Private Scandals

cable.”
    “Excellent launching points. Now, have you forgotten the famous Deanna Reynolds’s Five-Year Plan? If so, I’m sure there’s a typed copy of it in that desk.”
    Deanna glanced over at her pride and joy, the single fine piece of furniture she’d acquired since moving to Chicago. She’d picked up the beautifully patinated Queen Anne desk at an auction. And Fran was right. There was a typed copy of Deanna’s career plan in the top drawer. In duplicate.
    Since college, she had modified her plans somewhat. Fran had married and settled in Chicago and had urged her former roommate to come out and try her luck.
    “Year One,” Deanna remembered. “An on-camera job in Kansas City.”
    “Done.”
    “Year Two, a position at CBC, Chicago.”
    “Accomplished.”
    “Year Three, a small, tasteful segment of my own.”
    “The current ’Deanna’s Corner,’ ” Fran said, and toasted the segment with her ginger ale.
    “Year Four, anchoring the evening news. Local.”
    “Which you’ve already done, several times, as substitute.”
    “Year Five, audition tapes and résumés to the holy ground: New York.”
    “Which will never be able to resist your combination of style, on-camera appeal and sincerity—unless, of course, you continue to second-guess yourself.”
    “You’re right, but—”
    “No buts.” On this Fran was firm. She expended some of the energy she preferred to hoard by propping her feet on the coffee table. “You do good work, Dee. People talk to you because you have compassion. That’s an advantage in a journalist, not a flaw.”
    “It doesn’t help me sleep at night.” Restless and suddenly tired, Deanna scooped a hand through her hair. After curlingher legs up, she studied the room, brooding.
    There was the rickety dinette she’d yet to find a suitable replacement for, the frayed rug, the single solid armchair she’d had re-covered in a soft gray. Only the desk stood out, gleaming, a testimony to partial success. Yet everything was in its place; the few trinkets she’d collected were arranged precisely.
    This tidy apartment wasn’t the home of her dreams, but as Fran had pointed out, it was an excellent launching point. And she fully intended to launch herself, both personally and professionally.
    “Do you remember, back at college, how exciting we thought it would be to sprint after ambulances, interview mass murderers, to write incisive copy that would rivet the viewers’ attention? Well, it is.” Letting out a sigh, Deanna rose to pace again. “But you really pay for the kick.” She paused a moment, picked up a little china box, set it down again. “Angela’s hinted that I could have the job as head researcher on her show for the asking—on-air credit with a significant raise in salary.”
    Because she didn’t want to influence her friend, Fran pursed her lips and kept her voice neutral. “And you’re considering it?”
    “Every time I do, I remember I’d be giving up the camera.” With a half laugh, Deanna shook her head. “I’d miss that little red light. See, here’s the thing.” She plopped down on the arm of the couch. Her eyes were glowing again, darkened to smoke with suppressed excitement. “I don’t want to be Angela’s head researcher. I’m not even sure I want New York anymore. I think I want my own show. To be syndicated in a hundred and twenty markets. I want a twenty-percent share. I want to be on the cover of TV Guide.”
    Fran grinned. “So, what’s stopping you?”
    “Nothing.” More confident now that she’d said it aloud, Deanna shifted, resting her bare feet on the cushion of the sofa. “Maybe that’s Year Seven or Eight, I haven’t figured it out yet. But I want it, and I can do it. But—” She blewout a breath. “It means covering tears and torment until I’ve earned my stripes.”
    “The Deanna Reynolds’s Extended Career Plan.”
    “Exactly.” She was glad Fran understood.
    “You don’t think I’m crazy?”
    “Sweet pea, I think that anyone with your meticulous mind, your camera presence and your polite yet strong ambition will get exactly what she wants.” Fran reached into the bowl of sugared almonds on the coffee table, popped three in her mouth. “Just don’t forget the little people when you do.”
    “What was your name again?”
    Fran threw a pillow at her. “Okay, now that we have your life settled, I’d like to announce an addition to the Fran Myers’s My Life Is Never What I Thought It