gathered here today because of the passing of a great man,” Ray bellowed.
Phoebe reluctantly shifted her gaze to Lauren. “You need to confess something? The woman who doesn’t sleep around, indulge in illegal substances and only drinks wine or beer—and then in moderation? You won’t even buy me cigarettes when I run out.”
Lauren rolled her eyes. “It’s about the obit,” she whispered.
“The obit?” Phoebe’s delivery wasn’t quite so sotto voce.
“Shh!” Baby Huey turned around. “You two are interrupting a unique moment here.” He looked at them sternly before shifting back to take in the action.
“If you only knew how unique,” Lauren moaned softly.
“As usual, the Sentinel came through,” Ray continued before raising his arm magisterially and pointing to a screen that had been set up to his right. Instantly, there appeared a giant image—an obituary. Lauren’s obit. Well, not her actual obit, but the obit she’d written.
“It just shows that with the right editorial guidance, even a junior member of the staff can make an impact,” Ray announced.
Lauren groaned. “Maybe he won’t mention my name.”
“Of course he won’t mention your name. Ray is a total asshole,” Phoebe said sympathetically.
“Once more, I’m pleased to say our paper, despite our limited resources in comparison to television, scooped the other media.” Ray modestly held up his hand. “No slight to you folks,” he joked to the TV crews. Yeah, right.
“Maybe now I’ll find out who Mr. Tall, Dark And Handsome is.” Phoebe didn’t bother to be coy as she started to move forward through the crowd.
Lauren reached out and stopped her. “Phoebe, there’s something you need to know about the obit.” She gulped. “The guy’s story—I made the whole thing up.” She’d like to say she felt better for confessing, but the pit in her stomach was only getting larger.
“Wha-at?” Phoebe squawked. She swiveled around and grabbed Lauren by both forearms.
“Those Pilates classes have really improved your grip,” Lauren observed.
“Actually, it’s high-impact yoga.” Phoebe pulled her closer and bent her head down. “You mean you killed off somebody who wasn’t dead.”
Lauren shook her head. “No, trust me, Harry Nord is good and dead.” She cast a worried glance around to see if anyone was watching.
Who was she kidding? With two women locked in an embrace, of course somebody was watching. “Will you keep it down? All the guys in production will think we’re staging a little snuggle here just for their benefit.” Lauren grabbed Phoebe by the shoulders, hustled her down the hallway and pushed her through the first door they came to.
Phoebe looked around. “If you’re worried what people are going to think, squirreling me away into the janitor’s closet is not going to help.” Unfazed, she overturned a large mop bucket and lowered herself regally, crossing one leg over the other so that her taupe patent leather Chanel pump swung gracefully next to her slender calf.
Lauren scraped her loose bangs from her forehead. “You see, it’s like this. Ray, being the asshole he is—as you so rightly pointed out—not only appointed Baby Huey to the State House reporter’s job over me, but he didn’t even have the nerve to tell me to my face. I heard it from Donna.”
“You mean, Donna of the ill-fitting double-Ds? She won’t ever give me new erasers, even when I ask politely.” In addition to being president of the Engelbert Humperdinck Fan Club, Donna Drinkwater was head of the supply closet and ruled over it with the arbitrary élan of a born martinet.
“You’re kidding? I can always get erasers,” Lauren said, then waved her hand in the air. “The point is, Ray, the schmuck, when he finally did come face-to-face, merely assigned me an obit without so much as a by-your-leave. So I got mad, really mad. And really more out of spite than anything, I—”
Phoebe rose. “You don’t need to go on. You invented a great news story—about Harry Nord—didn’t you?”
Lauren nodded.
“You know, I particularly liked the bit about the villagers harboring Harry and his wounded navigator after he dragged him from their burning plane.”
“Thanks a lot. Anyhow, never in my wildest dreams did I expect the thing to appear.”
“Of course not.” Phoebe laughed, then did a double take. “Are you telling me you submitted it to the Copy Desk and counted on them to realize it was a joke?”
“To my utter amazement, all Dan Jankowski did was change a semicolon to a period. Did you ever notice the way Dan hates semicolons?”
Phoebe eyed her gravely.
Lauren held up her hand. “I know, I know. It was a stupid thing to do. But how was I to know that the story would run, that it would get picked up by the wire services and somehow find its way to television?” She breathed in deeply. “Do you think I should throw myself on Ray’s mercy and hope that in his heart of hearts he’ll find a way to forgive me?”
“Lauren, get real. Ray doesn’t have a heart.” Phoebe paused. “Have you ever thought about becoming a salesperson in the shoe department at Wanamaker’s?” As an old-time Philadelphian, Phoebe still referred to the department store in the grand building on Market by its original name—steadfastly refusing to let Lord & Taylor pass her lips. “I could really use the discount.”
“Phoebe! This is my career we’re talking about.”
Actually, it was more like her life’s dream—not the part about working for the Sentinel necessarily, but being a reporter. Ever since Lauren could remember, she had been hooked on journalism. She salivated over the way the headlines screamed the news. Marveled at the quotes that the writers could get important people to say. Was awestruck by the emotions the photos could elicit. Even the smell of the newsprint and the way the ink came off on her fingers inspired Lauren with a sensory glee that she couldn’t explain—certainly not to her mother, who naturally thought Lauren should join the family dry cleaning business and certainly not break off her engagement to a handsome local boy who had a guaranteed income of seventy thousand as an accounts manager at Jefferson Memorial Hospital.
“Just think, he could probably use his influence to get you a private room at a lower rate when you have your first baby,” her mother liked to say. This from the woman who saved used rubber bands on the kitchen doorknob.
Well, despite her mother’s protests, Lauren had pulled the plug on the whole rosy picture—the baby, the private hospital room and the wedding.
The decision had been made easy when she found her fiancé, the no-good creep Johnny Budworth, doing the deed with Agnes Iolites, their greatly overpriced wedding planner. But that wasn’t the only thing that had tipped the scales. You see, Lauren had already wised up to the fact that Johnny never understood what turned her on—and she wasn’t just talking about sex, though sex was part of it. Over the course of their relationship, Lauren had seriously wondered if halftime during a televised Eagles game really was the most romantic moment to indulge in intercourse.
