"Do you get along with all of them?"

"For the most part, yes. There's this one producer named Charlotte whose work leaves a lot to be desired, and I've had to talk to her on a few occasions. I can tell she's not a fan of mine. She doesn't seem to like anyone else, either-unless he looks good in pants."

"Can you picture her doing this?"

"No. But you never really know what's going on in someone's mind. Or what they're capable of."

"How about the others?"

"Tom's seemed a little cool to me lately. Like I mentioned to you, he accused me of going around him. Yet that's hardly a reason to threaten me. As for everybody else, there's nothing really to report. If there's an issue at work, I speak my mind, but people take it in stride."

"So no one on the show seems to hold a grudge?"

"No. But the person wouldn't have to be on our show. There were other people from the network at the party. Some work on my floor. And all of them have access to it." I looked off, wondering if this was the moment to reveal a thought that had been percolating in my brain. Yes. "One person in particular jumps to mind," I said, glancing back at her.

"Are you thinking what I a.s.sume you're thinking?" she said, her voice hushed.

"You asked if someone had a grudge, and I can't ignore Vicky. She tore my head off in front of people and ratted me out to Potts."

"Have you seen her since the run-in that night?"

"Just in makeup. I had to sit there listening to her extol the virtues of Ambien. She didn't say anything to me directly."

"So what would her motive be?" Ann said.

I shrugged. "To throw me off my game? Or knock me off my perch? Maybe she sees me as a threat. The Queen noticing that there's someone else at court that people are starting to pay attention to."

Ann smiled. "Please don't take this the wrong way," she said. "You're doing a fantastic job-everybody thinks so-but you're still a minor player in Vicky's book. Besides, I bet she b.i.t.c.h-slaps about twenty people a day, and when she's done with one, she moves on to the next."

"You're probably right," I said. "But just for the record, she hasn't forgotten about me." I shared my conversation with Potts.

"Wow, that couldn't have been pleasant," she said.

"No, it wasn't. And that's partly why I didn't want to go to Potts about the doll that night-it would have felt awkward after my drubbing from him. Fortunately, the meeting wasn't all bad. He says he wants me more involved in the show, and he mentioned a big survey that showed viewers really like me."

"Oh, good. I heard that survey was in the works."

Our food arrived, and we took a minute to start eating.

"There's one thing I haven't even asked yet," Ann said, setting down her fork. "How are you handling all this? It must be very scary."

"I won't lie, I feel rattled," I said. "It's as if the person doesn't want to just wig me out but also undermine me professionally."

"Does it remind you at all of what happened before?"

"What do you mean?" I asked. Was she going where I thought she was?

"Well, your stepmother did creepy stuff like this, didn't she?"

Once, over a couple of gla.s.ses of wine with Ann, I'd related the broad strokes about my early years, and I'd always regretted it, not because I lacked any trust in her but because my stepmother, Janice, didn't deserve the airtime.

"That was years ago," I said. "I don't want to dwell on it." In my mind, I could see Janice's face-the piggy nose and the almost white blond hair, translucent and stiff as spun sugar. I could hear her horrible fake-sweet voice, too.

To my relief, the waiter appeared at that moment, cleared our plates and took an order for coffee.

"How about a walk along the High Line?" I asked once we'd figured out the bill. The restaurant was a couple blocks away from the stairs up to the park, which had been built on an elevated rail line once used to haul freight.

"I'd love to, but I'm due at a spin cla.s.s back uptown," Ann said. "If you'd like to do the High Line, I'll walk you there."

"Yeah, I think I will," I said. "It might help me chill a little."

As we headed north on Washington Street, her phone rang. She reached in her purse for it and glanced at the screen. "Darn, a reporter," she said. "Excuse me."

She stopped a few feet away from me. I'd always accepted the fact that her work involved plenty of confidential stuff, and the firewall needed to be especially strong now that we were at the same company again. But that didn't mean I wasn't curious. I saw a grimace form on her face. She caught my gaze and held it longer than normal.

"You've asked me this before, but the answer's always the same," I overheard her say. "We don't respond to inquiries about the personal lives of people at the network. Good day." Ann dropped the phone in her purse and strode toward where I was standing, never taking her eyes off me.

"That was an interesting call," she said, sounding miffed. Her irritation splashed in my direction.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"It's a reporter from Page Six. He wants me to confirm or deny that you're having an affair with Carter Brooks. Please tell me you haven't been playing me for a fool."

chapter 10.

"Ann," I said. "I'd never play you for a fool. You know those rumors have been going around from the beginning."

"That was the second call from this guy in five days. He claims you were seen having dinner with Carter this past week-and looking very cozy."

"I'm not having a fling with Carter." My words seemed to have the stilted cadence of a liar. "I did see him the other night for dinner, but it was simply to discuss the incident with Vicky."

Ann widened her eyes in exaggeration. "You don't sound very convincing," she said.

"Okay, if it seems like I'm protesting too much, it's probably because I do find the guy attractive. Despite my better judgment."

"You know, don't you, that it would be utterly crazy to get involved with him?"

"Of course. And I swear, the worst I've ever done is strip him b.u.t.t-naked in my brain, despite how hard he might be to resist."

"Resist?" she said.

"He's made it clear he's open to something. But trust me, I'm smart enough not to become another notch on his belt." I smiled again. "Hey, one of the fringe benefits of friendship with you is becoming more savvy about PR-knowing where the land mines are and how to avoid them."

She smiled back, appearing mollified. "Sorry to sound agitated. I just never want to be embarra.s.sed in front of a reporter. Besides that, this is a time for discretion. I mean, with this whole Barbie-doll incident and you in hot water with Potts, you don't want to exacerbate things."

"Wait," I said, feeling a pang of anxiety. "You think I'm in hot water with Potts?"

She shook her head. "Not exactly, but the point is, he's told you to mind your p's and q's and you need to do that. If he found out you and Carter were involved, you'd have a heap of trouble on your hands."

"What I'd love to know is who the h.e.l.l's spreading the rumors," I said. Restaurant staff were notorious for calling in gossip, or it might have been Carter's driver-or mine. Charlotte popped into my brain. I had seen her catch the look between Carter and me the day before.

"Maybe it's the same person who's doing the other bad stuff," said Ann. "I'd steer completely clear of Carter except when you're at work."

After bidding goodbye to Ann, I climbed the stairs to the High Line. As I strolled, I looked off to my left at the gleaming Hudson River, its small whitecaps sliced by crisscrossing sailboats, motorboats, and ferries. The sun was hot on my skin, but I relished the sensation-I'd been cooped up inside much of the summer.

Eventually, I let my eyes fall to the old railroad tracks that ran the length of the narrow park. The landscape architects had planted the s.p.a.ces between ties with tufts of gra.s.ses and wildflowers. It always stirred memories of the first summer I spent at my aunt Jessie's in the middle of New York State, when I'd been about to turn twelve. I'd wander for hours, sometimes with my bike at my side, crossing fields and dusty roads and train tracks that shot off to unknown places. I'd search for arrowheads and for wildflowers to press with my aunt. I missed my father so much that summer-sometimes I imagined him arriving heroically by train one day to scoop me up and take me home to the Buffalo suburbs-but it was nothing compared to the relief I felt from being out of Janice's clutches, away from her malevolent games and machinations.

In the beginning, she'd been sugary-sweet to me, seemingly eager to please. I was polite enough back-at least I tried to be-but I didn't have a shred of interest in being her little best friend, and I resisted her overtures. Soon afterward, the tricks started. The first involved the dress she'd made for me, the Liberty-print one that had matched hers to a T. One day my dress was just gone, nowhere to be found, and the implication was that I'd disposed of it. Other items soon vanished-my house key, my charm bracelet, homework, the leash for Janice's dachshund, permission slips for camp and school. At times I even wondered if something was going wrong with my mind.

And then the stains began to appear. Smears of food or mud or grease, all on my prettiest things. There was an ugly tear once down the front of a brand-new blouse. At first my father was understanding, but over time he grew frustrated with me. Even angry at times.

And then one day I discovered the truth. I'd begun keeping close track of my belongings, examining them before I put them in the wash or tucked them in a drawer, and I could see that Janice had to be responsible for what was happening. I searched her closet one Sat.u.r.day when she and my father were running errands, and stashed far in the back, I found a small box with most of my missing possessions. That night, as Janice chattered away with a friend on the phone, I led my father to the closet and showed him the box. Four days later he sent me to Aunt Jessie's, promising he would remedy the situation.

At the end of that magical but melancholy summer, I returned home, ready to start school. I was sure Janice would be gone, banished. But there she was, a sly smile plastered on her face. My father, it turned out, had believed her version of events, that I was the true villain, planting evidence against her. She intensified her efforts, locking me in a closet every day. By the end of the year, I was living permanently with my aunt. Though my father visited sometimes, I never returned to my old home.

I was startled now when I looked east and saw the street sign for Twenty-eighth street. I'd been so engaged in my thoughts, I hadn't noticed how much ground I'd covered. I spun around, wondering if I should retrace my steps to the beginning. To my shock, the senior producer Alex Lucca was standing a few feet behind me.

"Alex," I blurted out.

Had he been following me? I wondered, and then realized how crazy that thought was.

"Oh, hi," he said, looking surprised. "I didn't realize it was you ahead of me. I've never seen you with your hair like that."

His hair seemed different, too, tousled in front in kind of a weekend look that went with the tight navy T-shirt and jeans he was wearing. But his expression was as inscrutable as always.

"What brings you here?" I asked. "Is your place nearby?"

"No, but I do volunteer work down this way on weekends. And I like to take a walk up here afterward." He smiled. "There's something about train tracks that always beckons me."

"What kind of volunteer work?" I asked.

"At a halfway house, helping ex-cons with their legal issues."

"Nice," I said, impressed. "Is it partly to keep your hand in the law, in case you ever want to go back?"

"I just feel sorry for some of these guys, and it's a way to a.s.sist. I'd never go back to the law professionally."

I was tempted to ask why, but he'd delivered the last line bluntly, as if it weren't open for discussion.

"And what brings you down here?" he asked quickly. "You live uptown, don't you?"

"Yes, but I had lunch close by. And train tracks beckon me, too."

He c.o.c.ked his head back in kind of an "Ahh" expression. "Though the problem with these is that they end right here. I want train tracks that I can follow for hours. Of course, it would help if there were some cafes along the side where they serve a nice Italian rose."

It was one of the first vaguely revealing things I'd heard him say, and I smiled in response. "I a.s.sume from your name that a love of Italian rose comes naturally."

"Yes, my dad's Italian, though my mother's a hundred percent Irish."

That explained the dark hair with the pale skin.

"Fortunately," he added, grinning, "my father did most of the cooking."

I had a sudden inclination to ask if he wanted to grab a cup of coffee or even a gla.s.s of rose. It would be good to know him better, especially in light of everything going on. I let the thought pa.s.s. I had too much to do. "Well, I should be heading home," I said. "Have a good weekend."

He nodded and lifted a hand in farewell.

On the taxi ride north, a text came in from a friend, reminding me that I was joining her and her husband tonight for dinner with an eligible male friend of theirs. I groaned out loud in the cab. I couldn't do light and breezy, not with everything weighing on me. I pleaded a work-related emergency and begged forgiveness, though I knew that would be the last time she would try to orchestrate my next great romance.

I ordered in for dinner and ate the meal alone, feeling my thoughts darken as the day did. It wasn't just the doll that was troubling me. It was what might be next. Was something else in store for me? As I slipped into bed, I could hear the sound of my heart beating faster.

The rest of the weekend rushed by. I spent Sunday prepping for the Times interview. According to Ann and my book publicist, the reporter, Rebecca Cashion, was fair but hardly a pushover.

She arrived at my office at nine the next morning, a photographer in tow. She was fiftyish, cla.s.sy, with a laid-back conversation style. She took notes by hand though she was also recording the interview. I sensed that it was her way of slowing the pace down a little, making it easier for her to a.s.sess me.

The initial questions were about the book and my interest in exploring the secrets that women keep. No curveb.a.l.l.s. Then she segued into the show. It was no surprise when she raised the question of chemistry between Carter and me. "Both of you are single, right?" she said.

"Well, I am," I said, smiling. "You'll have to let Carter answer for himself."

She raised an eyebrow. "But he's not married," she said.

I laughed. "Well, he wasn't when I left the set on Friday, but I haven't asked him what he did this weekend."

I'd caught her off guard with the joke, and she laughed, too. "So it wouldn't be so terrible if the two of you became an item, would it?"

I smiled again. Keep it light, I urged myself. "Well, I don't think the network would be very keen on us using the open of the show to fight over whether the toilet seat stays up or down."

"Right," Cashion said, her face neutral. She glanced at her notes and reached to turn off the tape recorder. "I think that's about it," she added. I recognized the ploy. It was used sometimes by reporters to disarm you before they lobbed one last question, one that could catch you totally off guard.

"Great."

"Oh-but I do need to clarify a few points about your career. Do you have one more minute?"

"Sure."

"You broke into TV relatively on the late side. Have you felt that you needed to make up for lost time?"

"I am a bit of a late bloomer in TV," I said, "but that's not as uncommon as it used to be. Many people toggle back and forth between different types of media these days."

"Was the book part of a plan to turbocharge your TV career?"