Boss Girl. Nic Tatano
Читать онлайн книгу.
I'm still considering two other candidates." I paused, watched the color drain from his face as if I had pulled a plug.
Gotcha.
I ran my eyes up and down his body. "But I like what I see." I turned my attention to my glass of bourbon and took a sip. "Your agent tells me you've been looking for an anchor gig for a while."
"The job market's tough."
"Well, to be brutally honest, your reporting skills aren't the best."
His head dropped.
Okay, he's ready to swallow the hook.
"But you're a decent enough anchor for our purposes." The head raised up, a hint of hope crept back into those powder blues. I downed the rest of the drink in one gulp and checked my watch. "Tell you what, Scott. I don't feel like waiting here thirty minutes for dinner, and the service is slow anyway. I'm thinking room service."
He furrowed his brow. "Huh?"
I reached into my beaded bag, pulled out a Montblanc pen, and grabbed a cocktail napkin from the stack on the bar. "Tell you what, if you want to continue our negotiations, here's my room number at The Plaza." I wrote 1634 on the napkin and slid it over to him. "If not, well, I'm sure you'll have a nice career in Indianapolis."
His face remained a twisted puzzle. "Ms. Hack… are you—"
Geez, the man needs a road map.
But, if the other head works and he can read a teleprompter, I'm good to go.
I slid my toe inside one cuff of his slacks, gently running it up his shin. "If you want the job, just bring yourself to my room. I need to check your… references."
I hopped off the barstool, smoothed my short green halter dress and headed out, zigzagging through the tables.
Watching my target demographic look at me like I was nuts.
I had them.
And I was pretty sure I had him.
Two hours later, his references checked out.
* * *
As an attractive 38-year-old woman, I didn't need focus groups or expensive research to know what women want in a newscast.
They sure as hell don't want a blonde pageant fembot who is prettier than they are.
And they don't want to feel past their prime.
So here's a newsflash for the next generation. I'm giving them news delivered by a woman who is one of them. Middle-aged, smart, experienced, attractive.
And for dessert on this news buffet, male eye candy.
But not just any confection. They want a late twenty-something with a body so hard you could give him an hour-long massage and a bottle of wine and still bounce quarters off his ass. A guy with a chiseled face and a smile that can melt a heart. Eyes that can look through the camera and caress a soul. Buffed shoulders that could easily carry you into the bedroom.
And they want that sitting on the anchor desk next to a woman…
Just.
Like.
Them.
They want to know a woman on the back nine still has a chance against the fembots.
Yes, we're still interested in sex. We're mature, not crypt keepers.
Our drivers’ licenses may say we're over thirty, but the libido is still in high school.
For years, male news executives had their casting couch.
Now it's our turn.
And when you've got an anchor in your stable like Scott Harry, well, membership has its, uh… privileges.
Weekly.
* * *
The female-owned network that hired me as Vice-President of the News Division gave me carte blanche my first day, but thanks to the incredible ratings spike provided by Scott Harry in his first month, I've been upgraded to platinum.
The powers that be want me to take the woman-on-top co-anchor theme national, opening chapters in our other three affiliates in Los Angeles, Chicago, and Dallas. (They don't know about my current "benefits package" regarding reference checking, and as long as the ratings stay up, they won't care.)
Thank goodness I was smart enough to hire women as News Directors for those stations.
All between 35 and 40.
All intelligent, attractive and single.
May as well give you a line-up card as I lead the gals who will change the face of the news business into our conference room, for those of you scoring at home. And if you're not, you should be. (If there were a drummer in my office, I would call for a rim shot after that one.)
"Tawk to me, Syd," said Rica, coffee-with-a-little-cream eyes searching my face for more information and somehow getting female-only telemetry that I'd gotten an infusion of Y-chromosomes the night before. "Did'ja have a pahty afta woik?" she asks, in an accent so sharp it makes fingernails on the blackboard sound like classical music. One perfectly plucked eyebrow goes up like an extra question mark. The girl does love details.
If a pastrami sandwich could talk, it would sound like Rica Carbone, who is the youngest at thirty-five and runs the chapter on the left coast. This petite, raven-haired Brooklyn paisan could slice Tony Soprano in two with her death stare, and has enough confidence in her body that she once marched up to a jukebox and played Brickhouse. Every man in the bar thought the lyrics fit perfectly as she strutted back to the table smiling like she not only ate the canary, but the canary thanked her for it on the way down. Everything on this woman's Pilates-whipped body points east and west without any Lycra scaffolding, with no indication of various parts heading south anytime soon. All that and she's a brilliant journalist to boot.
"Yeah, she's got someone new," said Jillian, using one hand to curl the ends of her straight, strawberry blonde, chin-length cut in towards her face. "Her skirt's on backwards." I snapped my neck down to check. "Made you look," said Jillian. "At least that answers the question."
Damned reporter's tricks. You'd think I'd know better.
Trust fund debutante Jillian Charles is the black sheep of her family. Because she actually has a job. With no desire to pitch Krugerrands with her Massachusetts Ivy League neighbors, Jillian actually went to a state school (such a scandal in the gated community!) and likes getting her hands dirty. She's an inch shorter than I am, but all legs and none of it fat. I think her age (thirty-seven) matches her inseam; meanwhile, not a wrinkle on her gently freckled face and no Botox receipts on her tax return. Beneath those soft blue eyes lurks an executioner who enjoys the sight of heads tumbling down the steps of the Mayan temple, which is a handy trait to have in a Chicago News Director.
"So, c'mon Syd. Y'all don't keep us waitin'. Dish." The whiskey two-packs-a-day Southern accent you just heard comes from Neely "Vodka" Collins, the former hard-boiled reporter from New Orleans who doesn't smoke but believes that Russian alcohol is to a liquor cabinet what WD-40 is to a toolbox. If you run out of either, you'll get rusty and won't be able to screw anything. She looks like Demi Moore, sounds like Demi Moore if Demi Moore had been cast in Gone with the Wind, and therefore logic dictates that she hangs out with younger men like Demi Moore while running our station in Dallas. Neely first went against the grain in the eighth grade, shoving a sixth grader into a coat closet and giving him a free tonsillectomy. Her long, dark hair and innocent emerald eyes might lead a guy to think she's the girl next door, but there's nothing but lust embedded in her vocal chords. Like a good Irish Catholic she goes to confession every week, the old-fashioned way, in a booth, and must take a legal pad with her. I can only imagine her saying, "Bless me… Father… for I have… sinned," giving sinned three syllables with that scratchy drawl and having some priest on the other side breaking into a sweat while