wore the same expression—an I-told-you-so look complete with his signature half-smile that made his left eye crinkle.
In the center was the bullpen, where the researchers— Associate Producers (AP) and Production Assistants (PA)—sat in various stages of spinal degeneration, their days spent cemented to the phone, pre-interviewing potential show guests, their measly cubicles adorned with Buddha statues, maps of the world, scented candles, and assorted knick-knacks.
Ricky Dean’s personal office had been nicknamed The Ricky Ritz Hotel. Rumor had it that it was the nicest executive office on the studio lot, complete with a bar, a shower, plush leather couches, and a desk the size of a pick-up. Gib said a small Indian clan could have lived in the adjoining bathroom.
“Oh my God! Oh my God! He’s coming. He’s coming.” A tall, skinny woman ran into the office, her angular copper bob bouncing alongside.
“Corinne?” My heart beat as if it was on the outside of my body. “What are you doing here?”
“Jane?” she said, her voice sick with surprise. “You’re the field producer?”
It was like a horror movie, and she was Jason, or Freddy, or Damien, or all three. I was practically unable to speak. With the exception of a semi-apologetic e-mail, one I felt she’d been forced to write, I hadn’t heard from her since that awful night at Rebecca’s.
The room went hollow. All eyes were on us. I took a deep breath.
“Nice to see you.” I held out my hand, steady, calm, and confident. “Shake to a new beginning?”
Corinne smiled and shook my hand. “Thank you. Sounds good.”
Oddly, she looked more relieved than I did. I vowed in my head never to discuss the dreadful snub. That chapter was closed.
“Ha-hem!” I heard the sound from the hallway and, for the second time in a minute, my heart pounded like a jackhammer as the Ricky Dean stepped through our office door.
“Hello, sir.” Gib looked as if he might kneel.
Meg stood beside Mr. Dean, looking officious. “Girls, Gib, we want you to meet the man in charge.”
Corinne looked as if she might faint. “A real pleasure, sir.”
Ricky Dean stepped toward us in a perfectly pressed, perfectly tailored black suit, hair coiffed into a round black configuration with a subtle widow’s peak offset by a silver streak above his left ear,. He looked as tall as the doorway, larger than life, with a superhero stance. I would have expected nothing less from a multimillionaire self-help mogul. Ricky Dean was THE most powerful man in radio and soon to be one of the most powerful men on TV.
“Hello, gang! How are things going in the field department?” His expression and bearing radiated gusto and energy.
“Just getting started,” I said with my eyes wide, finding him dreamy in a god-like way. This was a true man of power—a man who, at this moment, could have made a field of flowers appear, or healed the broken, or saved the fallen—I thought I might offer him Corinne.
“Are you liking LA so far?” I asked. I desperately wanted him to know me, to be his pet producer, his go-to girl.
“It’s very nice.” He smiled in a way that could have been rehearsed, but his eyes twinkled briefly, as if just for me.
Then, in an instant, Ricky Dean, Meg, and the entourage of executives strode out the door in a wave of significance.
Corinne turned to me. “Oh my God, he’s amazing.”
The awkwardness of our reintroduction now ancient history, Corinne and I had something to bond over. I watched a tear trickle down her cheek.
“What’s this—a soft side?” I said to her with a smile.
“Shut it!” She smiled, fanning herself. “I can’t believe it.” She laughed while fingers fluttered in front of her face. “I’ve got to call my aunt.”
Corinne sat down to dial as I sank contentedly into my chair, staring at the pictures of the man on the wall.
By the end of the day, my freshly blown-out do had formed frizzy curls. The bathroom hand-dryer would have to do as a straightener. I slapped on a fresh coat of bee-sting lip-pump, clipped off a few wayward hair strands with a set of office scissors, and hurried off the lot for my dinner meeting with Alex.
Only ten minutes of primping and I was feeling plush again. It didn’t last. As I stood outside Dolce Enoteca, where Ashton Kutcher and three gorgeous Hollywood cohorts chortled snobbishly, I was reminded I might be happier, and certainly more comfortable, eating sprinkled donuts at the diner truck stop with Marge. I self-consciously fluffed