file. As for Scott, I know exactly what he wants, but I'm going to make him say it. He wants to be part of the network, so bad he can taste it, but we're keeping him right where he is, taking care of local… and his spot on Madison's to-do list. However, I can't let him know that he hasn't a prayer of getting on the network, so the carrot must be dangled at a discreet distance.)
"I assume you're getting around to staffing the new network."
"Yep," I said, pausing to take a sip of my coffee, which had gotten cold. "Lots of people to hire and not much time to do it."
Oh, you should see his face. It's killing him. He looks like a man who's been constipated for a week only to find out all the laxatives have been pulled off the market by the FDA.
"I…uh…" Scott stopped and walked into the office, taking the seat directly in front of my desk. (The chair is a low-boy, by the way, two inches shorter than normal. A little psychological advantage.)
"Yes? Something on your mind?" (I wear my best "playing dumb" look. All women are born with this innate capability. It's embedded in our DNA, just like the shoe chromosome. The equivalent for men is the not-listening, bobblehead nod.)
His shoulders were hunched and his neck taut as he looked at me with his now patented "wounded doe" face, despite his lack of brown eyes. "I was hoping to be considered for one of the anchor slots on the network. I mean, I love working local, (forced smile) but this is a great opportunity."
"Don't worry, Scott, you'll be considered." (I'll have to ask Neely what the penance is for a blatant lie.)
Scott exhaled and the tension melted from his body. "Thank you. I mean, I hadn't heard anything. So I assumed—"
Watch this. "So how are you enjoying your time with Madison?"
Ah, such a joy to watch the color drain from his face like the last strawberry Slurpee coming out of the machine at Seven-Eleven.
"She's very nice. But… I miss you."
Aw, shit. And the day had started off so well with Jason and I doing our little Cirque de Soleil number before breakfast.
I got up and walked around the desk, leaning on the edge and extending my legs so that they nearly touched his. If he was going to screw with my day, I was going to torture him. "Scott, we've been through this. Several times. Our relationship is purely professional."
"I just—"
"What are you gonna do, Scott? Try another trip to the tabloids? Did you really think anyone would see a man who has to sleep with his hot boss as a victim? Every guy in New York thought you were an idiot to complain. And then half of those called me wanting a job here."
"It seemed like a good idea at the time."
"Just keep Madison happy." (And I know she's happy from her note that read, "Thanks for the leftovers.")
"Just Madison?"
"Yes. Madison is a great gal with a rockin' body and you should consider yourself lucky that I don't make you sleep with Carla the producer."
His face tightened and I could tell the image of the overweight troll in a state of undress was flashing through his mind.
"Now go," I said. "Do your job, keep Madison entertained, and we'll keep you posted on the network gig."
He got up, turned and shuffled out of my office without saying a word.
Men.
* * *
The term "meat market" is a throwback to the eighties, but never seemed more appropriate as we occupied the corner table in the back of one of Manhattan's trendiest bars. The electricity in the place sent a charge through my body, while various expensive colognes and perfumes made the room smell like a walk through the Bloomingdales fragrance department where the Stepford girls spritz you. In reality, our hunting expedition tonight wasn't much different than trying to pick someone up. The men and women in the bar were looking for someone attractive to sleep with, and I was looking for someone attractive to sleep with, under thirty, who could read a teleprompter and knew that Ted Kennedy had never been shot. I sipped my Bailey's and tried to unwind as the cream with a bite ran down my throat, but things were getting too exciting. Tomorrow New York's top modeling and talent agencies were going to fill our office with male models and actors. (I know, I have such a tough job.)
"What time do we start tomorrow?" asked Rica, not looking at me but scanning the crowded uptown bar for any hot prospects. One attractive man in his forties smiled at her, but was repelled by the force field of her death stare. He bounced off, shook his head, and headed out the door, letting in the sound of New York's heartbeat: car horns and police sirens.
"Nine o'clock," I said. "We'll do a preliminary screening, then call back the ones we like for reference checks."
It was wall-to-wall people and noise but one man at the bar somehow managed to connect with Jillian across the packed watering hole. "Oooh, I just got a shiver," she said.
"Which one?" asked Rica, trying to follow Jillian's line of sight.
Jillian nodded toward the bar, her eyes still paralyzed by the man's stare. "Sitting at the corner talking to an older guy but looking right at me. Gray pinstripe vest. Dark hair. Light eyes. Five o'clock shadow."
Rica glanced around, trying to look through the wall of people. Finally she spotted him. "Damn, he's cute."
"He's even beyond exponentially cute," said Jillian, suddenly possessing Neely's dreamy-eyed look. "It's a whole new level of cute."
Rica turned to me. "Waddaya think, Syd? Should we go talk to him?"
I was about to answer "yes", when the man hopped off his bar stool and headed across the floor to the men's room. I finally got a good look at the total package and my smile faded.
He was short. And I mean really short. Five-three, five-four tops.
"Aw, dammit," I said.
"What?" asked Rica.
"He's just a little thing."
"So?" asked Neely. "He's an exponentially cute little thing. We just sit him on a Manhattan phone book and tilt the camera up at him when he's on set."
"You're missing something. That plays havoc with our plan to have our anchors stand during part of each hour," I said.
"No, you're missing something, Syd," said Neely, just as our waitress arrived.
"Another round, girls?" asked the tall, slinky brunette in the short black spaghetti strap dress.
"Make it so," I said.
The waitress, who looked around thirty, wrote our drink order on her pad, shoved a pencil behind her ear and was about to leave when Neely touched her arm. "Excuse me, can we ask you a couple of questions?"
The waitress shrugged. "Long as they're quick," she said. "I got a lotta tables."
Neely looked back at the men's room just as the man emerged. "How tall are you?" she asked.
"Five-eleven.
