"Trophy bucks," said Jillian, through a mouthful of lettuce.
"Right," said Amanda. "And I want to see a story talking about the lifestyle that is possible for a woman who takes charge. Viewers need to come away with that notion when they're done watching."
"Oh, Amanda," said Rica, "I meant to ask you something. What are we going to be calling the news channel?"
Amanda's face lit up. "Well, I was saving that for down the road, but since you guys are going to be running the thing…" Her eyes sparkled. "This is the best part, and it's going to leave no doubt as to our agenda. We're the Consolidated Group Report. But we're just going to call the channel CGR."
Oh, you gotta be kidding. "C…G…R?" I asked, speaking each letter slowly.
She smiled and nodded. "Yeah. Get it?"
"Not exactly a brainteaser for the Jumble," said Rica. "If you're a woman who can't figure that out, you shouldn't be watching anyway."
"I like it. It's really sort of in your face," said Jillian.
"Subtlety is not my strong suit," said Amanda. "In business or in life."
My appetite switch turned back on. Suddenly I was ravenous and attacked my steak, savoring the hot, juicy rare beef that had been seasoned with fresh peppercorns and topped with garlic butter. I saw in Amanda a woman who was supremely confident in what we were about to do, and I liked her immensely. We all did. She was obviously very smart and had a plan that made sense, incredible as it was. If it actually worked, it really would change the face of broadcasting.
That face wore eye shadow and bright red lipstick. That face was over thirty and might even have a few character lines. It would speak words that told the world who was in charge.
But I couldn't help but wonder.
Had Madison briefed Amanda on our benefits package and reference checking?
"Amanda," I said, wiping my mouth with my white cloth napkin and dropping it back in my lap, then folding my hands. "I need to ask you about—"
She put up her hand and stopped me. "Syd, I don't care how you hire people or anything about any… arrangements… you might have. Yes, I've read the tabloids. Madison told me how the system works. The point is, it works very well. I could care less if you turn your offices into Caligula's palace as long as you deliver the product we need. No one's going to give it a second thought if ratings are good. Put anyone that you like on your to-do list."
I relaxed and sank back into my seat. I could see my girls all doing the same.
Hello, Jason? Yeah, we're still good to go for tonight…
A young, attractive waiter with light brown hair, deep-set blue eyes and a strong chin arrived with a bottle of wine and began to refill Amanda's glass as she quickly glanced down the length of his body and back up again. "Would you all like to see the dessert cart?" he asked. "The tiramisu is fantastic."
Amanda lightly put her hand on the man's hip, then tilted her neck so she could get a better view of the man's tight backside. "What I want isn't on the menu," she said, staring up into his eyes. She reached into her purse, pulled out a business card, wrote a number on the back, and handed it to the waiter. He looked at it, turned it over, and smiled.
"I get off at nine tonight," he said.
"Apparently, so do I," said Amanda, who locked her eyes on the waiter's.
Whoa. And I thought we were slick.
Eyes widened and jaws dropped around the table as the young man nodded, dropped the check on the table, mouthed "see you then" and walked away.
"Oh, you're smooth, Hollywood," said Rica.
"Long flights wipe me out," said Amanda, swirling her wine around in the glass. "A little… exercise… always perks me up. He looks like a good workout buddy."
"You know what they say. No pain, no gain," said Jillian. "Go for the burn."
Now I was the one who wanted details. "So Amanda, are you—"
"I wouldn't call myself a cradle robber," said Amanda, "but I do primarily date younger guys, and I tend to think of men as Kleenex."
"One blow and y'all are done?" asked Neely, laying on the accent pretty thick. Everyone laughed.
"Neely, you really do have a future in promotions," said Amanda, shaking her head as she finished her wine.
"By the way, what exactly was your job in Hollywood?" asked Jillian.
"Well, I wore many hats," said Amanda, "but I spent seven years as a casting director. It has its… perks… when men really want the part." She took a sip of wine and glanced at her watch. "I assume all your questions about business practices have been answered?"
“Actions speak louder than words,” I said.
ONE MONTH LATER…
Getting all the girls to move to New York in May wasn't a problem, though we all had to work on Rica a bit when it came to finding new living accommodations. Jillian and Neely both settled in on the Upper East Side near me, each renting a townhouse. For whatever reason, Rica actually considered moving back to Brooklyn. Neely finally hit her with a dose of her own medicine one night and yelled (or tried to yell) "fuhgeddaboudit", which was so long and drawn out it didn't carry the same punch as it did coming from a New Yorker and sounded more like a Southern belle come-on to a man searching in vain for a condom. ("Sweetie, just fuhgeddaboudit and get on top of me before y'all start floppin' around like a catfish.") Rica finally relented and agreed to live in Manhattan, on the condition that Neely, as she put it, "Leave my slang alone, and I won't try to say y'all." Though Rica's y'all sounded more like a plea for help from an adenoidal patient in the office of an ear, nose and throat specialist.
Living arrangements taken care of, now to the hard stuff. Building a news department from scratch, I've done. Building a twenty-four-hour network, well, that's another story. Thankfully Madison and Amanda had taken a lot off my plate, renovating our new home while coordinating the things like sets and equipment. They told me to focus solely on hiring air talent.
(Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that in television news, people in front of the camera are referred to as "talent", regardless of whether they possess any. Often they don’t, but then again this isn't rocket science. I can't remember the last time I heard the word "journalist" in a newsroom. So in reality, it really is a lot like Hollywood.)
We put our four pretty heads together and figured we'd need two dozen full-time anchors to cover all the shifts and allow for sick days, mental health days, vacations, etcetera.
Twelve mature female anchors with experience.
Twelve trophy bucks to sit next to them, read, and look good. In case you hadn't guessed, no experience necessary. (Don't look at me in that tone of voice. The pageant fembots have been operating under those rules for years.)
And once the word got out that we were staffing a new network and had two dozen openings, the floodgates of the United States Postal Service, FedEx, and UPS opened in a nanosecond.
Every former female anchor who had been put out to pasture at thirty-five dusted off a resume tape and overnighted it to me.
Every male anchor over thirty who thought of himself as distinguished or authoritative or experienced sent a tape. Which meant just about every man in an anchor position in the United States.
Jillian took care of sorting the mountain of tapes that filled the mailroom. She promptly threw every tape from the men