It Girl
~Veronica Summer is stuck in the dream job from hell.The spunky New York reporter is offered the network's morning anchor position, but she doesn't want it because she's a night person. Then the network plays a trump card, promising her the evening anchor chair in three years. So the fiery redhead takes the plunge, with the ultimate gig waiting down the road.Problem is, that road is filled with two am wake-up calls and the only social life she has is one with bats and raccoons. She quickly realizes she'll never survive the grind and decides the only way out is to get fired by being her snarky self on live television.And the ratings skyrocket.Veronica becomes the nation's It Girl, so the network makes her a celebrity contestant on its most popular nighttime dance competition show, Dance Off. While her journalistic credibility is shot to hell by the show's skimpy costumes, she's thrown into close contact with two incredibly attractive men; her dance partner and the show's sarcastic British judge.And she soon discovers that love is the ultimate gig.
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Contents
I've always been a writer of some sort, having spent my career working as a reporter, anchor or producer in television news. Fiction is a lot more fun, since you don't have to deal with those pesky things known as facts. I grew up in the New York City metropolitan area and now live on the Gulf Coast where I will never shovel snow again. I'm happily married to a math teacher and we share our wonderful home with our tortoiseshell tabby cat, Gypsy.
You can follow me on Twitter @NicTatano.
For Myra, my real life It Girl
"My network's twenty–million-dollar-a-year morning anchor just got arrested for soliciting a prostitute."
While I've made a habit of getting major exclusives as a television reporter, this latest juicy scoop brought the conversation at our dinner table to a screeching halt.
And the next words you hear should tell you that you need to get out of your conventional mode of thinking.
"She hired a prostitute?"
That's right. She.
See what I mean? You naturally assumed said morning anchor was a man looking for a hookup with some silicone babe on a Manhattan street corner. But nooooo, in this case we're talking about television's reigning "It Girl" who heretofore was assumed to be pure as the driven snow by the network executives who hired her.
At least they got the driven part right.
Snow White in handcuffs.
Film at eleven.
This simple text message from my contact at the cop shop meant the bigwigs who ran my network would be looking for a replacement. Immediately. You can't exactly get the kids ready for school while watching an anchor who thinks half 'n' half is something other than what you put in your coffee. Anyway, it wouldn't take long for the vultures who wanted the job to start circling.
I would not be one of them. But even the chance that the network might pluck me from the local affiliate for this job from hell sent a chill up my spine.
Yeah, you heard me. Twenty million dollar job from hell. It was a gig this intrepid television reporter didn't want.
And in the back of my mind I knew, thanks to Murphy's Law, they'd want me for it.
Sonofabitch. I hate it when people offer me huge contracts.
My best friend Layla raised one perfectly plucked dark eyebrow like a question mark. "Veronica, you gonna throw your hat in the ring?"
"Hell, no!" I said, as I grabbed my wine glass and took a bigger sip than normal. A pre-emptive strike in case said hat ended up in said ring.
Since you're probably wondering why a local TV reporter wouldn't want a network anchor slot that pays a fortune, I should probably tell you a little about my method of deductive reasoning. I'm Veronica Summer, the top hard news reporter for the network's New York City flagship affiliate. The local version of an "It Girl." And at the age of thirty-two, this tall, green-eyed redhead has her career just where she wants it. I get the lead story almost every night, take no prisoners, and am generally considered to be the best old-school journalist in town. So the last thing I need is a job that forces me to talk about purses, hair color and breast feeding at the crack of dawn. There's a network job I want, a dream job, and that aint it.
Even if it pays about a hundred times more than my current salary.
"Why the hell don't y'all apply?" asked Savannah, the sultry Southern brunette who is the most logical in our group.
"Because the morning show is a bunch of soft bullshit," I said. "That's not me."
"I watch that show while I'm on the treadmill," said Layla, who probably saw the dollar signs that came with the job before anything else. "They do some serious interviews. You could still do your Brenda Starr thing."
"Yeah, and that's about ten percent of the show," I said. "The operative word being show, not newscast. The other two hours are a flying Mongolian cluster of fluff consisting of musical guests, dieting tips and how to avoid picking up killer germs from shopping cart handles." I threw up my hands and shook them. "Run for your lives!"
Layla sat up straight and smiled as a cute guy walked by our table, then twirled a few strands of her jet black hair as she made eye contact. "You're gonna get a call."
"Pffft," I said, waving my hand like I was shooing a fly even though I knew she was right. "They've got a deep bench at the network. I'm not even a blip on their radar."
