Savage News Page 5

  Natalie wasn’t sure what to deduce from the clips about Ryan’s style of competition—except that the guy would eat anything—when Ryan wrapped up his report by telling an anchor, “I’ll do whatever it takes to win.” He was so brazen about championing his own success Natalie felt a flash of envy. If only she could summon that kind of attitude. I win, therefore I’ll win. She cringed, thinking the words felt hollow. Bibb wants me to win, therefore I’ll win. She smiled. Yes, that makes more sense.

  She was wrested away from her efforts to channel Ryan’s ego by the sound of her phone buzzing.

  HAL: Hey! You busy?

  Reflexively she leaned back and away from the phone, as if Hal’s creepiness could leap out of her screen onto her breakfast bar and start stroking her hair. She checked the clock. 10:35 p.m. It was kind of late to get an assignment but not unthinkably so. She wanted to ignore Hal, but what if he had a killer story and gave it away because she didn’t answer?

  NATALIE: Hey, Hal. What’s up?

  HAL: Checking in on the new girl. Hate to think of you sitting home alone.

  She clenched her jaw.

  HAL: Actually I sort of like the thought of you home alone! How’s the hair?

  Was it possible he could reach through the phone, after all, or poltergeist-style appear in the screen to haunt her?

  HAL: Hahaha just kidding! Want to grab a drink?

  She grimaced. He’d just exited the Land of Creepy and entered the Forest of WTF. She wanted to tell him not a chance but she remembered the advice she’d gotten. Hal weaponizes assignments. Don’t mess with him.

  NATALIE: Sorry I’m wiped and have an early am. Need to read up and get rest. See you at work.

  She hit Send and her relief went to war with worry. Had she been too dismissive? Too cold? If she bruised his ego, there was no telling what punishment he’d mete out. Still, she reminded herself, she’d experienced enough closed-door come-ons from news executives to know that you have to draw the line when they bypass the gray and enter the danger zone. Leave no room for confusion. She stared at the phone waiting for the inevitable follow-up—a plea to meet for a “quick drink” or a “don’t be a bore” nudge—but mercifully there was none.

  Chalk that up as a victory, she thought.

  Feeling pleased with herself for dodging that bullet, she looked round the room to decide what challenge she’d conquer next. Already she’d taken Bibb’s advice and blown out her hair, sort of, by washing the front half of her head, blowing it dry, and leaving the stuff in the back untouched. It was a time-saving trick she’d learned from a globe-trotting war correspondent. “On TV, they only see the hair in front anyway,” the correspondent had explained with an insider’s wink and a toss of her half-cleaned brunette tresses.

  She tried to imagine what her friends in New York must be doing right now. They’re probably listening to baby monitors over glasses of wine with their extremely attractive and attentive husbands, debating whether they should have hot married sex or organize photos of their perfect lives, she thought. They always claimed to covet her glamorous TV life, though she was pretty sure none of them had ever shared a temporary corporate suite with a sad cowboy.

  Her laptop flashed with an alert from the Washington Post. “BamBam Lystra Ordered $10,000 Bottle of Wine at a Jefferson Hotel Dinner with Top Caruso Administration Officials.” She logged into Facebook and found paparazzi photos of the Colombian leader very nearly sticking his head into the G-cup bosom of a D-list reality star while the secretary of energy laughed and illegally smoked a cigar indoors.

  Guess he’s not too worried about his son, Natalie thought, as she scrolled absentmindedly through her feed. Steadily she found herself sinking into the Facebook blues until she was staring at an image of Derek Bomgard, her most recent crush. After two dates Derek had left for an aid trip in Sri Lanka and had clearly returned with more than good memories. As she studied the woman he was kissing in the image, a familiar feeling of tightness crept into her chest. She called up the meant-to-be-reassuring words a veteran news anchor had shared when she’d found Natalie hyperventilating about a breakup in the ladies room: “There’s a bright side to being a news nun. We get to skip the divorce bills.”

  She gulped in a deep breath. This isn’t healthy, she thought and, pushing her pity party away, reached for her phone. Her sister, Sarah, answered mid-yell.

  “Hi, Ms. White House Correspondent. You were amazing today. So smart! You looked born for the briefing room!” Sarah was like a human chill pill.

  “My boss doesn’t share your optimism,” Natalie sighed, feeling the breath come back into her body. “Anyway, there’s competition.”

  “Of course, there’s competition. It’s the White House,” Sarah said.

  “Is this a good time to talk?”

  “Wait, that’s Mom on the other line, give me a sec,” Sarah said and disappeared. When she came back, she was sighing. “Mom suggests that instead of getting dinner tomorrow night, we should go for colonics.”

  “I hope you said you’ll be too busy steaming your vagina,” Natalie laughed.

  “I don’t know how much more of her holistic hippie phase I can take,” Sarah said. “So, what’s up?”

  Natalie felt a tinge of guilt for bothering Sarah. Sarah was a single mom dealing with responsibilities that were more consequential than anything Hal or Bibb could think up. She didn’t need to manage Natalie’s insecurities. Casually Natalie said, “Oh it’s nothing. The head of the network is coming tomorrow. The new guy. I have to impress him.”

  “Great. Pitch him a story you’re passionate about. Something you can really dig into. Find some good injustice or cover-up. That’s when you shine.”

  “I wish,” Natalie said, meaning it. “If it doesn’t involve a White House misstep or a foreign leader in meltdown, I’m not getting it on air.”

  “Listen, you always told Dad you wanted to be at the White House because what you did there mattered. You could shine a light on injustice. Impact people’s lives. So do it!” Just then Sarah’s four-year-old daughter, Lulu, let out a shriek and Sarah said, “I gotta go, I think Lulu just woke up,” then abruptly hung up.

  Natalie was thinking that Lulu had an impressively powerful shriek for a three-foot-tall person when her phone buzzed.

  MOM: Hi, dear. I just re-watched you on TV. Please don’t get mad at me but your skin is looking a little sallow again. Are you taking the CoQ10 I sent you?

  MOM: It’s important to look healthy. Good health attracts people. It’s probably good for ratings, too.

  MOM: Have you seen your ratings? How are they?

  Giving in, Natalie typed a reply:

  NATALIE: Hi, Mom. How are you?

  MOM: Great! Gerald and I just did a hot tub together. He is wonderfully flexible.

  Shuddering, Natalie redirected.

  NATALIE: Guess what. My boss asked me to shell out $600 for a chemical hair straightening treatment. Can you imagine anything so crazy?

  MOM: Why not try? We need to invest in our success.

  NATALIE: I Googled. It’s made with formaldehyde. It causes scalp cancer in lab animals! Who pays $600 to get scalp cancer?

  MOM: No that’s terrible for the environment. No. My healer gave me a recipe for a wonderful earth-friendly conditioner: aloe vera cooked with agave nectar, a ripe banana, flat beer, and an egg. If it’s too emollient, add a touch of apple cider vinegar or urine. Human is fine.

  NATALIE: I think I’d prefer scalp cancer.

  MOM: Dear is there a date you can bring to the wedding? It’s important that you find a partner—not just for the wedding. For life. I read that people who don’t have regular sexual activity die early.

  NATALIE: I’ll make a note of it. Love you. Going to sleep.

  She put down the phone and stared at the wall. She wished her dad was around to commiserate. Mom used to b
e hard on him, too, she remembered, always complaining that he spent too much time on the raft of Sobby Sauls and Heartbreak Hollys, as she used to call her dad’s largely pro bono clients. Even at the age of ten, Natalie understood how important his work was, how he helped people who had no one looking out for them.

  Then he’d gotten sick. That first time Natalie had arrived for a visit after the diagnosis, she’d found her mother out and her father watching the news. He’d motioned her into the chair next to his bed. “Just like the old days,” he’d said. Cronkite, a black Lab who’d been in the family a few years, was curled by his feet. “That’ll be you some day,” her dad had said, pointing to the television where a network correspondent was doing a live shot. It was Nelly Jones, the ATN reporter she was now replacing. Temporarily.

  “Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll get there for you. You’ll be proud,” she’d said.

  He’d smiled back and said, “Get there for you, not me.” His eyes were glistening as he spoke. “I know how hard you work, how much you’re giving up. We all have to pay our dues. I couldn’t be prouder. You know that, don’t you?”

  An unfamiliar buzzing noise broke through Natalie’s thoughts and she looked around to find her phone. Only the buzz was coming from the wall. She spotted the source of the interruption—an intercom—and frowned. She didn’t know anyone who could be visiting her now.

  When she hit the speaker, a familiar male voice came crackling over the line. “Hey, it’s Hal. I figured you can’t move the mountain, so I came to you.”

  Her body went on alert. Surely he isn’t here at the building.

  “Where are you, Hal?” she asked cautiously.

  “I don’t like the thought of you going to sleep so early on one of your first weeks in Washington. I think you should come down and grab a drink. We can talk White House stuff.”

  A flash of anger shot through her calm. He hadn’t just crossed a line, he’d obliterated it.

  “How do you know where I’m staying?” It came out like an accusation.

  “It’s in the master file on the assignment desk, silly. We have to know how to find everyone in the bureau.” He sounded deeply unapologetic.

  Her body tensed in disgust as she imagined Hal looking up her personal details in the manager’s file after she’d told him to back off.

  “Sorry, Hal, but I can’t,” she said firmly.

  “Oh you’re such a goofy bore. Come down. I want to give you advice on the bureau,” he replied cheerfully. “Anyway I’m feeling all alone tonight. Keep me company.”

  Over my dead and lifeless body, she thought. “Maybe we can get lunch near the office later this week, okay? But I’m going to bed now. Good night.”

  “I’ll get you out one of these days,” he said, sounding untroubled. “Rain check, then.”

  The intercom clicked and there was silence.

  Shuddering she walked to the door to double-check that it was locked and bolted. She stared at the bolt for a few seconds, half convinced Hal would turn himself into a puddle, ooze under the security door, and reemerge in the living room to pay her another visit.

  When she was finally sure that the coast was clear, she turned off the lights and climbed into bed with her cell phone set to speed-dial Sarah, just in case.

  4

  Not Camelot

  Heat. Hot. It was painful but it felt so good.

  First Lady Anita Crusoe was wrapped in a too-large terry-cloth robe, perched at the edge of a sunken bathtub, hot water running in a fat stream over her feet. For a moment her mouth fell open in joy and relief. So nice, this heat.

  The First Lady was too chilled to remove her bathrobe, so she sat at the edge, examining her toes under the hot water. They were starting to turn red and sting; her body was betraying her. As First Lady of Colorado, she’d learned to be rock steady, braving the elements at endless outdoor events. Now, after less than one term in the White House, just a few hours outdoors felt like roughing it. These days she was used to heated trailers and aides handing her blankets or hustling her into warm cars. She had every luxury in the world. At this very moment she was at an estate with a prosciutto room. Truly, a room dedicated to slicing smoked meat!

  Estoy mimada, she told herself. Her nostrils flared with a bleak laugh as she considered how quickly she had accustomed herself to VIP living. And just as quickly learned its costs.

  Her mind flashed back to the scene in the Blue Room last week when she, Anita Crusoe, had knelt on her hands and knees vacuuming the drapes live on The Today Show, yammering about “the dangers of dust, mites, and mold stuck in your household fabrics.” Now, from her perch on the edge of the tub, she chirped, “Cleaning is good medicine!” with the same false excitement she’d oozed that day. Ridiculous. It was absurd that she’d allowed herself to be talked into taking on allergens as a cause. “I am a mechanical engineer,” she’d wanted to scream. Used to be, she corrected herself.

  Her husband’s team had insisted that taking on a health issue would be a good way to “soften her image,” make her “more palatable to voters who worry about a South American immigrant as First Lady.”

  “But I’m an American citizen,” she’d protested.

  “And Spanish is your first language,” her husband’s communications director had replied. “Half our supporters would like to deport you.”

  She’d gone along with it. Stayed quiet, done as they’d asked. As always.

  God, what a mess I’ve made, Anita thought bitterly. ¡Que desastre!

  She let the bathrobe fall off and she slid into the bathtub. She stretched her legs in the water and let out a long breath.

  It was nice here. Here she didn’t have to acquiesce. Comply. Vacuum. How did other First Ladies do it? she wondered. She couldn’t be the only one who thought the job was torture. On the other hand, the idea of being the first First Lady to murder her husband while in office did have some appeal. Just think of the cleaning special she could do after that!

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Ma’am?” It was Beth, the head of her security detail.

  She liked Beth, liked the Texas twang in her accent, and the fact that though she was smaller than the rest of the detail, she clearly commanded their respect. Beth had put her job on the line by agreeing, without her boss’s approval or the president’s, to the First Lady’s insistence that they get out of town—now.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Anthony. He wanted me to let you know he’s arrived. Downstairs.”

  Anita Crusoe smiled as she felt a calm wash over her, slide deep into her core. Anthony. Thank god for Anthony.

  “Please tell him I’ll be down in ten.”

  THE EARLYBIRD™/ THURSDAY / 6:02 A.M.

  THE E-NEWSLETTER TRUSTED BY WASHINGTON'S POLITICAL ELITE

  Good morning, EarlyBirders™. Here are the morning’s need-to-know stories:

  DRIVING THE DAY: Where’s Rigo? Colombia’s 21-year-old wild child is still MIA. Abductions of international celebs don’t just HAPPEN in DC! Who took him and where? Venezuela denies involvement. Should make for an awkward day two at the president’s summit. Developing...

  QATAR HEROES: On the heals of Crusoe’s recent DISASTROUS SPEECH in the Middle East, the region’s oil ministers are meeting in Qatar, threatening to halt oil exports to the US.

  MMMMM: On the MENU for tonight’s official PanAmerican Summit Dinner:

  Green Delicata Squash Soup

  Chili Cheese Grits Soufflé & Roasted Figs with Speck

  Thyme-Roasted Rack of Lamb

  Pear Torte with Huckleberry Sauce

  Hungry yet? We are!

  **EarlySponsor™: MakeWell™ Pharmaceutical’s HealHead™. Is Life Giving You a Headache? Our HealHead with Zanthex Offers Mind and Body Relief. MakeWell™ is a subsidiary of GlobalCom™ International.**

  5

&nbs
p; The Power of NOW-ness

  There were people three deep waiting for the elevators in the lobby when Natalie arrived at the ATN building the next morning. The stairs beckoned—look at us! No waiting!—but she ignored them. Screw Bibb, she was going to ride the elevator.

  When she was jostled out of the elevator, for a moment she worried she’d gotten off at the wrong floor. The seventh-floor ATN newsroom was nearly unrecognizable. The desks had been cleared away and in their place was a sea of empty ergonomic chairs arranged like an amphitheater, rippling out from an open space with a small black platform. The scene reminded Natalie of a picture she’d once seen showing the remnants of a suicide cult: all that was left of them were the posture-friendly chairs in which they died. Only in this case, a massive sign was slowly spinning over the black platform. The sign read Town Hall with the Chief and featured a bright orange countdown clock that showed thirteen minutes, twenty-nine seconds until his arrival.

  The media coverage about the appointment of Reginald Bounds—aka, the Chief—as the new president of ATN, split between describing him either as a visionary or as the antichrist of news, but both sides agreed on one thing: he was going to shake things up. “I’m not in the business of tending sacred cows,” he’d been quoted as saying, “I’m in the business of making hamburgers.”

  The comment had played well with the stock market, giving ATN’s parent company, American Services Industries, a healthy boost, but less well with the livestock on the news floor who were now eyeing one another with an unhinged, predatory vibe. Weaving her way between her colleagues, Natalie felt like the atmosphere was hovering uneasily between a psych ward and Lord of the Flies.

  Without either friends or a desk—“No need for you to do all the work of getting cozy since who knows how long you’ll be here,” Bibb had explained—Natalie wasn’t sure where to go or who to talk to for the next twelve minutes and twenty-four seconds until the town hall.

  Glancing around, Natalie spotted a tall, Asian camerawoman pressed against a wall with Handsy Hal leaning way too close. As Natalie watched, the woman managed to wriggle free and Hal’s eyes began moving deliberately over the crowd. Natalie looked away quickly and, head down, began threading her way through the clots of people gathered on the perimeter of the floor toward a row of empty seats at the back. She settled into a chair and glued her eyes to her phone.