The Last Good Night by Emily Listfield Read Free Book Online Page A

thinking. I wanted only to be in the car, the door closed, moving away from him. “It’s downtown. Look it up.”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œTwelve-thirty.”
    â€œAll right,” he said, and held the door open, watched me get in, and then closed the door behind me.
    I leaned forward and told the driver to go.
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    T HIS IS WHAT I thought later: How quick, how ready he was to believe me, to believe that I would meet him, after everything, after all.
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    T HE NEXT MORNING , I was working at my desk when Carla buzzed to remind me of the production meeting for the new magazine show Quinn and I were going to start doing the first Wednesday of every month. It was in my contract, in his. Actually, ever since the networks discovered how cheap and profitable magazine shows are, it’s in just about everyone’s contract.
    Everyone was already sitting in the conference room when I got there—Berkman, the director, Barry Fried, Quinn, Quinn’s agent, my agent, Jerry Gold. A platter of donuts and bagels sat untouched in the center of the table.
    â€œAre you ready?” Berkman asked as I sat down.
    I nodded and they ran the videotape of the new graphics, set, and music.
    Though the show, to be called In Step, had been in the planning stages for months, long before they settled on me as the co-anchor, there was still some uncertainty about its precise tone and pace, whether it would be mostly taped or live, and what the balance between hard and soft news would be. Often, it can take months on-air for a magazine show to find its rhythm. None was successful right off the bat, not even the hallowed 60 Minutes, if anyone cared to go back that far, and a network had to be patient for it to pay off. Berkman had hoped for at least a year’s commitment from the brass for our show, but he hadn’t gotten it. Still, ads had begun to appear in magazines and on the sides of buses: “Get In Step with Quinn Hartley and Laura Barrett.”
    Berkman got down to his list at hand. Though we’d leave a slot for late-breaking stories, the first show was slated to include an investigative report into welfare reform, an interview with Tom Hanks, and a talk with the secretary of state about the progress of peace talks in the Middle East. While Quinn and I would share the anchoring duties, other network reporters would contribute pieces. Everyone hoped a good scandal or a particularly sexy news event would happen our first week, but we had to be prepared if not.
    Berkman looked down at his yellow legal pad. “We’ve decided to go with Olivia Redding for the secretary,” he said. Redding was the network’s veteran Washington correspondent who was rumored to be furious I’d been granted the nightly anchor spot instead of her.
    Jerry leaned forward. “I think Laura should do the secretary.” He spoke in a gruff Bronx-ridden voice that clashed with his cashmere turtleneck, tweed jacket, and well-pressed jeans. His accent, purposefully unrefined, perhaps even exaggerated, was one of his trademarks, along with a year-round tan that he swore was natural.
    â€œI thought she was doing Hanks,” Quinn protested.
    â€œShe can do the star part next time. This time she’ll do the secretary.”
    â€œRedding has the contacts,” Berkman countered in an uninflected tone.
    â€œAnd she’s obviously been lobbying hard,” Jerry retorted. “The competition among reporters at your own network is worse than with their rivals. If that works for you, fine. Far be it from me to tell you how to run your news division.”
    â€œThank you, Mr. Gold,” Berkman replied.
    â€œBut,” Jerry continued, “the best way to showcase Laura as an anchor is to prove her news mettle. She should do the secretary.”
    Berkman leaned back. “I’ll think about it. Quinn, tell us what you’ve lined up. Do you think you’ll be able to get a quote from the