“Thanks for covering that light plane crash. Nobody else would be on the scene at five A.M.”
Certainly not Tiffany Tyler Taylor. She’d never trudge through a muddy field to get to the crash site. She’d mess up her little blue shoes.
But Jason never looked at Evelyn in that same dreamy way. Even Rick, a cynical, sarcastic cameraman, stared at Tiffany and said with a lovesick sigh, “God, she looks good.”
“She’s a poodle,” snarled Evelyn. “An empty-headed little nothing. What is wrong with you, Rick? You’ve never fallen in love with the talent before.”
Rick shrugged. “Blondes are easier to light,” he said.
Evelyn almost believed him. When the harsh TV lights hit Tiffany, her blonde hair glowed like molten gold. She looked like a blue angel with Meg Ryan bangs.
Evelyn looked dark and a little angry on TV. Her brunette hair seemed to absorb light. Her olive skin created strange shadows. TV did odd things to her. If Evelyn gained a pound or two, the camera gave her a double chin and a pouchy stomach. That never happened to Tiffany Tyler Taylor. She always looked petite and perfect.
Tiffany couldn’t get a scoop in an ice cream parlor. But St. Louis viewers were as dazzled as the fools at the station. In six months, Tiffany rose from feature reporter to morning show host. Now Evelyn was afraid that Tiffany would go after the ultimate prize-Evelyn’s own hard-won spot as six o’clock anchor.
Already Tiffany had made two guest appearances on St. Louis’ highest-rated news show. Co-anchor Dick Nickerson threw back his head and laughed so hard at Tiffany’s mild (and scripted) joke about the weather that his comb-over flopped up like a pot lid. Dick got derisive letters from readers, calling him a drapehead. He didn’t care. Dick adored Tiffany.
Nobody but Evelyn saw the hard little climber under that soft surface. Nobody but Evelyn heard Tiffany’s catty remarks.
“Eeuww, are you really eating a bacon sandwich for lunch?” said Tiffany, pointing at Evelyn’s BLT. “Bacon has nitrates and nitrites. And it’s bad for your skin.” Evelyn could feel the zits popping out on her face like dandelions after a rain.
“Bacon makes you fat,” Tiffany said, staring at Evelyn’s waistline until she felt her gut plop over her belt.
“That’s why I stick to salads,” she said, smugly. She tapped her green-heaped plate with her fork. Then Tiffany stuck her knife in Evelyn’s back. “But I suppose a mature woman like yourself doesn’t have to worry about her figure.”
“Mature” was not a compliment in television. Tiffany had called her old and fat. No one else heard the insult.
Another time Tiffany suggested that Evelyn get some blonde highlights in her dark hair. “The lighter color around your face will make you look ten years younger,” she said. “Go to Mr. John. He’s the best colorist in the city. You’ll look so natural.”
No one heard that little dig, either.
Only Evelyn heard Tiffany on the phone to her stockbroker every afternoon before the markets closed. Only Evelyn seemed to catch Tiffany calling her agent. That’s when Tiffany dropped all pretense of being the city’s sweetheart.
“I don’t know how I can live on a lousy two-hundred-fifty thousand a year,” St. Louis’s sweety pie hissed. Evelyn would love to have that quote on tape. She’d play it for all the Tiffany fans who said, “She’s so down-to- earth.”
Evelyn saw red when she heard how much green the gold-digging Goldilocks was trying to pry out of the station. Evelyn didn’t make near that, and she’d been at the station ten years.
It was time to have a talk with her mentor, Margaret Smithson. Evelyn would demand to know why she was underpaid and underrated. Margaret would make things right.
Evelyn’s anger boiled and seethed as she marched across the newsroom. It burst like a geyser when she opened Margaret’s office door, and she spewed out a stream of hot words.
“Stop it!” Margaret said. “Evelyn, you must stop this stupid jealousy.”
Evelyn felt like she’d been slapped. Margaret looked small and stern in her smart black suit. She weighed about ninety-five pounds, and most of that was her mop of dark hair. But Margaret was tough. Right now, she turned that toughness on Evelyn.
“Your petty jabs at Tiffany are getting back to the wrong people. I’m warning you. They’ll come back and bite you in the ass.”
“You’re on her side, too,” Evelyn said. She knew she sounded whiny.
“I am not,” Margaret said. Even when she was angry, Margaret was striking. She had black hair, dark blue eyes, and pale skin. Evelyn often wondered why Margaret wasn’t on camera. But Margaret preferred to be a special projects producer. Everything she touched turned to Emmy gold. The lustrous statues lined the shelves above her desk.
“I’m on your side, Evelyn. But you’re making yourself look bad. It’s contract renewal time, and I have to tell you: Milt is talking about making Tiffany the six o’clock anchor. I think I can head him off, but I don’t know for how long if you keep undermining yourself. Milt wants team players.”
“It isn’t a team. It’s a support system for Tiffany,” said Evelyn, bitterly.
“See, that’s what I mean,” Margaret said. “How many times have I told you? Success in television is by the numbers. Right now, Tiffany has them. Viewers will tire of her professional cuteness. They always do. Then Milt will decide she’s overpaid and dump her. She’ll be gone soon. Sit tight and keep your mouth shut.”
But the next morning, while Tiffany was doing a live remote in front of City Hall, a yellow blur of fur raced by her and ran into Market Street. The whole city saw Tiffany run after the dog and rescue it, just before it slipped under the wheels of a truck. In case anyone missed the dramatic rescue, it was shown on the six and ten o’clock news.
The following morning, Tiffany was on the set with the little yellow mutt. Saved and savior looked remarkably alike. Both were small and perky, with yellow hair and floppy bangs. Both oozed cuteness. The mutt licked Tiffany, and Tiffany smooched the dog. Evelyn couldn’t decide which one she wanted to kick first.
Evelyn nearly choked on her breakfast eggs when Tiffany announced a contest to name the dog. She lost her appetite totally three days later when Tiffany said she’d received two thousand e-mails and faxes. Evidently, viewers also thought Tiffany looked like her dog. The winning name was Tiffany Too.
A week later, Milt sent out a memo that Tiffany and Tiffany Too would be featured at the Fair Saint Louis on the Fourth of July. Tiffany would be the dayside anchor, then do color commentary on the fireworks that night.
Every year, some two million people sweltered on the St. Louis Riverfront, under the Gateway Arch. The temperature and the humidity were in the nineties-if the city was lucky. Sometimes, it was a hundred degrees or more.
The staff complained about covering the three-day fair in the broiling St. Louis sun, but they knew it was a career showcase. For four years running, Evelyn had been the dayside anchor and nightside commentator. This year, Milt’s memo demoted her to a lowly reporter. She’d be trudging through the almost liquid heat to interview boring people who said things like, “We’re having a wonderful time. There’s nothing like this in Festus.”
Milt gave that sneaky, simpering blonde Evelyn’s assignment at the fair. Soon she’d have Evelyn’s anchor slot, too.
Evelyn told her mentor Margaret that she felt sick and wanted to go home. She wasn’t lying. Her stomach heaved when she read Milt’s memo. She barely made it to the restroom before she threw up.
Evelyn had to save her career before that fair-haired fathead took everything from her. She felt hot angry tears. This was dangerous. She couldn’t be seen crying in the newsroom.
She ran to her BMW and started driving anywhere, nowhere. She didn’t want to think. But Evelyn’s driving was not aimless after all. She found herself on Christopher Drive, the road to Granny’s house in the country. Granny was common sense itself. She’d help Evelyn.
Granny was the last real grandmother in America. No facelifts and hair dyes for her. Granny had a comfortable flour-sack figure and crinkly gray hair.
Granny’s little white house had yellow plastic lawn ducks and red geraniums. It was surrounded by acres of Missouri woods. Across the street was a horse pasture. Subdivisions were creeping up the road, but you couldn’t see them yet.
