Nic Tatano - It Girl

"I'm sure I'm a helluva lot cheaper."

He tried to hold back a smile and was unsuccessful. "This is still a helluva lot of money we're talking about." He opened a red folder, took out a single sheet of paper and slid it toward me. "This is the basic offer. I'll give you a more detailed contract to take home and review with your attorney, but the broad strokes are covered here so you don't have to wade through the legalese."

I grabbed the sheet of paper and tried my best not to let my eyes bug out, but when the word "million" ends up next to "salary" it's hard to keep a poker face.

It wasn't Katrina's money, or Noelle's. But for a girl who grew up in a hardware store, it was enough to buy enough duct tape to circle the planet a few times and hose down the entire globe with WD-40. The salary was more money that I could possibly spend, even after taxes. Three year contract, five million per. A list of wonderful perks. "That's extremely generous," I said. For someone who's never anchored or done a morning show, I thought, but didn't say.

"We want you to be comfortable."

"Hell, Gavin, I could eat lobster every day on this. Even after my income tax funds jobs for ten government slugs."

"So, thoughts?"

"Well, this looks fine, but I do have two small requests."

He rolled his eyes. "Oh geez … "

"No, no, these aren't going to cost you anything. One has to do with a staff writer at my affiliate. George Winson."

"Don't think I've ever met him."

"We'll, you're heard his words for years if you've watched our newscast. Anyway, he's sixty-two with a kid in grad school and the current News Director is trying to force him to quit so he can hire someone younger and cheaper. He's got three years till retirement and I'd love to bring him along."

"I thought this wasn't going to cost me anything."

"It's not. I'd like you to subtract his salary from mine. Basically, I wanna pay for him. He's a good friend and I'll need a fabulous writer for this gig anyway. Personally I love to write but I can't do it at three in the morning."

"Sounds very doable. Katrina's writer just quit anyway. She didn't like Scott."

"Great. Pay him a hundred grand, and make my salary four-point-nine million."

"That's incredibly generous of you, Veronica. I'd heard you were great to work with but I've never heard of something like this."

"When people are good to me, I have their backs."

"Very nice. What's the second thing?"

"My salary is never to be made public. Never, ever. I don't want newspapers referring to me as a five million dollar a year anchor, and I don't want people in the newsroom resenting me because of my salary. When I sign this contract I want it buried in that warehouse at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark ."

"Fine with me. If you don't tell anyone, it will never get out."

"No leaks to the tabloids."

He shrugged and said, "Yeah, sure. Not a problem." I studied his face, looking for anything that might confirm my suspicion that he was the leak to Page Six, but I saw nothing. If the guy had a tell, I'd have to figure out what it was.

We chatted for about an hour, going over the parameters of the job, what was expected, my stories in the field and after-hours appearances. Of course, I was pretty much giving him the husband-tuning-out-wife-bobblehead, nodding at everything while my daydream had already time-warped a few years into the future. It showed me covering the presidential campaign and anchoring the evening newscast.

I left at ten, heading directly for my lawyer's office with contract in hand, but I knew I'd sign it.

And then I learned something. I'd often heard anchors who make millions bitch about all the pressure they were under, and I'd always scoffed at it, thinking, yeah, must be real tough taking home that much dough.

I wasn't scoffing anymore, as I broke out in a cold sweat.

***

When you're a single woman living in a one-bedroom Manhattan apartment that costs two grand a month, you dream of a walk-in closet.

This job comes with one. Sadly, it's located at network headquarters.

It also comes with a clothing allowance. Actually, if you imagine your sugar daddy is a billionaire. All of my new clothes cost me nothing.

The wardrobe consultant took me shopping on the company dime and now I have about fifteen new outfits that will supposedly make me look my best, blend with the set, set off my hair and eyes, etc. While I usually slip into a size seven quite easily, a few things needed slight alterations. So I've been on a pedestal in one of the network's wardrobe rooms while a middle-aged pudgy woman named Nancy sizes up the turquoise skirt I'm currently wearing. I kept looking at the rack holding my new wardrobe thinking everything hanging on it probably cost more than I made last year.

Nancy was about to go to work on altering the skirt when she was interrupted by a polite knock on the door. "You decent?" I recognized the voice as Gavin's.

"Yeah, come on in," I said.

He opened the door and walked into the fitting room, sleeves rolled up and red tie loosened. I noticed he had a sizable bay window that was previously covered by his suit jacket. "Just checking on the wardrobe progress. Nancy, how are you?"

"Fine, Gavin." Nancy stepped back and pointed toward my skirt. "Okay?"

Gavin walked completely around me, checking out my outfit, which, I must admit, felt a little creepy. Okay, my skin crawled. He ended up facing me and smiled, then turned to Nancy. He held up four fingers and she nodded. "Okay, you two have fun." He turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.

"What the hell was that all about?" I asked.

"Gavin likes to have input on the clothes before they hit the air."

"Well, we already bought 'em." I furrowed my brow. "What was the deal with him holding up four fingers?"

"That means I need to hem this skirt four inches shorter than it already is."

It was already about three inches above the knee. "Good God, I'm not Noelle with the world's longest inseam. This skirt will be up to my ass."

"Gavin's a leg man," she said. "And you've got a pair of good ones. They'll never see a day behind the desk anyway, since the female host always sits in the leg chair."

"The leg chair ?"

"Yeah, it's the one at the end of the couch. Scott's behind the coffee table, but his co-host gets the leg chair which offers camera two an unobstructed view. You'll also be required to wear stilettos or platforms."

"And all my hemlines will be halfway up my thigh?"

“When you stand, anyway. When you sit, well … ”

Here's the thing about my new shift. Getting up at two in the morning isn't a big deal.

Knowing you have to fall asleep eight hours earlier, is.

I'd gone to bed at six, a ridiculous hour for someone who's been a night owl her entire life.

And all I could think of was, "I have to fall asleep. I have to fall asleep." And of course, I couldn't.

At seven, I got up and drank a glass of wine.

At eight, I took an herbal sleep aid.

At nine, I turned on the light and picked up a novel.

Somewhere around ten, I fell asleep, and was in the middle of a wonderful Christian Bale dream when the alarm jolted me out of bed.

"Alexander, hit the snooze button," I muttered. Before the fog cleared and I realized that I had thrown my dog off the porch and the snooze button would not exist for the next three years.

I wasn't remotely rested for the biggest day of my career.

I staggered to the shower with all the energy of an extra in a zombie movie, thankful that I'd been told not to bother with my hair and makeup with the phrase we have people to do that for you . Just as well. I would have looked like I'd combed my hair with an eggbeater.