of a garbage strike.) It was pointless to worry about something that was out of my control, and with Noelle Larson in the picture the job was a million-to-one longshot anyway. It dawned on me I was probably a courtesy interview to appease Scott.
Yeah, let's go with that.
The air was cool and crisp. At ten o'clock commuters were out of the way and the five block hike to the newsstand was an easy one. I liked buying hard copies from a human being, bypassing the electronic version or the delivery to the door of my apartment. And midtown was still populated by those classic green newsstands, with the dailies in a stack weighted down by half a brick while every magazine available hung from the sides. Besides, it forced me to walk every day and get some exercise, which I loathed. (And canceled out the candy bar I always bought with the papers.) I reached the newsstand, grabbed the city's three dailies and a Fast Break (a wonderful concoction of chocolate and peanut butter) and handed a five to Hal, the grizzled, fiftyish guy running the stand who always had a three day growth of silver whiskers.
"I think you're both, Freckles," he said, using his personal nickname for me.
"Excuse me?"
He pointed at my newspapers as he looked over the top of his silver reading glasses. "Page Six," he said, as he handed me my change.
Uh-oh.
Page Six was the city's clearinghouse for gossip, and obviously it had something to do with me. I opened The Post and saw the headline above side-by-side pictures of myself and Noelle Larson. The huge bold typeface screamed at me.
RED / HOT
Chase is on for Katrina Favor's job
So much for keeping it quiet.
The paparazzi had apparently snapped a photo of me entering the network headquarters yesterday, and done the same with Noelle Larson. Her photo was under the "hot" part of the headline (it was no contest, considering the length of her skirt) while I filled the side of the page under "red."
"Damn," I said out loud.
"Like I said, Freckles, you're both," said Hal. "Red hot Veronica, that's what I'm gonna call you now."
"Gee thanks, Hal," I said, as I leaned against his stand to read the article.
By Gemma Farrington
It's a network catfight in a game of musical chairs.
Producers of The Morning Show didn't waste any time holding tryouts Sunday morning for Katrina Favor's now empty co-anchor spot. Sources tell us that network execs are scrambling to find a replacement after Ms. Favor's arrest last week following her embarrassing dalliance with a male prostitute. Co-anchor Scott Winter was dragged in on his day off Sunday as the network shuttled a parade of info-babes onto the anchor desk. And with ratings sweeps just around the corner, the decision will come quickly.
Despite the long hours of tryouts, we're told the short list has but two names on it. Former morning show queen Noelle Larson, who left her post at the competition a year ago due to a contract dispute, and NYC reporter Veronica Summer, the fiery redhead who makes corrupt politicians run for cover.
While Larson's assets (both journalistically and physically) are well known to viewers, Ms. Summer is a wild card in the deck, having no anchoring or morning show experience. She's also a local reporter, so is unknown to a national audience. While this might seem to leave her at a disadvantage her off-camera relationship with Mr. Winter makes her a formidable challenger. The two attended college together and are said to be close friends; Ms. Summer was even a bridesmaid at Mr. Winter's wedding.
Chemistry could be the deciding factor in the choice, even though Ms. Summer does not seem to possess the typical morning show perkiness that has become the industry standard for women. It's no secret that Katrina Favor did not approve of Winter's hire two years ago, and their relationship off camera was said to be ice cold.
Who would you rather see sitting next to America's Boy Next Door? His attractive best friend from college with whom he has a warm (yet platonic) relationship? Or the towering blonde with the mile-long legs and the cheerful attitude that will give you a cavity? Vote in our Internet poll. Results on Wednesday.
"Sources tell us, my ass," I said aloud.
"Story not true?" asked Hal.
"It was supposed to be a secret."
"Well, I voted for you," he said, holding up an iPad.
"Thank you, Hal." I grabbed another candy bar and tossed him a buck. "Think I need a double today."
I turned and headed back to my apartment, feeling naked as it seemed every person on the street was staring at me. I'm used to being recognized, but not like this. I forced a smile at everyone, but it was through clenched teeth.
Gavin Karlson was pissing me off. I knew damn well he was the "source" and was using the newspaper to float a trial balloon. Yeah, he wanted to keep it quiet. Bullshit. The damn story would be in the paper until Thursday, the day after the results of the "poll" were released. And the whole thing would no doubt be picked up by every entertainment publication in the country.
And speaking of the poll, did it mean I really was on the short list of two? Or was this simply a ploy to find out if people wanted to wake up with Noelle again?
Inquiring minds wanna know.
It was time for this reporter to start digging.
As an Emmy Award winning reporter, you'd think I'd be able to investigate my own life. But despite the tabloids seemingly permanent pipeline to that network "source" I've not been able to find out a damn thing about the decision to replace Katrina. Even Scott has been no help, apparently being left out of the loop after pleading my case to the network. (He also told the bigwigs his apprehension about working with a glamazon who made him look like a hobbit when she stood next to him in heels that took her up to six-foot-four.)
Oh, and that resolution I made to forget it and smell the roses? Fuhgeddaboudit. That barn door has sailed, as we say in the news business.
By Friday I had turned into a teenage girl hoping for a date to the prom. Every time the phone rang I jumped, waiting for news that would at least resolve the situation. Luckily Savannah has asked me to lunch, obviously noting I had become a walking frayed nerve ending.
While Layla is my best friend, Savannah is a world class expert at putting things in perspective with that Southern way of looking at things. (The laid-back and relaxed view of life, not that of her relatives whose family trees are of the pine variety with reunions that might have been accompanied by banjo music.) And since she works in politics, she always knows how to spin things. The girl could make a colonoscopy sound like fun.
Since I would be off to work in an hour I sadly bypassed the glass of wine I really needed in favor of club soda with lime. Savannah had chosen a quiet, elegant restaurant featuring soft violin music instead
