Amanda Wakes Up Page 7

  “What’s the problem?” I asked, so I could immediately fix it in myself.

  “Well, with Margot, it turns out she’s beautiful, but she’s too damn nice. She’s sooo sweet. She’s just not—” He stopped and looked off to the left, struggling to find the right word.

  “Relatable?” I offered.

  “Hot,” he said. “She’s just not hot enough. No one in the focus groups found her sexy. And that’s a big problem.”

  I sat stunned on the sofa, trying to find the right response but feeling a little sick. Newsrooms were notoriously sexist, but I wasn’t used to the head of the company being so overt.

  “Oh, hey,” Benji said, taking my hand, “I didn’t mean to offend you. I just get the impression I can talk to you honestly. I think you get it. And I think you like to understand the problem. So listen,” he went on, taking a big breath, “we’re a little more than six months from the election. I never thought this would be the scenario, but with Victor Fluke and Virginia Wynn going head-to-head, things are getting real. These next six months are crucial, and I can’t have a shitty morning show. And that’s where you come in.”

  “O . . . kay . . .” I said slowly, trying not to get ahead of myself, praying that he might somehow be considering me, rather than asking me to be part of the next focus group.

  “I want to test you with Rob—”

  “Great!” I blurted before he was done. I wanted to jump up and click my heels in the air. Wait until I called Mom, and Laurie and Charlie!

  “I have a hunch this could work,” Benji said, nodding at me.

  “Yes, okay! Great!”

  Benji folded his arms and looked at me. “Did you ever see Gone with the Wind?”

  “Um, yes, I mean, years ago.”

  “You remind me of Scarlett O’Hara.”

  “Petulant and demanding?” I asked.

  “Ha! That’s a good one. See, you’re funny. That’s good. No. I mean, you’re not beautiful. But somehow when you’re on the air, I want to watch what you’ll do next. That stand-up you did at the Harley Company, where you jumped on the bike and drove off? Great reporter involvement. And the one from that ostrich farm with all of them pecking you? Terrific. But my favorite was that blind ice cream taste test. Was the peach ice cream really that good?”

  “Oh, it was,” I assured him.

  “I thought so! Shit, I wish I wasn’t off dairy! Anyway, I can’t quite explain your presence, cause there’s a bunch of girls prettier than you, but somehow you’ve got ‘it.’”

  Hearing Benji Diggs say I had “it” flooded every one of my cells with a rush of liquid gold.

  “Hey, do you know the secret to being a TV star?”

  “No, what?” I asked, leaning in.

  “Anchors have to be aspirational. This is particularly true for women. Maybe it’s sexist, I don’t know, but I know it’s true. You watch Rachel Maddow and you want to be smart like her. You see Diane Sawyer and you think she’s so sophisticated, even when she’s undercover, sleeping in some jail cell. Oprah makes us feel, hey, she’s one of us, maybe I could be that rich someday. And the High Priestess of the Mornings, Suzy Berenson, you know what makes her so popular?”

  “No, what?” I begged, practically falling into him.

  “She’s smart and sexy. Women want to have lunch with her and men want to date her. That’s it. And that’s what I’m looking for here. And that’s what I think you might have—star quality.”

  It took every ounce of muscle control to keep from screaming that Benji Diggs had just used my name in the same sentence as Suzy Berenson and star.

  “So whaddya say?” he said.

  “I say yes!” I said, clapping my hands like I was applauding his decision.

  “Fantastic! Now we gotta work fast. I need to test you with Rob on Friday. It’s just a chemistry test, okay, but I’m hoping it works. And also, please keep this quiet. Don’t tell any of the other ladies yet, especially not Margot. She’s sooo damn nice, it’s torture. So I need you to keep this on the DL.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Now just remember on Friday for this test, whatever the topic, I want to hear both sides. We’re trying to find solutions here.”

  “Okay. But what will the topics be?”

  “Anything and everything,” he said, cracking his knuckles. “But the point is, the one-sided world of partisan news channels is over. For the next six months—or six decades if FAIR News actually takes off—we’re here to help the country end these dangerous divisions. FAIR News is going to be the big tent that brings everyone together. Now, if we could get a little more press, get our message out, and help people understand what we’re doing here, we’d have a shot. I’ve got the New York Times coming in next week to spend a day. Vanity Fair’s been shadowing me all week. It’s happening. Slowly. But it’s happening.”

  “Yes! It’s happening!” I agreed, though at that moment I was talking about my own life.

  Benji nodded at me. “So. I’m working on getting Virginia Wynn and Victor Fluke to agree to come on FAIR. How awesome would it be to get them together in studio? But I gotta tell ya, it’s very hard to get their people to agree. Neither one of them is doing interviews. They think all the fighting and calling each other names on the stump is working for them. Anyway, my dream is to get them on the morning show—together or apart.”

  “Definitely. Good idea,” I said, hoping the more I acted as if it were my show, the likelier it would be.

  Benji picked up the phone. “Hey, Melissa, need you to call Meg. Have her get Amanda fitted for wardrobe ASAP,” he nodded into the receiver. “Good. Tell Meg I’m thinking something sort of sassy.”

  I bit my lip. He hung up.

  “And let’s get you some real shoes” Benji said, looking at my feet with a mix of disgust and amusement. “Viewers, men and women, pay attention to shoes. I mean, good shoes. Not . . . those.”

  I involuntarily moved my feet under his sofa, wishing desperately that I owned a fancier pair than these scuffed Nine West pumps.

  Benji stared sympathetically into my eyes and nodded gently. “There’s a hole in your sole.”

  “My soul?”

  “Yes, the sole of your left shoe. It looks beat up. That’d be bad on camera. You’ve gotta have new soles on TV.”

  “No soul in TV?” I’d always heard network news could be soulless. I couldn’t believe Benji was admitting it.

  “New,” he clarified. “You need nice shoes if you’re going to be a role model.”

  “A sole model,” I said.

  “Ha! That’s good. Hey, save that for the air. Remember, we’re creating a new paradigm. And you’re gonna be great!” Benji slapped my knee and got up. “Cause you’re down to earth, and smart and funny. You’ve got something for everyone. I mean, really, who doesn’t want the girl next door in their bedroom every morning?”

  • • •

  “What are those?” Charlie asked, walking into my apartment and looking at me with nervous eyes. He put down his bag and moved tentatively in my direction, as if approaching something flammable. “What’s on your eyes?”

  “Oh, they’re fake eyelashes,” I said to his cheek, now two inches from mine. “The makeup artist put them on.”

  He put his fingers to my lashes and touched them in wonderment, like a child feeling a snowflake for the first time. “Do they come off?”

  “I assume so,” I said, backing away before he accidentally poked my eyeball. “But how about my hair? Doesn’t it look fabulous?”

  Charlie took one of my highlighted strands and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. “Does that wash out, too?”

  “No, it grows out. Unfortunately,” I answered, annoyed and feeling almost as self-conscious as I had in the office when Benji was eyeing me.

  “It’s . . . interesting,” Charlie
said. “It’s a little”—he paused and I could tell he was struggling for something diplomatic—“overdone. It’s not natural looking.”

  “Well, it’s not for real life. It’s for TV.” I was bursting with my big news and waiting for an opening so I could break it.

  “I don’t think you need all that makeup,” Charlie said.

  “Well, I do if I’m going to be an anchor!” I exclaimed. “Benji wants me to audition for an anchor slot on the morning show!”

  “Oh, wow, really?” Charlie’s face lit up. “That’s terrific! How did that happen?”

  “Well, I guess none of the women he’s tried are working,” I said, deciding to omit the lack of hotness part. “So I’m going to audition for it on Friday!” I surprised myself by attempting a sudden pirouette.

  “Wow, that’s great!” Charlie said, coming over to hug me. “Tell me about this show. What is it?”

  “Come on, let’s talk while we eat. I’m starving,” I said, moving to the counter to unwrap the takeout from Curry in a Hurry. “It’s going to be called Wake Up, USA! and it sounds great. We’ll be talking about anything and everything in the news. And the point is to cover both sides of every issue, you know, have a real conversation. Here, let’s split this mulligatawny,” I said, handing him a Styrofoam bowl.

  “Right, both sides,” Charlie nodded, diving into a samosa. “How does that work?”

  “Okay, well,” I started uncertainly. “Benji’s idea, as you know, is to stop all the partisan rancor of other cable morning shows. We’re going to give viewers real information and try to mend the rift.”

  “Hmm,” Charlie said, as though trying to get his mind around that. “But what does that sound like?”

  “Well, Benji’s plan is to get Fluke and Wynn on the show, maybe even together! How great would that be?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Charlie said. “That elevates Fluke too much. A circus clown sharing the stage with an accomplished senator? That makes Victor Fluke look legitimate.” Even saying Fluke’s name caused Charlie to look like he might cough up a kebab. “Remember, Amanda, Benji Diggs is not a journalist. He’s a reality show star and a media-meister. And I’m not sure his utopian vision for some sort of all-for-one, feel-good news network is realistic during this campaign. You know, I was thinking the other day about what Benji told you when you joined about the Walter Cronkite era and the big tent of TV news back then. He seems to have glossed over the Vietnam War. Not exactly a heyday of unity.”

  Charlie’s passion for history and politics always wowed me. It was one of the first things that attracted me the night we met, when he detailed his Argentina trip and the history of Juan Perón’s crackdown on newspapers and free speech. But tonight it was a buzzkill.

  “This is a morning show,” I told Charlie, trying to revive his original excitement about my shot. “Morning shows are supposed to make you feel good, send you out the door with a spring in your step.” I made a super-corny attaboy gesture with my arm.

  “You’re right. And you’re on your way,” Charlie said, mimicking my mood and relaxing into the grinning Charlie I knew and loved. “Look out, Suzy Berenson! Here comes Amanda Gallo!”

  Chapter 7

  Jewel Tones

  “So you’re shooting a pilot on Friday and you need some outfits,” Meg said, taking sips of her venti black coffee, summing up her task but not looking at me. It was ten A.M. sharp and I was standing next to her in front of a huge showroom on the sixteenth floor of FAIR, staring out at rows and rows of the most delicious designer clothes I’d ever seen. “The Third Floor should have told me about this pilot sooner,” she said, sighing with impatience. “You haven’t given me much time.”

  “It’s just a chemistry test, really. I only need one outfit,” I said with regret as I looked out at all the clothes, ripe for the plucking.

  “Oh, no,” she said, turning toward me for the first time, alarmed. “One outfit will never do. Benji likes options.”

  Meg was FAIR’s wardrobe stylist and arbiter of all on-air appearance. Uberthin and clad head to toe in black, Meg had ironclad rules: no prints, no patterns, no bows, no big jewelry, no neutrals. Only bold colors.

  “Go ahead,” she said, nudging me toward a rack of candy-colored cashmere. “Grab your favorites.”

  I stood paralyzed by the possibilities. The rack next to the cashmere was filled with the latest billowy blouses and sharp suits from Theory. The rack next to that was all Calvin Klein dresses. Beyond that Max Mara, Michael Kors, Carmen Marc Valvo, Nicole Miller, DVF, Tahari, on and on, spread out like a field of intoxicating poppies.

  “Don’t just stand there,” she said.

  Walking forward as if in a dream, I began roaming the rows, letting my fingers brush against plush sweaters and silky tops. I waded into a sea of sleeveless sheaths and skinny pencil skirts. Rich leather jackets in deep browns and merlots bobbed by my field of vision.

  As a child, I’d had a fantasy of being locked in the Paramus Mall after closing and having my pick of everthing without Mom having to pay for it. Not that my taste was very extravagant. I would have settled for jeans that weren’t two inches too short and a sweater without moth holes in it.

  “This isn’t a museum,” Meg called from somewhere in the maze of clothing. “You need to pull some pieces!”

  “I don’t know where to start. It all looks so . . . beautiful.” I was starting to feel woozy.

  “Just pick whatever you like,” Meg said, coming down the row toward me with a clipboard. “I’ve been told to spare no expense on you.”

  “Oh, my gosh. Really?” I said, then ran my hand over some soft, brushed wool pants in a camel color. “These are nice.”

  “No pants in the anchor chair,” Meg snapped. “Ever!”

  “Oh? Really? Why’s that?”

  “Viewers like to see legs. Just ask Suzy Berenson. She’s got the best legs in the business and she never misses a chance to show them off.”

  Good to know! Hey, if it works for Suzy, I’ll give it a shot.

  “What do you call this color?” I asked, stroking a soft, greenish blouse.

  “It’s chartreuse,” Meg said. “That would be hideous on your skin tone. You need emerald. Think jewel tones.”

  “Oops, all right. Look at this one. It’s gorgeous.” I pointed to a charcoal Tahari cotton dress. “Would I look good in gray?”

  “No gray allowed on the morning show. Too funereal,” Meg said, practically slapping it out of my hands.

  “I like this!” I said, turning to a burnt orange Theory blouse.

  “No orange! Benji Diggs hates orange! Orange is never to be seen on air. It’s a mistake to even have it here!” She grabbed the offending shirt from the rack and thrust it at one of her helpers.

  “Maybe you should pick some clothes for me,” I concluded.

  “Oh, for crying out loud. Hand me that pen,” Meg commanded an assistant. “Begin gathering! I want to see Amanda in that red ruched Alice and Olivia. And grab the asymmetrical Derek Lam in magenta. That could be stunning. I love the lavender Black Halo and the white light cashmere Calvin Klein. Très elegant! And lots and lots of purple. Benji loves purple.” Assistants scurried around as Meg jotted down ideas on her clipboard, then spun toward me. “Take off your clothes.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’ll need to have all these pieces tailored to fit you perfectly by the pilot on Friday,” she said, exasperated. “You never know which one Benji will like best. Now step out of those pants. And where did you get those anyway? They’re three seasons old. Throw them out.”

  “Are you kidding?” I choked. “I don’t throw out clothes,” I said, unbuttoning my shirt and handing it to Meg.

  “Obviously,” she sniffed, taking my shirt with just two fingers, like it was a dirty diaper.

  Waste not, want not. That w
as Mom’s motto throughout my adolescence and I’d applied it to my own wardrobe ever since. I stood in my underwear as Meg and her assistants slipped dress after dress over my head and off again.

  “Look at this body!” Meg said, staring at me. “Who knew you had such boobs! Why have you been hiding them? We’ve got to show these off more.”

  I screwed up my mouth at Meg. I couldn’t imagine Suzy Berenson enduring this treatment. Suzy looked so polished and professional every morning. Was it possible someone was focused on how best to showcase her tits?

  “Hand me a clip!” Meg ordered her assistant, then began cinching a royal blue Rolando Santana dress around my waist until it felt like a corset. “Now, let’s rearrange these,” Megs said, reaching inside my bra, cupping my left breast and hoisting it into a more prominent position.

  “Hey!” I shrieked.

  “That’s better. Now hand me the pins.” Meg tacked the dress four inches above my knee.

  I caught my concerned reflection in the full-length mirror, tugging at the hem. “Is this a dress or a scarf?” I asked her.

  “Listen, Benji has research showing that ratings rise one tenth of a point for every inch higher the skirt. There’s a correlation.”

  Wow. Duly noted. See, these are the things they never tell you in local news.

  “Be thankful you’re not at NBC,” Meg went on. “They just did away with their clothing allowance. Can you imagine?”

  I shook my head in horror. Meg took the pen from her assistant and cross-checked the items hanging on the shiny steel rack with what she’d written on her clipboard. “Excellent collection, if I do say so myself. I’ll pair these outfits with shoes and have them waiting for you in your office by Friday.”

  “Did you say shoes?” I asked, my eyebrows lifting at the prospect of shedding my holey soles.

  Meg shook her head at my old pumps. “I’ll handle it. I don’t have time for another sartorial tutorial.”