"Speaking of sleep," Stacy said to me, "are you getting enough? You look awfully pale."

"Probably not," I said. "Should we switch foundation?"

"No, this shade works for you. And it looks great on your skin. Even Vicky said so."

"Vicky?" I said, and then smiled. I didn't want Stacy to sense that my guard was raised.

"Yeah, she said she loves how dewy it makes your skin look on the air and asked me to try the same brand on her. But I do think you could use a little bronzer on top of it."

How was I meant to interpret Vicky's comment? Maybe she was counting on Stacy to pa.s.s it along, a feeble attempt at making nice.

The show that night was on fire again, all except the last segment. It was a story Charlotte had produced, and it was totally lame.

"Charlotte, that shrink had zero to offer," I told her as I hurried off the set. "You couldn't tell that in the pre-interview?"

"Of course not," she said haughtily. She had on a low-cut jersey top, as if planning a pub crawl after the show. "Well, when I interviewed him, he didn't sound lame."

Before I could respond to her snippiness, I heard Tom say he was calling a postmortem with all the producers and interns. I was sure it had to do partly with that segment.

I rushed back to my office, blotted off the top layer of my makeup, and grabbed a notebook to take upstairs. It was the kind of brownnosy gesture that appealed to Potts. When I arrived, I saw that the outer office where the a.s.sistant sat was deserted, but I spotted Potts through the doorway, studying a piece of paper at his desk. The side of his thumb was pressed against his thick bottom lip. Sensing my presence, he glanced up. "Robin, come in," he said, lifting his beefy body from the chair. He stood just long enough for me to take a seat across from him. He had one of his two TVs on, turned low to the program that followed The Pulse.

"Nice show tonight," he said. "Though the last segment left me cold."

"Agree. It wasn't very strong," I said. Potts was a blowhard, and I'd learned enough about him to know that you didn't try to contradict his opinion on a show or segment. "Good topic, I think, but we needed better guests."

"People were probably too busy watching you and Carter to notice. You two are doing a great job-of course, I don't need to tell you that. You see the ratings, you hear the talk."

Good, I thought. So this was a be-nice-to-the talent meeting. "I like hearing it from you."

"And your book," he said. "I'll be honest-at first I was worried the timing was bad, that it would be a distraction just when you're trying to get your feet wet again, but it seems to be helping. The more buzz, the better."

I didn't appreciate the comment about the book. Hadn't he done the math and realized that it had been in the works long before I joined the network?

"Yes," I said. "And I think Ann would agree."

"One thing I've been thinking lately?" Potts said, raising a bristly gray eyebrow. "The plan was for you to play sidekick to Carter, at least in the beginning, but the time's come to up your presence on the show, let you take the lead on occasion. I'll discuss that with Tom."

"That sounds great," I said. "I have a lot more to offer." This was exactly what I'd been hoping for.

Potts hoisted himself up and toward the back of the chair and then set his elbows on the desk. He had something on his mind, I realized. Something besides compliments.

"That's not the main reason I asked you to stop by," he said. "There's another matter to discuss."

His tone was sober, stern almost, and he widened his body. That's what cobras did, I thought, right before they struck. My stomach dipped. "Okay," I said.

"Have you ever heard that old line about a college president? That his three jobs are to provide parking for the faculty, s.e.x for the students, and athletics for the alumni? Well, you know what my two jobs are?" He flipped open a hand the size of a bear paw in a gesture that urged me to guess.

I forced a smile, wondering where the h.e.l.l this was going. "I could make a stab at it," I said. "But I'd love to hear it from you."

"To be the number one cable network for talk shows-that's going to happen one day, by the way. And to keep Vicky Cruz as happy as possible."

So this was about Vicky. I couldn't believe it. But maybe Potts just wanted my take on the Baylor incident.

"That makes sense," I said, keeping my voice even.

"Good, because we need to discuss that. Vicky's been unhappy lately. And you've apparently done a few things to make her that way."

chapter 8.

Potts's accusation smarted, like a slap to the face. So Vicky had gone to him, b.i.t.c.hing specifically about me.

"Dave, I a.s.sume you mean the fact that we booked Jack Baylor as a guest on our show," I said.

"Baylor's under contract with The Vicky Cruz Show," he said. "I know she's insanely territorial, but that's part of what makes her so d.a.m.n good, and we have to respect that. We can't be poaching her people."

"I understand completely," I said. I felt a surge of both frustration, and anger, but I knew I had to stay in control, to manage this. "Unfortunately, we weren't told that Baylor was a regular on her show. We're actually setting up a system now-"

Potts waved his hand as if he'd heard all he ever needed to know on the subject. "That's not what bothers me most," he said. "You can't be consulting with her producers or coming after the kind of topics she covers on her show."

I stared blankly at him in complete confusion. What was he talking about? "But-I don't even know her producers," I said finally. "I mean, I know their faces, but I don't think I've ever said more than h.e.l.lo to any of them."

"Well, not you directly. But you sent your intern to talk to them. Pick their brains, ask for their sources. That's not right."

"My intern?" I said. Even as I uttered the word, I knew. Maddy. She had obviously called one of Vicky's producers about the crime stories.

"I'm terribly sorry," I said. I was scrambling now. "I did ask my intern to research possible crime segments. I-"

"Is this something Tom wanted to pursue?"

"No, I haven't had a chance to run it by him yet. I've been a.n.a.lyzing our ratings and noticed they spiked when we feature crime stories. But I never suggested my intern talk to Vicky's producers. She must have-"

"Look, I don't need to know all the minutiae. The point is that people can't be going behind Vicky's back or using her team. And I know we said you guys could cover crime, but for now that's gotta be Vicky's bailiwick."

"There were no plans to jump in and do it yet. I was just explor-"

"Like I said, I don't care about the details. I just need your a.s.surance that you'll back off. Five years ago, this network brought Vicky in to goose the ratings, and luckily for us, she didn't just goose them, she jabbed them in the a.s.s with an ice pick. We can't lose sight of that."

Part of me wanted to insist that he hear my side of the story, force him to recognize that there'd been a terrible misunderstanding. But a stronger voice told me not to press, that I'd only try his patience and make matters worse.

"Absolutely," I said.

"Look, Robin, I respect your ambition," he said, shifting in his chair. "You don't land where you are in this business without a surplus of it. You've got the talent, too. I just saw results from a survey we did-beyond the usual Q-rating stuff-and viewers really cotton to you. You're natural, accessible. But the best strategy for you is to rein in that ambition for the moment and focus on what's right in front of you. And that means the d.a.m.n show, not your career. Over time, everything's going to fall into place for you."

"Of course," I said. "The show is always first and foremost for me." I smiled, all nicey-nice. But inside I was steaming.

"Good," Potts said. He punctuated the word with a big smile and nod, as if he'd just offered me front-row seats to a Knicks game and was feeling fabulously benevolent. "Well, I've kept you long enough," he added. "I'm sure you're eager to head home."

By the time I reached my office, I couldn't even remember the last few moments with Potts, just my overwhelming desire to tear out of there. I was more than livid now. At both Vicky and Potts. I flung the unused notebook on my desk so hard that it skidded.

I grabbed my phone, ready to call for my car. But I stopped. I wanted to cool down first and a.n.a.lyze the situation.

It was hard for me to tell what I was most p.i.s.sed about. I hated the fact that Potts hadn't allowed me to get a word in edgewise. He seemed to have the attention span of a goldfish. Plus, he'd painted me as some ruthless career chick, a modern-day version of Eve Harrington. Men like Potts always put you in a double bind. They demanded fire in the belly but only as long as it wasn't too hot or didn't interfere with their own blazing needs. How naive I'd been to think I was being called upstairs so he could toss a few props my way.

But none of it would have happened if Vicky hadn't ratted me out over the most minor of offenses. If she thought she could roll over me, she was dead wrong.

And then there was Maddy. I couldn't believe she'd been stupid enough to pump producers from another show for info-unless Vicky had distorted the details to Potts. And it wasn't Maddy's only transgression lately. She'd deceived me at the party and failed to correctly vet a guest the other night. I was happy to play mentor, but not if her actions bit me in the b.u.t.t.

I wondered how much of a hit I'd taken tonight. Potts had praised the show, mentioned that viewers liked me, that he even wanted to expand my role. There was no way my job could be in any kind of jeopardy. But there was a blemish on my performance now, one that a guy like Potts wouldn't forget. I could just hear him punctuating what he said about me to others with a comment like "Unfortunately, she's sometimes too d.a.m.n ambitious for her own good."

Though I'd warned myself to stay off Vicky's enemies' list, I was clearly on it now.

I realized I should call Richard, my agent, and fill him in. And I knew what he'd say: "Robin, why wouldn't you have alerted me in advance to the meeting?" I'd have to endure the chiding. Because I needed his counsel, needed to know if damage control had to be done.

It was 8:25. He was probably just sitting down at one of his favorite watering holes, Michael's or the Four Seasons. I punched in his cell number. When the call went to voice mail, I asked him to try to reach me as soon as he could.

I planned to call Maddy first thing in the morning, to hear her version of the story, but staring at my cell phone, I realized I didn't want to wait. I tapped her number, and she answered on the first ring.

"Hi, Robin," she said breezily.

"Are you somewhere you can talk?" I asked.

"Yes, I'm actually still at work. We had that postmortem meeting, and I was just grabbing a latte in the cafeteria before I leave. Is something the matter?"

It would be better, I knew, to have the conversation face-to-face, but I was too incensed to wait. "Did you talk to any of Vicky Cruz's producers about the crime segments?"

There was a pause. She'd heard the anger in my voice and was probably trying to guess the cause. "You mean the ones we discussed yesterday, right?"

"Exactly."

"Um, yes. I spoke to this guy Jeremy. But I didn't tell him specifically what I was working on. I would never do that."

"That's not the point, Maddy." I said. "Tell me precisely what you said to him."

"I just asked him how to get ahold of, you know, police reports, that sort of thing."

"Was there more than one conversation?"

"Uh, no-I mean, I don't think so. No, I talked to him once, and then I think I emailed him with a couple of follow-up questions. Was I not supposed to or something?"

"No, you're not supposed to or something," I snapped. "You don't ever go to a producer on another show and troll for info."

"G.o.d, I'm so sorry, Robin. Just so you know, he's become a friend of mine. It was really a question from one friend to another."

"You may think of him as a friend, but he clearly views you as a member of the enemy camp. Because he informed Vicky about it. And now I've been told."

"Oh my G.o.d. I didn't-"

"Look, the stakes are high here, so you have to do as I tell you. If I ask you to research, then research. If you get an idea to try something that's not what I've told you to do, like to ask someone for help, then you need to check with me to see if it's okay. Understood? And leave the crime research alone."

"Yes. Yes, I understand."

"I know you meant well," I said, letting my voice soften. "And I want you to have more responsibility. But you can't make a.s.sumptions and then just act on them. I know Alex talked to you about this, too."

"Okay," Maddy said. "I'll check with you on everything." Over the phone, I couldn't decipher whether her tone was remorseful or sullen.

"And do not breathe a word to this Jeremy guy about our discussion. It will only make matters worse."

"Should I ignore him, then?"

"No, no, don't do that," I said quickly. "It's too obvious. But don't engage in any more conversations. He clearly can't be trusted."

"Okay . . . Is my internship in trouble?"

"No. But I need to know you'll be careful going forward."

I signed off and sat for a minute more, mulling over the conversation. Vicky had clearly trumped up the details to Potts. At the same time, I would have to keep a better eye on Maddy. She'd seemed to do more than an adequate job during the first couple of months, but I didn't like what I was seeing about her judgment. I felt a momentary urge to call Ann and ask for her take on the situation, but I quickly dismissed it. I couldn't keep running to her about everything.

There were other friends I knew I could phone, people who would listen, but since the show had been on the air, I'd been an absentee gal pal, so how could I lay all this on someone? "I know we haven't talked lately, but can I get your advice now? The network diva is up my grille."

I had to figure it out myself. Watch my own back. Be smart. Take control.

The phone on my desk rang, startling me. I glanced at the screen, thinking it might be Richard trying my office instead of my cell. But the screen said Edit Room.

When I answered, my h.e.l.lo came out tentatively. I couldn't imagine who'd be calling me from the edit room at this hour. No one said anything, but I could hear faint sounds in the background, as if the person had his attention momentarily diverted. I wondered if it might be Tom.

"h.e.l.lo?" I said again. Nothing. I tossed the phone back into the cradle.

I packed up quickly for the night, desperate to flee. As I was stuffing papers into my tote bag, the phone rang again. Once again, the screen said Edit Room.

"Yes?" I said, answering it.

In the background, I could hear a weird, dull hum but nothing more.

"h.e.l.lo," I said, this time not disguising my impatience. No one said anything. There seemed to be a problem with the connection. I glanced at my watch. Ten of nine. There was a chance it was Tom, and if so, it could be important.

With my tote bag over my shoulder, I flicked off my desk lamp and headed out to the corridor. There was no one in the immediate vicinity, though down the hall to the right, I could hear the murmur of voices coming from the makeup room. I turned left, and when I reached the T of the hallway, I made another left. Halfway down the corridor, I could see that the light in the editing room was on and the door was ajar. Reaching the entrance, I pushed it all the way open.

Except for all the monitors along the wall, the room was empty.

I had no clue what was going on, and I didn't have the patience to find out. I'd turned to leave when I heard a noise in the corridor. I pivoted all the way around. To my surprise, I saw Ann walking past the doorway. Sensing a presence, she jerked in surprise and looked quickly into the editing room.