She’d given Bart the evidence on the drugs.
Oh my God.
She fled the shower, threw on her pants from the night before and a spare shirt she kept in Alex’s closet, then cabbed it to the station. It was quiet at eight-thirty, with only a few reporters at their desks. A frantic, covert search of Bart’s desk for the folder was unsuccessful. She sat down at her own, rested her head in her shaking hands and drew in deep breaths. Bart either had the file at home with him, which meant he might have read it last night, or he’d locked it in his drawer.
Either way, she was in trouble. Her guts churned in sickening recognition of how much trouble. Everything, her job, Alex’s reputation, was on the line if those interview notes were discovered. How could she have done it? Sure, she’d been stressed, but this was inconceivable.
She sat there, frozen to the spot, pretending to work until Bart came in an hour later. He gave her his usual whack on the shoulder and went off whistling to the kitchen to get his coffee. She rose and flew to his desk. There on the top was the blue folder. Heart slamming in her chest, she flicked it open, grabbed the notes and committed the most unrecoverable sin of her career. She hurried back to her desk and buried them in her purse for destruction at a later date. And hoped, prayed fate was on her side. Bart hadn’t said anything about the notes, and surely he would have if he’d read such explosive testimony?
Maybe she’d slipped by by the skin of her teeth...
A fine sheen of perspiration broke out on her brow. James came in and she suffered through a horrendous debriefing of her performance the night before, during which he confirmed that she had indeed done her chances at the anchor job a great deal of damage. But he wouldn’t know how much until he talked with management. Meanwhile, he told her, stay the course. Pull yourself together and see what happens.
She was only too happy to put her head down and do her job, but by the end of the day, her nerves were frayed beyond repair. Neither Bart nor James had said anything, she had no idea if they knew about Taylor Johnson or not, and she could barely prevent herself from lurching to the bathroom and throwing up what little lunch she’d consumed.
She was packing up her stuff when her phone buzzed. She looked down at it. A reminder of dinner with her mother. Oh God no. She could not do that tonight. She could not. Unfortunately, her mother didn’t pick up when she called to cancel and was likely on her way to the restaurant.
Her mother had a bottle of Chianti on the table when she arrived at the elegant little Italian trattoria on Fifth Avenue that treated its Hollywood clientele with an understated attention to detail Dayla loved. Her mother gave her a long look, rose and kissed her on the cheek.
“We’re drinking.”
Izzie collapsed in the leather chair opposite her mother. “I might need more than a bottle.”
Her mother gestured for the waiter to pour her some wine. “What happened?”
The same as before...except this time she’d fallen apart in front of millions of viewers.
Her mother sighed. “Everyone has bad performances, Izzie. Pick yourself up and move on.”
“Maybe you were right that day in L.A.” She fixed her mother with a belligerent stare. “Maybe I’m just not cut out for the spotlight.”
Her mother took a sip of her wine and set it down. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know,” she returned in an antagonized tone. “I like being in front of the camera when I’m out on assignment. Anchoring...that’s a whole other story.”
Her mother sat back in her chair. “You don’t thrive in the spotlight like your sister and I do. And you don’t have the same thick skin. You thought I was being unnecessarily cruel guiding you away from acting, but I was trying to protect you, Izzie. The pressure to be always on, to always look perfect...to never be able to escape the public eye no matter how much you want to.” She shook her head. “It’s unrelenting. I may have been a terrible mother, but I never wanted you to go through that. You’re too smart. You have too much to give. Look at those stories you do out in the community. You were always one of those kids who was going to change the world.” She gave her a penetrating look. “Maybe that’s all you need.”
Izzie stared at her, stunned into silence.
“If you get that anchor job,” her mother continued, “it’s always going to be about how good you look for how long. A glorified popularity contest. A political tug-of-war that will never end. Sure you can affect change in that role, you’ll have the power, but it isn’t going to be about the story anymore. It’s going to be about your image.”
Izzie twisted her hands in her lap, wondering where this mother had been all her life. “I don’t even know if I want the job...or if it’s even a possibility anymore.”
Her mother frowned. “So why kill yourself trying to win a job that stresses you out this much?”
Because I’ve never stopped trying to win your approval. Because despite the fact that I told myself I didn’t care what you thought anymore, I’ve spent my entire career trying to prove I’m good enough for you.
She blinked back the tears that threatened. Her mother reached across the table and wrapped her fingers around hers. “Live with it for a day or two, Iz. You’ll know what the right decision is.”
Izzie stared down at her mother’s hand wrapped around hers and felt her chest constrict. “I can’t have you walking in and out of my life,” she said heavily. “It’s too hard.”
Her mother’s fingers tightened around hers. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise you that, Iz. Not anymore.”
Izzie’s phone beeped. Releasing her mother’s hand, she dug it out and saw that the message was from Alex. He had sent her another one of his quotes. Courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. Nelson Mandela. How are you?
Her mouth curved.
“Alex?” her mother asked.
“Yes.”
Her mother’s gaze sharpened on her. “You’re crazy about him.”
Her smile faded. “Yes.”
“So why don’t you look happier?”
She picked up a piece of bread and buttered it with elaborate precision. “We argued last night.”
“About?”
“His ex-girlfriend.” She abandoned any pretense of eating and laid the bread on her side plate. “His stunning ex-girlfriend he almost married who wants him back.”
Her mother gave her a long look. “Do you trust him?”
“Yes.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“I don’t trust myself.” She’d proven that last night, hadn’t she? Her insecurities had cost her an anchor job and made Alex doubt her. Again.
“Maybe you should figure out why,” her mother said softly. “It’s clear you’re madly in love with him, Iz.”
She swallowed past the huge lump in her throat. “What if I’m not enough? What if he decides he’s still in love with her?”
Her mother’s mouth twisted. “Life is all about the chances we take. You can’t reap the rewards if you don’t put yourself out there.”
And hadn’t that night in London taught her that? Why was she having this huge regression? Was she determined to be a self-fulfilling prophecy? Or was her direction all wrong?
Her mother took a sip of wine and set it down. “You know how I remember you as a child? You were always the little daredevil, jumping off walls, falling off the balance beam, wild for roller coasters...” A smile lit her eyes. “Wild for trouble. You used to give us heart attacks. I swear I took you to the emergency room so many times when you were around six or seven they started to look at me funny.”