Love at 11

Chapter Twenty



FROM: “Richard Clarkson” <[email protected]>

TO: “Madeline Madison” <mmadison@news9. com>

Re: (NO SUBJECT)



Madeline,



PLEASE COME TO MY OFFICE … IMMEDIATELY!



Richard

News Director, News 9



So I was fired. No big surprise there. The next morning, as I packed my things into one of those big cardboard boxes companies always had on hand for such occasions, I felt oddly sad. Even though News 9 had time and again thumbed their nose at journalism and didn’t give a rat’s ass about all my years of service, it still felt like my home in a way. My family. I’d miss all the people—the photographers, producers, reporters, and editors, who worked so hard and put out such an amazing product for so little reward. They were the ones who gave me hope for the future. Perhaps when the old regime retired, when the underlings were given the keys to the kingdom, they could step in and make a difference.

Or not. Most likely not. But it was nice to pretend. As I packed, I harbored this insane secret hope that Jamie would waltz back into Cubicle Land, pick me up into his strong arms and carry me away to some fantasy place. Instead, an intern informed me that he had called in sick. Probably went up to LA to visit Jen. Even though it hurt to think it, for the baby’s sake, I hoped he’d get back with her. Kids needed their fathers. Look what happened to Lulu when ours went AWOL for even a month.

I closed the box—five years of memories packed into a cardboard square—and allowed the guard to escort me from the building. (I was evidently too dangerous to be left alone for even a moment, heh, heh, heh!)

I placed the box in the passenger seat and turned the key in the ignition. The radio blared to life.

“And in other news, immigration officials nabbed two men they say were involved in a major drug-smuggling ring, operating from a secret underground tunnel in San Diego. Rocky Rodriguez, owner of Pacific Coast Cars and Felix Lopez, the son of convicted Mexican drug lord Roberto Lopez, will be arraigned this morning in federal court. News nine anchor Terrance Toller broke the story two days ago in a startling exclusive ‘Terrance Tells All’ piece that’s sure to win him an Emmy or two.”

I clicked off the radio. The story was everywhere. And Terrance got all the credit. That was one bummer about being behind the scenes. The general public had no idea that all Terrance did was read a script. So he not only got to keep his job, he got all the credit. He’d even been interviewed on Newsline and shockingly never once said he owed it all to his ace producer Maddy Madison.

I shook my head. This wasn’t about me getting praise or promotion. It was about all the drugs the DEA had seized. Felix Lopez and Rocky Rodriguez going to jail. (Oh, what was News 9 to do without their advertising revenue?) It was about Immigration imploding the tunnel with dynamite. There’d even been reports on how the news story had probably saved the US from a major terrorism threat. Homeland Security had reportedly called super anchor Terrance and thanked him personally.

Bottom line? I’d made the difference I wanted to make. I’d saved lives. Like my sister’s. And countless other Americans. That was all that mattered.

But still, at the same time, it sucked the big one. I should have been fielding calls from the networks. Instead, I’d been scouring the Internet for TV stations hiring field producers. Problem was, my job was so specialized and the field was completely overcrowded, it’d probably take months—even years—to find a job like I’d had. After all, who would want some dumb local news hack who made a career of ridiculous “Products That Kill” stories and ended her last job by getting fired?

Answer: No one.

I had to face facts. There were certain things in life

I’d never have:



1) A job at Newsline

2) Jamie Hayes as a husband

3) A genuine non-counterfeit Kate Spade purse (Like with alcoholic beverages, you couldn’t buy one with food stamps, which is what I’d be relegated to if I didn’t get a job soon.)



My cell phone rang. I hesitated to answer the “private” number. Now unemployed, I didn’t want to rack up minutes on a wrong number. But after the third ring, curiosity got the better of me. I pulled over to the side of the road to answer, practicing my best cell phone safety. After all, no job meant no health insurance.

“Hello?”

“Yes, is Madeline Madison there, please?” a woman asked.

Oh great. It was a telemarketer call. That was worse than a wrong number and used up way more minutes. “Sorry, I don’t think you want to talk to me,” I told the woman. “I’m unemployed. I can’t buy whatever it is you’re selling.”

The voice on the other end chuckled. “I’m not selling anything.”

“Well then, I don’t want to take your survey. And I already know who I’m voting for. And …” What else was it that telemarketers always wanted? “… and the Visa payment is in the mail.” I crossed my fingers on the last one.

“I’m very happy to hear that,” the voice said, sounding even more amused. “It sounds like you’ve got it all under control. But about that unemployment thing …”

“Ah-ha! And I don’t need to make money from home!” She thought she could sneak that one by me. Yeah, right. I knew she wasn’t a legitimate employer type because since I’d only been officially fired less than an hour, I hadn’t applied anywhere yet.

“That’s good, because this opportunity would require you to show up at work.”

I was getting impatient. I had places to go, people to see. Okay, actually my afternoon was completely wide open and I planned to veg and watch soap operas. But still!

“Listen, it’s been real, but if you don’t tell me who you are and what you want, I’ve gotta go.”

“All right then,” the voice said. “I’m Sara, an executive producer from Newsline. We know you were behind the Mexican drug tunnel story and we’re wondering if you’d consider coming to work for us.”



*



“Omigod, omigod! Jodi, you have to meet me for drinks. Right now!” I screamed into my cell phone. “This very second!”

“Earth to Maddy, you may be unemployed and carefree, but I’m still at work, remember?” Jodi reminded me over the cellular airwaves. “I’ve got to finish writing ‘Celebrity C-sections.’”

“Celebrity C-sections?” I stifled a giggle.

“Yeah, you know. ‘Madonna had one. Posh Spice, too. Now you, too, can get your stomach sliced open instead of being forced to give birth the old-fashioned way.’ I have to get it finished for my edit tomorrow. We could meet up after work….”

Agh. That was totally unacceptable. I couldn’t possibly wait ‘til the end of the day to start celebrating my good news.

“Can’t you tell them you’re feeling sick?” I begged. “I hear there’s a nasty flu going around. Surely you can catch it within the next five minutes. For your best friend in the whole wide world?”

“Well …” I could hear the weakness in her voice and pounced.

“I’ll buy the margaritas.”

“Fine. One hour. At the border. But I’m bringing my logs and you’re helping me write the script at the bar.”

Woo-hoo! I knew I could count on Jodi to embrace her inner slacker! “See you there.” I hit “end” and pulled back onto the road. Before I headed down to Mexico, I had some shopping to do.



*



The sun beat down on us as we sat at a little outside table in our favorite Tijuana square. The rotund, mustached waiter had delivered our mango margaritas moments ago, and I held mine up in a toast.

“To new beginnings,” I said.

Jodi clinked her glass against mine. “Aren’t you sad at all about losing your job at News Nine?” she asked after taking a sip. “You seem rather jubilant, all things considered.”

I shrugged. “A little, I guess. I mean, it was a fun place to work. I spent five years of my life there. And obviously the circumstances of my departure were a bit on the sketchy side….”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Jodi said. “I’m really proud of you. What you did was amazing. Brave. Diane Dickson would have been proud.”

I grinned. “She is proud.”

“Huh?”

I laughed at Jodi’s confused look. I couldn’t blame her. She probably thought I’d lost my mind. It was too much fun not to leave her hanging for a few more minutes.

“I got you something,” I reached under the table and pulled my new purchase out of its bag.

Jodi’s eyes widened. “Oh, my God,” she cried, reaching over the table for the Prada purse I held up. “I’ve never seen this style as a counterfeit.” She turned the purse around, studying the seams, then opened it up to examine the lining. I had to laugh. She was such a fake purse professional. She looked up at me. “I can’t find one thing wrong with this,” she exclaimed. “It’s like you found the perfect knockoff. I thought they were an urban myth. Where did you get it?”

“Nordstrom’s.”

Her eyes widened. “They sell counterfeit purses in Nordstrom’s now?”

“No.” I shook my head. “They sell genuines.”

“But then …” Jodi stared at the purse, up at me and then down at the purse again. “You don’t mean this is …”

“Yup.”

“Oh, my God!” she screeched. “This is real?” She wiped her hands on her pants. “I hope I didn’t get margarita stickiness on it.” She cradled the purse carefully, as if it were a heavenly object.

“Merry Christmas. Happy Birthday. Whatever’s closer.”

“But you can’t afford—I mean, you’re unemployed. I couldn’t possibly accept …”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” I asked casually. “I got a new job.”

“You did? That’s so great! Where is it? Is it in TV? When do you start?”

I held up my hands, laughing at her enthusiasm. “One question at a time. Yes, it’s in TV. I start in two weeks. It’s in Los Angeles.” I paused for a moment to enjoy her shocked face. “You’re looking at the newest assistant producer at Newsline’s LA bureau.”

“No freaking way.” Jodi stared at me in joyous disbelief. She knew more than anyone how long I’d dreamed of this opportunity. “But … how?”

I shrugged. “They found out I was the brains behind the drug tunnel story. They knew all about me sneaking it on the air and everything. Said they admired my tenacity for the truth.”

“Who told them?”

“That’s actually the best part!” I exclaimed. “Terrance.”

“Terrance?” Jodi stared at me in disbelief. “As in narcissistic ninny Terrance Toller?”

“Yup. Remember how he appeared on Newsline last week? Well, they offered him a job. And he said he would only take it if they hired me as his producer.”

“I would have never in a million years have thought Terrance would stick up for you.”

“You know, he’s actually a good guy underneath that shallow exterior he portrays,” I informed her. “With insecurities and fears just like the rest of us. Fighting to survive in the cruel world of TV news.”

“So interesting,” Jodi mused. “But enough about Terrance. How about you! A job at Newsline—your ultimate dream come true.”

“I know, right? A new job, a really nice salary, moving expenses and everything. And I wanted to give you the purse because without you calling me on the carpet when I was going to sell out for that lousy News Nine executive producer job, I’d probably be stuck in ‘Products That Kill’ hell for the rest of my life.”

“Well, I accept it then.” Jodi said, pulling the purse to her lips and kissing it. “Thank you. And congrats. Of course, I’ll miss you tons.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m going to LA. Not Mars. I’m two and a half hours away.”

“Four with traffic.”

“Still, we’ll see each other all time. Every weekend.”

“I know.” Jodi rose from her chair and walked around the table to give me a huge hug. “Congratulations, sweetie. You deserve it.”

“Thanks, doll,” I said returning the hug.

After a moment of best friend camaraderie, Jodi pulled away.

“While we’re here, do you want to go check out the fake purses?” She frowned at the amused look I shot her. “You know, just to compare them to the real thing,” she rationalized, tucking her new acquisition under her arms.

I started to giggle. No matter how things changed in life, there were some things you could always count on. “Okay, fine,” I said. “Besides, I want to thank Miguel. After all, if it weren’t for him, none of this would have happened.”

“Totally. And he should be happy, too. After all, thanks to you, his brother’s killers are in jail.” Jodi’s eyes took on a mischievous gleam. “He should give you a friends-and-family discount from now on.”

“Oh yeah,” I agreed as we headed toward the shop. “And then I can finally get that Kate Spade purse with the sewn-on label.”



Hi, Sis,



How’s it hanging? This rehab place blows. Totally boring. If I have to do one more arts and crafts project I’m going to kick someone’s ass, big time. I mean, talk about incentive to get off drugs—just making sure I never have to come back to this hellhole would be a good enough reason for me. But hey, at least I’m getting well. I’ve even stopped puking three times a day.



So, they tell me during sessions that the ninth step to recovery is to say you’re sorry to all those people you hurt with your addiction. Well, I’m actually only on step two, but you know me––I hate to go in order. So here you are, the official Lulu/Maddy apology Top 10:



1. I’m sorry I stole from you.

2. I’m sorry I trashed your apartment.

3. I’m sorry I made you worry about me.

4. I’m sorry I let Drummer use your toothbrush to clean his hash pipe out. (Though he did rinse it out afterward, I swear!)

5. I’m sorry I borrowed your DKNY top and lost it and then told you that someone broke into your apartment and stole it.

6. I’m sorry I broke that window to make “The Great DKNY Robbery” more believable to the cops.

7. I’m sorry about that time I told your high school boyfriend that you still had a Menudo poster hanging on your bedroom wall. (Though for the record I never thought he’d dump you over that and tell the whole school!)

8. I’m sorry for the time I drew on your face with permanent marker during your pre–senior prom nap. (But honestly, it really did look like a cool henna tattoo.)

9. Oh and remember that time mom accused you of being preggo? Well, that pregnancy test actually belonged to my friend Dora, but she didn’t want her mother to kill her (they’re very Catholic!) so we told Mom it was from you. Since you were so much older, we really didn’t think Mom would freak as much as she did!

10. Hmm, can’t think of a tenth thing, but I’m sure I’ll think of more in the next few weeks. After all, there’s not much else to do here.



Your loving sister, Lu