Chapter Seven
Laura
January
She knew their quirks and faults too—the fact that a few times each year Veronica threw up with nerves in the women’s room before the show despite the many years she had been on air; the fact that Tom had once had an affair with a young reporter, or that he anchored the show in flip-flops, unseen to the public under the desk, because he felt the cool air on his toes helped to keep him mentally sharp.
Laura kept these things secret. Tom and Veronica were so well known and well connected in the community, they knew everyone and had sources and associations everywhere.
If there was a scandal in DPD or DPS (the Detroit Police Department or Detroit Public Schools) or even DPW (the Department of Public Works), either Tom or Veronica or both would know who to tap for info.
Heck, they probably could have convinced the mayor to do just about anything, or paid off the governor.
They were that locally famous, asked to emcee countless banquets.
They had images to keep up. The world didn’t need to know their secrets.
Tom’s marriage had survived the affair, so why bring it up? That’s how Laura looked at it.
Then there was the sports guy, Roger. Poor Roger, who always thought he was the least popular of the four, because, frankly, he was.
Roger with such an inferiority complex that he was constantly asking Laura if upper management still liked him.
Laura had to soothe him with half-truths and white lies to keep him going.
Roger didn’t know that Perry contemplated every six months or so whether to replace him.
And finally, the last of the four anchors: Faith.
It had all started out so well. Since Laura and Faith were both single, professional women, they bonded when Faith first came to the station, going out for drinks once per week after the show. None of the others ever wanted to extend their workday into the night.
Laura and Faith shared gossip about people at the station, men they were seeing, their families, and of course the competition, the other TV stations in town.
People in newsrooms loved to rip the competition, whether it was because a competing station had misspelled a word on a graphic, had had the camera zoom in at the wrong time, had gone lower in the ratings for any reason, or simply for what the lead story had been that night.
“Can you believe they led the whole show with that stupid fluff story that came in as a press release?” Laura might ask, shocked by the decision-making at the other newsrooms. She didn’t believe that anything sent out in a press release should be of importance.
It was what a lot of people in TV news called “low-hanging fruit” because the story was easy to get and everyone had it—it was handed to you and to every other station in town.
Laura believed in “enterprise stories” with exclusive big-gets that no one else in the market had.
Shows featuring that kind of story were her favorite.
To lead off with “First at ten, a Channel 9 exclusive…” was thrilling to her.
She always told the anchors to read that word with extra emphasis to hammer it home to the viewer.
“Right, what a lame lead,” Faith would giggle, sipping her gin and tonic.
Laura needed someone to commiserate with, and Faith was a good partner for that.
They would criticize everything they could think of about the other stations—from the sets to the talent (one station had a main female anchor who stumbled her way through the stories she read; Laura and Faith couldn’t fathom how she kept her job) to the competition’s live shots, music, and graphics, until they finally ran out of steam.
Laura was proud to have the top meteorologist in town on her team.
True, Faith was not a fully certified met, but she was the most popular with the public and that was all that mattered.
Ratings had gone up since Faith arrived, which meant advertisers would be charged more money for each commercial they bought, which subsequently meant more money for the station and the company as a whole.
Laura got a bonus in her check every six months if the eleven PM ratings stayed high, so she especially liked Faith.
For a while, Laura thought she was living on cloud nine (the term she came up with for the password to Faith’s fan page when Perry asked her to think of something clever). That was why what happened in Laura and Faith’s friendship next was so disturbing.
It started with Faith becoming super needy.
She began calling or texting Laura at all times of day, saying she was feeling blue and was Laura available to cheer her up?
At first Laura was receptive. She was not that surprised to know that someone on air was not as filled with confidence as they projected to the world.
Some on-air talent seemed to walk a tightrope between self-assured and riddled with worries and doubts.
So she took on the nurturer role, coming over to Faith’s apartment with takeout and plans to watch Netflix together, or listening to Faith complain about any number of things: weird guys who sent her letters that creeped her out, Matthew and the other mets who gave her the cold shoulder, or Veronica, who invited some other coworkers to her house for holiday drinks but not Faith.
Laura suspected that Veronica was jealous of Faith, as were most of the on-air talent, owing to Faith’s ever-soaring popularity.
Then it got even deeper. Faith brought up one of her sisters, Charity, dying at a young age, and she talked about an emotionally abusive childhood.
The sister part was too painful to discuss in depth, Faith said, but she went into great detail about how her father would scream at her and her other sister, Hope, if they didn’t get all A’s or their rooms were dirty.
He also punished them in an unusual way: through clothing, making them wear ugly shirts he knew they hated and never buying them new clothes, so they were stuck in items that were too small or otherwise ill-fitting and that gave other kids plenty of fodder for mockery.
Her father blew up at her mother if dinner wasn’t made and the kitchen spotless when he came home from work.
Faith, her sister Hope, and their mother had so much anxiety over cooking and cleaning that they would be frantically working in the afternoons, eyes on the clock, wiping counters madly up to the second they heard his car turn in to the driveway.
He tried to quell her bubbly personality, Faith said, especially after her little sister’s death.
Faith told Laura that she wasn’t allowed to truly be herself until she left for college.
Faith cried quite literally on Laura’s shoulder a few times, confessing that she had never gone to therapy about her little sister or father.
Laura had to take on the role of therapist, which was something she felt she had done before with others in a newsroom filled with type A but occasionally neurotic people, so she tried to help Faith process things and talk them out.
It felt good to help a friend at first, but it got to be too much rather quickly.
Faith seemed to know no boundaries. When Laura met a guy named Elliott through one of those dating apps and they started hanging out, Faith would text even during times she knew Laura was on a date, and if Laura didn’t respond within a few minutes, Faith’s tone would turn and she would accuse Laura of not being there for her in her time of need.
Laura knew she was supposed to feel guilty, but she just became more and more pissed.
Elliott moved in. The texting and calling continued, even in the middle of the night, to the point where Elliott said, “No more. This is insane.”
“I don’t know what to do. I can’t block her number,” Laura said. “She’s my met. I need her to reach me for emergencies and vice versa.”
“Then talk with her and make this stop,” Elliott said, a dark look flashing across his face. “Or I’ll make it stop.”
“What do you mean you’ll make it stop?”
“I can’t live like this, Laura. She ruins my workdays, interrupting my sleep. I’ll march over to Channel 9 and give her a piece of my mind.”
“No, I got it,” Laura replied firmly. She was an executive producer. She told people what to do all the time. She could handle this.
The next day she was nervous all afternoon, but determined.
After the 6:30 PM show, she asked Faith to speak with her.
They went to a side conference room. At first Faith sat down with a big smile and said, “What’s up?
,” which made Laura feel worse about what she was about to say to her friend, but an image of Elliott came into her mind and she doubled down. It had to happen.
Trying for a tone that was friendly but firm, she told Faith that texting in the middle of the night had to be for true emergencies and to please respect those boundaries.
Laura said it kindly, she thought, adding that she cared about Faith and wanted to be there for her but they needed to set some limits.
Faith’s jawline tightened and her eyes narrowed.
“After all I’ve been through, all I’ve told you about myself, you’re going to treat me like this? Some friend you are. I thought we could lean on each other.” Faith’s tone was acid.
Laura didn’t want to point out that Faith never asked about Laura’s life, nor inquired about Elliott or how things were going, and had completely forgotten Laura’s most recent birthday.
“Lean on each other” was truly not accurate, but she didn’t want to exacerbate the situation, so she went for tact in her response.
“And we can, but please understand what a call in the middle of the night does to Elliott … and to me,” said Laura, noticing that her voice sounded more pleading than stern. She coughed and started again, more firmly. “I really need to set these boundaries, Faith.”
There was silence. Faith stared at her. Laura tried to return the gaze in a way that she hoped was both comforting but also projected a “there is no alternative” demeanor.
“Noted, boss,” Faith said sarcastically. She stood up and stormed out of the room, slamming the door. Laura sighed. She oversaw the show Faith was in and could make decisions about it, but she was not technically her boss. That would be the news director and the general manager.
Laura sat there for a few extra minutes processing the conversation.
She didn’t want things to be awkward between the two of them but she also needed to prioritize her still-new relationship with Elliott.
She couldn’t allow Faith to get between them.
Feelings tumbled within her like clothes in a dryer, but she realized rather quickly that relief was the primary emotion.
For a long time after that, Faith stopped texting and calling but simultaneously stopped talking to Laura in person at all. If Faith had to convey something about the evening shows, she made a big deal about going to the producer instead, who was one level below Laura’s executive producer status.
“Kyle, I might need extra time for weather tonight. Storms are moving in,” she’d say, not even glancing at Laura.
“OK—did you tell Laura too?” he’d ask.
“I’m telling you,” she’d reply, turning on her heel and returning to the weather office while Kyle looked over at Laura and rolled his eyes.
By now, most people in the newsroom thought Faith was a royal pain in the ass.
She did not exude “team player” or “good newsroom citizen” (as people in the industry liked to call it).
Faith sometimes snapped at producers, directors, teleprompter operators, and people on the assignment desk if she perceived any mistake on their part.
She acted like the life of the party at station-wide meetings and get-togethers but whispered behind people’s backs to the point where no one trusted her.
She refused to become a mentor to the younger on-air talent when they asked all of the more veteran people to do so, saying she was too busy.
She somehow wormed her way out of taking part in Fourth of July and other parades like the rest of the talent, and people said she had whined to Perry and he had given in.
The prevailing sentiment was that Perry would do anything for her because the public loved her.
And now here they were two years later. Laura had learned to live with Faith’s iciness toward her, and they simply coexisted.
Laura and Elliott were married, and Laura was pregnant.
Honestly, Laura had almost forgotten about Faith’s antics, or at least she had pushed the thoughts far away thanks to everything else going on in her world.
Then, out of the total blue, Faith texted. In the middle of the night.
The ping startled both Laura and Elliott and they jerked awake. Laura had been dead asleep, and that was saying something given how hard it was to sleep with her growing belly. Elliott rolled over and said, “Who in the hell is texting at three AM?”
“It’s Faith,” Laura replied, feeling a dread come into her bones. Not again. She scanned the text, then read it aloud.
Laura—I really need you. I have a stalker who won’t leave me alone and I’m also having some money problems. Can we please talk? I miss our friendship.
“Fuck no,” Elliott said, pulling his pillow over his head. “You’re pregnant, Laura. Does she have no class texting at this time? And what does she mean by money problems? She makes a boatload and lives alone.”
“I know, honey, I know. I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”
“Either you will or I will, Laura. I’m not going through this again. And if it’s me, it’s going to get ugly.”
This side of Elliott didn’t come out often, but when it did, it always startled Laura.
He gave a harrumph and made a big scene of bunching his pillow, readjusting the blankets, and flopping over to his side, his back to her.
Laura rolled the other way and put her hand on her stomach, mentally sending messages of calm to the baby.
She couldn’t turn her phone off in case the station called with a true news emergency, but she couldn’t risk Faith texting again in another hour or two.
It would send both her and Elliott off the edge.
So she went to her phone and hit “Block” on Faith’s number.
She would unblock it in the morning. Closing her eyes, she thought of Elliott’s words, his tone:
Either you will or I will, Laura. I’m not going through this again. And if it’s me it’s going to get ugly.
She didn’t need some scene between her husband and her meteorologist. What if he really marched over to Channel 9 to give Faith a piece of his mind?
What would that look like? How would it affect Laura’s role as the executive producer to have her husband out of control?
She had trouble sleeping the rest of the night.