Me vs. Me (16 page)

He blushes and pulls me onto his lap. “Sorry about that, too. She said she saw it at the store and bought it and I've been so busy with work and the paperwork for the new house so—”

That's it. I push myself off him and move to the other end of the couch. “Do you know how pathetic that sounds?”

“I didn't ask her to do it,” he says. “She just did it.”

“You should have said no, Cam. Don't you get it? We have to make our life about us. Not about your mother.”

He looks pained. “I'm sorry. Again. You know how she is. I tell her no, but she just keeps at me, until I'm too tired to argue.”

I can taste the bitterness in my mouth. “I understand, but it's no good. She's going to push us around our whole life.” And I'm going to be miserable, I think but don't say. I'm going to be miserable my whole life.

“I know, I know. You're right. I'll do my best.”

“Whatever.” I lie facedown on the couch, feeling empty. “It's okay.”

But it's not okay. I want to go back to New York. I don't know how it happened, but I like myself better in New York. A lot better. I'm not a wimp there. Or a whiner. And I'm liked. I'm strong and cheerful…and assertive.

 

“—five, four, three, two—”

I'm in the office in N.Y., watching the ball drop live onscreen at the station. I've always loved New Year's. It feels so hopeful. So fresh. The year ahead is like a blank page. Or in my case, two blank pages.

“—one!”

A cameraman slaps me on the back. “Happy New Year!” he says.

“You, too.” We clink our glasses of champagne and get back to work. You'd think I'd be bored, or annoyed that I'm in the office, but I'm not. I love it here. There is nowhere I'd rather be.

I finish my glass and wish the others well, and then get back to work.

“Gabby, can you help with a story?” asks one of the associate producers.

“Sure, I'd be happy to,” I answer, and follow her down the hall.

Happy New Year to me.

 

“—five, four, three, two—”

We're at the Starlight Bar in Tempe with a bunch of Cam's friends, but I have to admit, the countdown is less exciting the second time around.

“—one!”

“Happy New Year, baby,” Cam says, and presses his lips against mine.

“Happy New Year,” I murmur.

He pulls me into him, brushes away my hair and whispers. “This is our year.”

Some say that the first thing you feel in the New Year will stay with you for the next twelve months. The first thing I feel is guilt. There's a part of me that Cam doesn't know. A part of me he'll never know.

 

“Am I being overly critical?” I ask Lila. “After all, Cam's her baby.”

It's the third week of January, and because we've just finished ordering my wedding dress, I'm treating Lila to a glass of wine. She wanted to get back to work, but I guilted her by saying that as my Number One maid of honor, it was her job to listen to me kvetch. She had taken the news of her shared honor relatively well. We're sitting in a booth at the back of a bar called Grapes, enjoying our chardonnay and sharing our usual cheese plate. Sometimes I try to shake things up by trying to order the chicken wings, but she won't do it. Cheese plate—always.

“No. I think you're not being critical enough. You have to set limits. The same thing happened with my mother and my brother. My mom was horrible to his wife. She treated her like an imposter who was out to steal her baby. Alice can tell that you have no spine and pushes accordingly. You have to lay down the law now before it's too late.”

“I can't find my spine,” I complain. “It's buried somewhere under all this weight I've gained. Which is something else I'm depressed about.”

Lila tilts her head back and takes a long sip. “I want to talk to you about that.”

“About my weight or my depression?”

“About
my
depression.”

I cover her hand with mine. “You're depressed? Why?”

“I'm lonely in the apartment all by myself. Your move screwed up my whole equilibrium. The place feels so empty. Before, I at least had you to come home to, but now I have no one.”

“You need to meet someone.”

Lila nods. “Exactly. It's time for me to find myself a boyfriend.”

Lila has definitely had her share of flings, but in all the years that I've known her, I've never seen her in a relationship. I've never even heard her say that she wants a boyfriend. She claimed they took up too much space, physically and emotionally. “Wow. That's a big step for you.”

“All I'm saying is that I'm going to start dating. I'm open and willing.”

“I'll keep my eye out for eligible bachelors.”

“Thanks.”

She stuffs a slice of Gruyère in her mouth, savors it, then asks, “Maybe Cam has a friend?”

“You'll meet them all at the wedding.”

“Speaking of the wedding, don't I need to order a dress?”

“Yes. That's next up. Alice would like you in rust.”

“I'm not wearing orange. Alice should mind her own business. How about black?”

“I'll see what I can do.”

“Remember your spine.”

 

One week later, we're back in Alice's kitchen, binders open, iced tea poured.

“Next major priority is finding a band,” Tricia tells us, pushing a list across the glass table. On it is written: Smokin' Tokin', Starlight, Party Town, Champagne. “I've used these bands before. They're all available on your date.”

“What kind of name is Smokin' Tokin'?” Alice asks. “This is your wedding, Gabrielle. You need a band that represents sound family values.”

What does she expect? The Partridge Family? “Great,” I say to Tricia. “Do they have CDs we could listen to?”

Tricia nods. “Yup. But I think it's best if you go hear them in person. Starlight and Party Town are playing at weddings this Saturday night. It's always best to pop in and see the bands in action.”

Fun. Cam and I can go dancing. “And the hosts don't mind?”

“Nah, it always happens. I'm sure you'll have a few crashers at your wedding, too.”

“You see?” Alice says, wagging her finger at me. “That wouldn't happen if you got married at home. A hotel is so impersonal. Any stranger can wander in off the street. If they're disruptive, I'm having them tossed out by their ears. And what about terrorists?”

“They're not disruptive,” Tricia says. “They're just like you. Couples who want to hear bands.”

Alice shakes her head in apparent disgust. “If we must, we must. I'll make dinner for you and Cam, and then the four of us will go.”

Spine, I need a spine. “That's very considerate of you, Alice, but Cam and I are happy to go on our own. We'll make a night out of it.”

Alice purses her lips and grumbles something incomprehensible.

“Perfect,” Tricia says, clapping her hands. “Gabby and Cam will choose the band. Now let's move on to flowers. Gabby, do you have any ideas for bouquets or centerpieces?” “I—”

“I do,” interrupts Alice. Surprise, surprise. “Turn to the flower section of your binders. One thing is certain, we have to have orange blossoms.”

First my back tenses and then my spine shrivels. Why not forget the hotel and get married in an orchard? Fine. She can have the flowers. It's not like I care about a bunch of plants. Hey, I'm choosing the band. I'll just have to make sure to regrow my spine in time to argue about the bridesmaid dresses.

Live from New York

A
s Arizona Me works on Alice, New York Me works on, well, work.

I'm in the control room and the show's about to start taping when my BlackBerry buzzes to tell me that a fire broke out at an oil refinery outside of Houston.

“Wait, no one move,” I say into my headphone. “Curtis, did you see it?”

“Yeah. Hold on.”

“This could be big. Maybe we should hold off taping now and go live at eight,” I say. This is a more important story than that snowstorm that's attacking the Northeast. Since refineries are major targets, I'm thinking terrorists. I flip through my BlackBerry trying to find out more, but there's no news yet.

“We hardly ever go live,” Curtis says through the headset. “It's too risky.”

Ron's face is now featured prominently on the screen in front of me, waiting to begin taping.

“Okay,” I say, but then I get another buzz. “A hundred people still inside refinery.”

And that's when I get thirsty. Very thirsty. My tongue feels like sandpaper and my eyes start to itch. I know the sign, and it's never let me down before. Something big is going down.

Spine! I need my spine! I sit up straighter and clear my throat. “Curtis? I know it's risky, but I think we should go for it.” My BlackBerry buzzes again. “The fire is spreading. I think we should hold off taping. We need to wait for more news. I did it all the time Arizona.”

“This isn't Arizona.”

No, this is a major network in New York. Hello?

I sit up tall. I'm not backing down. I know this is the right move, and I'm going for it. “This story will be huge. We have to go for it.”

“Forget it,” says Curtis. “We're taping.”

I feel myself sink back into my seat. She's making a mistake. We have to do it. “Let's ask Ron,” I say. “He should have the option, Curtis. It's his name out there.”

“Go ask him. He won't want to.”

I push back my seat and hurry past security into the studio. “Ron, sorry to bother you so close to taping.”

He waves me over. “What's up, Arizona?”

“A fire just broke out at an oil refinery outside Houston. I have a feeling it's going to be a big story. The news is still slow to come in, but I think it's worth going live at eight.”

He seems to be processing what I've said. “Terrorism?”

“Could be.”

“Victims?”

“Possibly.”

“What does Curtis think?”

“She wants to continue as planned with the taping.”

He stares into my eyes. “And what makes you so sure you're right?”

“I just know.”

“Reporter's nose?”

More like tongue. “Sort of.”

Ron leans in close and I can see he's wearing foundation and a little too much eyeliner. He looks me over, and I can tell he's deciding. Should he risk his show on a hunch? “All right,” he says slowly. “Let's go live. Hope you're right, Arizona.”

Curtis calls me over when I return to the control room. “You'd better be right about this fire.”

I run to the cooler for water. I need to douse the fire in my throat.

Six o'clock comes and goes, and I'm still thirsty. We are not taping. We are preparing for a live show. My hands are shaking. Not that I wish anyone harm, but if the fire dwindles to a flicker, I'm screwed. I keep checking my BlackBerry. Is it wrong that I'm praying that the fire doesn't stop? A doctor doesn't wish for a person to get sick, but face it, without sick people, doctors would be unemployed. Maybe everyone will be saved and we'll get a few hero stories. Hero stories are upbeat, are they not?

 

It's 7:58. The fire is still roaring. It's out of control. One of our affiliate producers is there right now, getting us some horrific and overwhelming images. People are trapped inside.

“And we're live.”

“Good evening,” says Ron, looking directly into the camera. “We have some very disturbing images coming out of Texas tonight. You are looking at an oil refinery outside of Houston, and we believe several people might be trapped inside the smoldering refinery. At three fifty-seven central standard time this afternoon, a gas-tank explosion ignited a fire at a major oil refinery just outside of Houston. Several fire companies are on the scene, responding to the blaze.”

We have graphics, we have live images. We have it all. Meanwhile, I'm waving at the assistants, who have been trying to make phone contact with someone inside the building.

“We got one,” an assistant whispers to me, ten minutes into the newscast. “His name is Alex Manasin. He's an engineer and he's in the back of the building. Let me connect him.”

Holy shit. “Are you sure talking to us doesn't put him in any danger?”

“He's trapped in one of the control rooms. He can't go anywhere.”

I adjust the script and tell Ron about the caller through his earpiece. His eyes light up. This is huge.

“We have an engineer, Alex Man…a…ton from the refinery on the phone live with us.”

“Manasin!” I scream at the screen. “Not Manaton!”

“Alex, can you hear me?” Ron says in his best voice-of-God.

I hear a man's voice, and it's not Ron's. “Hello?”

“Alex, are you okay?”

“I've been better,” says the voice. “It's damn hot in here.”

“Stay with us, Alex. They're coming to get you. Can you tell us what's going on in there?”

“It just kinda came out of nowhere. It was a very normal day and then just before four a loud explosion came from the south side of the facility.”

“What's on the south side?”

“The south side is the G-sector where refined oil is taken from the facility for distribution.”

“How far were you from the explosion?”

“It was just down the hall…maybe five hundred feet.”

“Is anyone with you?”

“There's about twelve of us in this control room and another five next door. We're all stuck…there are flames right through the hallways.”

“How many employees work at the facility?”

“Could be as high as twelve hundred, depending on the work shifts.”

“Mr. Manaton, do you have any idea how this could have started?”

“Tough to say…hold on…. Ted, tell Joan to stay low…”

The phone muffles. Ron, clearly not at his best when live, stares blankly at the monitor for some guidance. This dead air is killing me. I'm about to insert a new graphic when thankfully Mr. Manaton, as he's now been ordained, comes back on the line.

“Sorry about that,” he says.

“We certainly understand. Your safety and the safety of those around you is most important here. Now tell us, do you have any idea how this could have started?”

The engineer coughs loudly into the phone. “Tough to say. I don't think it was an accident.”

Yes, yes, that's it, say the T-word.

“We've had union issues these past few months.”

Ron visually slumps with disappointment.

“But who knows? Some of us here in the control room think it was terrorists.”

Bull's-eye!

“What does it look like in there?” Ron asks. “Is there smoke?”

More coughs. “Yeah, hold on again.”

We wait a few seconds. Any more dead air and I'm going to get fired.

“Get me someone else! Can we get the mayor on the line?”

“We got him,” a bushy-eyed intern yells my way.

I patch the mayor through to Ron, who immediately bursts into, “Houston we have a problem.” Oh God, tell me he didn't just say that. “Mr. Mayor,” he continues, “what can you tell us?”

For the next twelve minutes, our live coverage of the Houston refinery fire is, well, no need to be modest here, outstanding. I cut to images from the choppers overhead. I insert graphics with factoids about the refinery. I point out how a refinery fire could force gas prices higher.

I cut to commercial.

I glance up at the monitors of the other networks and notice that, except for CNN, they aren't showing the story. Instead they're airing their prerecorded stories about the snowstorm—boring. It's January, people. Snow happens. CNN is just beginning their coverage, but we've already made contact. We beat CNN!

I snap back to the screen with the realization that in one minute and fifteen seconds we're coming back live. “I need an expert on the phone,” I scream at no one in particular. “Someone who can talk about oil, gas, refineries, anything like that. Ron, open with a recap. Two minutes, then we'll get you back on the phone.”

Ron's ad-lib skills are practically nonexistent. He changes the location of the fire twice in two minutes—first on the north side, then the eastern section of the refinery. But he does a good job hitting the key points, and the graphics team helps him along.

After the recap, we check back with Alex Manaton/Manasin, then with the fire chief, then move on to an economics expert. Halfway through the hour, all the other major news networks have abandoned their taped segments and are picking up our feed. And I'm feeling damn good about my decision to go live.

The rest of the hour flies by, with other major stories to even it out. Eventually, our time is up and we wind down our efforts. The enthusiasm in the room is palpable. One of our only live outings, produced by yours truly, has been a massive success. We had drama, we had excitement, we had heroes. And adding to the celebration, not only were there no fatalities, no one was injured.

Tomorrow we cover the union dispute. Perhaps, live.

 

I'm closing down my computer when I notice that Ron is leaning against my desk, a huge grin across his face. “Where do you think you're going, Arizona? I'm taking you to dinner.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. You were a superstar tonight. What's your favorite place?”

Sushi on Third is pretty much the only place I've ever eaten at in this city, except for the Italian place Heather took me to once. “You choose. I trust you. You are one of the most trusted newsmen in the nation.”

“Cute, Arizona. Let's go to Gramercy Tavern. I have to get this makeup taken off and then make a few stops, so I'll meet you there at ten.”

I do a quick search on the Internet and discover that Gramercy Tavern is one of the best and priciest restaurants in the city. Then I run to the restroom and try to fix myself up. I look down at my running shoes. Shit. I can't go to one of New York's best restaurants in these! Maybe I can just run across the street and—

I glance at my watch. It's already nine-thirty. All the stores will be closed. I'm going to have to make do with what I have on. Which are baggy black pants, a purple blouse and these damn black running shoes. Okay, what can I fix? I unbutton the top button of my shirt. And the hair. I can definitely fix the hair. I remove the elastic from my ponytail, flip my head, add water, shake it out and flip back up. That's better. Unfortunately, I don't carry much makeup with me, except for a lipstick. But that could work. It's rosy. I rub the color onto my eyelids, my cheekbones and finally my lips. And then I smile.

 

“We'll have a second bottle of the Château Lafite Rothschild Pauillac,” Ron tells the waitress.

What will forever be known as the best day ever is getting better by the second. I saw the price list. And that wine cost over three hundred dollars. There is no feeling in the world like getting drunk on a three-hundred-dollar bottle of wine. Although, if I'm going to be honest, Ron has done more than his share of the drinking.

So far, the food is delicious. No,
delicious
isn't a strong enough word. I have mini orgasms every time I lift my fork to my mouth. And there's still so much more to go. I'm only on course three out of seven!

When I realized that just the two of us would be having dinner—Ron said he couldn't find Curtis—I was worried we'd have nothing to talk about. But the conversation is as smooth as the wine. I'm pretty well prepped, since I've read his biography in my other life, and therefore know everything about him. Born in Boston in 1949. Father died when he was ten from a heart attack. Mother remarried twice thereafter. Moved to Connecticut where stepfather worked. Graduated with a B.A. from Yale. Married Janet McKinsey, whom he met in a communications class. Got a master's in journalism from Columbia. Fathered one boy, then twin girls. All three kids are in their twenties. Lives with wife in Greenwich, Connecticut.

Besides, I end up doing most of the talking, since he asks me a million questions. What was it like moving from Arizona to New York? How do I like my job? How do I like working with Curtis? Do I have a roommate?

“Where did you grow up?”

“Just outside of Los Angeles,” I answer, savoring my tuna tartar.

“Ah, La-la Land. You didn't want to be an actress?”

“God, no. That world is so fake.”

“I know just what you mean,” he says, holding my gaze as if I had said something meaningful.

“Half the girls in my class had breast implants by their sixteenth birthday,” I add, then wonder if I should slow down on the wine.

Luckily, he laughs, and then asks me about my parents.

I haven't gotten this much attention in years.

Sure, this would be way more fun if he wasn't married. Not that he's my type exactly, being over fifty. But there's something about him that's sexy. The maître d' giving us the best table even though we didn't have a reservation probably has something to do with it. Or maybe it's because everyone in this entire country trusts him. Or because he's powerful and brilliant. Or maybe it's the wine goggles I'm sporting.

“Gabby, tell me, how come you went into producing and not reporting?”

“Not my thing. I prefer being behind the camera.”

“You would have been a terrific reporter. That smile would have looked great on camera. But I'm happy to have you as my producer. You're doing a phenomenal job. For the work you did tonight, we could be talking Emmy.”