2. Chapter Two
Chapter 2
Leslie
O n set the next night at NewsOne, Reed rapped on my open dressing room door.
“Knock, knock!” he said, checking to be sure we were alone.
I removed the makeup shield from the collar of my white blouse, tucking the fabric tight into my dark-wash jeans. I looked into his exasperated face. “What?” I asked.
“God, Allen. You’ve got so much potential and you’re wasting it.”
“Enlighten me.” I slipped an arm into my caramel-colored blazer, less than enthusiastic for the mansplaining about to head my way. This from a man who used so many note pages during shows that I wondered whether he was more actor than journalist.
I crossed my arms as he sauntered close.
“You’re like a fucking blank page. A muse. You’re hiding that knockout body of yours under all that fabric. Remember, I know you. Intimately .”
“Don’t remind me.” I focused on the ceiling, waiting for his mating dance to end.
“Dark curly hair, half-Latina. All your awards and the gritty underworld bullshit you’re in. It’s so hot.”
I allowed myself a hard eye roll.
He halted his inspection, standing before me. “I’ve got to compete with the sexpots across the dial, and you’re doing me no favors.”
I’d had all the sexpot ogling I could handle last night. I didn’t need every man watching to think I was a bimbo prancing for their amusement. Why did women reporters have to accept this shit? Older, balding, lumpy men graced the screen 24/7.
“Are you asking Stan to show more skin, too?” I asked.
“God, no.” He reflexively shivered, cleansing his tongue. “His chunky body and bald head are all I can take. I will never unsee that image. Thanks for that.”
I smiled, bending to push my computer bag out of the way. When I rose, he remained leaned over to get a better view.
“You’re a pig.”
I brushed by him and out the door, but he followed, whispering in my ear. “We’ll be working more closely once you take over the Saturday host role. When is that?”
“I start in late September. Playing dumb is beneath you.”
“Okay then, have dinner with me? The two of us out? We’d make Page Six.”
Kaelen Reed was the worst hound dog in network news. I had no intention of going for a double-dip now that I’d finally scored a solo hosting spot. Working every Saturday night meant no weekends off work for the foreseeable future. But the opportunity could be a launchpad for something greater.
Lost in my head, I forgot Kaelen still awaited an answer.
Did he just lick his lips?
Eww.
“That’s probably a bad idea. Besides, you forget I write for the Post sometimes. Why should I settle for Page Six when I can appear on page one all by myself?”
I chuckled, thinking it an amusing line, but he smarted, releasing my elbow.
“Don’t bite the hand that feeds you. I got you that hosting gig. It can be gone like that.” He snapped his fingers.
“I have a contract.” I lifted my chin.
“Funny thing about contracts. The good stuff is in the fine print.”
Checking for eavesdroppers, he stepped back from me with a repulsed look on his face. Muttering what I thought was “bitch” under his breath, he stormed toward his anchor chair. The stage manager intercepted him with two children in tow, all polished for what looked to be a special visit. Kaelen’s frown vanished, replaced by a smile I knew to be genuine as he tousled the hair of the little boy and gave the girl a high five.
How was this the same guy who had threatened me moments before? My contract was far from tissue paper. I’d read that damn contract backward and forward before signing. Barbara, my other best friend and attorney, did too. I exhaled, clearing the knot in my chest. Kaelen was being a blowhard. Besides, my dig about Page Six served him right. Here he was, the biggest thing going in network news, someone covering presidential elections and breaking events, chasing tail. It should be beneath him. Though he probably didn’t view anyone as his equal. The great Kaelen Reed, floating in a solar system all his own.
Crazy to think I used to have a crush on him. His on-screen caring and empathy were so convincing. His dark hair, brooding eyes, and deep-bronze skin reminded me so much of my ex. But two seconds in bed with Reed only made me crave the original. I missed Risto every damn day. I’d never been able to replicate what we had with anyone else, so I gave up trying. But my asshole colleague was the closest stand-in I got to the man who broke my heart.
I shook off the nagging longing for Risto and made my way to the panelist seat nearest to Reed. The chair of honor. When the camera pulled out for a two-person angle, Reed only wanted to share the frame with someone “lean and attractive.” His words, not mine. With such an egotistical attitude, it was a wonder he allowed any guests on the show at all. Tonight, panelists included reporters from two news organizations who, like me, recently ran articles on the sex trade. Both supremely accomplished and entertaining, their physical appearance must have launched our esteemed host into panic mode.
Victoria was full-bodied and fabulous, impeccably dressed as always in a formfitting cobalt blue dress, with shiny black braids coiled in a knot on top of her head. Meanwhile, Stan’s pasty baldness took a triple coat of translucent powder to keep from blinding us with the reflection of overhead studio lights. A last-minute stand-in for a canceled panelist, Stan wore a suit that somehow got wrinkled in the thirty feet between his dressing room and the set.
I rubbed the chill out of my arms. Despite the layers that my host abhorred, I could never get warm in the studio. Hell, I couldn’t get warm outside the studio, either, one of the few traits I had in common with my mother. Even if I wanted to, I’d freeze in a tiny dress on set. I stole a glance at Reed, who sat shuffling papers, his head bowed as if listening. I glanced over to the control room’s soundproof window.
Maureen, the show’s producer, stood talking to her host.
“Everyone ready?”
Reed finally saw fit to acknowledge we existed. He smiled at me as if we hadn’t just squabbled, but the harmony didn’t last.
“Stan, you’re a fucking mess, man,” Reed yelled. “And you two are dressed for a fucking church luncheon. Do we have no stylist around here?”
“You’re lucky I’m dressed for church,” Victoria said. “That sewer you call a mouth needs all the prayers it can get. Can I get an ‘Amen!’?”
“Amen!” I cried but was the only one.
Reed’s crew muffled snickers, knowing better than to mock their boss. Stan stood to let the stylist do a quick jacket steam, leaving me and Victoria to savor our moment of rebellion.
“Why do we come here again?” I asked her.
“It pays well, and Reed’s easy on the eyes?” Victoria answered.
“Oh, yeah.”
“I can hear you, you know?” Reed said, eyes glued to the papers scattered on the desk in front of him.
A less-rumpled Stan hopped back into his chair.
“Quiet! We’re live in three, two…” The stage manager’s dramatic double-arm flourish pointed to us as the “On Air” light glowed white from the wall just as the red bulb atop Camera A switched on.
Showtime.
“Welcome to Kaelen Reed Tonight. This evening, we’ve assembled a power panel to dive into the issue of sex trafficking in America. We often think of sex trafficking as limited to movies or border drug cartels. But crime syndicates freely operate here in New York City, a subject our three guests know intimately. Let’s meet them…”
Kaelen guided the panel through intros and a discussion with his usual grace and charm. He struck concerned expressions at the right moments, making me forget he gave two shits about the harrowing stories he covered. He played worried anchorman to perfection for the entire hour, ignoring us during the commercial breaks, as always.
Small blessings.
When the “all clear” signal sounded, we breathed a sigh of relief. My show appearance would send countless readers to my article on Dear Diary ’s website. That not only amplified the stories we covered, but I also enjoyed it tremendously. So much so, I’d started my own YouTube channel to get my fix in between appearances. The extra exposure left Viraj smiling at the magazine’s web traffic data.
“Great job everyone,” Reed barked. “Vicki, sit forward a bit more next time. We need more cleavage and fewer chins. Do something about that, will you? It’s like a fucking goiter’s on your throat. Stan, you best stick to print.”
He flashed us a Cheshire Cat grin. His wordless challenge said, Yes, I’m an asshole. What are you going to do about it?
Reed strode off set.
Stan wandered off muttering, so I stood up, expecting Victoria to follow. But she sat, dumbstruck, her effervescence gone flat. She swallowed hard as tears flowed around the sideways fingers, struggling to dab them dry.
“Hey,” I whispered. “Let’s get you out of here.”
I hug-lifted her, guided us back to our shared dressing room, and closed the door.
“He’s an asshole. Don’t listen to him.” I grabbed the nearby tissue box and aimed it in her direction. She snatched two.
Victoria blotted her eyes, trying to talk around her choked sobs as she gestured toward the set. “He’s got all the power and privilege. Yet he insists on belittling us. I don’t need this shit! We’re the ones doing him a favor.”
I understood what she meant. His ability to ask questions of hardcore journalists made him appear to be an empathetic “everyman.” Reality was the exact opposite, though he seemed to have a soft spot for children.
Victoria sniffled, calmer now. “I’m a big girl, I know it. I’ve struggled with my weight my whole life. But shit like that? It hurts. Calling my neck a goiter? I thought after what he said in that interview, it’d be different…”
In Reed’s recent cover story with Esquire , the magazine praised his show and impact as a leading Black newsman. They asked about his commitment to showcasing women of color on the show, mentioning Victoria by name. Reed hailed her as one of the most accomplished Black journalists in America, saying he was proud to have her on set. That context must have made today’s rant sting all the worse.
I had no clue what Victoria was going through or how it hurt to be shamed that way. Every time I heard someone insulted for their weight, I died for them inside. But it also jolted me back in line should I ever stray from the acceptable thin standard. Not that I needed a reminder.
At 37, I’d long since surrendered to my mom’s dietary guidelines. Few meals, fewer calories, and lots of water to fill the emptiness. Hard as it was to manage the hunger sometimes, insults like Victoria endured made me fear ever gaining an ounce. Strong as I tried to be, I could never withstand the disgusting abuse hurled Victoria’s way. But she shouldn’t have to. No person should.
She squeezed my arm in thanks and turned to gather her things.
Someone had to hold Reed accountable.
Maybe one day I would.