I can’t help but smile. I did nail it, I think as I remember the interview.
Even though the associate producer had given me a stack of research, I’d stayed up half the night doing my own prep work. And as I arrived at the studio hours before anyone else, reading and rereading my materials in my office, I’d felt more ready for the interview than I had about anything in my life. But a few minutes before the taping, when I’d gone to Ryan McKnight’s dressing room to meet him, I’d caught him looking at a picture of his five-year-old daughter, Penelope, his eyes filled with tears. I’d left the dressing room quietly, before he could see me. And during the interview I’d used what I’d seen. I’d thought about my own daughters and I’d asked him what he’d do if someone were unfaithful to Penelope. He was instantly in tears. Then I’d gone for it. I’d asked him what he’d say to his wife now if he could. I’d told him to look into the camera, to pretend he was talking to her. And he’d started sobbing again. And I knew I’d gotten the interview. No one else had Ryan McKnight crying.
Long after they’d taken off my mic, removed my makeup, and fed the promos out to the stations, I sat alone on the set, staring up at the thousands of lights, letting it all sink in. Just weeks ago, the closest I ever came to a celebrity as huge as Ryan McKnight was by seeing him on the cover of a magazine while checking out at the grocery store. Now, not only had I interviewed him, I got the interview with him that no one else could.
The executives give each other another high-five and it snaps me out of my thoughts. “If Casey keeps this up, who knows what could happen. She could even be ready for her own show.”
Her own show. This is her dream. To be free of Dean. To be the star. My first instinct is to call her. But then I remember. She didn’t interview Ryan McKnight. I did. And I feel a pain deep inside. She’s not going to like this. She’s not going to like this at all. But then I can’t help it. I think of dinner last night and I smile. I smile for me. Because I did this. I made a choice in her life the same way she did in mine. And who knows? Maybe we’re both better for it. Suddenly I remember what the psychic said: Could this be the promotion she was talking about? She said she didn’t know the context, but couldn’t this be it?
“Wow. That will be an amazing opportunity for her,” Charlie says sincerely and I want to hug him. After everything, he’s still her biggest champion, her biggest fan. I wish she knew that.
“We’re already tossing around ideas. All preliminary of course. But if things continue, if Casey can keep this up, a show will happen for her. And she’s single. No kids. She’d jump at a chance to host her own show in the Big Apple, right?”
Charlie smiles, but his eyes look sad. “I don’t know, you’ll have to ask her. But you know Casey, she’d do just about anything for the next great thing.”
And I find myself wondering. What will she say? Or, if we haven’t been able to switch back and I’m still Casey Lee, what will I say?
CHAPTER 17
* * *
casey
“What do you think?” I twirl around and ask Charlotte, who giggles her approval.
Finding something suitable to wear to the GossipTV studios was, well, challenging to say the least. I finally discovered a black belted sundress hidden under a pile of bland sweaters and paired it with the boots I bought for Rachel at a sample sale a few years back. I can tell by their pristine condition that they’ve been sitting in the corner of her closet since the day she opened the box. I silently vow to make sure they don’t end up in the back of her closet again where all fashion-forward merchandise (not to mention gifts from me!) goes to die.
Although after being in Rachel’s life, I have to admit that I can’t really blame her for shoving the stuff back there. This life, her life, doesn’t have a lot of room for uncomfortable designer ankle boots and short sundresses. How ignorant I’d been, always on my high horse, mocking Rachel’s wardrobe choices, never once thinking about why she wouldn’t want to wear a two-hundred-dollar pair of leather booties. Even if I did risk my life for those boots—nearly knocking myself out as I collided with another woman, both of us grabbing for them, me winning, only to discover after paying for them that they weren’t even my size—I know now that Charlotte would probably spit up all over them anyway. Or that Rachel may want to wear comfortable shoes because she never, and I mean never, gets to sit down. My legs had been aching more this past week than after hiking to the top of Runyon Canyon with my very hot, but merciless personal trainer.