It Girl. Nic Tatano
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a minute before millions of Americans woke up with me.
Half a minute before every TV critic in the land sat poised holding a red pen filled with venom.
Half a minute before my first guest, the President of the United States, would be ushered from the green room.
The old line hit me. Americans worship success. But they root for failure.
"Ten out!"
So, this was it. They say there are forks in the road of life, moments during which your future can take off or do a swan dive into the dumper.
And as the light red light on top of the camera lit up, I knew this was a make or break moment.
***
The next day I knew how Sally Field felt when she won the Academy Award.
They liked me! They really liked me!
The reviews were positive across the board, from television critics to entertainment magazines to the Big Apple tabloids. My life felt like one of those movie posters with one line quotes from critics, like, "You'll stand up and cheer!" or, "The best morning show host since Katrina the bimbo!"
In reality, no one stood up and cheered at that hour of the morning, but apparently the country was comfortable with me. Some highlights from my own personal movie trailer:
"Veronica Summer brings a long overdue dose of journalistic credibility to The Morning Show."
"Summer is smart, informed, upbeat, and obviously has good chemistry with her college buddy Scott Winter. She looks like a solid choice out of the gate."
This one was my favorite, touching on the fact that I had no idea what a Louis Vuitton purse was supposed to look like during a fashion segment. "Nice to see a morning anchor who knows more about the Middle East than designer handbags. Her interview of the President was tough but fair."
However, as someone who has made a living being a credible journalist, I was a bit put off by the amount of ink used to describe my appearance. And it was a barrel of ink.
"The spunky copper-top has a mound of red tangles and killer legs bound to get any man's motor running in the morning."
"Scott Winter's wife must be incredibly trusting to let him spend the middle of the night with a woman who should be in the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue."
"Only a matter of time before Playboy makes Ms. Summer an offer."
But the most telling comment came from Hal the newsstand guy. Actually, it was more of a scary prophecy that he offered as I arrived for my daily haul of print and chocolate.
"So, big star now," he said. "Guess you'll have some handmaiden pick up your papers from now on. Just remember, I knew you before you were famous."
"I can still do my own shopping," I said. "But if I ever do get the big head, please let me know."
"I won't hold back, Freckles." He turned to take some money from another customer, then looked back at me. "So, how you gonna handle the dating thing now that you're a household name?"
"What do you mean?"
“Well, I guess if I was in your shoes, I’d be wondering if a guy was really interested in me or my salary.”
Hal's prophecy, such as it was, would apparently be put to the test very soon.
Two weeks into my new job and six weeks since I "threw Alexander off the porch" my friends thought it was time for me to put myself back on the market. My love life, or lack thereof, was the subject of our Sunday brunch conversation.
"I met a guy who I think might be a good match," said Layla, attacking a slice of london broil.
"See if he wants to have dinner at four," I said, stifling a yawn as I sipped a virgin mimosa. (Orange juice.) "He'll save money taking me to the early bird special."
"So, who is he?" asked Savannah, even though I knew damn well the two of them had already conspired on this project.
"You two reading off a prompter?" I asked.
"Smart ass," said Layla.
"I know how your devious minds work. Just get on with it."
"His name's Rob. He's a media buyer for an ad agency. Smart guy, funny, extremely cute. Thirty, never married. He already knows who you are."
"See, that's not fair," I said. "He knows what I look like and I don't—"
Layla interrupted me by shoving her iPad under my nose with a photo of this prospect, who, I had to admit, was extremely cute. My eyes widened and I absent-mindedly licked my lips.
"You were saying?" asked Savannah.
"Her prompter went out," said Layla.
Suddenly I was waking up. "He's uh, attractive."
"Yeah, right," said Layla. "Did you think I would fix you up with a guy who rings bell towers? Anyway, I told him you were available and that you two might hit it off."
"So," said Savannah, "I made a call and got you two a reservation for Saturday night at The Firefly."
My eyebrows shot up. "The Firefly? That place is booked six months ahead."
"Not if you know the owner," said Savannah. "And, we got you show tickets." She slid an envelope toward me.
I opened it up and saw two orchestra seats to the hottest Broadway musical. "How did you get…"
Savannah playfully batted her eyelashes and shrugged.
"Never mind," I said. "I don't wanna know."
"So you're good for Saturday," said Layla. "Rob will pick you up at six."
"Guys, I really appreciate this, but I've been spending Saturdays in bed."
"Yes, and y'all need some company in there," said Savannah.
I exhaled and shook my head. "I'm guessing I have no say in the matter."
"No," they said in unison.
***
A few minutes before my date, I knew I was in big, big trouble.
Because I was ready to go to bed. And no, not with Rob the media buyer or anyone else for that matter. Bradley Cooper could have walked in naked and I would have handed him the remote and told him to not to wake me. Though the thought did cross my mind that a wild night of sex might serve as an adequate sleep aid.
The week had been a roller coaster of sleep cycles. A few hours here and there, but not a single night with eight hours straight.
And right now I wanted about twelve hours of uninterrupted snoring.
Trust me, if my friends had not gone through all this trouble to get me "back in the saddle" as Savannah had put it, I would have called the guy and asked for a rain check. That not being an option, I slugged down one of those energy drinks (to which I had become almost immune), drank two cups of coffee and downed a chocolate bar. If that wasn't enough caffeine to get me through the evening, so be it, and my date could carry me home.
Still, despite my lack of energy I had managed to get gussied up enough to make a nice impression. (I should also mention that since I scored this gig, I am sought after by the paparazzi constantly, so I have to get dressed up and put on makeup just to shop for groceries. No more shoving my hair into a baseball hat and going out in sweats, which pisses me off.)
The doorman rang the buzzer, which told me my gentleman caller was here.
I looked at the clock and