CHAPTER Seven

The Xanax helps. On it, I feel less edgy and anxious. By the time Dr. Granola discharges me, I have come up with a plan. No more whining. No more waiting.

At home, I immediately start making phone calls. I have been in the business for decades; surely someone needs a prime-time anchor.

An old friend, Jane Rice, is my first call. "Of course," she says. "Come in and see me."

I almost laugh. That's how relieved I feel. George was wrong. I am not Arsenio Hall. I am Tully Hart.

I prepare for my interview with care. I know how important first impressions are. I get my hair cut and colored.

"Oh, my," Charles-my longtime hairdresser-says when I climb into his chair. "Someone has been going native." He wraps the turquoise cape around my neck and gets to work.

On the day of my meeting with Jane, I dress carefully in conservative clothes-a black suit and pale lavender blouse. I have not been in the KING-TV building in years, but I immediately feel comfortable. This is my world. At the reception desk, I am greeted like a heroine and I don't have to give my name and relief eases the tightness of my shoulders. Behind the receptionists are large photographs of Jean Enerson and Dennis Bounds, the nightly news anchors.

An assistant leads me up the stairs, past several closed doors, to a small office on the second floor, where Jane Rice is standing by the window, obviously waiting for me. "Tully," she says, striding forward, her hand outstretched.

We shake hands. "Hello, Jane. Thanks for seeing me."

"Of course. Of course. Sit down."

I take the seat she has indicated.

She sits behind her desk and scoots in close, looking at me.

And I know. Just like that. "You can't hire me." It isn't even a question, not the way I say it. I may have been a talk show host for the last few years, but I am still a journalist. I read people well. That's one of my skills.

She sighs heavily. "I tried. I guess you really burned some bridges."

"Nothing?" I say quietly, hoping my voice doesn't betray my desperation. "How about a reporting job, not on camera? I'm no stranger to hard work."

"I'm sorry, Tully."

"Why did you agree to see me?"

"You were a hero to me," she says. "I used to dream of being like you."

Were a hero.

Suddenly I feel old. I get to my feet. "Thank you, Jane," I say quietly as I leave her office.

A Xanax calms me down. I know I shouldn't take it-not an extra one-but I need it.

At home, I ignore my mounting panic and get to work. I sit down at my desk and start making calls to everyone I know in the business, especially anyone for whom I have ever done a favor.

By six o'clock, I am exhausted and defeated. I have called all my contacts in the top ten markets and on the major cable channels, and my agent. No one has an offer for me. I don't get it: six months ago I was on top of the world. How can I have fallen so far so fast?

My condo suddenly feels smaller than a shoe box and I am starting to hyperventilate again. I dress in whatever I can find-jeans that are too tight and a tunic-length sweater that hides my strained waistband.

It is past six-thirty when I leave my building. The streets and sidewalks are full of commuters coming home from work. I blend into the Gore-Tex garbed crowd, ignoring the rain that spits down on us. I don't even know where I'm going until I see the outdoor seating area in front of the Virginia Inn restaurant and bar.

I sidle through the outdoor tables and go inside. The dark interior is exactly what I need right now. I can disappear in here. I go to the bar and order a dirty martini.

"Tallulah, right?"

I glance sideways. Dr. Granola is beside me. Just my luck to run into a man who has seen me at my worst. In the gloom, his face looks sharp, maybe a little angry. His long hair is unbound and falls forward. Cufflike tattoos cover his forearm. "Tully," I say. "What are you doing in a place like this?"

"Collecting for the widows and orphans fund."

It figures.

He laughs. "I'm having a drink, Tully. Same as you. How are you doing?"

I know what he is asking and I don't like it. I certainly don't want to talk about how vulnerable I feel. "Fine. Thanks."

The bartender hands me my drink. It is all I can do not to pounce on it. "Later, Doc," I say, carrying my drink to a small table in the back corner of the bar. I slump onto the hard seat.

"May I join you?"

I look up. "Would it make an impact if I said no?"

"An impact? Of course." He sits down in the chair opposite me. "I thought about calling you," he says after a long, awkward silence.

"And?"

"I hadn't decided."

"Be still my heart."

Through speakers hidden somewhere in the walls, Norah Jones's husky, jazzy voice urges people to come away with me.

"Do you date much?"

It surprises me enough that I laugh. Apparently he's a man who says what is on his mind. "No. Do you?"

"I'm a single doctor. I get set up more often than a set of bowling pins. You want me to tell you how it works these days?"

"Blood tests and background checks? Condoms by Rubbermaid?"

He stares at me as if I belong in a display case for Ripley's Believe It or Not.