style="font-size:15px;"> Until I saw the competition strut into the studio.
***
Every Sunday for the past five years I've had a standing appointment with my two closest friends. We meet at the same restaurant for brunch at eleven.
And even though I'm about twenty minutes late, I already know the topic of conversation.
Me.
Thankfully, they'll be supportive, which is what I need right now. I guess I should tell you about them.
Layla Starr has been my best friend since high school. The first time I saw her and heard her name, I did the judge-a-book-by-its-cover thing. At fourteen she had reached her current height, five-ten, and current figure, classic supermodel. With huge ice blue eyes that are a striking contrast to her black shoulder length hair, she could have been a model right then. With a name like Layla she was an obvious target for off-color comments from the boys at school.
When she was assigned to be my chemistry lab partner and I caught a glimpse of her killer body and perfect cheekbones, I rolled my eyes knowing I'd be wearing invisibility spray as the males in the classroom would totally ignore me. One of the boys nearly blew up the lab when she came to class one day in her cheerleader uniform that showed off legs up to her neck. Anyway, turned out she was this conservative girl from a strict family much like mine, so we became fast friends. I consider her the sister I never had.
The girl routinely stops Manhattan traffic and gets carded at bars, as the woman has apparently discovered the fountain of youth. She's solid muscle, working as an aerobics instructor, as her body still doesn't have an ounce of fat. You could bounce quarters off the girl's ass.
Savannah is my fish-out-of-water friend, a Southern belle from Mississippi whose main objective in life is to divorce herself from her evil family traditions that exist south of the Mason-Dixon line. This goal came about when, at the age of twenty-two, she graduated from college and was promptly anointed an "old maid" by her mother. After a few months of being compared to her high school cohorts who were already well established in the trailer park and regularly showed off their cereal covered spawn every Friday night at Wal-Mart, Savannah left town with nothing but her devastating looks and incredibly sultry drawl. She headed straight for the Big Apple. Luckily she brought a serious amount of common sense and surprising level of street smarts with her. I happened to meet her the day she arrived while working on a story at the airport, took pity on her and offered her my couch until she got situated. Which she promptly did the next day, as she relocated from my sofa to the apartment of the cute guy who lived next door. He also took pity on her, but in the end she left nothing but an empty husk.
A curvy, five-six brunette whose mahogany tangles end in the middle of her back, she's used her pale green eyes and pouty lips to advance her career as a political consultant who is often the spokesperson for campaigns. Clients seek her out since she's whip smart and can make any man feel like he's the only person in the room. (And by nightfall it often ends up that way.) She can also charm a crowd in a political debate by inserting charming Southernisms into the discussion. Savannah calls herself a "serial dater" but when she says it with that accent it actually sounds charming. She'll pretty much date any decent guy once, as there is apparently a little known congressional bill called "no man left behind." At twenty-eight she's the baby sister in our group.
The girls were already seated at our usual corner table, sipping mimosas as patrons crowded the long buffet line, so deep in conversation they didn't notice my arrival until I pulled out my chair.
Layla looked up and smiled, studied my face, then bit her lower lip. "Uh-oh."
I shook my head and said nothing.
"What?" asked Savannah.
"Well," I said, taking my seat as I flagged down the waiter with the tray of mimosas, "so much for my dream of anchoring the nightly news."
"What happened?" asked Savannah. "Y'all look like someone ran over your dog."
"I couldn't read the prompter. I stumbled through every script. Worse than in college."
"You haven't anchored in forever," said Layla. "I'm sure they know that. How did you do with Scott?"
"That part was okay," I said, as my mimosa arrived. "And the producer said we had great chemistry."
Savannah smiled. "There you go! Chemistry's important. I hate it when anchors don't like each other. Did the producer give you any other feedback?"
"He said I was still in the running, and I believed him," I said. "Until … "
"Until what?" asked Savannah.
"The competition walked in." I took a long sip of my drink. I needed liquid courage before discussing she-who-must-not-be-named.
"And said competition would be?" asked Layla.
I swallowed hard. "Noelle Larson."
Both raised eyebrows and said nothing for a minute. They knew what the implications were. The clanging of silverware and glasses replaced the conversation. The smell of a roast wafted by as a chef wheeled out a huge steamship round.
"Oooh, that looks good," I said.
"I thought Noelle got out of the business when she left the other morning show," said Layla, who obviously wasn't going to drop the subject.
I nodded as I leaned back in my chair. "She did, last year. But rumor had it that she was waiting out her non-compete clause for something else. Rumor was apparently true." I shook my head and stared at my drink. "There's no way they'll pick me instead of her. I mean, she's a morning show icon. And you should have seen her. Six foot blonde, short skirt with perfect legs, four-inch heels. Plus she's had a boob job since America last saw her and looks like she could nurse a small village. She was spilling out of her blouse."
Savannah reached across the table and patted my hand. "Well, y'all don't fret your pretty lil' head. They probably don't want someone who's plastic."
"You should have seen the producer," I said. "Practically tripped over his tongue. Then she heads up to the set, says hello to Scott, pretends she doesn't know me and asks if I'm a production assistant. Bitch."
"They won't pick her," said Layla. "She's older than Scott. It'll look like a cougar newscast."
"She's only forty and she's got a history of delivering ratings in the morning," I said, slugging down the rest of my drink.
"And she's too tall," said Layla. "She'll tower over him."
"Right," said Savannah. "That poor little thing will look like a munchkin next to her."
"Look, I appreciate you guys trying to find excuses to keep me in the running," I said. "But it's game over. What the hell, I've still got a great job. Let's eat."
"It's not over, sweetie," said Layla. "Remember, Scott's gotta have some input as to who they hire."
"He does," I said. "But I can't compete with a real life silicone Barbie doll."
***
As I headed down to the newsstand for the Monday morning papers, I decided it was in my best interests to totally forget about the job, relax and smell the roses. (Or, in the case of this part of Manhattan, the lovely residue
