The Last Good Night by Emily Listfield Read Free Book Online

how many television personalities would kill to have a feature in Vanity Fair ?”
    â€œI’m not a ‘personality,’ I’m a news anchor.”
    â€œOf course. Look, if you’re worried about your image, they’ve assured me they have every intention of treating you seriously. We’re not talking glamour girl shots here.”
    â€œI need to think about it.”
    Susan frowned. “You’re not going to give me this ‘I don’t owe the public anything’ crap, are you?” she asked. “They’re the ones that keep you in business. The fastest way to get in trouble is to forget that.”
    â€œI’m not forgetting it.”
    â€œSo?” She leaned forward.
    It was too late, I was beginning to see that now. Too late to stop it, control it. Any of it.
    I looked away, said nothing.
    She took my silence as a yes. “Talk about your baby a lot, okay?” Susan suggested brightly. “They love stuff like that. It’ll humanize you. And babies always help ratings. Look at Katie Couric. Look at fucking Kathie Lee Gifford.”
    â€œI can think of people I’d rather look at,” I groaned. And then, more seriously, “I’d like to leave my daughter out of this.”
    â€œJust think about it.”
    â€œAll right. Listen,” I said as she began to turn the doorknob to leave, “would you mind arranging for a studio car for me tonight?”
    â€œOf course not. Why?”
    â€œNo reason. I just had trouble getting a cab last night.”
    â€œNo problem. We can have one every night if you’d like.”
    â€œMaybe that would be a good idea.”
    She smiled and I saw in her face a flicker of both condescension and relief. I would be like all of them, then. Grabbing all the perks, suddenly convinced that we deserved them.
    Â 
    O N THE NEWSCAST that evening, Quinn leaned forward with a veneer of interest across his famously taut face and asked me a complicated question about the exact percentage of proposed cuts in Medicare under the President’s proposal, but I was ready for him. Everyone agreed that there was a level of energy, of concentration, almost a feverish competence to my work. If I sweat, it didn’t show. And I certainly didn’t banter. Jerry called right after the broadcast to say I was beginning to look more relaxed, beginning to look like I belonged.
    I left the building at 7:46.
    I saw the studio’s black town car waiting for me by the curb. Relieved, I pushed open the glass doors and walked across the three yards of sidewalk to the car. At my approach, the uniformed driver got out of the front seat and stood holding theback door open for me. I was just bending my head to get in when I felt a tug at my arm.
    I looked up, startled.
    Jack returned my gaze and tightened his hold, squeezing my arm beneath my heavy coat.
    The driver stepped up to protect me. “Hey,” he said loudly. “What do you think you’re doing?”
    I swung around, fearful of loud voices, of commotion, attention. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the matte gold network logo looking down on us. “It’s okay. I know him,” I said, smiling wanly to reassure the driver. “We just need to talk for a minute.”
    The driver stood still for a moment and then walked reluctantly around to the front of the car and got in.
    I straightened up and looked at Jack. His lips were tucked into his teeth and the lightly tanned skin of his cheeks fell into deep creases.
    â€œWhere are you going?” he asked.
    â€œHome.”
    â€œWhat about us?” He held my arm with one hand, the open door with the other. “We need to talk.”
    Through the building’s glass doors and windows, I saw the receptionist watching me intently.
    â€œNot here.”
    â€œThat’s what you said yesterday.”
    â€œTomorrow.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œCafé del Petore,” I answered without