Boss Girl Read online

  "Just one more thing, Syd."

  "Yes?"

  "I know you were the one who found Scott and all, but I was wondering if—"

  "Yeah?"

  Madison's smile grew, bringing out her perfect cheekbones. "Maybe one Friday when you're out of town. Would you be willing to… share?"

  * * *

  I was done with Scott, having "given" him to Madison. So back to checking references.

  The leading candidate to anchor our new five o'clock newscast weaved his way past the tables, leaving a trail of hanging female tongues in his wake. The dark gray pinstripe vest draped from Jason Deller's broad shoulders, while his slim hips carried him through the room.

  Here we go again.

  I sat up straight on my bar stool, crossing my left leg over my right to take advantage of the slit on that side of my royal blue dress.

  Just in time for the six-foot-three slice of prime beef to notice.

  He extended his hand as he reached the bar. "Sydney?"

  "Yes," I said as I shook his hand.

  "What's a nice News Director like you doing in a place like this?" he asked.

  Good. Sense of humor.

  "It's a good place to relax after work," I said.

  His cobalt blue eyes stole a glance at my legs, then locked on my own, looking right into my soul and almost putting me in a hypnotic trance. He smiled, revealing dimples that ran like trenches along his rugged twenty-eight-year-old face that bristled with a three-day growth. A shock of coal black hair cascaded over his forehead. He hopped onto the bar stool next to mine and swung it around to face me. His knees gently brushed mine, sending an electric charge through my body.

  Damn, he makes Scott Harry look like a Boy Scout.

  "You're not what I expected," he said.

  "I hope that's good."

  "Oh yeah."

  "And you look good in clothes," I said.

  His face flushed a bit as he shook his head. "I can't believe you actually saw that Off-Broadway disaster."

  "Hey, Shakespeare in the nude wasn't all that bad."

  "Right. That's why I'm still waiting tables uptown after playing opposite Lady McBare."

  "Did you have a problem doing nudity on stage?"

  "Nah. I just needed the work. At least I got discovered by you, right?"

  "Right."

  "I'm frankly surprised you'd actually consider an actor to be a news anchor."

  "Well, we've had an actor as President and one was the Governor of California. It's all about being able to communicate. What's the difference?"

  "True." He looked off to the side for a moment, then turned back to me. "I do have one question that we didn't cover during our phone conversation."

  "Shoot."

  He bit his lower lip, then fired away. "I've read the tabloids about your… hiring practices. And the regular weekly—"

  "Let me answer your question with a question," I said.

  "Okay."

  I leaned forward and slid my hand on the smooth bar toward his so that our fingers lightly touched. "Hypothetically, mind you. If you were to be offered a job, a great job that paid really well, and one part of the interview process was to take care of the sexual needs of your future boss, how would you respond?

  "Hypothetically?"

  "Of course."

  He shrugged. "Well, that depends."

  "On what?"

  "On who the boss is. If the boss is some twenty-five-year-old ditsy blonde looking for a commitment, then I'm not the guy. Romance can't be part of the picture. If it's some wrinkled sixty-year-old prune, forget it." He looked around, then leaned closer while putting his hand on top of mine. "The boss would have to be, say, a very attractive tall redhead with a great pair of legs and spectacular eyes. It would also be nice if she were a little older than me. I like women who are… seasoned."

  Well, rub some spices on me and toss me on the grill.

  "So," he continued, "to answer your question. If I were to be offered a great job that required me to have sex with my hot boss, and no romantic strings attached, well…"

  "Yes?"

  "I'd jump on it."

  Gulp. (I don't even want to describe the image that flashed through my head, but let's just call it the really Off-Off-Broadway nude production of Taming of the Shrew.)

  "Really," I said, feigning surprise. "You wouldn't consider it any sort of sexual harassment?"

  "Oh, please. Hell, I'd let her be in charge in the bedroom too. Great job, free sex, where do I sign? Hypothetically, of course."

  "Of course," I said.

  "You know, the service at this place is really slow," he said, looking around at the lack of empty tables. "I oughta know, I used to work here. And the food's not that great either."

  "True." I reached into my beaded purse, pulled out a ten-dollar bill and tossed it on the bar. "You know, I think we should continue our conversation elsewhere. I have a room at the Plaza."

  "They have excellent room service there."

  "They do. Are you hungry?"

  He licked his lips, hungry eyes looking directly into mine. "I think I will be in a couple of hours."

  He hopped off his stool and extended his hand. I took it and slid off the chair, then stood straight and tall, inches away from his face, breathing in his musky cologne.

  "Oh, I do have one more question," he said.

  Uh-oh. "Sure."

  "All I have to do is read and look good, right? No reporting in the field, no journalism stuff, no writing. I mean, I'm an actor, not Edward R. Murrow."

  "That's the deal. You're not a real news anchor, you just play one on TV."

  "Okay."

  "You only have to remember one thing, Jason," I said. "It's not brain surgery. It's just television news."

  CHAPTER TWO

  If you get the punchline to this joke, you probably understand the mission statement of the Consolidated Broadcasting Network's entertainment division:

  What do a Mississippi divorce and a tornado have in common?

  Somebody's gonna lose a trailer.

  As networks go, Consolidated Broadcasting is not what you'd call the purveyor of highbrow programming.

  If your idea of a big night is a six-pack and a bug zapper, you're part of our target audience. Congratulations!

  (Of course if you're reading this, and your lips don't move when you read, you're obviously not. I am presuming the only books in the homes of CBN viewers are sitting next to a box of Crayolas, so I feel pretty safe in sharing our secrets.)

  CBN prime-time shows have simple formulas. Every show needs at least one, and preferably more, of the following:

  —Women with multiple tattoos, a bad dye job, and a lit cigarette at all times.

  —A male star with so many body piercings it looks as though the phone rang and he answered the staple gun.

  —A home with wheels, that may, or may not, change locations due to a storm. (The network once actually created a spin-off series in this manner when the Georgia mobile home of one secondary character sailed away in a hurricane and landed on a beach in Boca Raton.)

  —A truck, vintage Trans-Am, or Camaro, preferably having one door of a different color than the rest of the vehicle. One part of the car should be held together with duct tape.

  —At least one character with missing teeth. If there is just one missing tooth, the character should use the space to spit tobacco juice.

  —The word "confessions" or "naughty" in the title. (Both were used in one series titled, "Confessions of Naughty Trailer Park Queens.")

  And if you live in a state in which you can be arrested for driving without a gun rack, we want your eyeballs every night after you bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan.

  Well, that was CBN's strategy.

  Until today.

  Since even the sophistication challenged haven't been tuning in and the network could possibly have fewer viewers than PlayStation at any given moment during prime time, the powers that be at the net
work have called a meeting to discuss the future. Two days ago Madison told me, "Changes are coming, but in a good way."

  That's usually the equivalent of a Sicilian kiss in broadcasting, so for the past forty-eight hours I've been hitting the liquor cabinet like Neely on a weekend bender, while looking around corners for hit men with dark shirts and white ties lurking in the shadows. Even though Madison assured me that I was in no danger, you always worry in this business that someone is going to send you a dead fish wrapped in a newspaper. You're only one bad ratings book away from decapitation.

  But then Madison threw a curveball at me, and told me to summon the gals to New York for an eleven o'clock meeting. Again, no other information.

  So we're here, at one end of the conference room, ten minutes early, trying to place bets on a: what the network is going to do in prime time; and b: what this meeting has to do with the news division. (Well, three of us are here; we're waiting on Rica, whose plane was late, but she'll be here shortly.) Jillian has been driving herself nuts, speculating, while burning through calories at an alarming rate. Neely took the more casual approach.

  "Hey, a free trip to New York is just another excuse to get together with you guys," she said, sipping a bottle of sparkling water.

  "What time's happy hour?" asked Jillian, drumming her fingers on the table, as she grabbed another jelly donut from the large basket in the middle of the table. (The girl can eat all day, by the way, and never gain an ounce.)

  "If we're not having lunch with corporate, it's in about an hour," I said.

  "By the way Syd, how's your new hire working out?" asked Neely.

  "Jason? Terrific. He picked up the prompter really quick," I said.

  "Not what I meant," said Neely, as Rica blew through the door carrying her briefcase.

  "Made it," she said, as she dropped her valise on the floor and brushed a few strands of hair from her face. "Did I miss anything?"

  "Just more endless speculation about our possible futures," said Jillian. "Where the hell else can we work and get the benefits package we've got?"

  "Anything new since I left LA?" asked Rica.

  I shook my head. "Nada. You know as much as I do. But I'm betting—"

  The giant wooden doors swung open and Madison Cartwright entered the room, followed by an entourage of sharply dressed women in their thirties and forties that I recognized as the corporate staff.

  With one exception.

  They circled the table and all took their seats as Madison stood at the front of the room. The exception, a sharply dressed striking brunette in her middle thirties, sat in the chair to her immediate right.

  "You recognize her?" whispered Jillian, just before shoving the remainder of the donut into her mouth.

  I shook my head.

  "Thank you all for coming such a long way on such short notice," said Madison. "I know that you've all been trying to figure out what's in the works for the past few days, and I'm sorry to have been so vague, so I won't keep you guessing any longer. Let's start with the entertainment division. You may have noticed that Carlie Hammersmith, the head of prime-time programming, is not here. She tendered her resignation this morning."

  Jillian leaned into my ear, so close I could smell the strawberry jelly on her breath. "I told you heads would roll."

  "But fear not," continued Madison. "The rest of you are not in any danger of losing your jobs. In fact, quite the opposite. You're all about to play bigger roles in this network. To tell you about that, I'm going to turn the meeting over to Amanda Bain, who has been named our new head of the division and will totally revamp the prime-time line-up, which will hopefully give you a much better lead-in for your local newscasts. She has fifteen years experience with the major networks in Hollywood, and I know she'll do great things for us. Let's give her a big welcome."

  The slender brunette with Carolina-blue eyes stood up and was greeted by polite applause. Her shoulder-length straight cut curved in around her chin and framed her thin, oval face while dusting the shoulders of her deep red business suit. (Well, the suit part was business. The very short skirt was pleasure.) Her dangly hoop earrings looked more appropriate for a night on the town instead of a day in the boardroom, but they worked with the outfit.

  "She's one of us," whispered Neely, noting the woman had a body like a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model, though she wasn't terribly tall, maybe five-five. She took off her jacket and draped it on the back of her chair, revealing a tight, eggshell silk blouse. The outfit screamed "woman in charge."

  "And she brought her own party hats," Neely added.

  "Oh yeah," I said, noting the chilly air and her lack of a bra had provided two impressive points to the front of her blouse.

  "She could dial a phone with those things," whispered Rica.

  "Like you couldn't," I said.

  "Thank you so much," said Amanda, who took Madison's place at the front of the room as my boss stepped aside. "Madison is right about one thing, and I hate to throw stones at my predecessor, but our prime-time programming couldn't be any worse. So I'll get right down to it. I'm sure you'll all be happy to know that the days of redneck entertainment at CBN are over as of today."

  A mild cheer erupted with more applause. "I like her already," said Jillian.

  "Damn," said Neely, "I guess that cliffhanger of Bubba Does Boca will never be resolved."

  She smiled, looking around the room and making eye contact with several women. "I know, I know, tens of viewers will be disappointed." We all laughed at the old joke about ratings and the tension we'd felt about our jobs began to dissipate. "CBN is about to undergo several major changes in the coming weeks, some of which will be made public, some which must be done in secrecy. I'm going to need help from each of you to make that happen. But first, I must say that none of this would be possible if it were not for the incredible vision of Sydney Hack."

  Huh? Whaaa…

  She turned and looked right at me. "Sydney, we haven't been formally introduced yet, but I must compliment you on the way you turned things around in the news division for this network. Your work is nothing less than inspiring, and it takes a lot for someone in a news department to inspire someone from Hollywood. Anyone who can grow the ratings with that disastrous prime-time line-up as a lead-in is a genius. What you've done is the basis for the changes that we are going to start implementing today."

  Twelve pairs of eyes looked at me for an answer. I just smiled and nodded. "Thank you," I said. "You're very kind."

  "Don't be modest, Sydney," said Amanda. "Your changes have given us the road map to take this network in a new direction. One that is going to change the face of broadcasting and kick our competitors' asses. One that is going to make the entire country rethink the way business is done, one that will change the way men and women look at relationships. The premise is very simple, and one I know you are all going to like. Here's the deal, and it will be written in stone. All of our prime-time shows this fall are going to mirror the current theme of our local newscasts."

  She paused a moment, letting it sink in. "Got it?" she asked.

  Heads began to nod.

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  (That crazy idea I had for a network the other night in the bedroom while Scott was pulling his laundry off the ceiling? Should have copyrighted the damn thing.)

  "In other words," said Amanda, "the shirtless, tattooed men who have starred in CBN's shows are being replaced with very attractive, smart, professional, sexually aggressive women over thirty who don't see age as a boundary in a relationship. Every show in prime time will be female-driven. Every single one. There will still be good looking, shirtless men of course," she said, pausing as the women in the room laughed, "but they'll be playthings. They'll also be classy, well-educated, have full sets of teeth," she paused as the group laughed again. "And they'll also be…" She stopped and looked around the room and put her palms up. "Anybody?"

  "Younger?" I said.

 
; She pointed her finger at me and smiled. "You got it, Sydney. Welcome, women of CBN, to a network where women are always in charge."

  Several "woo-hoos" went up around the room as the group exhaled all tension collectively. No one was getting fired, except the people who had produced the God-awful stuff we'd been running in prime time.

  And my grand little experiment was about to take on a life of its own.

  "Oh, one more very important thing," added Amanda. "We're going to be known as the Consolidated Group from now on. And you'll see why down the road."

  Neely gave me a gentle elbow. "I can understand why you're here Syd, but what are we doing here?"

  "I'm glad you all seem so receptive to the idea," said Amanda. "And I think America will feel the same way. When the fall rolls around, you won't be able to recognize this network. Everything will be new. Every single show now on the air has been cancelled, and most will be yanked off the air immediately. We're basically rebooting, rolling out a new network, which is another reason for the name change. And that brings me to the second part of our plan, which entails synergy with the news division." She turned toward me and smiled. "And that's why we needed you here, Sydney, along with the news directors of our major market stations."

  Neely, Rica and Jillian all sat up straight and leaned forward in unison, as if on cue.

  Then Amanda dropped the bombshell.

  "We're going to launch a 24-hour cable network based here in New York. And I'm asking the four of you to run it."

  * * *

  "Oh, we're definitely having an agenda on this network," said Amanda, who speared a forkful of grilled salmon that was drenched in bourbon sauce.

  Aw, shit. There goes paradise.

  "Republican or Democrat?" I asked, suddenly losing my appetite at the prospect of tormenting the American public with political scream-fests. The petite sirloin that had just arrived was still spitting at me, sending out a call to my growling stomach.

  She shook her head as she chewed her salmon. The brightly lit midtown restaurant was still crowded at two o'clock, and loud, filled with too many business people talking either to each other, on their cell phones, or both. The bar was elbow-to-elbow with men who were maintaining their liquid diets during lunch, while watching a rare Mets day game and cheering the occasional good play. Amanda flagged down a young waiter and pointed to her empty wine glass. He nodded at her, smiled and disappeared into the kitchen where he was swallowed up by the sound of clanging plates and silverware. Finally she took a sip of water and gave me my answer. "Nothing so pedestrian as politics, Syd. Let the other networks go right or left and alienate half the audience. Our only agenda is women. Women over thirty are the target demo specifically, but women overall. Remember, young women will eventually become older. In the back of our viewers' minds, subliminally, must be the concept that men are simple playthings, just accessories that any woman can have, like a designer purse. Just as the shoes must match the dress, the younger man must match the older woman. No knock-offs, either. The men must be the real thing, the dream guy, not something they'd settle for to avoid a life as a spinster with a houseful of cats. All you have to do is time-warp yourselves back fifty years to the days of weather bunnies on the news, when women stayed home and did all the cooking and cleaning, and men routinely slept with their secretaries. Then just reverse the sexes. It's that simple. And that's what I want from you. That's what our viewers will want from the network once they get a taste of it. We're going to turn the damn country upside down in the bedroom, and the boardroom. Let the world know women have had enough, that we're taking over, and we're changing the rules for good. It's a seller's market, and we're the only store in town. If you're a man, and you want sex, you play by our rules. And we take what we want."