Falling Star by Diana Dempsey
Authors: Diana Dempsey
Tags: United States, Fiction, General, Chick lit, Humorous, Humorous fiction, Romance, Historical, Contemporary, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Adult, Contemporary Romance, Travel, Love Stories, Women's Fiction, Television Journalists, Los Angeles (Calif.), pacific, free, West, pageturner, tv news, fast read, Television News Anchors - California - Los Angeles
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freaked her out.
She angled it away from her waistband.
212.555.8697. A New York area code. Who the hell would page her
from New York?
She punched the number into the makeup room
phone. Too bad the makeup girl would get billed for the
long-distance call.
" Hard Line ," a female straight out of
Brooklyn rasped.
"What?"
"You called me, remember? Hard
Line !"
The national tabloid TV show? Kelly's heart
began to pound. "Uh, hello. My name is Kelly Devlin, from KXLA Los
Angeles. I was paged by—"
"Right. Hold on."
Kelly tapped her foot impatiently. Maybe they
wanted to hire her. Her agent could get her out of her KXLA
contract. Maybe ...
"Kelly? Bruce Lightner, senior producer."
"Bruce," she purred. "It's a pleasure to meet
you over the phone."
"Likewise. Listen, we saw the piece you did
on the car accident the night of the quake. Very edgy."
"Thank you." She tried to sound modest but
confident.
"We're doing a spot on killer natural
disasters—you know, freaky shit that happens during twisters and
earthquakes and volcanos and like that—and we might want to use
some of your car-accident video. Can you arrange for us to see more
of it?"
Damn, they didn't want to hire her.
But they had seen her stuff.
And they liked it enough to call her.
But what about the Manns? Kelly hesitated.
She could never win them over a second time. If that video of their
kid aired again they'd be so pissed they'd definitely file
suit.
But, she told herself, the Manns would never
see it. They were too goddamn religious to watch a good show like Hard Line .
"I'll FedEx you a dub," she said. The
opportunity to get in with these people was just too good to pass
up.
Kelly got the address, then hung up and
grinned at herself in the mirror. This call was proof positive she
was doing something right. Who else at KXLA had ever gotten beeped
by a national tabloid TV show?
*
Monday night as 10 PM approached, a techie
rapped on the grimy passenger-side window of ENG Truck 2, rousing
Natalie's attention. "We need you out there," he shouted through
the glass.
She looked up from reviewing her script for
the newscast and cranked down the window. A blast of wind whipped
inside, riffling her script pages and hurling dust in her eyes. She
blinked, hard.
"We're about ten minutes back."
"Thanks." She rubbed her right eyelid, trying
to resettle her contact lens without smearing her heavy on-air
makeup. "Charlie, is it? You're the engineer I hired for tonight?"
She didn't say, The last guy on the list?
The guy nodded. "Yeah, I was lookin' to get
together with the buds, you know, pour a few back, but, hey, duty
called." He cocked his head at the sky. "But the wind's making it
tough to keep up the bird." He made quite a picture: shaggy blond
hair hanging below a Dodgers cap, jeans that looked like they'd
never seen the inside of a washing machine, mustache newly primed
by greasy takeout. He didn't look like much, but then again, the
best techies rarely did.
"Well, I appreciate your help."
"My pleasure, ma'am." He saluted and
sauntered off.
She rolled the window back up and fiddled
with her earpiece for the umpteenth time. She felt fairly calm. Fairly calm. But she'd hung this remote on a wing and a
prayer. And anchoring from the field, even under the best of
circumstances, was a thousand times harder than anchoring from the
studio. There were so many variables. Cold. Heat. Wind. Dirt.
Noise. Onlookers. Satellite problems.
And somehow she couldn't forget her recent
flub. The damn thing sat in her memory like footprints in
concrete.
It happened once—it can happen again.
No! She clamped her eyes shut. It
happened once in a million times. It's the exception, not the
rule.
Another knock on the window. This time from
the freelance field producer, a young bespectacled woman in jeans
and an oversize flannel shirt whose name Natalie couldn't
remember.
Her pulse sped up. She could delay it no
longer.
She secured her script on a
freaked her out.
She angled it away from her waistband.
212.555.8697. A New York area code. Who the hell would page her
from New York?
She punched the number into the makeup room
phone. Too bad the makeup girl would get billed for the
long-distance call.
" Hard Line ," a female straight out of
Brooklyn rasped.
"What?"
"You called me, remember? Hard
Line !"
The national tabloid TV show? Kelly's heart
began to pound. "Uh, hello. My name is Kelly Devlin, from KXLA Los
Angeles. I was paged by—"
"Right. Hold on."
Kelly tapped her foot impatiently. Maybe they
wanted to hire her. Her agent could get her out of her KXLA
contract. Maybe ...
"Kelly? Bruce Lightner, senior producer."
"Bruce," she purred. "It's a pleasure to meet
you over the phone."
"Likewise. Listen, we saw the piece you did
on the car accident the night of the quake. Very edgy."
"Thank you." She tried to sound modest but
confident.
"We're doing a spot on killer natural
disasters—you know, freaky shit that happens during twisters and
earthquakes and volcanos and like that—and we might want to use
some of your car-accident video. Can you arrange for us to see more
of it?"
Damn, they didn't want to hire her.
But they had seen her stuff.
And they liked it enough to call her.
But what about the Manns? Kelly hesitated.
She could never win them over a second time. If that video of their
kid aired again they'd be so pissed they'd definitely file
suit.
But, she told herself, the Manns would never
see it. They were too goddamn religious to watch a good show like Hard Line .
"I'll FedEx you a dub," she said. The
opportunity to get in with these people was just too good to pass
up.
Kelly got the address, then hung up and
grinned at herself in the mirror. This call was proof positive she
was doing something right. Who else at KXLA had ever gotten beeped
by a national tabloid TV show?
*
Monday night as 10 PM approached, a techie
rapped on the grimy passenger-side window of ENG Truck 2, rousing
Natalie's attention. "We need you out there," he shouted through
the glass.
She looked up from reviewing her script for
the newscast and cranked down the window. A blast of wind whipped
inside, riffling her script pages and hurling dust in her eyes. She
blinked, hard.
"We're about ten minutes back."
"Thanks." She rubbed her right eyelid, trying
to resettle her contact lens without smearing her heavy on-air
makeup. "Charlie, is it? You're the engineer I hired for tonight?"
She didn't say, The last guy on the list?
The guy nodded. "Yeah, I was lookin' to get
together with the buds, you know, pour a few back, but, hey, duty
called." He cocked his head at the sky. "But the wind's making it
tough to keep up the bird." He made quite a picture: shaggy blond
hair hanging below a Dodgers cap, jeans that looked like they'd
never seen the inside of a washing machine, mustache newly primed
by greasy takeout. He didn't look like much, but then again, the
best techies rarely did.
"Well, I appreciate your help."
"My pleasure, ma'am." He saluted and
sauntered off.
She rolled the window back up and fiddled
with her earpiece for the umpteenth time. She felt fairly calm. Fairly calm. But she'd hung this remote on a wing and a
prayer. And anchoring from the field, even under the best of
circumstances, was a thousand times harder than anchoring from the
studio. There were so many variables. Cold. Heat. Wind. Dirt.
Noise. Onlookers. Satellite problems.
And somehow she couldn't forget her recent
flub. The damn thing sat in her memory like footprints in
concrete.
It happened once—it can happen again.
No! She clamped her eyes shut. It
happened once in a million times. It's the exception, not the
rule.
Another knock on the window. This time from
the freelance field producer, a young bespectacled woman in jeans
and an oversize flannel shirt whose name Natalie couldn't
remember.
Her pulse sped up. She could delay it no
longer.
She secured her script on a
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