Private Scandals

“Don’t tell me it’s for the terror of Studio B.”
    The faintest flicker of annoyance clouded her eyes. “Okay, I won’t.”
    “Hey, Dee.” Roger caught up with her on the edge of the set. “Don’t get mad.”
    “I didn’t say I was mad.”
    “You don’t have to.” They walked down the single wide step from the glossy set to the scarred wood floor, skirting around camera and cable. They pushed through the studio doors together. “You are mad. It shows. You get that line between your eyebrows. Look.” He pulled her by the arm into the makeup room. After flicking on the lights, he stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders as they faced the mirror. “See, it’s still there.”
    Deliberately, she eased it away with a smile. “I don’t see anything.”
    “Then let me tell you what I see. Every man’s dream of the girl next door. Subtle, wholesome sex.” When she scowled, he only grinned. “That’s the visual, kid. Those big, trust-me eyes and peaches and cream. Not bad qualities for a television reporter.”
    “How about intelligence?” she countered. “Writing ability, guts.”
    “We’re talking visuals.” His smile flashed, deepening the character lines around his eyes. No one in television would dare refer to them as wrinkles. “Look, my last co-anchor was a Twinkie. All blow-dried hair and bonded teeth. She was more worried about her eyelashes than she was punching the lead.”
    “And now she’s reading the news at the number-two station in LA.” She knew how the business worked. Oh yes, she did. But she didn’t have to like it. “Rumors are, she’s being groomed for network.”
    “That’s the game. Personally, I appreciate having someone at the desk with a brain, but let’s not forget what we are.”
    “I thought we were journalists.”
    “ Television journalists. You’ve got a face that was made for the camera, and it tells everything you’re thinking, everything you’re feeling. Only problem is, it’s the same off camera, and that makes you vulnerable. A woman like Angela eats little farm girls like you for breakfast.”
    “I didn’t grow up on a farm.” Her voice was dry as a Midwest dust bowl.
    “Might as well have.” He gave her shoulders a friendly squeeze. “Who’s your pal, Dee?”
    She sighed, rolled her eyes. “You are, Roger.”
    “Watch your back with Angela.”
    “Look, I know she has a reputation for being temperamental—”
    “She has a reputation for being a stone bitch.”
    Stepping away from Roger, Deanna uncapped a pot of cold cream to remove her heavy makeup. She didn’t like having her coworkers pitted against one another, competing for her time, and she didn’t like feeling pressured into choosing between them. It had been difficult enough juggling her responsibilities in the newsroom and on set with the favors she did for Angela. And they were only favors, after all. Done primarily on her own time.
    “All I know is that she’s been nothing but kind to me. She liked my work on Midday and the ‘Deanna’s Corner’ segment and offered to help me refine my style.”
    “She’s using you.”
    “She’s teaching me,” Deanna corrected, tossing used makeup pads aside. Her movements were quick and practiced. She hit the center of the wastebasket as consistently as a veteran free-throw shooter. “There’s a reason Angela has the top-rated talk show in the market. It would have taken me years to learn the ins and outs of the business I’ve picked up from her in a matter of months.”
    “And do you really think she’s going to share a piece of that pie?”
    She pouted a moment because, of course, she wanted a piece. A nice big one. Healthy selfishness, she thought, and chuckled to herself. “It’s not as though I’m competing with her.”
    “Not yet.” But she would be, he knew. It surprised him that Angela didn’t detect the ambition glinting just behind Deanna’s eyes. But then, he mused, ego was often blinding.He had reason to know. “Just some friendly advice. Don’t give her any ammunition.” He took one last study as Deanna briskly redid her makeup for the street. She might have been naive, he mused, but she was also stubborn. He could see it in the way her mouth was set, the angle of her chin. “I’ve got a couple of bumpers to tape.” He tugged on her hair. “See you tomorrow.”
    “Yeah.” Once she was alone, Deanna tapped her eye pencil against the makeup table. She didn’t discount everything Roger