Remember my original plan to tank the tryout? This was worse.
The prompter may as well have been filled with Chinese. Even after three practice runs, I had become the victim of the classic rookie anchor mistake: stumbling out of the gate and becoming a snowball rolling downhill as I focused so much on the first screw-up I continued to make more.
Thankfully the mock interview segments we taped didn't require me to actually read, or it would have been even worse.
I knew it was gone. The Chair, the presidential campaign, rides on Air Force One, all history.
I shook my head as I looked at Scott. "I sure screwed the pooch on this opportunity."
"Pffft. Don't worry about it. They know you're not used to anchoring."
"Yeah, but they could find a small market anchor who could read the prompter better than I did."
He shrugged. "Not the biggest factor on this show."
Mandy the prompter girl walked toward the set and extended her hand. "It was nice meeting you," she said, her sad look telling me she knew she'd never see me again.
"You too," I said.
The door to the studio opened. Gavin Karlson walked through it and headed toward the set. For some odd reason he was smiling.
I dipped my head and looked up at him through sad eyes, like I'd been a bad student caught by the teacher. "I promise to buy Hooked on Phonics this afternoon."
He chuckled a bit. "Don't beat yourself up. You were fine."
"Amazing. You're channeling my mother."
He turned to Scott. "She obviously doesn't understand what we're looking for."
"Nope. Sure doesn't," he said.
"Let me guess," I said. "You're looking for an actress to play the before role in a stuttering commercial."
Gavin laughed as he sat down on the couch in the seat previously occupied by our mock interview subject. "Veronica, morning shows are all about personality. I could put any number of people in the chair to read a prompter flawlessly, but I need someone who has both incredible chemistry with Scott and who can connect with the viewers. Especially the female ones."
I cocked my head toward Scott. "I think every woman's dream over here has that covered." Scott tried to hold back a smile and blushed a bit.
"You still don't understand," said Gavin. "We need a woman that every man wants and who every woman wants to be. Someone who's going to attract men but not turn off the women. Someone who's approachable in the eyes of both sexes. If we paired some ice queen with him we'd lose the women even though they love Scott."
"But you said you wanted a harder edge to the show," I said.
"I do," said Gavin, "but it's still crucial that the new co-anchor bring great chemistry to the equation. The fact that you two have been friends for years really came through the screen. It's obvious you like each other. When we brought Scott on two years ago the women responded, but Katrina had no chemistry with him. She started resenting all the attention he got and it showed. She came off like a bitch with some of her snide comments and that turned off a lot of women. I've got a few thousand emails if you wanna read 'em."
"So, I'm still in the running?"
"Very much so."
My spirits lifted a bit and I actually smiled.
Until I saw the competition strut into the studio.
***
Every Sunday for the past five years I've had a standing appointment with my two closest friends. We meet at the same restaurant for brunch at eleven.
And even though I'm about twenty minutes late, I already know the topic of conversation.
Me.
Thankfully, they'll be supportive, which is what I need right now. I guess I should tell you about them.
Layla Starr has been my best friend since high school. The first time I saw her and heard her name, I did the judge-a-book-by-its-cover thing. At fourteen she had reached her current height, five-ten, and current figure, classic supermodel. With huge ice blue eyes that are a striking contrast to her black shoulder length hair, she could have been a model right then. With a name like Layla she was an obvious target for off-color comments from the boys at school.
When she was assigned to be my chemistry lab partner and I caught a glimpse of her killer body and perfect cheekbones, I rolled my eyes knowing I'd be wearing invisibility spray as the males in the classroom would totally ignore me. One of the boys nearly blew up the lab when she came to class one day in her cheerleader uniform that showed off legs up to her neck. Anyway, turned out she was this conservative girl from a strict family much like mine, so we became fast friends. I consider her the sister I never had.
The girl routinely stops Manhattan traffic and gets carded at bars, as the woman has apparently discovered the fountain of youth. She's solid muscle, working as an aerobics instructor, as her body still doesn't have an ounce of fat. You could bounce quarters off the girl's ass.
Savannah is my fish-out-of-water friend, a Southern belle from Mississippi whose main objective in life is to divorce herself from her evil family traditions that exist south of the Mason-Dixon line. This goal came about when, at the age of twenty-two, she graduated from college and was promptly anointed an "old maid" by her mother. After a few months of being compared to her high school cohorts who were already well established in the trailer park and regularly showed off their cereal covered spawn every Friday night at Wal-Mart, Savannah left town with nothing but her devastating looks and incredibly sultry drawl. She headed straight for the Big Apple. Luckily she brought a serious amount of common sense and surprising level of street smarts with her. I happened to meet her the day she arrived while working on a story at the airport, took pity on her and offered her my couch until she got situated. Which she promptly did the next day, as she relocated from my sofa to the apartment of the cute guy who lived next door. He also took pity on her, but in the end she left nothing but an empty husk.
A curvy, five-six brunette whose mahogany tangles end in the middle of her back, she's used her pale green eyes and pouty lips to advance her career as a political consultant who is often the spokesperson for campaigns. Clients seek her out since she's whip smart and can make any man feel like he's the only person in the room. (And by nightfall it often ends up that way.) She can also charm a crowd in a political debate by inserting charming Southernisms into the discussion. Savannah calls herself a "serial dater" but when she says it with that accent it actually sounds charming. She'll pretty much date any decent guy once, as there is apparently a little known congressional bill called "no man left behind." At twenty-eight she's the baby sister in our group.
The girls were already seated at our usual corner table, sipping mimosas as patrons crowded the long buffet line, so deep in conversation they didn't notice my arrival until I pulled out my chair.
Layla looked up and smiled, studied my face, then bit her lower lip. "Uh-oh."
I shook my head and said nothing.
"What?" asked Savannah.
"Well," I said, taking my seat as I flagged down the waiter with the tray of mimosas, "so much for my dream of anchoring the nightly news."
"What happened?" asked Savannah. "Y'all look like someone ran over your dog."
"I couldn't read the prompter. I stumbled through every script. Worse than in college."
"You haven't anchored in forever," said Layla. "I'm sure they know that. How did you do with Scott?"
"That part was okay," I said, as my mimosa arrived. "And the producer said we had great chemistry."
Savannah smiled. "There you go! Chemistry's important. I hate it when anchors don't like each other. Did the producer give you any other feedback?"
"He said I was still in the running, and I believed