampton.”

Matthew was Ann’s ex-husband, and they alternated weekends at the home they’d bought as a retreat at the end of Long Island.

“Yes, very much,” I said. I’d spent so many of the past weekends developing story ideas for the show and writing up blogs for the book PR that I’d allowed myself little time to relax or play.

“If it’s not too hot, we can eat outside,” she suggested. “And congratulations on the
Times
piece. We’re going to arrange the shoot and interview for Monday. I’ll work with Keiki on it.”

That’s better, I thought as she hung up. The last thing I needed—or wanted—right now was any kind of awkwardness with Ann.

The morning flew by. I read through all the backup info for the night’s segments and did two short phone interviews for the book. While I was wolfing down a salad at my desk, the phone rang, and I noticed Dave Potts’s name on the screen. He rarely called me.

“I’ll get it, Keiki,” I yelled into the anteroom.

“Hi, Dave,” I said.

“No, it’s Jean, his assistant,” the voice on the other end replied. “Mr. Potts was hoping to see you today. He doesn’t want to interfere with the show, of course, so he could do it right afterward. At eight o’clock.”

“Of course,” I said. I could feel anger starting to stir in me. This better not be about Baylor, I thought. But that was the kind of thing Potts would talk to Tom about, not the talent.

“Great, we’ll see you then,” Jean said.

“Is there a particular agenda I should be aware of?” I asked. I didn’t want to end up blindsided.

“I don’t think so,” Jean said cheerily. “He just said he wants to catch up. Congratulations on the ratings, by the way.”