Who knew that just a few months into the job, I would fantasize about being run over by one of those buses, the perfect O. Henry ending.
60
KC and the Sunshine Band
IF THE PAST few months had taught me anything, it was that everything I did my first night as news anchor would be under a white-hot spotlight. Starting with what I wore.
I asked Avril Graham, the fashion editor of Harper’s Bazaar, to help me figure out “the look.” We were going for serious yet accessible, classic but not boring, and nothing too feminine or sexy, which meant no pink, no shine, no ruffles, no bows, no froufrou, no unbuttoned buttons. And nothing too masculine; it was important that I wore clothes that didn’t wear me. Avril brought in a rack of options.
We liked a white Armani jacket with a streamlined absence of lapels. “Is it really okay to wear white after Labor Day?” I asked, knowing there were rules about such things. But Avril waved off my concern. The jacket looked fresh, and it popped. Underneath, I wore a textured black shell and simple black skirt. Black pumps, pearl earrings. Who could find fault with that? For good luck, Avril suggested I wear a piece of jewelry from Jay, so I picked an antique gold bracelet he’d given me for my birthday.
Two hours before the broadcast, I settled into the makeup chair near the newsroom （my pimped-out dressing room was still under construction）。 The place crackled with nervous energy. Bob kept coming by, asking in his hyper-staccato way, “How’s it going? How ya doin’？,” referring to us all as KC and the Sunshine Band.
Since my hair had been such a focus in the past, we kept it simple here—a layered bob with a side part, bangs brushed across my forehead. My makeup artist, Josie Torres, was super-anxious, knowing that every eyelash would be scrutinized—as she put it to me recently, “We were on high alert. The press always criticizes women, and this was a really big night for women. None of us wanted to give them any ammunition.”
At around 5:45, I was putting the finishing touches on my scripts when Rome and his wife, Amy, approached.
“Can we go upstairs for a minute?” Rome said.
I assumed they wanted to give me a pep talk. We climbed the carpeted steps to my office. Rome closed the door behind us.
Then he and Amy extended their hands.
“Let’s pray,” Rome said.
Wait, what?
They closed their eyes and bowed their heads. “Dear God, please help Katie, give her support and protection…” Then Rome asked God for a couple of other things.
I was surprised but also touched. While the network no longer wanted the voice of God, I wasn’t opposed to a little divine intervention. Whatever worked. When Rome said, “Amen,” I thanked them both—all three of them, I guess—and darted out, hoping some powerful force was with me.
EVERYTHING WE DID that night was intentional. For instance: Should I be sitting behind the desk at the open? Should I walk and talk? Should I stand? Ultimately, we split the difference, deciding I should start out standing in front of the desk, then take one small step （for womankind） before speaking.
But when I spoke, what would I say?
I settled on something radical: Instead of the traditional anchorman’s “Good evening,” I’d say, “Hi, everyone.” Because who besides ma?tre d’s and Count Dracula says, “Good evening”？ I wanted to talk the way people actually talk. The way I talk.
I started with the headlines, including a report from Afghanistan, “a gusher in the Gulf,” and what it would mean for viewers at the pump. Then a “Free Speech” segment featuring Morgan Spurlock of Super Size Me fame on our increasingly polarized political discourse. And finally, for a new feature we called “Snap Shots,” exclusive photos of newborn Suri Cruise, daughter of Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes.
Thump-thump, thump-thump—I thought my heart might leap out of my chest and land on my script. Somehow, muscle memory kicked in and I got through the 22 minutes without fumbling, stumbling, or throwing up. When we faded to black, I flung my script in the air as producers, assignment editors, and the crew came out from the shadows and clapped.
My friends had organized a viewing party on the roof of the Hudson Hotel a few blocks away. A hundred and fifty people were there, from old friends to boldface names: Tony Bennett, Connie Chung, Phil Donahue. David Kiernan and his wife, my dear friend Mandy, came from DC. At one point I saw David gazing up at Iman. He asked her what she did for a living. “I’m a model,” she said. “Maybe you know my husband—David Bowie?”