“I guess it’s what he needs to keep his stories straight on air. They tape two shows in one day.”
“Two shows? When does he have time to meet the guests?”
“He doesn’t. Not until he’s on air, live. That’s the only time he spends with them. They don’t meet or talk to Mr. Dean before or after the show.”
“What?” Grant looked disturbed.
“Yeah, there’s no time.”
“What kind of help is he giving people, then? How’s that supposed to fix their lives?”
“It’s just how it’s done.”
We both stopped. This was a conversation Grant and I had avoided up until now. I worried that if we continued, Grant might say, “I told you so!” though he was probably too mature for that. Instead, it might go more like: “You’re overworking yourself for a greedy, big-money practitioner of self-interest, not self-help.” I believe the word he’d originally used was “snake,” to which I would retort: “No, really, we’re making a difference. We really are helping people.” At least, I hoped we were.
It was true that I’d begun to question the people around me, and the show’s story-gathering techniques. But I had to remind myself of the bigger picture—this job was part of paying my professional dues. Watching Meg in the office—the respect she commanded and the sheer power she wielded—convinced me I really wanted the same position someday, and the sooner the better! And it was worth it, even if the show wasn’t one hundred percent authentic all of the time. Greatness entails great sacrifice. Part of me worried Grant would never understand that.
“I’m planning a surf trip to Costa Rica,” Grant said, squeezing me tighter.
I was happy with his attempt to change the subject. “You are?”
“Yeah, I want you to come. Next month. There’s so much I want to show you.”
“Wow,” I said. “I don’t know. We might be out of our busy season. Could be doable. Sounds like fun.”
“It would be good for us. It’d be nice to. . . get closer. I feel like maybe we’re drifting apart.” He started massaging my neck. “I don’t know. . . this show. . . I wonder if it will always consume you.” He stopped and pulled his head around to meet my eyes. “Is this really what you want?”
“What do you mean by that?” I wriggled my head out of his hands.
“Jane, I think you’re beautiful, and—” He looked away from me as if embarrassed, then continued, “The girl I met in France, the girl you were then, it’s just—”
I cut him off. “What do you mean, ‘the girl in France’?”
“Nothing. It’s not a bad thing. Since you started on the show, things have been a little different. You’ve been a little different. Back in France, I felt like I was falling—”
With the grace of a Chinese fire-drill sergeant, my phone suddenly buzzed, demanding my instant attention. I’d become so accustomed to diving for it in the field—it was always ringing with urgent orders from the office—that I lunged for my bag, nearly spilling our wine bottle and pushing Grant overboard.
“Hello. Jane here. . . Yeah, yup, no problem. Uh, lemme check. Got it, got the script. . . Yeah, it’s all here. No worries. It’s okay. Yup. . . Bye.” I tossed the phone back into my bag.
It had been Corinne about a shoot the next day in Texas. She said it was important. The story might be used in the sweeps week’s headline show Monday: a little unneeded pressure to ensure I got it right.
Grant turned his body away from mine, staring out at the horizon. I grabbed his hand. “Grant, I’m sorry. What were you saying?”
“Never mind.”
“No really, what?”
“Honestly, I can’t remember.”
“Oh, okay.”
Neither could I. Our conversation escaped me. The horizon looked a million miles away. Part of me wanted to sail toward it, and keep on sailing.
“Hey, Earth to Grant. Let’s talk.”
“Okay.” He looked at me with a smile that didn’t seem natural. “What do you want to talk about?”
“I don’t know. Whatever you want to talk about,” I said playfully.
Grant smiled, but something wasn’t right. I couldn’t place it. Thoughts of work crowded my head. “So, I think Gib is on the chopping block,” I said.
“Your supervisor?”
“Yeah, one of the show producers said he’s screwing up big-time. Tapes not turned in on time, interviews botched. He told us to use backdrops that Meg and Mr. Dean hadn’t approved.”
Grant seemed only marginally interested. But I continued anyway, telling him about the time Ricky Dean had reprimanded me, in front