82 Desire

to bed with him. And guess what? He was great. I hadn’t had a date for six months. I mean it—I know you don’t believe it, but it’s the God’s truth.”
    “Lou-Lou, tell me you use condoms.”
    “What, you think I’m crazy? I keep a whole box on my bedside table.”
    Skip had to laugh. “Okay, I feel better.”
    “Then we saw each other a second time and he couldn’t get it up. He was feeling so damn guilty about cheating on his wife; you know that one? I swear, married men aren’t worth messing with.”
    “I’m going to type that out and tape it to your refrigerator. You don’t get to eat till you repeat it ten times.”
    “I never eat at home anyway.” She turned up her palms. “That was it. The whole thing. And it was two months ago.”
    “Who knew about it?”
    “Nobody. Listen, you’re my best friend. Did you know about it? It wasn’t worth mentioning, believe me.”
    “Did people see you at that party?”
    “We talked for maybe ten minutes. Yeah, it was intense, but who could have noticed? Nobody, believe me. Everybody was too busy putting the moves on everybody else.”
    “Did you leave with Fortier?”
    “Of course not. I just don’t see how this T-P babe could know about it.”
    “Well, she does. But what did you mean when you said you’re in deep shit?”
    “She’s going to run a story about it.”
    “Come on, she can’t do that. It’s not news.”
    Lou-Lou put her palms up. “All I know is what she told me. Listen, she’s your friend. Isn’t there anything you can do?”
    “I don’t know. I just don’t know if there is.”
    But she was sure going to have a talk with Jane Storey.
    ***
    Jane had become a reporter because she wanted each day to be different, because she liked to hang out with people who told a good story, because she had a lot of questions and needed a license to ask them. She was someone who craved adventure through her work.
    She’d become a television reporter for the adventure as much as the money. She’d quit because, to her, TV was about appearances rather than reality—you didn’t have to tell a story, you only had to stand before the camera and make mouth noises. What they were signified very little as long as you looked neat and sounded professional.
    Stuffy was better still.
    And you didn’t get to write much.
    She’d also become a reporter because she wrote. Not that she enjoyed writing or wanted to write, or even so much had ambitions to write. It was just what she did. She was a lot more comfortable back at the Picayune , but she sure missed Walter.
    Walter Cottrell had been her best friend at the paper. He was sixty, which made him the second oldest staff member, and he was Jane’s idol and role model. This was what a reporter should be—alert but not cynical, smarter than your average Rhodes scholar, and a brilliant writer. He had died in his sleep—of a broken heart, she thought. Because journalism hadn’t lived up to his expectations; had become a completely different animal from the one he had tamed as a young man.
    Walter loved to talk about matters of ethics and integrity. Nobody else much did anymore. Something else she loved about Walter—he was always a little sloppy, like Skip. Always had spots on his tie, or his shirt hanging out in the back, or hair flying every which way.
    Jane’s peers in age and experience looked as if they worked in banks. They were hardly the lovable rowdies, the raffish black sheep who’d been drawn to journalism in Walter’s day. They were serious young men and women who probably wouldn’t give Hildy Johnson the time of day—or even know who he was. They were so politically correct they wouldn’t tell Polish jokes on a slow news day.
    But the newsroom still had a certain character. A few people who worked there still excelled in the art of raconteurism. A few cared about their work. Some could make her laugh.
    Jane clung to that.
    The receptionist phoned from the cool marble entrance two floors down: “Skip Langdon to see you.”
    “Well, well. Send her up. By all means.” Jane tidied her desk and waited for Skip to ascend the escalator.
    She went to meet her at the entrance to the newsroom. “This has got to be a first. You’re coming to see me ?”
    “Janie, we have to talk.”
    “Uh-oh, that’s your mean voice. Let’s go to the cafeteria.”
    They went to the second floor. “Buy you a cup of coffee?”
    “Make mine water—I just had lunch. With Cindy Lou