Morning Glory (20 page)

“You don’t care about this job!” he cried. “You only care about grabbing every brass ring, climbing every ladder. What’s enough for you, Becky Fuller? News president? Network president?
Santa Claus?
”

You know what would have been enough for me? A tiny bit of gratitude that I’d put him back at a news desk. A dash of team player attitude when I asked him to talk to Taylor Swift or Tim Gunn. A soupçon of respect for the idea that morning shows, fluff and all, actually did offer something of value to their audience.

Adam could give me that, and he produced serious news stories. Why couldn’t Mike offer the same amount of professional courtesy? And you know what? Adam had even warned me about this, sometime in the middle of all the celebrating last night. I’d just been too high on life to believe him. I’d told him about
Today
, and I’d told him I wasn’t leaving IBS, and he said that maybe I shouldn’t be so hasty.

I’d chalked up his reticence to his lingering hatred for Mike Pomeroy. But once again, Adam was right.

Enough of this bullshit. I was better than this, and NBC, at least, recognized that.

“You want to hear something
really
ridiculous? Until ten seconds ago, I had actually decided to turn my back on the best job I’d ever be offered. Isn’t that absurd?”

“Yes,” Mike agreed. “Go. What’s stopping you?
Go
.”

I clenched my jaw and my fists. How could he say all this to me, after the governor’s house? I could barely form a coherent sentence, I was so upset. “If you had ever—ever treated me with some loyalty and trust and friendship—things you seem
incapable
of … I would be leaving in spite of you, not
because
of you, you miserable, selfish, lonely, egotistical asshole!”

I stopped, breathing hard. I couldn’t believe the string of insults that had just shot out of my mouth.

Neither, apparently, could Mike, as he turned and stalked off. But I wasn’t left alone. No, everyone was staring at me now. Lenny, Colleen, Merv, Sasha, Tracy, Dave—the entire
Daybreak
family had just heard my outburst.

Well, at least this time they hadn’t caught it on camera.

One of the interns came running down the hall. “Oh, hey, Becky!” she said, and leaned close. “You have a call. It’s the
Today
show.”

Perfect. Perfect timing, too.

 21 

T
he next morning at eight sharp, I walked through the front doors of 30 Rockefeller Plaza. NBC. I was wearing my nicest suit, my finest heels. My hair was perfect, my makeup understated. I was interviewing at the
Today
show. They were going to headhunt me right out of IBS.

And I couldn’t wait. Screw Mike Pomeroy. He had no idea what he’d just lost.

I met with two executives in their conference room, a gorgeous space with polished tables and a bank of monitors on the far wall. It was like Becky Fuller heaven. Every monitor showed a different morning show. Half a dozen cheery hosts and hostesses greeting the day and their audience. There, at the bottom right corner, was
Daybreak
.

“We want the show to have that real youthful energy,” said one of the executives.

“You’ve done such an amazing job of revitalizing
Daybreak
,” said the other.

“Thanks,” I said, dragging my eyes off the
Daybreak
monitor. “I appreciate that. And it’s … it’s really great to be here.”

Behind the second executive’s head, Mike and Colleen were arguing. As usual. It was amazing—you could actually see the increased dynamism between my two hosts as they tore each other to shreds.

I wondered what they were saying today. I hoped Colleen was getting him good. She looked like she was, at least, if his thundercloud of a face was anything to go by. Good. The Asshole deserved it. I wished them many long years of ratings-boosting battles.

Actually, strike that. I hoped the
Today
show ratings smashed them to smithereens. Maybe then Mike would realize how valuable I’d been to him. I mean, would anyone else have even put his governor story on the air? Would any other producer have trusted him enough to make that call? I know Adam wouldn’t have. Too much bullshit, too much water under the bridge. I was the only one who’d still believed in Mike. Shame he didn’t believe in me.

“We’d like to get you aboard as soon as possible,” said the first exec. Right—the interview.

“Oh, great!” I said, trying to turn away from the
Daybreak
screen and focus. “Um …” Okay, that was weird. Mike had just stormed off the set. “Sorry,” I said, distracted. “It’s just … usually this segment is a two-shot with Colleen and Mike but … Mike’s not there.”

They looked at me stupidly.

“Never mind!” I said, my tone cheery. “They must have changed it. Anyway, sorry. You were saying?”

“We wanted to ask you what your plans are for sports coverage,” said the second exec, clearly taken aback by my inability to pay attention to their offer.

“Right,” I said. “Sports coverage.” Okay, something exceedingly weird was happening on
Daybreak
. Someone had taken a handheld camera and was following Mike down the hall to the Craft Services table. We’d been very careful not to take the cameras backstage; we didn’t need anyone seeing the kind of conditions we worked in. But there they were, in our cluttered hallways, zooming in on our scuffed folding tables as Mike gathered up a bunch of food. What the hell?

The NBC people were eyeing me suspiciously.

“Right,” I said. “So, um, with respect to sports coverage, I think we should reach out to women through their kids. It’s not that big a step from being a soccer mom to being a real fan—oh my God, what are they doing?”

The executives turned around. On-screen, I saw the
Daybreak
kitchen set. And in front of the stove, tying on an apron … was Mike Pomeroy.

I grabbed a remote off the table. “Sorry,” I said, turning up the volume. “Hope you don’t mind. Hey, Mike Pomeroy has a nervous breakdown on set, that’s news, right?”

Mike cracked a few eggs into a bowl. “Thought we’d change things up a bit today,” he said, starting to whisk.

I stared at the screen, my mouth a perfect O.

“In the fifteen hundreds,” he said, “the Italians invented a meal for their afternoon repast. Something they could make using the ingredients they had available.”

“Holy shit,” I whispered. I didn’t care that all the NBC execs were staring at me. I didn’t care that I’d probably just blown this interview. Mike Pomeroy was cooking. On the air.

“I’ve been making frittatas for about twenty years,” he said, adding in some chopped veggies he must have stolen off the crudités platter from Craft Services. “Ever since I was taught how on a naked weekend with an Italian movie star who shall go unnamed.” He winked at the screen. “Occasionally, I make them at home. But only for people—only for people I really care about.”

I dropped back into my seat.

“The key to a frittata,” Mike told the camera, “is to use a really hot pan. Because that, my friends, is what makes it”—he paused dramatically—“
fluffy
.”

I cracked up laughing. The executives all turned to me, bewildered.

“Sorry,” I said, still chuckling. “It’s an inside—sorry.” And so much better than “flocculent.” That would have made the frittata sound diseased.

My BlackBerry began to buzz. I pulled it out of my pocket. Adam.

“Are you watching this?” he asked when I answered.

“Yes.” I nodded, blown away. “He said ‘fluffy.’ On air.”

“I
know
.” Adam paused. “What are you going to do?”

I looked at the executives. At the beautiful desk. At the opportunity I was about to destroy.

“He’s not going to ask you twice,” Adam said.

Deep breath. “Sorry, guys,” I said to NBC. “I gotta go.”

I started running the second I cleared the elevator. The streets were packed with morning commuters, and I jostled my way through the throng, ducking slow-moving tourists, racing against the lights, playing chicken with taxicabs. I raced down Sixth Avenue, cut through back alleys and arcades, kicked off my shoes, and sprinted through Bryant Park—and there, at the IBS plaza, on the big screen, I could see Mike. He was still making his breakfast. He was still explaining to the world exactly how you’re supposed to flip a frittata.

I hurried through the lobby and into the elevator. I ran through the tangled hallways of the
Daybreak
offices and burst out onto the edge of the set. Mike was just pulling his completed, perfect,
fluffy
frittata out of the oven.

“Now you have to let it cool a bit,” he was saying. Of course. Because frittatas were eaten at room temperature. I remembered.

Everyone was standing there, staring at Mike with the kind of awe that I was feeling. Colleen’s mouth was open. Lenny had gone white. Even Adam was there, watching the proceedings with a disbelieving smile.

Mike looked up from his work and caught sight of me.

“Later this week,” he said, “I’ll show you how to make fantastic beignets. Or, as the rabble like to call them”—he smiled at me: his real smile—“donuts.”

I threw back my head and laughed.

Adam came over to me. “You know, he’s still the third-worst—”

“Oh,” I said. “I know it.”

Colleen approached next. “No NBC?”

I shook my head.

“Good, because it was nice to finally have a decent producer around here.” She studied Mike in his apron; he looked surprisingly in his element there on the kitchen set. “Oh, and Gidget? I want a tropical fruit plate.”

On Anna’s first morning at
Daybreak
, I presented her with her very own gift bag. She gave me a coy smile, then pulled out a T-shirt. The front read:
WELCOME TO DAYBREAK
. The back?
OH, FUUUUUUUUUU
—

“I love it!” cried Anna. She threw her arms around me. I sent her over to Sasha and Tracy to get settled in, then surveyed my domain. On top of new doorknobs, we’d gotten a new sound system and an upgrade to our set. Things were bustling: Merv and Lenny going over some of the shots, the producers and stage managers scooting around. I saw Colleen and Mike walking down the hall together—and Mike being totally unsubtle about the way he placed his hand on Colleen’s rear end.

Yeah, that was going to be one hot mess when it went south. I could only cross my fingers and hope their on-air battles were the better for it. But I didn’t want to obsess over that now. I caught him before he disappeared into her dressing room.

“Hey, Mike,” I said. “Come take a quick walk with me before the show. Come on,” I coaxed. “Real quick.”

On the plaza, I grabbed a copy of the
New York Post
from one of the vendors and turned to Page Six. “Listen to this: ‘His gravity leavens the silliness of morning TV, making an incongruous but somehow perfect match.’ ”

Mike rolled his eyes, but I kept reading. He might not like the idea of rave reviews of his “performance,” but I did, and so did the IBS execs.

“ ‘It turns out,’ ” I went on as we strolled down the plaza, “ ‘that after forty years in the TV news business, the real Mike Pomeroy has finally arrived.’ Not bad, huh?”

He nodded, then spoke again. “By the way, I’m getting my prostate checked next week. I thought I might take a crew with me—”

I clapped my hands with excitement. “That’s a great idea!”

Mike shook his head. “Jesus, I was
kidding
.”

“Seriously, though,” I said, “it would be a real public health message. And they have these little cameras now that go right up your—”

“
No
.”

“Aww, come on, Mike …,” I said as we walked off together, into the sunrise.

About the Author

D
IANA
P
ETERFREUND
is the author of
Secret Society Girl, Under the Rose, Rites of Spring (Break)
, and
Tap & Gown
. She has also published two fantasy novels for teens about killer unicorns:
Rampant
and
Ascendant
, as well as several short stories. She was raised in Florida, graduated from Yale University with degrees in geology and literature, and worked as a journalist and food critic before turning to fiction. Diana Peterfreund lives in Washington, D.C., with her husband.

About the Screenwriter

In 2006, A
LINE
B
ROSH
M
c
K
ENNA
wrote the screen adaptation of
The Devil Wears Prada
, garnering her nominations for the WGA, BAFTA, and Scripter Awards. In 2008, she wrote the original screenplay
27 Dresses
. She also shares credit on the romantic comedies
Three to Tango
and
Laws of Attraction
.

McKenna recently adapted Benjamin Mee’s memoir
We Bought a Zoo
, which Cameron Crowe is attached to direct. Currently, she is writing a new version of
Cinderella
for Disney.

McKenna is a magna cum laude graduate of Harvard University. After graduation, she moved to New York where she co-wrote the book
A Coed’s Companion
for Pocketbooks. In a summer film class at NYU, she wrote her first screenplay, which she sold to New Regency Productions.

McKenna lives in Los Angeles with her husband and two children.