The Wing Girl

Nic Tatano

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HarperImpulse an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2013

Copyright © Nic Tatano 2013

Cover Illustrations © shutterstock.com

Nic Tatano asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted,

in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,

photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior

permission of the publishers.

Ebook Edition © August 2013

ISBN:9780007548583

Version 2018-10-30

Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.

Contents

Copyright

Nic Tatano

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

EPILOGUE

Love Romance?

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

Nic Tatano

I've always been a writer of some sort, having spent my career working as a reporter, anchor or producer in television news. Fiction is a lot more fun, since you don't have to deal with those pesky things known as facts.

I spent fifteen years as a television news reporter and anchor. My work has taken me from the floors of the Democratic and Republican National Conventions to Ground Zero in New York to Jay Leno's backyard. My stories have been seen on NBC, ABC and CNN. I still work as a freelance network field producer for FOX, NBC, CBS and ABC.

I grew up in the New York City metropolitan area and now live on the Gulf Coast where I will never shovel snow again. I'm happily married to a math teacher and we share our wonderful home with our tortoiseshell tabby cat, Gypsy.

Follow me on Twitter @NicTatano.

For Myra … who makes everything beautiful.

And Steve … the brother I never had.

CHAPTER ONE

“Dating you would be like dating Mike Wallace,” said the dark-haired hunk, who could easily be considered for a certain magazine’s Most Beautiful People issue.

Before you get the wrong idea about that comment, let me say that I do not in any way, shape or form physically resemble the legendary reporter. I’m actually a slender redhead with emerald-green eyes, classic high cheekbones with a constellation of freckles, little dimples when I smile, and a whiskey voice that sounds like it lives in a smoky bar and channels Demi Moore. Tonight it’s all packaged in a brown-paper wrapper consisting of a bulky sweater and pants, while my hair is up (as it always is) in a tight bun and my eyes peer through Coke-bottle glasses. Gotta maintain the journalistic credibility. If you wanna be taken seriously as a woman in my business, you can’t play the glamour card.

But as for the Mike Wallace comment, I am the city’s most recognizable and feared investigative reporter who channels the 60 Minutes icon every chance I get.

So I sorta get what the guy’s saying, but then again I don’t. Does he mean that he admires my work as much as that of the broadcasting legend? Or that when he kisses me he’ll be thinking of an eighty-year-old guy who’s dead?

So I said, “I’m not sure how to take that.”

He leaned forward and I felt his knee gently brush mine, sending a subtle jolt of electricity through my body. “Oh, it’s a compliment,” he said with a smile. “I mean, everyone knows you’re the best reporter in town.”

I tried to hold back a smile but couldn’t as I looked at this Greek god with the chiseled jawline sitting before me in a dark-gray windowpane suit. The rest of the bar faded to grayscale as he provided the only color in the room. His deep-blue eyes became beacons as I caught a faint whiff of Fendi cologne. A subliminal daydream whipped through my mind and I saw myself being carried to the bedroom by those broad shoulders, my legs wrapped around his slim hips.

However, given enough ointment, there’s always a fly.

“But … ” he said.

Oh shit, here it comes.

Again.

“I just know if I asked you out you’d probably run a background check on me and unearth any skeletons I have in my closet. And I would never be able to lie to you. I mean, no one lies to Belinda Carson and gets away with it.”

Investigative reporter red flag alert. “Does that mean you lie to all the women you date?”

“I didn’t say that—”

I leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “But you have lied to women before or you wouldn’t have brought it up.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Your previous statement implies that you have been less than truthful with previous girlfriends. What aren’t you telling me?”

He looked to one side, flashed a crooked smile. “Geez, lady, turn it off.”

“Turn off what?”

“The investigative reporter thing. What’s next, hot lights and thumb screws?” He downed the rest of his drink and stood up. “Look, I don’t think this is gonna work. It was nice meeting you, Belinda.” He shook his head and smiled. “Wait till I tell the guys at the office I got interrogated by the Brass Cupcake.”

Yeah, that’s my nickname in the Big Apple, courtesy of those clever headline writers at The Post. Great for journalism, a killer when trying to meet men.

The colors returned to normal in the trendy watering hole. Half the crowd leaned against the brass rail running the length of the dark oak bar, while the Tiffany lamps above the small round tables provided subdued light to the other half. My best friend Ariel Baymont slid her tall, willowy frame into the next chair and quickly noticed the previously occupied seat at our table was now empty. “What happened to the total package who was here five minutes ago?”

I exhaled, shook my head and looked down into my nearly empty glass.

“You did it again, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” I muttered, then slugged down the remainder of my rum concoction.

“Trying to drown your sorrows?”

“I would, but the little bastards have learned how to swim.”

She wrapped her arm around my shoulders and I leaned my head on hers. “Aw, sweetie, we’re going to have to work on your bedside manner.”

“You’re assuming a man has been remotely close to my bed.”

She pulled back and gave me a soulful look with her ice-blue eyes. “Well, all is not lost. We’ll try again this weekend. Anyway, the cute guy who was hitting on me earlier wants to go someplace where we can talk.”

“So you’re taking him home.”

She shrugged, then started to twirl her honey-blonde hair with one finger. “We can talk there as well as anyplace.”

I raised one eyebrow. “Talk. Right.”

“You know, I can see why you’re such a good reporter. You really are a human lie detector.”

“Yeah, I might as well change my name to Polly Graph.”

“Cute. Anyway, we still on for Saturday night?”

“Thanks to my aforementioned bedside manner, my dance card is clear.”

She leaned over and kissed me on the side of the head. “Great. I’ll see you then. Hang in there, Wing Girl.”

***

Before we go any farther, I should explain the “Wing Girl” concept and how it applies to me, since that is my current after-hours nickname.

As most women know, a good-looking guy will often cruise the bars with a “wing man” at his side, the theory being that men in pairs can separate women in mismatched pairs (one attractive, one not), using a divide and conquer tactic designed to liberate the good-looking woman from the skank. This presumes that the hot girl will not take off and leave her unattractive friend to fend for herself. The wing man swoops in like a dog after a pork chop and takes one for the team, chatting up the skank while his friend moves in on aforementioned hottie, who no longer feels obligated to keep her homely friend company and is thereby freed to engage in extracurricular activities.

It’s a little different for those without a Y chromosome, and totally opposite in my case. Here’s the deal. When it comes to attracting the opposite sex, I am to my friends what a puppy is to a single guy.

Ariel and my circle of friends have dubbed me “Wing Girl” because I end up taking one for the team every time. However, the strategy my friends use is backwards. Since I am a very recognizable member of the media, it’s a case of moths, meet flame. I’m not sure if it’s the fame thing or the challenge of possibly nailing the Brass Cupcake, but it works, drawing in attractive men who I naturally turn off, leaving my friends with very delectable leftovers. My friends always end up with positive results while I finish the evening without so much as a request for a phone number. My Wing Girl moniker started out as a term of endearment, something fun, but lately it’s beginning to wear thin.

I don’t mean to repel men like a Star Trek force field. Really, I don’t. But as I approach the big three-oh, I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll ever be able to drop my “prosecutor from hell” persona when I’m off the clock. And I really want to. Before that other clock, the biological one that’s ticking louder every day, strikes twelve.

Because, and don’t ever tell my boss this, beneath the brass lies a real cupcake looking for her perfect icing.

***

“Cupcake, you really nailed the Senator last night.”

My boss, the grizzled Harry Coyne, whose face is so wrinkled it would tie up a dry cleaner for a day, smiled as I took a seat at the conference room table for the morning meeting, his daily sit-down with the dozen reporters on the dayside staff.

“Thanks,” I said.

Now, before we get the PC police involved in this, let me explain a little about newsroom language. We usually call each other by last names or, in my case, nicknames. And you might think that a man calling a woman “Cupcake” in the office would violate a litany of sexual harassment laws and cause thousands of dollars of “emotional stress” to the recipient of said nickname. But since I’m cool with it and the rest of the staff knows it, it’s not a big deal.

Of course, the first time Harry called me Cupcake, the human resources troll happened to be within earshot and her harassment-sniffing dogs confirmed that this improper term of endearment was, in fact, being used by men in the newsroom. I explained to her that it originated in The Post, we all thought it was funny (as well as dead-on appropriate), I actually liked the nickname, and considered it a compliment. The troll, a two hundred pound fireplug, actually typed up a release form, which I had to sign saying I approved of the term and would not sue the station nor hold anyone accountable should I suddenly decide to become offended. That night after the troll went home, one of our photographers went down to her office with a chisel and added the prefix “In” to the “Human Resources” nameplate outside her door. Now she had the nickname “Inhuman Resources,” which spread through the station like wildfire and stuck like superglue.

Back to the original comment, in which Harry highlighted the fact that I nailed the Senator. While this might have meant something sexual had I been a Washington, DC intern in a blue dress, the term “nailed” in the news business meant that I exposed some serious shit about a politician, in this case a New York State Senator.

And you have to understand where Harry’s coming from. He broke into the business in the dinosaur age, when smoke-filled newsrooms were populated by nothing but men and the only women in the building were secretaries. When the women’s movement was making inroads into the biz, the men lived by the mantra “keep the broads out of broadcasting” as they fought an unsuccessful battle. Harry is still old-school on the subject of equality in the television news industry, thinking most women are simply eye candy, but he loves me because he says I’m “one of the guys.”

You beginning to see my problem?

Harry just turned sixty, and doesn’t look a day over seventy-five. The shock of white hair and the closely cropped matching beard doesn’t help. His gray eyes are framed by a flock of crow’s feet. He’s short and stocky, maybe five-six, with a bay window from too many trips to the tavern across the street for a cold one after the newscast. The trademark red suspenders harken back to a bygone era. He paced around the glassed-in conference room channeling DeNiro with that baseball bat in The Untouchables, whacking a ruler into his hand as he recapped the previous newscast. “Yessir, damn fine reporting.” Tap, tap, tap. He stopped behind the reporter who would be this morning’s victim, fortyish general assignment reporter Bob Evanson, then rested the ruler on the man’s shoulder like he was knighting the guy. “She woulda done a better job on your piece last night.”

Evanson looked over his shoulder as fear crept into his dark eyes. (Evanson, it should be noted, is a product of Catholic school and therefore has a genetic fear of rulers.) “All the facts checked out, Harry. What was wrong with it?” he asked, voice cracking.

“Oh, nothing was wrong with it,” said Harry, continuing his parade around the room. “You didn’t go for the kill shot. You had the guy and you let him off with a slap on the wrist. Softball questions.” Tap, tap, tap. “Just lob the damn things over the plate like it’s a beer league.”

“I thought my questions were valid.”

“Yeah, they were valid, but soft. The Cupcake woulda nailed his ass to the wall and lit up a cigarette afterwards on the set.” (Interesting visual that would no doubt land me on the front page of The Post.) He stopped, then turned to face the reporter. “You know the difference between you and her, Bob?” He pointed the ruler at Bob, then me.

Evanson rolled his eyes and exhaled audibly. “No, Harry. What?”

“You’re too nice. You never go for the jugular. What makes her a great reporter is that she’s a bulldog with absolutely no social skills.”

My head jerked back like I was hit with a blow dart.

“Ouch,” said feature reporter Stan Harvey, who was sitting next to me. “That one left a mark.”

Harry glanced at me with his best attempt at an apologetic look. “No offense, Cupcake.”

“None taken,” I said, lying through my slightly quivering lips.

And for the first time in my eight years in the business, I almost showed emotion.

Almost.

But I felt it.

CHAPTER TWO

Most interventions are surprises, hitting the target when he or she least expects it. In most cases, the focus is on someone with a drug or alcohol problem. Friends get together and confront the person, hopefully forcing that person to take action and deal with the problem.

So I was surprised when I walked into Ariel’s impeccably decorated apartment on Saturday afternoon and found her and my two other closest friends sitting in a circle next to a whiteboard on an easel. It kinda stuck out amidst all the antique furniture.

“Let me guess,” I said. “This is either an Amway meeting or you haven’t noticed this whiteboard clashes with your decor.”

“Wing Girl, we need to talk,” said Ariel, patting the empty space on the dark-brown leather couch next to her.

“What the hell is going on?” I asked.

“It’s an intuhvention,” said Roxanne Falcone, the short but buxom raven-haired sister from Brooklyn I never had.

“I don’t have a drinking problem,” I said.

“No, you have a man problem,” said Serena Dash, the tall, doe-eyed brunette lawyer who, despite average looks, manages to spend her nights looking at more ceilings than Michelangelo.

My jaw hung open. “So, what are you guys gonna do, list my bad qualities on the board?”

“No, sweetie,” said Ariel. “We’re taking you to charm school.”

My face tightened. “Charm school? Are you implying I am without charm?”

All three looked away from me, at each other, then down at the hardwood floor.

And then I heard Harry’s voice in my head. Absolutely no social skills.

“I’ve had boyfriends in the past,” I said, in what I knew was a lame attempt at defending said charm.

Roxanne rolled her eyes. “Again with the college professuh.”

“He was nice,” I said.

“He was an illegal alien who wanted to marry you for a green card,” said Ariel. “And don’t even bring up that fling with the student in that career day class you taught who just wanted a job at your station.”

I felt my lip quivering. Serena noticed, got up, put her arms around me and gave me a strong hug. My eyes narrowed as I bit my lower lip, trying to keep my emotions in check.

Serena pulled back and looked at me. “Let it out, Wing Girl. For once, just let it out.”

“The Brass Cupcake doesn’t cry,” I said, standing up straight, arms folded. “There’s no crying in news.”

“Great, now she’s channeling Tom Hanks,” said Roxanne.

“You’re not an investigative reporter when you’re with us,” said Ariel. “You’re our dear friend, who we know has a huge heart. The problem is, no man can see it. It’s locked away in some journalism vault by this Brass Cupcake alter ego who thinks that if she lets it out her career will dive headfirst into the shitter.”

“Let it out,” said Roxanne.

“There’s nothing to let out!”

“We want you to be happy,” said Ariel.

“I am happy,” I said. “My career—”

“With your life! Ariel got up and tapped me on the head with one knuckle. “Hello! McFly! There’s more to life than work.”

Serena took me by one hand and led me to the couch. “Honey, if you keep going the way you’re going you’ll end up like one of those crazy cat ladies.”

I sat down on the soft leather and let out an audible exhale. I knew they were right. I repelled men. And I did like cats an awful lot. “Fine,” I said. “So what’s the deal with this charm school?”

“First,” said Ariel, as she moved to the white board and grabbed a magic marker, “we’re going to start with what you’re looking for in a man.”

“Pffft. I’ll settle for breathing at this point,” I said.

“Be serious,” said Serena.

“Give us the qualities you’re looking for,” said Ariel.

***

Ten minutes later we all looked at the very long list compiled on the board. Bright sunshine spilled through the large window, illuminating the room but shedding no light on my problem.

Serena furrowed her brow. “Guys, I’m not sure he exists.”

“Fuhgeddaboudit,” said Roxanne. “The only guys left are the Pope and Tim Tebow.”

I shrugged. “So I have high standards.”

“You have unreal standards,” said Ariel. “Your problem is that you’ve spent your life going after politicians who are supposed to be squeaky clean, and you expect the men you date to be that way. Everyone has baggage. Some have a carry-on, others have more than a trophy wife on a European vacation.”

“Fine,” I said. “So I need to lower my standards.”

“You don’t have to lower them,” said Serena, “you just have to learn to accept the fact that there is no one out there with every single quality you want.”

I nodded, realizing they were right. “Okay. So I become more open minded about men. There, we’re done. Let’s go to dinner.”

“Not so fast,” said Ariel. “And not dressed like that. You’re not going out in those outfits anymore.”

I looked down at my clothes, a pair of red and black plaid slacks and a bulky purple sweater. “What’s wrong with this?”

“It’s fine if you wanna pick up a guy at Home Depot,” said Roxanne.

“I always attract men,” I said. “That’s why you call me Wing Girl.”

“The Brass Cupcake attracts men,” said Serena. “Belinda needs to learn how to keep them.”

“Really?” said Ariel. “Pants and flats for a Saturday night?”

“They’re comfortable,” I said.

“Men want heels and skirts,” said Serena. “We know you’ve got great legs under there. We’ve been to the beach with you.”

“And the hair,” said Roxanne, rolling her eyes as she pointed at my head.

“What?” I asked.

“The bun is done,” she said.

“You’re blessed with that beautiful red and you tie it up in a bun of steel,” said Ariel. “Meanwhile, the glasses have got to go. We need to see that green.”

“I can’t see without glasses.”

“As a reporter you should know there’s been a fabulous new invention called contact lenses,” said Serena. “Maybe you’ve read about it.”

“So you’re giving me a total makeover.”

“Yep,” said Ariel.

“Right now?”

***

As my friends took inventory in my two bedroom closets, I wasn’t sure how this makeover thing was gonna come out. I mean, I’ve got three women who are all very different and the combined advice might result in something out of a horror movie.

Ariel is my oldest and closest friend. She’s a tall drink of water from a wealthy section of Connecticut who grew up with every privilege and ran off the trust fund reservation by actually having a career. The horror! A Madison Avenue copywriter, Ariel is clever at turning a phrase whether she has to pitch cars or feminine hygiene products. She can also weave a tapestry of words into a blanket under which a man becomes powerless.

Always impeccably dressed in classic clothes and a strand of pearls, she’s the proverbial blue-eyed blonde with the high cheekbones, a sharp nose and full lips. Add her customary four-inch heels to the five-ten frame, and you’ve got a girl who could probably be a model if she wanted to.

Serena is an attorney from California who learned early on that male members of a jury can often be distracted by a lawyer who dresses as if she needs a bail bondsman and a public defender. Her short hemlines are legendary in New York courtrooms, as she’s known for “skirting the issues” when it comes to closing arguments.

She’s not a stunner by any means, but she’s kinda pretty and makes the most of what she’s got. In a sea of New York women obsessed with black, Serena has a closet full of red, so she always stands out. Her big, shoulder-length hair harkens back to the eighties, framing an angular face and a cute pug nose. She’s got these devilish hazel eyes that always make her look like she’s up to something. Probably because she is, either in the courtroom, bedroom, or both.

Serena loves the law so much she carries that “lawyer-talk” out of the courtroom and often works it into everyday conversations. (I’ve picked up a little myself, as I think said style of speaking sounds cool.) But despite the fact she uses her wardrobe as a weapon during trials, she’s an excellent lawyer and could easily win her cases dressed in burlap.

Roxanne is my gum-snapping Sicilian friend from Brooklyn who’s a hairstylist, or, as she calls it, “hairdressuh.” But she’s not just any salon gal; she’s sought far and wide by celebrities and the wealthy, who no doubt endure her wicked accent because she’s a miracle worker with scissors and a comb. She’s blessed with natural wavy hair, big light-green eyes and a great rack. Beneath the Brooklyn stereotype lies a girl with an IQ of about 160 who actually has a degree from Wharton but ditched the whole corporate thing for a career with a styling brush. She makes more money with her salon than she ever could in a boardroom.

She’s about five-three, making her the shortest of our group, but the one you’d want in a foxhole because Roxanne doesn’t take shit from anybody. She’s a tight package: tight jeans, tight skirts, tight tops, tight walk with no wasted motion. You know the type. Also has the quickest wit, and can cut a man down to size with a comment sharp enough to slice a stale bagel.

They made me get up on my kitchen step-stool like it’s some pedestal and then walked around me looking at the total package.

“Let’s start at the top. The hair’s comin’ down,” said Roxanne, who reached up on her tiptoes to unleash the bun.

I leaned away. “I like my hair up.”

“Men like it down,” she said, grabbing my bun and struggling to pull the hairpin out of the Gordian Knot. “Geez, you could bounce quarters off this thing.” My strawberry locks dropped, hitting my shoulders. Roxanne ran her fingers through it. “Gawd, it’s like straw. But I can work with this. Women would kill for this color, you know.”

“They can get it out of a bottle,” I said.

“Yeah, but the carpet won’t match the drapes,” said Roxanne, with a wicked grin.

Serena had been rummaging through one of my closets. “Where the hell are your heels?”

“I don’t have any,” I said. “I’m five-five, that’s tall enough.”

“Please tell me you didn’t just say that,” she said. “Is it therefore your contention that you do not own one single pair?”

“Have you ever seen me in heels?”

She sat down on the floor facing me. “Now that I think about it, no. Do you even know how to walk in them?”

“I tried a pair in high school. Made my feet hurt.”

“What size are you?”

“Six. Narrow.”

“I’m a nine. Rox?”

“Sorry,” said Roxanne. “I got pancake flippers for feet.”

“Ariel?”

“Eight.”

“So much for tonight.” She yelled for Ariel, who was going through my other walk-in closet. “What’s the dress situation?”

Ariel stuck her head out of the closet and shook her head. “Nada. No dresses or skirts. Not even a pair of shorts except for some old ones that look like they lost a battle with a spray can and a weed whacker.”

“Those are my cleaning shorts,” I said.

“I’m assuming you clean this room once a year, whether it needs it or not,” said Ariel. “You know, a man would find this boudoir very inviting.”

I looked around my bedroom and took in the unmade bed, pile of clothes thrown on the floor and a potato chip bag which shared the night stand with a couple of empty yogurt containers. “Fine, I’ll get a cleaning service.”

“A snow shovel would be quicker,” said Roxanne.

“Seriously,” said Serena. “You don’t have a single skirt?”

“What can I say, I like pants.”

“Do you even bother to shave your legs?” asked Ariel, ducking back into the closet.

“Of course,” I said, then shrugged. “Well, not every day.”

“So,” said Roxanne, “besides the hair, what else is on the to-do list?”

Serena was making notes on a legal pad. “You ever try contacts?”

I nodded. “I had them in high school.”

“Did you like them?”

“Yeah, but they were a pain to clean all the time, so I went back to glasses.”

“Figures,” said Serena, who made a check mark. “After the contacts, we need shoes and an entire new wardrobe.”

“Excuse me?” I said.

“I’m starting a pile for Goodwill,” yelled Ariel, still in my closet. “Geez, it looks like Hillary Clinton lives in here.”

I saw one of my favorite pantsuits fly out of the closet. “Hey!”

“Shaddup and take your medicine,” said Roxanne. “Meanwhile, put your hair back up.”

“I thought you said men like it down?”

“They do, but I’ll need half a day to fix that mess and our dinner reservations are in an hour.”

I stepped off the stool. “So, I’m deemed okay to be seen in public with you guys this evening? I won’t embarrass you?”

Serena got off the floor and gave me the once over. “It will have to do, but we are going to change one thing tonight.”

“What’s that?” I asked, folding my arms. “I’ve apparently got no shoes, no clothes, my hair is a toxic waste dump and I can’t ditch my glasses or I’ll end up going home with someone who looks like Alan Greenspan.”

“That, right there. Your attitude,” said Serena. “Tonight, charm school begins.”

CHAPTER THREE

His eyes locked on me like a laser from across the room. Tall, well built, thick black hair and dark eyes to match. Rugged face, nice smile, dimples running the length of his cheeks. Probably about my age. Dark slacks, starched white French-cuffed shirt with gold links, red tie with a perfect dimple in the knot. Shoes shining like mirrors, something my late father always told me to notice. Looks like he stepped off a wedding cake.

Another “total package” as Ariel would say. Can’t say I’d argue.

He started weaving his way through the bar traffic and headed for the chair next to me that was left purposely empty by my friends.

“Remember what we talked about, Wing Girl,” said Serena.

I nodded, downed a bit of wine, and smiled as he reached the table.

He placed his hands on the back of the empty chair, obviously waiting for permission to sit. Good. Polite. Looked right at me. Big smile. “You’re the girl on TV.”

“Woman on TV,” I said. Serena jabbed an elbow into my ribs. “Ow.”

“Right,” he said. “You did that great story the other night on the State Senator. Nice that we have people like you to keep politicians honest.”

“They’re all a bunch of scum. Next week—” I was interrupted by another elbow. “I mean, thank you, I appreciate the compliment.”

Ariel reached one long leg under the table and pushed the empty chair out a bit. “Maybe our new friend would like to join us.”

“Uh, right,” I said.

“Thanks,” he said, sitting down. “I’m Vincent Martino.”

“Belinda Carson,” I said.

“Yeah, I know.” Serena, Ariel and Roxanne introduced themselves since I’d forgotten to do it, my mind too busy going over the directives they’d given me.

Serena widened her eyes as she looked at me and gave me a gentle kick under the table. Say something. Anything. “So, uh … I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”

The guy smiled. “That’s okay. Vincent.” Roxanne rolled her eyes then threw down the rest of her drink.

“Right, Vincent.” I remembered the orders I’d been given. Ask him about himself. Nothing too serious. “So, Vincent … are you married?”

“Madonne,” said Roxanne, as the man’s face tightened.

“No,” said Vincent, who looked at me as if I were a space alien. “Did you think I’m some married guy out cheating on his wife?”

“Uh, no, I was … you know … just making conversation.”

Serena snorted, stifling a laugh.

“That’s one hell of a pick-up line,” he said.

“Sorry.” My pulse spiked as the checklist in my head got jumbled. My armpits grew damp. “Do you … uh … what do you do?” I smiled and exhaled. That was pretty safe.

“I work on Wall Street.”

“So, you work with some shady characters.”

The man shook his head and turned toward Roxanne. “Geez, Rox.”

I furrowed my brow. “What’s going on?”

“Vincent’s my cousin,” said Roxanne, cocking her head toward him. “I asked him to be our test subject tonight.”

“So you weren’t really going to hit on me?” I asked.

“I did hit on you. At least I was trying to. I would have even taken you out if we’d hit it off because Rox said you’re such a great person. They weren’t going to tell you it was a set-up if things went well, but … ”

“So, Vincent,” said Serena, who took out a legal pad and put it on the table. She clicked her pen in the air. “If you wouldn’t mind giving us your first impressions for the record.”

He looked at me, his eyes seemingly asking for permission. “What the hell, go ahead,” I said.

“Would be nice if she remembered my name ten seconds after I told her,” said Vincent, who turned to face Serena. “And asking me if I’m married? Seriously? I would have beat my feet right after that one.” He turned back to me. “Listen Belinda, no offense, but Rox said you guys needed a man’s point of view on your, you know, dateability.”

I shrugged and looked down. “I’m not offended. I appreciate your input. Keep going. Fire away, I’m a big girl.”

“You sure?”

“Hey, I take on politicians all the time. I’m not afraid of anything. Don’t hold back.”

“Ohhhh-kaaaay,” he said, then exhaled and paused a moment. “Well, here goes. You’re not approachable.”

Ouch.

“People come up to me all the time.”

“Because you’re a celebrity,” said Ariel.

“I meant you’re not approachable as a potential date,” said Vincent.

“Fine,” I said, looking at Vincent, eyes narrowing into Brass Cupcake mode. “Tell me why I’m unapproachable.”

Vincent leaned forward on his forearms. Usually they lean back when the death stare makes its first appearance. Interesting. “Well, first I call you a girl and you correct me, so I think you’re some militant feminist, which I and most men hate. Then the marriage question, which was beyond weird. Along with your somewhat bizarre conversational skills, it’s the overall look. The hair in a tight bun. You’re sitting there on your hands, all hunched up. And the outfit.”

My face tightened. “What’s wrong with the outfit?”

“Rox said you’re hot and you look like a librarian. The bulky sweater, baggy pants, thick glasses. Those shoes look like you’re going hiking. You look like you want to be anywhere but here. There’s probably a serious babe under all that but I can’t be sure.”

He reached across the table toward me but I pulled back and put up a hand. “Whoa!”

“Relax, would you?” he said. Serena grabbed my hand and pulled it down.

He reached toward my face and gently removed my glasses. “Wow,” he said.

“What?” I asked, as my view of Vincent morphed into a Monet painting.

“You’ve got spectacular eyes. I mean, they’re like emeralds, such a vivid green. You could do eye makeup commercials.”

“If she actually wore makeup outside the studio,” said Roxanne, as I snatched my glasses back from him and put them on.

“Look, Belinda. Roxanne tells me you’re a beautiful girl with a big heart, but as a man looking for a date I would have no idea if any of that’s true. If you weren’t famous I doubt if any man would come up to you, and if anyone did he wouldn’t stay long.”

I bit my lower lip and felt my eyes well up. No! This wasn’t happening! A man cannot make the Brass Cupcake cry! “I’d like you to leave now,” I said softly.

“Hey, I’m sorry, that was a bit harsh, but you told me not to hold back—”

“Just! Go!”

Vincent put up his hands in surrender. He got up, kissed Roxanne on the side of the head. “Thanks, cuz,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. He shot me an apologetic look with sad eyes, but I turned away. He headed for the door.

“So,” I said, when he was out of earshot. “Whose brilliant idea was that?”

“Mea culpa,” said Serena, putting her wrists out as if she were waiting to be handcuffed. “I plead no contest.”

“And the rest of you were okay with it?”

“We thought it was a great idea,” said Ariel.

“A great idea? Having some guy insult me like that?”

“We already know you need help,” said Serena. “But we really needed a man’s opinion. Rox said she knew her cousin would help out, and you two might actually hit it off.”

“Vincent was just doin’ what I asked. You’d like him if you took the time to know him. He’s really a great guy.”

“Yeah, a regular Mr Wonderful,” I said. “He’s just so … so … ”

“Honest?” said Roxanne.

“And suppose I’d really liked him? It wasn’t real.”

“It might have been if you’d given him a chance,” said Roxanne.

“You’re a reporter,” said Serena, clicking her pen again. “Did you learn anything from that interview?”

I played with my wine glass, swirled what was left before I downed the whole thing. “Yeah, you all think I’m a total loser.”

Ariel wrapped one arm around my shoulder. “You’re a winner, Wing Girl, and tomorrow we’re going to start showing the world.”

***

Most people go to church on Sunday mornings. Since sermons have bored the hell out of me since I was a little girl and I am ruled by Catholic guilt, I donate my Sunday mornings to a good cause. I figure it’s better than sitting in a rock-hard pew like a member of the parish undead.

As mentioned before, I love cats. So I help out at the local cat rescue shelter every weekend for a few hours, play with my furry friends and deal with things like cat food and furballs.

Cats don’t judge me, especially shelter cats. They don’t have homes yet, so they appreciate any attention they can get.

And after last night, I felt the same way.

“Morning Belinda,” said a cheery Diane as I opened the door to the shelter, jingling the little brass bell hanging off the top. She’s the petite blonde middle-aged millionaire animal lover who runs the place, often working weekends since more kitties get adopted on those days.

“Hey, Diane. How’d the week go?”

“Pretty good. Two in, five out. Somebody even took that huge tabby.”

“Great,” I said, heading toward the back of the building where the kitties lived. “Jabba the Cat was eating us out of house and home.”

“Oh, hey, we’ve got a new volunteer who started today. He’s just about to leave so go introduce yourself. Name’s Scott. Cute guy, Belinda.” Her voice went up as she said my name, like a suggestion hanging in the air.

Like I’ve got a shot. I’m wearing old torn jeans, a ratty New York Giants sweatshirt with frayed cuffs, didn’t sleep a lick last night and have a full set of Samsonite under my eyes.

Not that it would make any difference if I were dressed for a ball. I’m unapproachable, remember?

I headed down the long mauve hallway to the back and heard a man’s soothing voice float around the corner.

“Oh, yeah, there it is. That’s the spot. Ooooh, you like it when I rub you like that, don’t you?”

Sounded like some dialogue from a porn movie, but I realized it was a man talking to a cat. If only one would talk to me that way. “Hey, baby, come home with me and I’ll make you purr … ”

I turned the corner into the shelter area and saw a man sprawled on the floor, scratching the belly of a purring Siamese who was obviously in cat nirvana. The man looked up at me and smiled. “Hey.”

“Hi. I see you’ve made a friend.”

“Yeah, she’s a sweet cat.” He got up off the floor, brushed off the cat hair and extended his hand. “I’m Scott.”

I shook it. “Belinda.”

He didn’t have what I call the look. The one that tells me he recognizes me from television, the one Wing Girl gets when we’re out on the town. The smile looked sincere. He was maybe five-ten, slender with broad shoulders, tousled brown hair, deep-set hazel eyes. Classic anchorman’s jaw with a little cleft in his chin, one day growth of stubble. Maybe thirty-five. More cute than handsome, but he had that boy-next-door thing going along with nice-fitting jeans, a button-down blue oxford and docksides with no socks. An old-money look, like many members of Ariel’s family.

I smiled back. “So, you’re new here.”

“Yeah, I decided it was time to give something back instead of just writing a check.”

“Most men don’t like cats.”

“My mom was a vet. She had a practice that only took cats. You could say it’s in my blood. I just like their independence. And they’re self-cleaning.”

Cute line. Cute guy. This bears investigating.

“To a point. They don’t have hands.”

“Yeah, I already did the cat boxes.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “So, you been volunteering here long?”

“Every Sunday for the last four years. Ten till noon.”

“I signed up for the same hours but I have a wedding to go to today, so I got here at nine and Diane sorta gave me a quick orientation. But I guess we’ll be working together.”

I nodded. “Guess so.”

He glanced at his watch, then fished his car keys out of his pocket. “Well, I gotta run and get cleaned up. See you next week.” He headed for the hallway.

“Yeah. See ya.”

So much for that.

He stopped, turned and looked at me. “Hey, maybe we could go for lunch afterward.”

I said, “That would be nice,” before I even had a chance to think about it.

He pointed at me. “Belinda, right?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“I’m bad with names. Just wanted to make sure. See ya.”

I’m bad with names too. We had something in common.

But for some reason I wouldn’t forget his.

He disappeared down the hall, obviously having no idea about the superhero known as the Brass Cupcake who prowls the streets of New York making life safe for women and children while repelling the hell out of men.

Meanwhile, I just got asked out to lunch looking like absolute shit.

Now I’m totally confused.

CHAPTER FOUR

The salon was dimly lit and quiet, as Roxanne had opened it up on Sunday afternoon just for me. (I always thought “Foxy Roxy’s” was kind of a throwback name, with the term “babe” having replaced “fox” sometime back in the eighties. On the other side of the coin, I believe “skank” has serious staying power and could be eternal.) Tomorrow being Memorial Day and a day off since Harry doesn’t waste me on slow news days, I was to be dragged kicking and screaming by Ariel and Serena for shoes, clothes, contacts, makeup and God only knows what else. But I was in a good mood, as a seemingly nice guy who liked cats had asked me to lunch despite the fact I was wearing the spring collection for the homeless. Still, after I related the story to Roxanne, I was confused about what had happened.

“It’s a subconscious effect,” said Roxanne, as she worked the thick conditioner into my hair. I caught a faint whiff of avocado, which Roxanne said made this the perfect conditioner for someone with hair that could be used by someone playing the Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz.

“What the hell does that mean?” I asked, my head leaning back in a royal-blue sink. It was kind of odd looking at her from that angle, and gave me a new perspective on her terrific eyes and flawless creamy skin.

“It means that what happened last night sank in to a degree, and you were so tired you didn’t have time to think about it. You were in a situation where you didn’t expect to be asked out, so you didn’t have your force field and death stare at your beck and call.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask. Is the death stare really that bad?”

She stopped working the conditioner in for a moment. “Honey, when you use that thing on a man you look so possessed I think I need to call a priest.”

“Hmmm.” I closed my eyes as she resumed the scalp massage.

“Okay,” said Roxanne, “I think that’ll do it. Geez, I got sandpaper burns.”

“Funny.”

She turned on the faucet and began to rinse out the conditioner, as she ran the warm water and her fingers through my hair. “When’s the last time you wore your hair down?”

“Eighth grade, I think.”

She finished the rinse, then wrapped my head in a thick, fluffy red towel and began to dry it. She finished drying it as I sat up, ran her fingers through my hair to fluff it out, stood back and flashed a sinister smile with a gleam in her eye. I knew that look as her being “up to something.”

“What?” I asked, as I looked in the gold-framed mirror behind her and saw a drowned rat.

“I’ve got so much to work with. You’re like a blank canvas. This is gonna be fun.”

“Don’t do anything drastic.”

She waved her hand. “Pffft. Honey, drastic is already in the rear-view mirror.” She led me out of the shampoo room and over to her station, where I took a seat. It wasn’t the typical black-lacquer-everything you see in many salons that resembled a hangout for a coven, but rather a cheery sea foam green cubicle always accented with fragrant fresh roses. The large mirror was bordered with photos of celebrity clients.

My picture wasn’t up there. Geez, I wonder why.

She draped a purple smock over me and clipped it behind my neck. Then she did something that scared me to death.

She swung the chair around so my back was to the mirror.

“Hey, I wanna see what you’re doing,” I said.

She shook her head. “Sorry, no backseat driving on this.”

“Roxanne, if I come out of here looking like some freak on the subway … I do have to work on TV, you know.”

She kneeled down and looked at me. “Will you please trust me? Half the movie stars in this town do. And I’m going to make you look like one of them.”

***

Two hours later she shoved the comb into a pocket in her smock, stood back, crouched down, and moved her head side to side as she checked out the finished product.

“Well?” I asked.

“Shhhhh,” she said, putting one finger to her mouth. She moved around behind me. I felt her fingers lightly touch the back of my head, fluff my hair a bit, then she walked around where I could see her. She looked at the top of my head, then the sides, without ever looking in my eyes. Like I was some inanimate object. She put her hands on her hips and smiled. “My work here is done.”

“Well, don’t keep me in suspense.”

She leaned forward and swung the chair around so I faced the mirror. She stood behind me, then handed me my glasses.

I put them on and my vision cleared. I didn’t recognize the woman in the mirror.

My hair shone like a beacon, with shimmering highlights amidst my strawberry red. The soft tangles lightly dusted my shoulders. I lifted my hand and touched it. It was as soft and thick as the Persian I’d petted this morning.

It had never looked so good in my life. Sorta slutty, but really good.

“You like?” asked Roxanne.

I couldn’t stop staring. “It’s spectacular,” I said. And right then and there I knew my trusty black-rimmed glasses had to go.

She reached into my purse, pulled out my sizable collection of hairpins and shook them at me. “And if I ever see you with your hair up again, I’ll stab the shit out of you with these.”

***

The contact lenses were surprisingly comfortable, as there had apparently been great improvements in the past fifteen years.

But they didn’t conceal the fear in my eyes as I stepped out of the changing room in my bra and panties.

“Okay, hop up,” said James, the bald, green-eyed wizard known as New York’s best fashion consultant from its most expensive department store. A tiny man around forty, he probably weighed less than I did.

I wrapped my arms around my waist as I stepped onto the pedestal in the middle of what had to be the largest fitting room in the city. No bathroom stall-sized cubicles here: this was at least twenty-by-twenty, complete with a beautiful cream-colored sofa, a few matching chairs and a credenza filled with champagne, a bowl of fresh fruit salad, and a large silver tray of cucumber sandwiches.

“Stand up straight, honey,” he said, as he whipped out a tape measure. “Arms down.”

“Just relax,” said Ariel, sipping a glass of champagne. “There’s no one else here. This is a private fitting room.”

I shivered, but not from the temperature. James deftly swung his tape measure around my chest, waist and hips, then wrote something down on a clipboard.

“You are blessed with a perfect body, young lady,” he said.

I scrunched up my face. “Huh?”

“Classic hourglass, perfect size four.” He picked up my stretch pants from the chair in the changing room and looked at the label. “Why are you wearing a size seven?”

“I like things baggy. More comfortable.”

He shook his head, rolled his eyes and tossed the pants into the trash, then turned back to me and patted me on the stomach. “Those toned abs are to die for.” He moved behind me, slid one finger under my waistband, pulled, took a look inside and snapped my underwear.

“Hey!” I slapped away his hand. He’d better be gay.

“And such a spunky little ass under the granny panties. Goes well with the attitude.”

“Thank you … I think,” I said.

He ran the tape measure inside my leg, getting my inseam.

Ariel put up her hand. “Please, James, no more pants.”

“You already told me. But she will need some jeans. I’ve got a line that will make her ass really pop.”

A knock on the door startled me. I wrapped my arms around my chest and lifted one leg in front of me like a flamingo as the voice came through.

“It’s Serena!”

“Come on in,” said Ariel.

The door opened and I relaxed as I saw Serena’s face. “So, how we doing?”

“I apparently have a spunky little ass,” I said.

“Good to know,” said Serena, giving me the once over.

James finished writing notes on the clipboard, picked up the phone and gave whoever was on the other end a laundry list of items I apparently needed. Then he hung up and handed me a thick terry robe with a gold crest. “Have some champagne. Your new wardrobe will be here shortly.”

***

The lacquered blonde makeup artist with the ice-blue eyes had been working on me for twenty minutes, slapping stuff on my face that had never been there before. Mascara, foundation, eye shadow, you name it. Her brush danced around my cheekbones as my audience surrounded the high chair upon which I was sitting. Once again I’d been wrapped in a smock, white this time. I twisted my ankle to get another look at the bottom of my brand-new, four-inch heels. “I still don’t understand why these shoes with the red soles cost so damn much.”

“Because,” said Serena, “they’re Christian Louboutins.”

“And the shoes you were wearing looked more like they belonged to Christian Bale,” said Roxanne.

“Who the hell cares what color the soles are?”

“They stick out,” said Ariel. “Get you more attention. And men love red.”

“How is anyone gonna see the bottom of my shoes?”

“Well,” said Roxanne, “if you’re sitting on a chair like this one in a bar, swinging your leg a bit, that red is going to catch the eye.”

“Be cheaper if I just wrote my phone number on the soles of a pair of sneakers,” I said.

The young makeup girl, who in my opinion looked as though she’d put on foundation with a trowel, leaned back, smiled, and turned to my friends. “What do you think?”

“Excellent job,” said Ariel.

“Yes, terrific,” said Serena.

“Really spectacular,” said Roxanne.

“Uh, could I have a look?” I asked.

“Oh, sorry,” said the makeup girl, who handed me a heavy silver mirror.

The face I saw in it was a stranger, but a beautiful stranger. I looked like a magazine ad. Vincent was right about one thing. I could do eye makeup commercials. The pale-green eye shadow had turned me into an Egyptian goddess. “Wow,” I said, looking at the makeup girl. “You’re a true artist.”

“You’re very kind,” she said.

Ariel reached into her purse and slipped the girl a fifty.

“Thank you!” she said, and pulled off my smock. “You’re good to go.”

“Great,” I said. I hopped off the high chair and started to reach for one of the many shopping bags, but Roxanne playfully slapped it away. “We’ve got these.”

“We’re going to do a little experiment first,” said Serena.

“I thought I was done. What now?”

“We’re going to prove to you that you are now one of the most desirable women in New York,” said Ariel. “Well, physically, anyway. Still got a lot of work to do on the attitude.”

“If I look as good as you say I do, I can now get away with being a bitch, right?” I asked.

“But you’re not,” said Roxanne. “You are as beautiful inside as you now are outside.”

I rolled my eyes. “We gonna hold hands and sing Kumbaya now?”

“Again with the attitude,” said Serena, raising one finger. “But one thing at a time.”

“So here’s what you’re going to do,” said Ariel. “I’m going across the street and I want you to wait till I get there, then I want you to cross the street.”

“What, I’m learning the principles of jaywalking?”

“I’m going to shoot a video with my cell phone and show you the reaction you get with your new look.”

“Seriously?”

“Trust me, honey, you’re gonna get a reaction,” said Roxanne.

“Ohhhh … kayyyyyy.”

Ariel took off and headed out the door of the department store. I started to follow, teetering in my heels that took me up to five-nine, a little wobbly as I hadn’t gotten my sea legs yet. The short skirt was a bit tight, restricting my normal gait, which Ariel said reminded her of her Connecticut mailman walking uphill in a snow drift. Roxanne and Serena followed, loaded down with my haul from the day.

We reached the door and walked outside, greeted by a cool breeze and the sound of New York’s heartbeat; horns and sirens. My spunky little ass felt cold, not being used to a skirt, especially one that ended several inches above the knee.

I saw Ariel across the street pointing her phone at me. “Anytime!” she yelled.

“Go get ‘em, Tiger,” said Roxanne.

I shrugged and shook my head. “Whatever.” I had no idea what to expect but played along. Big deal, I was gonna walk across the street. Millions do it every day in Manhattan and no one notices. The light changed and the little crosswalk icon told me it was safe to go.

What happened next nearly made my jaw drop.

Because just about every man crossing in the opposite direction had his hanging open.

They gawked. They flat out stared. A young, hardbodied bike messenger heading around the corner stopped, tipped his sunglasses down for a better look, and said, “Whoa.” A cabbie going the other way gave me the classic blue-collar compliment of “Hey, baby” as he honked his horn and beat his hand on the side of the car door. A utility worker ten feet off the ground in a cherry picker got distracted and sent his bucket into a telephone pole. A man twisted his neck like an owl as he crossed the street in the other direction. I heard a clang and an expletive only to turn and see he had walked into a mailbox and was hopping around on one leg.

I reached the other side of the street to find Ariel laughing hysterically as she put down her phone.

“What the hell just happened?” I asked.

“Congratulations,” she said. “You’re now officially a smoking hot babe.”

***

The video rolled for the fifth time in slow motion, filling the giant flat screen in my living room.

“I love the look on the guy’s face when he hits the mailbox,” said Ariel, leaning back into my overstuffed beige couch while sipping a glass of red wine. She fired the remote at the screen and froze the video as the man cringed.

“I still can’t believe that’s me,” I said. “It’s like watching a stranger.”

Roxanne grabbed the remote from Ariel and started the video again, this time at half speed. “Look at that hair bounce. Am I good, or what?”

“It’s like there are invisible electric fans following her,” said Serena. “Rox, you’ve outdone yourself.”

“She didn’t just stop traffic, she made it back up.” Roxanne smiled and hit the pause button, then pointed a finger at me. “And I don’t want you touching your hair tomorrow. I’ll be here at seven to give you a comb-out.”

“Seven?” I said. “I sleep till eight.”

Roxanne shook her head. “Not any more. Beauty takes time. No more rolling out of bed and directly into a cab wearing a toothbrush as an accessory. Yeah, I’ve seen you do that.”

“Guess I need to start going to bed earlier.”

“Hopefully you’ll be doing that for reasons other than sleep,” said Ariel.

I looked at myself on the screen and it hit me. “Uh-oh.”

“Uh-oh what?” asked Serena.

“I just thought of something. I’m not sure what the reaction will be at work.”

Ariel furrowed her brow. “Seriously? You work in TV. The new look should be worth bigger ratings. They’ll be thrilled.”

“There’s more to it than that. I realize my business is superficial but it’s hard to be credible if a viewer’s first impression of you has to do with how you look. That’s one of the reasons I’ve never fixed myself up.”

“The other reason is that you had no idea how to do it,” said Roxanne.

“Doesn’t matter. I’m gonna get some flak for this.”

Ariel waved her hand. “Pfffft. They’ll love it.”

“You don’t know Harry.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Harry Coyne likes to use the phrase “back in the day” when describing the halcyon days of broadcasting. No computers but typewriters, and not the electric kind but the kind where the letter “e” got stuck fairly often. No printers but carbon paper. A huge black metal wire service machine that spit out an endless roll of copy and had to be “stripped” every twenty minutes by the low man on the totem pole. (Only because there were no women on said pole. Their poles could be found in strip clubs.) Ribbons had to be changed, film had to be developed, phones had hold buttons that flashed. And actual human beings answered them when they rang. People smoked in newsrooms and every reporter had a flask filled with something a hell of a lot stronger than Dr. Pepper stashed in his desk.

And back in the day, as Harry puts it, “A newsroom sounded like a newsroom.” Watch any movie about the news business made before 1980 and you’ll hear the journalism heartbeat of the past: the loud banging of the wire machine, the incessant tapping of typewriter keys, the spinning of the typewriter platen as paper was ripped out. The wire machine is now a boat anchor, replaced by digital news delivered to your laptop while reporters gently write stories on nearly silent keyboards.

I say nearly silent, because today as I arrived in the newsroom I couldn’t hear them.

Same deal as crossing the street. Everything stopped. Jaws dropped open. Hal, the kid producer, walked into a file cabinet. Audrey the newsroom secretary spilled coffee all over herself. I left surprised looks in my wake as I entered the conference room for the morning meeting, adorned in a stunning short emerald-green dress that matched my eyes, which Roxanne had worked on after my morning comb-out.

The loud conversation that usually filled the room every morning came to a screeching halt as everyone looked in my direction.

Jenna Scanlin, our thirty-something five o’clock anchor with the supermodel body broke the silence. “Oh my God! You look … fantastic!”

“Thank you,” I said, sitting down in my usual spot at the far end, opposite the head of the table, newsroom “mom” to Harry’s “dad.”

Stan Harvey the feature guy couldn’t stop staring. “Excuse me, but … who are you and what have you done with Belinda Carson?”

“Just thought it was time for a little change,” I said, twirling a lock of my hair.

“Little change?” said Stan.

“I’d give you a compliment but I see Inhuman Resources lurking in the newsroom,” said Bob Evanson, spotting the troll on one of her regular spy missions. “So I’ll just ask if someone can turn up the air conditioning in here.”

“You look amazing,” said Audrey, still trying to dab coffee off her blouse.

“Thanks.” I looked through the glass and saw Harry headed our way. “Nobody say anything. I wanna see if he notices.”

Harry blew through the door as he always did, dropped a bunch of manila folders and a yellow legal pad in front of his chair, took a seat, banged his chipped red coffee cup on the table and spilled a bit of it. He pulled a pencil out from behind his ear and looked up. His brow creased as he noticed me, then he turned to his perky brunette assistant who sat to his left. “Audrey, you’re supposed to notify me in advance when we have a guest in the morning meeting.”

Audrey, who’s my age, bit her lower lip, trying her best not to laugh. “She’s not a guest, Harry.”

People snorted, laughs were stifled. Harry slowly turned in my direction, pulled his silver reading glasses down to the tip of his nose and stared over them at me. “I’m sorry, do you work here?”

“Every weekday for the last eight years,” I said. “Maybe you recognize the voice.”

His eyes suddenly widened in recognition. “Cupcake?”

I smiled and nodded.

“What the hell happened to you?”

“Harry, you’re a real charmer,” said Jenna.

“In my office after the meeting,” he said.

***

I followed Harry into his cluttered office and closed the door behind me. Harry moved to the window that looked out over the newsroom and twisted the Venetian blinds shut, since the entire staff had stopped working and didn’t want to miss the scene about to take place. I heard a chorus of “Aw, shit” through the window. He started pacing behind his desk and shook his head. “I can’t believe you did this to yourself.”

“Did what, Harry?”

He started wildly gesturing in my direction. “This … this … hair, and … you’re in a dress.”

“Women wear dresses, Harry. Women go to the hair salon.”

“But not you. You always look the same. You’re—”

“One of the guys?”

“Yeah. I mean, you’re a real reporter, not the eye-candy fembots management sticks me with.”

“Are you saying I can’t be credible if I look attractive?”

“People won’t take you seriously.”

“You’re kidding, right? This is television news, Harry. Or have you forgotten we work in the world’s most superficial business?”

“You just took the brass out of the cupcake.”

I tapped my head. “The brass is still here, Harry. It’s just been polished a bit.”

Harry pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket, jerked it toward his head and popped one in his mouth.

“You know you can’t smoke in here, Harry.”

He rolled his eyes. “Shit!” He fired the cancer stick into the trash. “Back in the day we didn’t have these stupid rules … aw, dammit, now I’m going to have to get new promo shot, and all your billboards will have to be replaced. Your face is on a hundred city buses and subway platforms.”

“The other women in the newsroom change their hair all the time.”

“You’re not like them. And this is more than a change. This is like … like trading in a Yugo for a Mercedes.”

A Yugo? A 1980s Russian car? I looked that bad in my “before” picture? “Is that your weird way of saying I look good?”

He shrugged and looked at the parade of Emmy awards that sat atop the battered wooden credenza behind his desk. “Let’s just say it’s going to be hard to sell the best-looking woman in my newsroom as the best reporter.”

A huge smile grew on my face. “Thank you, Harry. Took you a while to get there, but I’ll take it.”

“Just tell me why you did … ” He looked up and waved his hands up and down my body. “ … this.”

What the hell, I was determined to have some fun. I pointed to myself. “This? By this you mean … ?”

“You know damn well what I mean!” His hands moved faster. “This! This! The hair is all … down and has curls and it’s shiny and … the dress … I mean, you’ve got legs for God’s sake!”

I playfully slapped the side of my face. “The horror!”

He exhaled. The man who had been like a father to me now looked at me like one for the first time. “Just tell me why.”

“Why? Because I’m tired of going home alone to my empty apartment, Harry. All the Emmys and the fame and my face on the signs in the subway and the big paycheck aren’t keeping me warm at night. My best friends told me I need to change, starting in a physical way. You said it yourself last week, that I have no social skills.”

“I said I was sorry about that. You know I’m not the most tactful person, but I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know. But apparently I needed some female skills as well. I need to put my best foot forward out there if I’m ever going to find someone who will love me.”

“Oh, geez. Not again. Every damn woman in my newsroom.”

“What?”

“I never figured you as someone who owns a biological clock. Tick-tock-tick-tock and here’s my resignation.” He plopped down in his beat-up brown leather swivel rocker and folded his hands in his lap. “So.” Long pause. “She’s gone forever?”

“If by she you mean the sexless woman in baggy clothes who didn’t own a pair of heels and was the only girl in the newsroom who didn’t kill the ozone on a daily basis, yeah, she’s outta here. But I’m still the same reporter. And I’ll never stop doing what I do because I love it.”

He pulled a flask from his top drawer and took a sip, one of his last remaining defiant acts available in the hellish time known to Harry as the present. “Dammit, Cupcake, I never figured you for a skirt.” (It should be noted that a “skirt” was the term used by men back in the day referring to women in the newsroom.) “I’m not sure this is gonna work.”

“What?”

“Politicians run for cover when they know you’re around. They’re more frightened of you than an IRS audit. You think any man is going to avoid you looking like that?”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Harry, if it makes you feel any better, I’ve still got a lot of work to do on those social skills.”

“Please don’t.”

***

My “tip line” started ringing the moment I got off the set at five minutes after five.

It’s an old, battered red phone that weighs a ton and it’s hooked up to an old-fashioned answering machine that uses a tape. Normally the thing only rings about three times a week. Viewers call tipping me off on stuff that they think needs to be investigated. Sometimes the tips lead to stories, more often they don’t. The stuff I get on politicians is usually generated by the other party and turns out to be bogus. But over the years I’ve gotten some great stories out of anonymous phone calls.

I needed some new leads anyway, having put the State Senator tale to bed as the guy resigned this morning. While there were a few things I had on the back burner, nothing jumped out as a big story.

I slid into my chair, tossed my script on the desk already littered with papers, and answered the phone. “Tip line, Belinda Carson … ”

“Hi, Belinda, thanks for taking my call.” The voice was young and female.

I shoved some junk out of the way, revealing a coffee-stained blotter that still had a calendar for 2006, grabbed a pen and pad, poised to take notes. “That’s what I’m here for. You have a tip you want to share?”

“Not really. I just wanted to say you look fantastic and I was hoping you’d share the name of your hairstylist.”

My head dropped and hit the desk with an audible thud. And so it began.

The tip line got a workout for the next ninety minutes, ringing non-stop. I didn’t get out of there till a quarter to seven, after fielding the following hard-hitting, investigative news tips, which would no doubt lead to Emmy award winning exclusives:

“Who does your makeup?”

“Where did you get that dress?”

“Would you like to have dinner this weekend?”

“Are your eyes really that green or are you using colored contacts?”

“What’s that shade of lip gloss?”

And my favorite:

“I’m married and would never cheat on my wife, but I just wanted to call and say you’re smokin’ hot.”

After the final call Harry walked by my desk on his way out of the newsroom.

“I noticed you were getting an awful lot of tip calls tonight.”

“Uh-huh.” I knew where this was going. Harry was wearing his I-told-you-so look.

“Any good leads?”

“Not one.”

“See what you started?”

CHAPTER SIX

Friday night couldn’t have come fast enough. I felt like my soul had been magically transferred into another body.

The old Belinda Carson, now known as “frumpy girl,” had apparently died last weekend. Oh, I was still the Brass Cupcake, but I had become that rare crossover hit in the broadcasting world, an “infobabe” who actually had credibility.

Not that viewers noticed the latter any more.

At this point I was totally conflicted. I was surprised, but I had to admit I loved the attention I was getting from men. Hated that my appearance had become secondary to my reporting talent. Loved getting dressed up and fixing my hair (which also surprised the hell out of me), hated that the first comment I heard in the newsroom had to do with my outfit or hair or makeup rather than the previous night’s story.

I would deal with it later, along with a bottle of wine that was chilling in the fridge with my name on it. First I needed a cab, one of the hardest things to get on a Friday night during rush hour in Manhattan.

Well, it used to be hard. I previously endured a yellow blur as taxis sped by me, often splashing me with slush in the process since I was apparently coated with invisibility spray.

Now I step one foot off the curb, raise my hand, awkwardly stick out one well-turned ankle in a stiletto heel, and it’s a lemon-colored NASCAR race to grab my fare. It felt weird, like I was in some bizarre dance class, but I’ll take it.

Ten seconds after I engaged my sexual hail, a shiny cab crossed three lanes of traffic and screeched to a halt in front of me. The rumpled middle-aged man in a business suit ten feet away who’d already been at the curb when I got there rolled his eyes at me.

I opened the door and got in, then noticed the new-car smell, which is rather rare in a Big Apple taxi.

“Where to, Miss?” asked the cabbie, making eye contact by using his rear-view mirror.

“1042 East 82nd, please.”

He didn’t pull away, and just sat there staring at me in the mirror.

“Well?” I asked. “Is there a ride somewhere in my future?”

“I knew it,” he said.

I furrowed my brow. “Knew what?”

I saw his eyes brighten in the mirror and then he turned to face me.

Oh shit.

“You! Vincent!”

“Oh, you remembered my name this time. I’m impressed.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“What does it look like? Driving my cab.”

“You said you worked on Wall Street.”

He shrugged. “Rox told me to say that. Besides, I do pick up a fare there from time to time.”

“So you’re a cab driver?”

“How very perceptive of you. I can see why you went into journalism.” He smiled, then gave me the once-over. “Anyway, like I said, I knew it.”

“I’ll repeat the question. Knew what?”

“That there was a serious babe under all those bad clothes.”

A tap on the window interrupted us. It was the guy who’d been waiting. I rolled down the window.

“Look, if you’re not going anywhere, can I have this cab?”

“No,” I said, rolling up the window as Vincent took off.

“You look spectacular,” he said, keeping his eyes on the traffic. “Huge improvement.”

“You lied to me.”

“Like I said, Rox told me to say that. Besides, you should be used to it in your line of work.” He hit his horn as another car cut him off. “And you never would have talked to me if I said I was a cab driver.”

“I don’t judge people by their profession.”

“Not what Rox told me.”

My jaw tightened, then I noticed the meter wasn’t running. “You forgot to start the meter.”

“No charge for one of her friends.”

“You’ll get in trouble with your boss. They monitor those things.”

“Pffft. I’m pretty tight with the boss. That’s why I got the new cab. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”

“I don’t want your charity.”

“Well, I can see charm school isn’t in session yet. When you get to the class on saying thank you, let me know.”

My eyes narrowed as I stared daggers into the rear-view mirror. He looked into it, locked eyes with me for a moment, and smiled. “Don’t you laugh at me!” I said. I was getting a lecture from a damn cab driver!

“Why not? You’re funny.”

“This is not funny.”

“Let’s see, gorgeous woman gets into my cab, I tell her she looks nice, she proceeds to bite my head off. Funny, don’t you think?”

“Just drive.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And don’t call me ma’am. I’m not old.”

“Fine.” Long pause. “Cupcake.” The sonofabitch continued to smile at me.

I grunted and folded my arms in front of me as my blood pressure spiked. A quick look out the window told me we only had ten blocks to go.

And then the cab came to a sudden halt.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Traffic. Maybe you’ve heard of it. It’s a concept involving too many cars and not enough road, which dictates that two pieces of matter cannot occupy the same space at the same time.”

“Wow, you got an ‘A’ in high school physics. Congratulations.”

I was trapped in taxicab confession hell. Last week I would have jumped out and hoofed it, but ten blocks in these heels when I’m only on week one as a five-nine woman would’ve killed my feet.

The silence was deafening. “Wanna listen to the radio?” he finally asked.

“Anything’s better than listening to you.”

He didn’t respond and turned on the radio. Sports talk. My pulse slowed down. I’m actually a sports junkie and listen to this station all the time.

The current caller with the Jersey accent was ripping the Mets ownership after making yet another ridiculous trade. “You tell ‘em,” said Vincent. “Worst trade in years.”

I suddenly forgot my anger. “No shit,” I muttered.

He looked at me in the mirror as traffic began to slowly move. “You follow baseball?”

I nodded.

“Football too?”

Another nod.

“Giants or Jets?”

“Giants,” I said, before hitting him with the old line designed to take any Jets fan down a notch in case he was one. “There are no Jets fans, only Giants fans who can’t get tickets.”

“You’re right about that. I’ve got season tickets for the Giants. Had ‘em ten years. Forty-yard line. Great seats.”

“Good for you.”

The cab sped up and the blocks began to pass quickly. I saw my building through the windshield and opened my purse as he pulled to the curb, put the car in park, then turned around. “Nice seeing you again, Belinda.” I pulled a ten-dollar bill out of my purse and handed it to him. He waved it away. “I told you, no charge.”

“Consider it a tip for the sparkling conversation.” I tossed the ten through the little window that separates the front seat from the back and got out of the cab on the driver’s side. I headed for the front door of my apartment building.

“Hey, forget something?”

I stopped. I saw that my purse was over my shoulder and my satchel was in my hand. “No,” I yelled. I didn’t want to turn around, so I started walking again.

“Oh. I thought this broom was yours.”

My jaw dropped while my eyes caught fire. I stopped in my tracks and spun around to face him. “What did you say?”

“You know, Belinda, next time your friends take you shopping, you might stop at a store that sells manners.”

He sped away so fast I couldn’t even get my middle finger up.

***

Several women stopped dead in their tracks and parted like the Red Sea as he walked to the corner table in our usual watering hole, which was crowded and noisier than usual. His eyes locked on mine like a heat-seeking missile. He slid his hand along the brass rail of the bar until he reached the empty chair next to me. “Can I buy you a drink?” he asked, as he arrived. The man was perhaps forty, dark-haired, about six-two, very attractive. Okay, he’s beyond attractive. Looked like a marine recruiting poster in a thousand-dollar suit.

Didn’t matter. I held up my wine glass, which was full. “Isn’t it obvious I already have one?” Sheesh. Some guys are so dumb.

The guy’s smile disappeared instantly. He shook his head and walked away. I caught the word “bitch” under his breath.

“Excuse me?” I yelled.

He put up his hand and kept walking.

“Real nice,” said Roxanne. “I can see we’re makin’ progress on playing well with others.”

“I’ve already got a glass of wine.”

Ariel rolled her eyes. “Good God, were you raised by wolves? He was just interested in you and being polite.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “But after a week of men hitting on me constantly … none of them even recognize me from TV any more. They just want to sleep with me.”

“Your point being?” asked Serena.

I took a sip of my wine. “Look, before all … this … ” I waved my hands down my body, channeling Harry. “Before all the hair and the makeup and the heels and the short skirts and the jeans that make my spunky ass pop, men used to come up to me because I was the credible girl from television news who they knew was intelligent. Now nobody even mentions it. Now I only attract men because of how I look.”

“Again … wolves?” asked Ariel.

“So,” said Roxanne, “you’re in this pissy mood because you’re suddenly hot and hordes of men are asking you out?”

“No, that’s not it. Not totally. It’s because I ran into your cousin an hour ago. The cab driver?”

“Bus-ted,” said Serena.

“Fine,” said Roxanne, putting up her hands in surrender. “So I told Vincent to embellish the truth a bit. Where’d you run into him?”

“I got into his taxi. You know, he’s related to you so you should say something to him about the way he talks to people.”

Roxanne looked puzzled as her face tightened. “Why, what’d he say?”

“He said I look spectacular and I’m a serious babe. And then we got into an argument and he said I obviously hadn’t been to charm school.”

“Let me get this straight … first he said you looked spectacular and were a serious babe,” said Ariel.

“The nerve,” said Roxanne. “I can certainly see why you were so offended.”

“Let’s back up a bit,” said Serena, ever the lawyer, “and ask the court reporter to review the transcript. You said you got into an argument after he gave you two very nice compliments, referring to you as both spectacular and a serious babe. Were said compliments the cause of the verbal altercation that followed?”

I put up one hand as a stop sign. “You had to be there. And stop badgering the witness.”

A waiter dropped by and slid an order of mozzarella sticks into the middle of the table. “Sorry for the delay on your dinner reservations. We should have a table for you in ten minutes. I brought you an appetizer on the house.”

“Great,” I said, not even looking at the guy. I reached across the table, grabbed a piece of fried cheese and shoved most of it in my mouth.

“I never noticed that before,” said Serena, as she watched me eat. She then turned to Ariel. “You?”

“No. It kind of went with the total package and I guess it all blended together. I can’t believe I missed it, considering my mother and all.”

“Noticed what?” I asked, my words garbled a bit as I talked through the cheese. I swallowed, licked my fingers and wiped them on the tablecloth.

“Your table manners,” said Serena.

I had a piece of cheese stuck in my teeth and tried to fish it out with one finger. “What about ‘em?”

“The waiter didn’t leave four forks as a garnish,” said Roxanne. She turned to Ariel. “You know what you gotta do.”

Ariel sighed and pulled out her cell phone. “I’ll call my mother immediately.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Ariel’s mother, Cassandra Baymont, is a best-selling author and magazine contributor. Not because she can weave words into a clever plot. Nope, her forte is non-fiction. Specifically, she’s America’s foremost expert on etiquette. You see where this is going?

We took a Saturday morning limo ride to the shores of Eastern Connecticut (I wanted to take the train but Mrs. Baymont would not hear of it. Besides, she’s loaded.) Ariel, her mother and I were seated at a posh restaurant she owns called the Hampton View. You can see the Hamptons with a pair of binoculars from the tables next to a window, hence the name. The place is only open for dinner, but because Mrs. Baymont deemed this the etiquette equivalent of DEFCON ONE she brought in a few staffers to serve us a private lunch.

And, you guessed it, to teach me how to eat.

I should mention the source of my current culinary habits. My mom died when I was two, so I was raised by a single father and four older brothers. So seeing things like people vacuuming potato-chip crumbs from their sweatshirts after a long day of watching football and shooting aerosol cheese into their mouths directly from the can doesn’t seem strange to me. Couple that with a career that often forces me to eat in the news car and wolf down whatever I can grab in ten minutes. The result is that Ariel said I resembled a starving man who escaped from a prison camp when I eat. She added that I had apparently never heard of the invention of the napkin, which no doubt accounted for my love of long sleeves.

So we were seated at the best table in the restaurant, next to the window overlooking the shore. Seagulls laughed and occasionally dove for minnows as the waves gently lapped the beach. Our round table was covered with a starched eggshell linen tablecloth. The cutlery was heavy Sterling silver. The place seated only about fifty people, but it felt like a museum, filled with beautiful antiques and framed prints of lighthouses. The walls were a deep red, while the twelve-foot ceiling was painted beige. The whole effect was soothing, rich and classy.

Mrs. Baymont was seated to my left. She’s in her early fifties and well-preserved, an older carbon copy of Ariel. Always impeccably coiffed and dressed, I can’t even imagine the woman in a tee shirt. Even though no one else was there but a waiter and a chef, she was in a lacy white blouse with her ever-present triple strand of pearls. She talked with that affected snobby lilt common to many parts of Connecticut’s most wealthy towns and old money. But she’s a sweet woman who would do anything for her daughter, and has always been very fond of me. Her manners are such that she’s never commented on my appearance, which I realized must have made her do a slow burn every time she saw me.

“Now, dearie,” she said. (She calls everyone dearie.) “Let’s go over the place setting and the various utensils.” A tall, slender middle-aged waiter in a white tux removed the large pewter plates and replaced them with bone china through which you could read a newspaper.

I raised one finger. “I have a question.”

“Yes?”

“Why does the waiter always remove the plates that are on the table when you arrive?”

“Those are called charger plates, dearie.”

“Because they’re from San Diego?”

Mrs. Baymont frowned.

“You know. San Diego? Chargers?”

She shook her head and politely smiled. “They’re decorative. The term comes from the middle English chargeour, but you don’t really need to know that for our purposes.” She pointed to the silver on the right of my plate. “Do you know why one fork is longer than the rest?”

I shrugged. “I dunno. So … you can get the food in your mouth quicker?”

Ariel snorted.

Mrs. Baymont widened her eyes and looked at me like a third-grade teacher. “No, dearie. That’s your salad fork. Each fork has a purpose. One cannot eat a seven-course meal with one utensil.”

I thought, why the hell not, I do it all the time, but I didn’t say it. (Not surprisingly, the “spork” is not among the silverware.)

So before any food even arrived, I learned more about the history, care and feeding of forks than I cared to know. And then there was the thing about the order forks are used and that you should always move toward the plate as the meal goes on. Apparently in this part of the world it would be nothing short of a scandal if you actually ate fish with your salad fork. It was like having an air traffic controller in charge of lunch. The instruction was so detailed and went on for so long I wished she simply owned a Chinese restaurant and we could deal with sticks. I began to wonder if spoons 101 would be as difficult.

My stomach growled audibly. Mrs. Baymont noticed. “Did you eat anything at all this morning?”

“No.”

“One should never dine while starving. The result is unbecoming for a young lady. A light snack before a meal can take care of that … rumble.”

I nodded as the waiter arrived and placed a steaming bowl of soup in front of each of us. I immediately grabbed my spoon but was stopped when it was inches from the bowl.

“Eh-eh-eh,” said Mrs. Baymont, as she wagged her finger. “First, you’re holding your spoon like a tennis racquet.” She took it from me, then manipulated my hand to the proper form and placed the spoon in it. “Think of it as holding a pencil, like when you’re reporting and taking notes.”

Now I really did feel like a third grader. And a naughty one at that.

“Okay.” It felt funny but I could deal with it. I started to dip the spoon into the soup.

“Eh-eh-eh.” Again with the finger.

“What now?”

“Take your spoon and dip some soup into it from the back of the bowl with the side of the spoon farthest away. Your motion should be away from you, the opposite of what you normally do. This way you’ll never drip any of the soup on your clothes.” She demonstrated it for me, and it actually made sense. Since my shirts often look like painter’s drop cloths, I figured this tip was a keeper.

I dipped my spoon into the far side of the bowl, lifted it to my mouth and took a sip of creamy lobster bisque. “Oh, that’s terrific,” I said. I looked to Mrs. Baymont for approval. “Did I do that right?”

“Yes, dearie. You may continue.”

Two hours and countless lectures on silverware, china and crystal later, we were done. Mrs. Baymont pronounced me ready for everything from a casual lunch to a cotillion. Personally I would draw the line at hoop skirts and parasols, but it was nice to know I was now approved to eat in public.

***

I leaned back in the plush leather of the black stretch limo, fat and happy after devouring everything from bisque to salad to some incredible veal to something called “intermezzo,” which I thought meant I had to sing opera during my meal but was actually a scoop of lime sorbet. We sped west back to Manhattan, the Saturday afternoon traffic pretty thin on the Connecticut Turnpike. “Ariel, that was really nice of your mother to do that,” I said.

“Are you kidding? She loves doing that kind of stuff.”

“Really?”

“Yep. It’s her mission in life to teach the entire world to eat with the proper fork.”

“It’s amazing how she knew all of the things I was doing wrong. And some of them before I even did them.”

“Well, there’s a reason for that.” Ariel pulled out her smart phone, punched a few buttons and handed it to me. “Last night at dinner when I put my phone on the table, I taped you as you were eating.”

I scrunched up my face. “You’re kidding, right?”

She shook her head. “I wanted mother to see what we were dealing with before we arrived, so I sent it to her when I got home.”

“Oh, for God’s sake—”

The video interrupted me. My jaw hung open like a trophy bass as I watched myself in a restaurant, literally shoveling food into my yap like a werewolf on a bloodlust bender, talking with my mouth full, and at one point using my sleeve as a napkin.

“Dear God, I look like that when I eat?”

“Did you ever notice you’re always finished ten minutes before the rest of us? I’m surprised sparks don’t come out of your knife and fork. If I was a guy and saw that I’d take you to that medieval restaurant in Atlantic City where you eat with your hands.”

“Sir Lancelot’s? I love that place!”

“I rest my case.”

I was riveted as I saw all the “mistakes” I was making, thanks to Mrs. Baymont’s instruction. “God, this is embarrassing. I can’t watch any more.” I handed the phone back to her. “Please delete this right now. It would get a million hits on YouTube. I can see the title. Brass Cupcake devours everything in her path.”

She punched a few buttons. “There. Gone forever. As are your previous eating habits.” Suddenly she got a gleam in her eyes. “Speaking of which, you have a lunch date tomorrow.”

***

If you had told me a week ago that I’d spend two hours getting all decked out to clean cat boxes, I would have said you were insane.

Yet here I was, after getting up at the ungodly hour of seven-thirty on a Sunday morning, finishing up my prep work for what could be a meal consisting of a hot dog from a street vendor. I felt like a teenager on a first date, eager to debut my new and improved self for a guy I’ve known all of two minutes. Last night I went out with the girls for a casual dinner and Ariel gave me a B+ on my new eating habits. She would have given me an A but I slurped up the last bit of soup by picking up the bowl. What the hell, I hate to waste food. Kids starving in India and all.

So I bounced into the shelter, hair all done up, eighty-dollar skinny jeans that made my spunky ass pop, tight turquoise gathered top, eyes decorated.

Diane lit up as I moved toward the counter. “Well, I was waiting to see if the new you looked as good in person as you do on my high-def flat screen.”

“And?”

“Amazing. I had no idea you were a beautiful swan. That’s not to imply you were an ugly duckling.”

“I didn’t think that’s what you meant. Thank you for the compliment.”

“You’ll be beating them off with a stick.”

“Already am, and it’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” I said, as I headed for the back wearing a huge smile.

“By the way, he’s not coming today.”

I stopped dead in my tracks.

Use whatever image you want. Air coming out of a balloon, wind out of sails, man’s dose of Viagra running out, whatever. My perfectly made-up face dropped. “He quit already?”

“No, he had another family thing today so he came in yesterday.”

Yesterday? Shit. “Oh. Did he, uh, say anything?”

“About what?”

“Never mind. Lemme go play with my cats.”

“Hey, that old Siamese you liked got adopted. Nice couple with a kid in a wheelchair that wanted a quiet cat.”

My favorite cat, Pandora, wasn’t there either. “Aw, I’ll miss her. But glad she found a good home.”

I shuffled down the hall, head down, the spring in my step gone. Most of the cats perked up as I turned the corner, and I did as well.

I crouched down and began to give some attention to each cat, getting purrs and licks in return. I was beginning to feel a little better.

And then I saw it.

A yellow sticky note with my name on it attached to the giant bin of cat food. I jumped up and grabbed it, then turned it over.

Sorry I missed you. Rain check?

-Scott

The smile I had earlier returned. I picked up a Himalayan kitten and hugged her close to my new blouse, which was immediately covered with fur. “What the hell, kitty,” I said. “Go ahead and shed.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Oh, shit. Already?”

The tip line was already wailing when I emerged from the morning meeting shortly after nine-thirty Monday morning. I would have let it ring but the ancient answering machine that had never flashed a number higher than three had apparently given up the ghost when the tape broke over the weekend. I had no idea who called, how many had called, or what they had to say, and frankly I didn’t care because no one had ever called with a legit tip on the weekend. The machine flashed hieroglyphics until I mercifully unplugged the thing to put it out of its misery and tossed it in the trash. Harry placed a call to the IT geek to set up voicemail on the number. No one ever thought to do it before because it was never necessary.

But the IT guy hadn’t arrived yet.

Stan Harvey occupied the neat desk opposite my pile of clutter, Harry’s theory being that the hardest reporter and softest reporter should “room” together and therefore balance things out as far as newsroom camaraderie was concerned. Stan, as you might imagine, is a character with a warped sense of humor common to most feature people. Around forty, with receding sandy hair and piercing deep-set blue eyes, he’s my height (well, before the heels, anyway) and thin, with that built-in mischievous look similar to Roxanne’s. Stan flashed his crooked smile at me as I arrived at my station. “Looks like your fan club is already fired up.”

“I’m never gonna get any work done.”

“It might help if you change your new recording with updated information each morning about your outfit, makeup and shoe preference of the day. Am I mistaken or is that shade of lipstick Desert Rose?”

“Bite me, Stan.”

I started to sit down and grab the phone, but Stan reached across the desk and beat me to it. “Allow me. Operators are standing by,” he said, as he answered it. “Tip line, this is Stan.” He listened a moment, his smile faded. He nodded and handed the phone to me. “Sounds like a legit one.”

My eyes narrowed as I knew Stan’s penchant for practical jokes. He recently Saran-wrapped the toilet bowl and shoe polished the seat in the private bathroom of the Inhuman Resources troll. Believe me, you don’t want to get on Stan’s bad side. Thankfully, we’re good friends. “It had better be,” I said, as I took the phone. “Belinda Carson.”

“Belinda, this is Councilman Jagger. How are you this morning?”

I rolled my eyes. The only time politicians call is to rat out people in the other party. “I’m fine, Sir. How can I help you?”

“We need to talk.”

“Sir, if it’s about your opponent in the upcoming election—”

“It’s not,” he said, just before he dropped a phrase that made my reporter’s radar go up. “It’s about something illegal I think is going on in my own office. And I need your help.”

***

Serena called right after the Councilman, asking if I could sneak away for a few minutes before lunch to watch her cross-examine a witness. I’d covered trials she’s been an attorney in before, and she’s very impressive. I had no idea why she wanted me at this particular run-of-the-mill hearing, since it had no news value whatsoever. But she said she needed to demonstrate something for me. Since the old courthouse was just a block from Jagger’s office and I was going to be in the neighborhood anyway, I hit her courtroom a few minutes before the judge hit the bench.

My heels echoed as I walked across the tiled white marble floor and slid into the row behind Serena. The ancient wooden bench was as comfortable as a church pew. “So, what’s so important about a harassment lawsuit? You’re not setting some precedent, are you?”

“Legally? No. For you? Yes. Watch and learn.”

“You got the plaintiff or defendant on this one?”

“Plaintiff.” She nodded toward an attractive thirtyish blonde sitting next to her. “Her former boss is a slimeball. She wouldn’t give him a tumble so he fired her.”

“And this is important to me … why?”

“Patience, grasshopper.”

Our conversation was interrupted by the bailiff. “All rise! The honorable Jennifer Trapp presiding.”

I’d been in Judge Trapp’s court before, and always enjoyed covering her trials. She’s a no-bullshit judge who’s probably the best-looking jurist in town. A redhead in her mid-forties, she looks thirty and has a body of a twenty-year-old, along with a taste for men in that latter age range. Her photo once ended up on Page Six in which she was accompanied by a guy right out of college with the caption Cougar Trapp.

Anyway, chances are Her Honor was wearing a skirt as short as Serena’s under her robes as she headed up the creaky steps and took a seat. (I noted she had those shoes with the red soles which I now refer to as anti-Christian Bales. Interesting.) Everyone else in the courtroom followed suit and sat down as the judge adjusted her robes and looked at Serena. Her red hair made a striking contrast against her black robe and the huge wooden seal of the state of New York hanging on the wall behind her. “Ms. Dash, you may continue your cross-examination.” She turned to the man who approached the witness stand, a scrawny, chinless forty-year-old poster child for male-pattern creepiness and reminded him he was still under oath.

“Thank you, your honor,” said Serena, who got up and started to strut toward the witness stand. Her tight black leather skirt was about six inches above the knee and her candy-apple red blouse low-cut enough to make any man consider (and hope for) the possibility of a wardrobe malfunction.

The seven male members of the jury were locked on her as she reached the witness. Conveniently, his eyes were at the level of her chest.

“So, Mr Harrolds, where were we?” she said. “Ah, yes, time to look at your personal life. Ever been married?”

“No,” he said.

She turned her body slightly so that the judge couldn’t see her lick her ruby-red lips. “Ah, single and available.”

The witness gulped. “Well, yeah.”

“My client is single as well.” She cocked her head toward her client. “Find her attractive?”

The man looked at his own lawyer, a portly older man with a gray beard, then back to Serena. “I suppose. That’s not why I hired her, though.”

“I see. She had excellent references from her previous employers, did she not?”

“She did.”

Serena moved back to her long wooden desk and picked up a piece of paper. “Exhibit five, your honor.” The judge nodded as she held up the paper. “This is a six-month review you gave my client one month before you fired her. Would you mind reading it for the jury?”

I thought she was going to hand the paper to the man, but instead she moved very close to the witness stand and held it just below her chest in such a way that it covered everything below.

The man’s eyes darted between the paper and her boobs, both inches away. “Danielle is a … very resourceful employee who is very … thorough. She has great … attention to detail and is an asset to the company. She … uh … has great skills.”

Serena then whipped the paper away from her body and fired a quick question. Now the only thing in his line of sight was her cleavage. “So, they’re impressive.”

The man’s eyes didn’t move. Beads of sweat began to form on his forehead. “Uh … ”

Serena then pointed to her face. “My eyes are up here, Mr Harrolds.”

Snickers filled the room. The judge bit her lip to keep from laughing.

The defense attorney stood up. “Your honor … ” he said in a pleading tone.

The judge turned toward Serena. “Ms. Dash, let’s stick to the questions.”

“Sorry, your honor.”

“Like hell you’re sorry,” said the judge. “But continue.”

She backed up toward the desk, dropped the paper along the way and crouched down to pick it up, giving the witness an exclusive shot down her blouse. “So, my client’s skills … ” The witness leaned forward to get a closer look. She looked up to face him from the floor. “They’re impressive.”

He was riveted to her chest. “Oh yeah.”

She stood up, turned and marched toward the witness. “I’m glad you find certain … skills … impressive.” More snickers in the courtroom. She walked back to her desk and turned to the defendant’s attorney. “Your witness.”

The defense attorney stood up, took one look at his sweaty client and said, “Your honor, a brief recess?”

***

Thirty minutes later I was having lunch with Serena in a bright, airy restaurant with lots of ferns, ceiling fans and flat-screen televisions broadcasting baseball. She got an early reprieve from court when the defense attorney realized his client had sent his case headlong into the shitter and wanted to settle.

“So,” I asked, taking great care to handle my fork correctly as my salad arrived. “How much was your commission on that one?”

“Can’t tell you since it’s an out-of-court settlement. But you knew that.”

“Yeah, I did. Just thought you might slip up and I could do the math.”

“You know better than to try reporter’s tricks on me. Let’s just say my client can buy a new car for every member of her family. And I’m picking up the check for lunch.”

“Why, thank you.” I gently speared some spinach leaves and slowly brought them to my mouth. I noticed she was watching closely. “I’m doing it right. Right?”

She reached over and patted my free hand. “Absolutely. I’m so proud of you, Wing Girl. Learning to feed yourself! It’s like a kitten drinking from the bowl for the first time.”

I smiled as I chewed, resisting the temptation for a snappy comeback with my mouth open. I swallowed, gently lifted my glass and took a sip of water. “So, mind telling me why I needed to see your flagrant manipulation of the justice system?”

“So that you’ll understand the flagrant manipulation of the dating system.”

“Wow, men like to look at boobs. Let me call the station so we can break into programming.”

“You don’t get it.”

“I get it.”

“No, you don’t. Men are already looking at you, but you have no idea what to do with that power.”

“Excuse me? Power?”

“Sweetie, you have the upper hand. And you can use it to weed out the clunkers. I used that power to win a trial back there. You can use it to thin the herd of prospective boyfriends.”

“So I want a man who doesn’t look at my boobs? Why don’t I just go to a gay bar? I thought the whole idea of this makeover thing and learning to drink tea with my pinkie sticking out was to get men to pay attention to me.”

“That’s just part of it. Phase two of your training begins tonight.”

“Phase two? What the hell is that?”

“Catch and release.”

***

Councilman Jagger’s massive office in the old municipal building looked like a sports museum. He’s an admitted fanatic of baseball and football, so the place is crammed with autographed baseballs, footballs, helmets, gloves and jerseys. Where most politicians have photos of themselves with presidents and heads of state, Jagger has nothing but pictures of himself with athletes. He’s pretty much out of wall space, as the numerous eight-by-tens have been haphazardly hung in a fashion only a man (or myself) would deem acceptable. The massive antique oak desk has a glass top, under which are so many signed trading cards you can’t see the wood.

All the guy needs is a pool table and a flat screen and he’s got the perfect man cave.

What makes Jagger different is that I’ve never had to investigate the guy. I may not agree with a lot of his politics, but he’s either squeaky clean or the best I’ve ever seen at covering his tracks. To be honest, I don’t really “like” any politicians; despite what you hear about all journalists being flaming liberals, I’m middle of the road because I’ve realized they’re all a bunch of egomaniacs who are full of shit, regardless of their party affiliation. But at least this guy has always been pleasant and treated me like a professional on the rare occasions we’ve crossed paths, usually at charity fundraisers. As opposed to perp walks, during which I’ve run into a few other elected officials.

“Belinda, thanks for coming by,” he said, as he got out from behind his desk to greet me. He’s too much of a gentleman and knows I’m a serious reporter, so while he noticed the obvious change in my appearance he said nothing.

He extended his hand and I shook it. “Nice to see you, Councilman. It’s been a while.”

“I guess that’s good considering the stories you do,” he said with a slight smile. He gestured toward the old maple chair in front of his desk and I took a seat as he moved back behind his desk. Jagger was in his late fifties, tall and fit, an ex-Marine who still sported a salt and pepper crew cut. His lean, rugged face and strong chin, along with piercing steel-blue eyes made me think he could re-enlist and head right back into battle without missing a beat. His tough gravel voice went nicely with the look, and has always conveyed the straight shooter attitude he’s had as a politician.

“I must say this is a first. I’ve never had an elected official call and ask me to investigate his own office,” I said, taking a notepad out of my satchel. “As you would expect, I’ve been trying to figure out any political motive you might possibly have.”

“Full disclosure, Belinda. You know I’ve never had a scandal attached to this office, and one now would hurt my re-election chances. I’d just as soon take care of this before it gets out of control. So you’re right, uncovering any wrongdoing would be to my benefit. But what’s going on is still wrong.”

“You do realize if I break a story about something shady in your office it will make you look bad anyway.”

“Not if you tell viewers that I tipped you off.” He didn’t have to say the word deal.

“Okay,” I said. “If I turn a story I’ll include that. It’s the truth, after all, since you did call me.”