Falling Star by Diana Dempsey Page B
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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with the
satellite.
"Pretty much at the beginning. Wait." The
girl pressed her headset tighter against her ear. "Right." She
looked at Natalie again. "Ken's tossed to the Redondo Beach live
shot. He'll come back to us after that, presuming we're up."
"We'd better be up."
"We're up!" Charlie yelled from the truck,
giving a frenzied hand signal. And then there was program, loud and
clear in her ear.
She got back on her mark. Easy. Think.
Lose page one , she told herself and threw it on the ground. It
whipped away in no time, carried off by a gust.
"Okay," the producer girl said. "Ken's
tossing back to us . . . Wait." She paused. "Not the damage
estimate piece, it's not cut yet. Toss to the Cal Tech package,
pageB5."
B5? How the hell could the damage piece not
be cut yet? Don't think about it. Focus. She willed her
fingers to stop shaking. There's A6. Just put it in the bottom
of the script pile and put B5 on top …
"Back in ten," Dave pronounced.
Ten seconds? Where's B5? Is that the one
about the new fault line? Natalie fumbled with the script, her
fingers cold and damnably slow to cooperate.
"Five," she heard Dave say.
Where the hell is it? Then there it
was. She ripped it out of the pack.
Ken's voice. "We go back now to Natalie
Daniels, who is—"
And suddenly her fingers slipped, the
clipboard slammed to the ground, and the pages went flying, flying,
like a white rush of birds taking off.
Ignore it. Don't think. Talk. You
practically know the script by heart anyway. "Ken,
seismologists at Cal Tech are reporting that the fault line which
caused the quake—"
Good, keep talking. Look, the producer girl's
running after the script pages . . .
"—is an offshoot of the one—"
Charlie screamed. "Fuck! Again! I can't
believe it!"
This can't be happening. "—which
caused so much—"
"Stop! Stop!" The producer girl waved her
hands frantically, again pressing her headset against her ear,
again running toward Charlie. He'd resumed his stance half inside
the ENG truck, only his denimed posterior protruding. By now the
bystanders were laughing at these buffoons from KXLA, like they
were a comedy team serving up the biggest joke of the season.
Only the joke's all on me.
Natalie stood, immobilized by the high-tech
umbilical cords that attached her to the camera. She watched
helplessly as her script pages took off like kites, or were
plastered by the wind against cars and fences and tree trunks, or
blew like crazy winged creatures down the street toward Our Lady
Victory Catholic Church.
"We're back!" The producer girl pointed
frantically at Natalie.
No. Oh, no. Out of the silence she
heard clicks in her ear, then program, sputtering—was that Ken's
voice?— then no program, then program again, then none . . .
Dave frowned. "They're telling me we're back
in five."
"I am not hearing program!" The words spilled
out of her, breaching the wall of her training, breaking the
cardinal rule. Be very careful what you say when you're miked
and possibly on air ...
Dave held up a hand. "False alarm . . .
Wait."
Does anybody have the slightest clue what
they're doing?
It was going to hell, all of it.
And Tony Scoppio and hundreds of thousands of
Angelenos were watching.
"Goddammit!" she heard herself yell. "Are we
up or not?"
All the frustration of the last days burst
out of her like a volcanic flow, filling the air with her rage. The
surreal scene around her suddenly went quiet and slow. People
turned and stared, their faces a blur.
And then it wasn't quiet anymore because she
heard her own voice in her ear— oh, no —she heard her own
voice on program, and knew as she stood paralyzed on the little red
duct-taped X that her irate voice was blaring from hundreds of
thousands of television sets across southern California.
CHAPTER SIX
Tuesday, June 25, 12:08 PM
"At least you're above the fold." Ruth sat on
the plump white sofa in Natalie's living room, bifocals sliding
down her nose, inspecting
satellite.
"Pretty much at the beginning. Wait." The
girl pressed her headset tighter against her ear. "Right." She
looked at Natalie again. "Ken's tossed to the Redondo Beach live
shot. He'll come back to us after that, presuming we're up."
"We'd better be up."
"We're up!" Charlie yelled from the truck,
giving a frenzied hand signal. And then there was program, loud and
clear in her ear.
She got back on her mark. Easy. Think.
Lose page one , she told herself and threw it on the ground. It
whipped away in no time, carried off by a gust.
"Okay," the producer girl said. "Ken's
tossing back to us . . . Wait." She paused. "Not the damage
estimate piece, it's not cut yet. Toss to the Cal Tech package,
pageB5."
B5? How the hell could the damage piece not
be cut yet? Don't think about it. Focus. She willed her
fingers to stop shaking. There's A6. Just put it in the bottom
of the script pile and put B5 on top …
"Back in ten," Dave pronounced.
Ten seconds? Where's B5? Is that the one
about the new fault line? Natalie fumbled with the script, her
fingers cold and damnably slow to cooperate.
"Five," she heard Dave say.
Where the hell is it? Then there it
was. She ripped it out of the pack.
Ken's voice. "We go back now to Natalie
Daniels, who is—"
And suddenly her fingers slipped, the
clipboard slammed to the ground, and the pages went flying, flying,
like a white rush of birds taking off.
Ignore it. Don't think. Talk. You
practically know the script by heart anyway. "Ken,
seismologists at Cal Tech are reporting that the fault line which
caused the quake—"
Good, keep talking. Look, the producer girl's
running after the script pages . . .
"—is an offshoot of the one—"
Charlie screamed. "Fuck! Again! I can't
believe it!"
This can't be happening. "—which
caused so much—"
"Stop! Stop!" The producer girl waved her
hands frantically, again pressing her headset against her ear,
again running toward Charlie. He'd resumed his stance half inside
the ENG truck, only his denimed posterior protruding. By now the
bystanders were laughing at these buffoons from KXLA, like they
were a comedy team serving up the biggest joke of the season.
Only the joke's all on me.
Natalie stood, immobilized by the high-tech
umbilical cords that attached her to the camera. She watched
helplessly as her script pages took off like kites, or were
plastered by the wind against cars and fences and tree trunks, or
blew like crazy winged creatures down the street toward Our Lady
Victory Catholic Church.
"We're back!" The producer girl pointed
frantically at Natalie.
No. Oh, no. Out of the silence she
heard clicks in her ear, then program, sputtering—was that Ken's
voice?— then no program, then program again, then none . . .
Dave frowned. "They're telling me we're back
in five."
"I am not hearing program!" The words spilled
out of her, breaching the wall of her training, breaking the
cardinal rule. Be very careful what you say when you're miked
and possibly on air ...
Dave held up a hand. "False alarm . . .
Wait."
Does anybody have the slightest clue what
they're doing?
It was going to hell, all of it.
And Tony Scoppio and hundreds of thousands of
Angelenos were watching.
"Goddammit!" she heard herself yell. "Are we
up or not?"
All the frustration of the last days burst
out of her like a volcanic flow, filling the air with her rage. The
surreal scene around her suddenly went quiet and slow. People
turned and stared, their faces a blur.
And then it wasn't quiet anymore because she
heard her own voice in her ear— oh, no —she heard her own
voice on program, and knew as she stood paralyzed on the little red
duct-taped X that her irate voice was blaring from hundreds of
thousands of television sets across southern California.
CHAPTER SIX
Tuesday, June 25, 12:08 PM
"At least you're above the fold." Ruth sat on
the plump white sofa in Natalie's living room, bifocals sliding
down her nose, inspecting
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