"Take a seat, please."

Honestly, I feel like putting this girl in her place, but I know I need to be careful in the hallowed halls of CAA, so I bite my tongue and take a seat in the modernly decorated waiting room.

Where I wait.

And wait.

At least twenty minutes after my scheduled appointment time, a young man in an Italian suit comes for me. Wordlessly, like a drone, he leads me up to the third floor and into a corner office.

My agent, George Davison, is seated behind a huge desk. He stands at my entrance. We hug, a little awkwardly, and I step back.

"Well. Well," he says, indicating a chair for me.

I sit down. "You look good," I say.

He glances at me. I see the way he notices my weight gain, and my ponytail doesn't fool him. He sees the gray in my hair. I shift uncomfortably in my seat.

"Your call surprised me," he says.

"It hasn't been that long."

"Six months. I left at least a dozen messages for you. None of which were returned."

"You know what happened, George. I found out that my best friend had cancer. I wanted to be with her."

"And now?"

"She died." It's the first time I've said it out loud.

"I'm sorry."

I wipe my eyes. "Yes. Well. I'm ready to go back to work now. I'd like to start taping on Monday."

"Tell me you're joking."

"You think Monday is too soon?" I don't like the way George is looking at me.

"Come on, Tully. You're smarter than this."

"I don't know what you mean, George."

He shifts in his chair. The expensive leather makes a whispering sound. "Your show, The Girlfriend Hour, was number one in its time slot last year. Advertisers were clamoring to buy time. Manufacturers loved to give away products to your audience, many of whom drove hundreds of miles and stood in line for hours to see you."

"I am aware of all of this, George. That's why I'm here."

"You walked off set, Tully. Took off your mic, said goodbye to your audience, and left."

I lean forward. "My friend-"

"Who gives a shit?"

I sit back, stunned.

"How do you think the network felt about your exit? Or your employees, all of whom were suddenly unemployed?"

"I ... I..."

"That's right. You didn't think about them, did you? The network wanted to sue you."

"I had no idea-"

"Unreturned phone calls," he snaps. "I fought like a tiger to protect you. They decided not to sue-thought it would be a public relations nightmare because of the cancer card. But they pulled the show, no reruns, and replaced you."

How do I not know this? "They replaced me? With whom?"

"The Rachael Ray Show. It's kicking ass in the ratings. Growing fast. And Ellen and Judge Judy are still pulling huge numbers. And Oprah, of course."

"Wait. What are you saying exactly? I own my show, George. I produce it."

"Too bad you don't own a network. And they have the right to air reruns exclusively for now. They aren't running them, either. That's how pissed they are."

I can't even process this information. I have been successful forever. "You're saying The Girlfriend Hour is done."

"No, Tully. I'm saying you're done. Who is going to hire someone who walks away without a conversation?"

Okay, so this is bad. "I'll produce another show. On spec. We'll sell it ourselves."

"Have you spoken to your business manager recently?"

"No. Why?"

"Do you remember donating a substantial sum to Stand Up 2 Cancer four months ago?"

"It was a gift for Kate. And it was great publicity. They reported it on Entertainment Tonight."

"A lovely, beautiful gesture, yes. Except you have no money coming in, Tully. Not since you walked. You had to pay off a lot of employee contracts when you stopped taping the show. It cost you a small fortune. And let's face it, saving money was never your strong point."

"Are you saying I'm broke?"

"Broke? No. You're still more than comfortable. But I've spoken to Frank. You don't have enough to bankroll production. And no one is going to want to invest in you right now."

I feel an edgy panic; my foot taps on the floor, my fingers curl tightly around the armrests. "So I need a job."

The look George gives me is sad. In his eyes, I see the whole arc of our relationship. He became my agent almost two decades ago, when I was low man on the totem pole at the network morning show. We'd been drawn together by our mutual ambition. He'd brokered every major contract of my career and helped me make millions, most of which I'd pissed away on extravagant travel and gifts. "It won't be easy. You're kryptonite, Tul."

"You're saying I can only work at the local level?"

"I'm saying you'll be lucky to work at the local level."