“Ready?” Mike says as he stands and waits for me. I was lost in thought, recalling everything we went over in the meeting.
“Ready,” I repeat after him.
“So, tomorrow, you’ll get your first assignment. Rob is going to make it rough on you the first few weeks. He likes to see what his reporters have. How they handle the pressure. He’s going to throw stories at you, offer you a photographer, then pull that photographer out from under your feet to see how you react.” As we walk back to our desks, Mike preps me on what to expect and my stomach clenches at the thought of shooting my own stories. Even in Wilmington, I had a photographer with me at all times. “Don’t panic. You’re going to do fine.” He smiles at me. “And I’m taking you to lunch today, so be ready around eleven-thirty.”
“Eleven-thirty,” I mumble as I fire up my computer and review all the notes I’d taken in the meeting. I can hear my phone buzzing from my desk drawer, but I ignore it—again. I spend the next few hours jotting notes and making a list of questions to ask Mike. There is a flurry of activity in the newsroom right now—this is the part of the job I love. The fast pace, the stories—the multitasking and working to put together a great newscast just seconds before it goes live.
I notice the time is almost 11:30 and I take a minute to powder my face and freshen my lipstick before I go looking for Mike. With one last brush over my cheeks, I shove the compact and lip-gloss back into my clutch.
“No matter how much of that you put on, it’s not going to help you,” the high-pitched voice comes from behind me.
“Excuse me?” I spin my chair around to find a leggy brunette standing in the entrance to my cubicle. One of her hands is resting on her hip, her eyes are narrowed, and her lips pursed. If I remember correctly, Rob called her Amanda in the production meeting earlier.
“Make-up isn’t going to help you,” she says a little louder as she takes a step forward into my small office space. Her tall stature should intimidate me, but it doesn’t. “You’re not pretty enough to ever make anchor. Rob will keep you around for a little while because of your wholesome appearance—it’s what he does. It’s good for ratings. But that baby fat you’re carrying around isn’t going to help you and your face…” She taps her finger to her chin. “It’s just that you’re not pretty enough to ever sit at that desk.” She nods her head to the large anchor desk that sits surrounded by glass walls in the studio. “But depending on how good you suck dick, he might keep you around longer than he usually keeps them.” She winks at me with a smirk on her face.
I stand up and take a step closer into her space. I want her to know that she doesn’t intimidate me. I’ve heard the stories about the catty behavior in newsrooms across the country, and I knew I’d get some backlash in regards to this job. I’m young. This is a top twelve market and I came from a much smaller market in Wilmington. I am an unknown in this business and I get that the perception of how or why I got this job is probably because I got on my knees and sucked some dick, when in reality, I worked my ass off to get this job. I work hard and I earned this job.
“Well, the skank look isn’t working for you, sweetheart. So tuck those tits back into that blouse and lay off the black eye liner. There is a difference between smoky eye and Goth. We want to attract viewers, not fucking scare them,” I say, nudging her shoulder with mine as I push past her. I find Mike standing just outside my cube, stalled in his tracks, his eyes wide.
“Did I just hear you call her a skank? Because if you did. I might kiss you.” He flashes a huge cheesy grin at me. “Except I’m gay, so that might be weird for both of us.” I can’t help but laugh at him.
“I might be from the South, and I really am a nice person, but when bitches come at me, I won’t back down.”
“Good, because that bitch is out for blood. Watch out for her, Lindsay.”
“Noted,” I say as I follow him out the doors.
A rush of cool air greets me as I push through the glass doors and into the lobby of my building. Juggling a large paper bag with three bottles of wine for dinner, I head for the elevators in a hurry. “Ms. Christianson, I have a delivery for you,” I hear Marco say as I almost make it to the elevator. He’s hot on my heels. “Let me help you,” he says as he strolls over, carrying a large vase of roses.
“Hi, Marco.” I can hear the strain in my voice, a sign of the utter exhaustion I’m feeling.