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Savannah stood up. "I'll go get the doctor and let him know you're awake."
"What time is it?" I asked, as I stretched my arms out and yawned.
"Eleven on Sunday morning," said Layla. She sat on the edge of the bed. "I was beginning to wonder if you were ever gonna wake up. You've been out about seventeen hours."
"How did you know I was here?"
Layla reached for the end table, grabbed a bunch of newspapers and handed them to me. "Well, everyone kinda knows you're here."
I sat up and looked at the front page of New York's most popular tabloid. There I was, passed out on a stretcher, hunks of lobster in my cream-covered hair and mouth hanging open like a trophy bass, under the blaring headline.
MORNING ANCHOR GOES BOBBING FOR LOBSTER
"Dear God!" I said.
"Yeah, not exactly a Kodak moment."
I unfolded the paper and turned to the article.
Veronica Summer apparently doesn't need a spoon when eating soup.
The new co-anchor of The Morning Show did a header into her twenty dollar bowl of lobster bisque last night while dining at The Firefly, one of Manhattan's hottest restaurants. Her dinner companion, a young man who was not identified, called 911 after she passed out, was revived, and passed out again. A waiter at the restaurant confirmed Ms. Summer had not had any alcohol. She was taken to NYU's emergency room and admitted for overnight observation. Blood tests revealed no alcohol or drugs in her system.
A source close to the show tells us Ms. Summer has been exhausted trying to adjust to the early morning shift and suggested the weird hours and lack of sleep may have finally caught up with her.
No word on if she'll be back on the set Monday morning.
I rolled my eyes, dropped the newspaper and slapped my head back on the pillow as a doctor entered the room.
"Well, good morning, young lady," he said, sticking out his hand. "I'm Doctor Heller." He was perhaps forty, short and pudgy with thinning sandy hair and hazel eyes peering out of a moon face.
I shook his hand. "Veronica Summer. Sorry to tie up one of your beds for nothing."
He picked up the chart hanging on the foot of the bed and looked at it. "From what I can tell, a bed is what you need. When's the last time you had a good night's sleep?"
"Last night?"
"I meant before we checked you in here."
"A few weeks ago, before I took a morning anchor job."
"Yes, I watch your show. You're obviously doing a good job faking being awake. Your friends tell me you're having a lot of trouble adjusting to the overnight shift."
"I can't sleep more than four hours at a time. And it's also depressing the hell out of me. I've got no life. My whole life revolves around trying to get to sleep."
He nodded. "Have you been taking anything to help you sleep?"
"Wine. Over the counter sleeping pills. Melatonin. Nyquil. I've tried everything. Not at the same time, of course. Nothing works for more than four hours."
"Before you started working this shift, what usually helped you get a really good night's sleep?"
"Sex."
He bit his tongue and smiled. "I, uh, don't think your insurance covers that."
"Sure, it'll cover Viagra for guys but when women need some help, nooooo."
He laughed, pulled a pen and prescription pad from his pocket and started writing. "I'm going to prescribe a strong sleep aid. And this one should be more effective than a boyfriend and won't get you pregnant."
"Ooooh, I like a doctor who's a smartass."
"Occupational hazard when you work in the emergency room. Anyway, this medication has been very effective with my patients who work unusual shifts, like you. Now there is a small chance of a side effect. People have been known to drive while asleep—"
"I don't have a car and I don't know how to steal one. Just give me whatever it will take to knock me out."
He smiled and nodded as he ripped the prescription from the pad and handed it to me. "By the way, you had a ridiculous amount of caffeine in your system. Try to cut back. The thing that's helping you wake up for your show is also keeping you awake when you're trying to sleep. It takes quite awhile for caffeine to get out of your system. If you can simply get your sleep cycle adjusted, you won't need it."
"Got it. Thanks, doctor."
"I'll get you discharged. For today, go home and rest." He nodded at my friends and headed out.
"You know," said Savannah, "you may have something with your idea."
"She's right," said Layla.
I threw back the covers and started to get out of bed. "What idea?"
"Sex to knock you out," said Savannah.
I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, and you see how my attempt to start a relationship last night ended up."
"Maybe you don't need a relationship," said Layla. "Maybe you could go the friends with benefits route."
"Now I know how Katrina Favor did this shift for so long!"
***
If I needed a reason to feel more positive about the job, she was sitting on the interview set waiting for me. Yes, one of the key carrots in the bunch, Senator Sydney Dixon, was my guest on Monday morning. Thankfully the extended stay in the hospital had recharged my batteries a bit. I'd also ditched the coffee and switched to fruit that was high in natural sugar, figuring things like dates and raisins might perk me up but not keep me awake at night. I still desperately wanted coffee, but was determined to give the natural high a try.
The Senator stood up to greet me as I approached the set and extended her hand. "Veronica, so nice to meet you."
"My pleasure," I said, as I shook her hand. Her turquoise eyes locked with mine, and I saw what was known in media circles as the look. The one that went right into your soul, seemed honestly sincere, as opposed to the usual blank glare you got from politicians who forgot your name ten seconds after you told them. It was part of the reason she was such a media darling and often received positive coverage bordering on bias. Reporters generally liked her personally, and she seemed genuine in return.
Voters loved her for any number of reasons, not the least of which was her appearance. The forty-five year old Senator from New Jersey is a stunner, a redhead like me but she's strawberry to my copper. Her body would be the envy of any twenty-year-old, as the former Marine drill sergeant has maintained her perfectly toned figure. But her buffed physique is a contrast to her incredibly sexy face, complete with high cheekbones, full lips, a sharp nose and a distinctive sultry whiskey voice that drives men crazy. It's like a cross between Demi Moore and Lorraine Bracco, and the moment you hear it you know who's speaking. She's known as the Tower of Power in Washington: a six foot babe who can turn heads in an evening gown and crack heads when she needs to. She also answers to Big Red from her days in the military.
That military service is an asset, as is her seemingly perfect normal family. Married to her high school sweetheart who is a school teacher, she's managed to raise two squeaky clean college age kids who spend their summers working with various charitable organizations. If there have ever been any skeletons in her closet, they've been exorcized. No one has even been able to come up with anything remotely resembling a scandal about the woman.
Put it all together and she's a slam dunk for the next Presidential election. I know it, the public knows it, and the network sure as hell knows it. Yes, there's this thing called bias which drives viewers crazy; in this case the networks are jockeying for position to get in the good graces of the woman who will occupy the Oval Office for four, and maybe eight, years.
That's not to say I agree with everything she stands for, because I don't. But since I'm an old school journalist I'll never share my opinions about politics, religion or social issues.
Anyway, she hasn’t officially kicked off a campaign with it being three years away, so today's visit is actually about things going on in the Senate. But there was a problem with one of the cameras, so we had a chance to make small talk while it was being fixed.
"I read about your hospital visit, are you feeling better?" she asked.
"Yeah, once I rinsed the bisque out of my hair. But you should know it does make a wonderful conditioner."
She laughed as she leaned back in her chair. "I'm not surprised you passed out. I couldn't imagine getting up at that hour every day. Though if I run for President, I know it'll be a couple of years without a break and crossing so many time zones I won't even know who I am. I wouldn't want to be one of those candidates who gets up to make a speech and forgets where they are."
"Hey, we love those sound bites. Speaking of the campaign—"
"Ah, nice try, Veronica. No announcement today. I haven't decided."
"Hey, you can't fault a girl for taking a shot."
"Look, I live in North Jersey and I've watched you for a long time. I know you're a solid reporter." She leaned forward and lowered her voice. "As opposed to some other morning show hosts."
"Thank you, that's very kind."
"So what do you want to talk about—"
"Ah, nice try, Senator."
"Hey, you can't fault a girl for taking a shot."
We shared a laugh, and I could see how the woman could charm even the most hard-boiled reporter.
Fifteen minutes later her interview was in the can. It was a spirited give and take; she didn't dodge any tough questions, I didn't lob any softballs, and she avoided anything that sounded rehearsed. She talked rather than recited. Again, I didn't agree with everything she said, but I couldn't help but like her personally as I walked her to the door.
"So, I was talking to Gavin," she said, "and he told me that should I decide to run you would be assigned to the campaign."
I nodded and smiled, thankful that Gavin was actually sticking to his word on something. "Yeah. So we could be tired together."
"Well, maybe by then you'll have learned some tricks and can give me advice. We redheads have to stick together. Although I'm not sure the rest of the media could deal with two spunky ones on the same plane."
"True. As far as attitude is concerned, we could have been separated at birth." We laughed as we reached the door. "Here's one piece of advice I can give you right now, Senator: be prepared to have no social life."
"Already there, honey. Sometimes I go weeks without seeing my husband."
"At least you have one."
"Don't worry, Veronica, Mister Right is out there."
I held the door open for her, revealing a waiting limo. "Thanks for coming by, Senator, and it was great to meet you."
She shook my hand and smiled. "Pleasure was mine. I'll see you again soon."
I watched her energetic walk to the limo, waving at a few pedestrians as she moved.
Funny, the carrot Gavin had dangled was a carrot top. Ironic, huh?
And suddenly the thought of a campaign and Air Force One gave me a shot of energy that topped anything in a coffee mug. Maybe I could do this after all.
CHAPTER SEVEN (#u84c8cafb-cb45-5112-8795-f6e4f243f555)
Upon further review, maybe I can't do this after all.
Three months into the new job, and I've realized my old boyfriend was right. I still don't want him back, but he was right. I'm not a morning person and never will be. You can't force an owl to be a chicken. (That one's from Savannah.)
This truly has become the job from hell. Forbidden fruit, as Alexander would put it. I can almost hear him saying, "I told you so. You should have run off to Connecticut with me and you could be baking cookies, servicing me every night, and thanking me for the opportunity."
I've become a physical wreck. Oh, those great breakfasts at The Little Bakery get me through the show all right. But it's the other twenty-two hours of the day that are killing me.
Here's my typical day:
Get up at two in the morning after being jolted out of bed like I've been hit with a cattle prod by an alarm which, at that hour, sounds like a Chinese gong.
Start the coffee pot, which I've loaded the night before since during my first week on the job I attempted to make some java while bleary-eyed and filled the coffee machine with flour, thus creating the first paste cappuccino.
Take a ten minute hot shower, drink two cups of coffee, stagger down to the limo in jeans or sweats, chasing raccoons away from the door in the process. I look up at what I thought were birds, but which Charlie informed me were actually bats since birds don't fly at night. Appropriate for the vampire shift, so I wave at them. Professional courtesy.
Drink two more cups of coffee after arriving at the station.
Breakfast across the street, which perks me up just long enough to get through the show.
Home by ten. Close the black curtains I've purchased to block out every ray of sunlight and make my apartment look like a hangout for a coven. Eat bowl of cereal, careful to add blueberries instead of the olives I used my first week. (New! Lucky Charms! Now with a full days serving of olives!)
Resolve to stay up without taking nap so that I will fall asleep at six and get eight hours.
Despite the caffeine content of four cups of coffee, I pass out on couch at noon after watching The Price is Right. (I always overbid.)
Wake up at four, covered with drool and somewhat rested. Eat lunch or dinner, depending on what I decide to call it.
Crawl back into bed at six in an attempt to sleep.
Give up at eight and watch television or read.
Fall asleep at ten.
Rinse. Repeat.
Social life? Seriously? Weekdays are totally out of the question. Weekends are spent in bed trying to catch up on sleep. I haven't been out with anyone since I did my swan dive into the lobster bisque and got a nine-point-four from the tabloid judge. I seem to remember what sex was like, but the memory is fading. I'm lonely as hell. My friends still are my friends, but they're on a different schedule, along with the rest of the world.
Sunday nights are the worst. After two days of my body almost getting back to normal, I have to crawl back into my coffin.
I know, I know, there's a big brass ring waiting for me in two years, eight months and twenty-eight days (who's counting) but I'm not sure it's worth it. I might be dead before then.
So, after two weeks of deep thought I'd decided on a course of action. To hell with the evening anchor job. I want my life back. And there's only one way to do it.
