“If we keep going this way, we’re going to lose more sponsors, and you all know what that means.” Joyce’s I-smoked-in-my-youth voice was thick with insinuation.
Of course they all knew what that meant. Over the past five years, the size of their team had shrunk down to half. But Aly was still here, and that wasn’t an accident. She was going to get that segment. She knew it.
Every time her ex-husband had laughed at her “pathetic optimism,” the fact that she’d dodged the layoffs had kept her from internalizing the many, many ways in which he had tried to get her to drop her dream. She still couldn’t understand why a man so kind and loyal, even smitten, had had such disregard for this particular ambition. Enough to let it tear them apart.
Not that it mattered anymore. What mattered was this meeting today and what she did with it.
“Ideas for the Thanksgiving special?” Joyce said, a gauntlet tossed across the glass-topped mahogany of the conference table.
Aly would wait. She’d let Jessica or Bob go first—she could tell from their faces that they had nothing. If she went first, they’d just move to the next person, and then someone would repeat her idea, and somehow magically it would become theirs.
Not this time.
“The Chihuly exhibit,” Bob said when no one else spoke. He let his words sit for a bit as though he’d just declared that Van Gogh had returned to life and agreed to doing an interview.
Aly tried not to roll her eyes. They’d already covered the Chihuly exhibit. Another one of her ideas that had ended up being covered by Slimy Bob, as her daughter, Cullie, had christened him.
“Since that piece was such a hit”—Bob added another practiced pause, lest anyone miss his anchor’s timing—“I figured we could leverage it. Double down, you know. My niece is visiting from England. I’ll take her with me, and we’ll do a child’s perspective. Have you heard a child speak with a British accent?” He said the words British accent in a British accent, and Aly had to suppress her gag reflex.
Joyce’s smile was part indulgence, part skepticism. “You got a picture?”
Of course Bob had a picture, and he whipped it up on his phone in record time.
Oh, excuse her, it wasn’t a picture, it was a flippin’ video.
“Muh-mee, ah we go-eeng to the aht meusee-um?” a truly gorgeous child with the biggest blue eyes said in the most—and it hurt Aly to admit this—adorable accent.
Ovaries contracted around the table, Aly’s included. It would have been a terrible idea, except for the fact that their viewership was going to lap this up like Anglophilia-flavored ice cream.
“It’s a good idea. Maybe we’ll use it for Labor Day. We still need something solid. Our Thanksgiving show is our flagship. Black Friday advertising is what keeps the lights on around here.”
“What about that ex-con who’s been painting boats?” Jessica said.
Joyce ignored her and turned to Aly. “You got anything that’s not cute family members or rage art?”
This was exactly what Aly needed. Joyce coming to her.
Aly cleared her throat. “You’re right, by Thanksgiving our snowbirds are here, and our viewership goes up forty percent. So we need this to get them to tune in for the rest of the winter.”
Joyce was trying not to narrow her eyes at Aly to get her to cut the setup. Which meant she knew Aly had something good.
Damn it. Her face always gave her away. The last thing she needed was to lessen the impact by raising the expectations too much. Just keep going, she told herself. Play it cool.
“Meryl Streep,” she said and left the name to dance there in the silence, on that shiny tabletop.
Every one of the seven people sat up.
That’s how it’s done, Bobby Cakes. She volleyed the immensely satisfying mental grenade in Bob’s direction before turning her focus back to her boss, who had her gaze trained on Aly as though she were a bull’s-eye at an archery contest.
“Meryl’s spending the winter here. Research for her next film about a retired chef with Alzheimer’s. I was thinking an interview and a walk-through of the food trucks. A little ‘How are you enjoying our lovely town?’ conversation as we deep dive into her roles.”
“Meryl,” Joyce breathed, the word a benediction.
Aly wasn’t even a little bit surprised. Meryl was who Joyce wanted to be when she grew up. Arguably, Meryl was who every woman who took her work seriously wanted to be. She was the pinnacle of her art. Let other journalists report on what destroyed the world every day. Art unraveled it and put it back together and shone a light on its darkest corners. All Aly had ever wanted was to bring art and artists to her viewers.
“Is that the evil boss from Devil Wears Prada?” Bob said, grinning.
The grin slid right off his face when five women and one gender-fluid person spun on him as though he had called into question their very right to exist.
“Sorry. A bad joke.” The man cleared his throat and arranged his face in the most remorseful of masks.
Too late, buddy, Aly thought with far too much glee.
Joyce continued to glower, just in case the Only Man in the Room further misunderstood the Power of Meryl.
“Tell me you’ve watched Out of Africa, Kramer vs. Kramer, Sophie’s Choice?”
The mask that was Bob’s face did nothing to hide the pure terror. It was delicious. Aly knew it made her a terrible person, but: It. Was. Delicious.
“By next week’s meeting, I need you to have watched at least ten of her films.”
Bob allowed himself to breathe again. “Done. I’ll watch fifteen. I mean, she’s the most decorated actress of our time. It will be my pleasure.”
Slimy bastard.
“How did you find out she’s in town?” Joyce turned her attention back to Aly, voice trembling with excitement.
Aly accessed her inner Margaret Thatcher （as played by Ms. Streep, of course） and kept her gaze steady. “Insider tip. No one else knows yet. We’re the only station with the information. Guaranteed.”
Joyce opened her mouth.
“I’m not revealing my sources. The deal’s off if I do.” God, she hoped her plan was going to work. There was still many a slip between the cup and Aly’s ravenous lips, but this time she was going to be brave. This time she wasn’t going to settle. This time no one was taking this from her.
“Great. Set it up. You can be part of the production team. Jessica, make sure you’ve done your research. I want the interview to be flawless.”
“Wait!” Yes, Aly raised her voice. Raised it all the way up. Maybe? She couldn’t be sure because her ears were ringing. “You’re giving the interview to Jessica?”
Joyce had the gall to look confused. “Well, Jess is the anchor of the show. Who else would do the interview?”
Me! Did the word come out?
“Me!” Aly said again. Or maybe for the first time. Then a second. “Me! You’ve been telling me you’re waiting for the right interview to let me get my segment. What can be better than this?”
Joyce looked around the room. Color crept up her neck. Okay, great. Maybe Aly had gone too far. Maybe she should have done this privately with Joyce. But she’d wanted Jess and Bob to witness her victory. She was such an idiot.