Youâve never fallen in love with the talent before.â
Rick shrugged. âBlondes are easier to light,â he said.
Evelyn almost believed him. When the harsh TV lights hit Tiffany, her blonde hair glowed like molten gold. She looked like a blue angel with Meg Ryan bangs.
Evelyn looked dark and a little angry on TV. Her brunette hair seemed to absorb light. Her olive skin created strange shadows. TV did odd things to her. If Evelyn gained a pound or two, the camera gave her a double chin and a pouchy stomach. That never happened to Tiffany Tyler Taylor. She always looked petite and perfect.
Tiffany couldnât get a scoop in an ice cream parlor. But St. Louis viewers were as dazzled as the fools at the station. In six months, Tiffany rose from feature reporter to morning show host. Now Evelyn was afraid that Tiffany would go after the ultimate prizeâEvelynâs own hard-won spot as six oâclock anchor.
Already Tiffany had made two guest appearances on St. Louisâ highest-rated news show. Co-anchor Dick Nickerson threw back his head and laughed so hard at Tiffanyâs mild (and scripted) joke about the weather that his comb-overflopped up like a pot lid. Dick got derisive letters from readers, calling him a drapehead. He didnât care. Dick adored Tiffany.
Nobody but Evelyn saw the hard little climber under that soft surface. Nobody but Evelyn heard Tiffanyâs catty remarks.
âEeuww, are you really eating a bacon sandwich for lunch?â said Tiffany, pointing at Evelynâs BLT. âBacon has nitrates and nitrites. And itâs bad for your skin.â Evelyn could feel the zits popping out on her face like dandelions after a rain.
âBacon makes you fat,â Tiffany said, staring at Evelynâs waistline until she felt her gut plop over her belt.
âThatâs why I stick to salads,â she said, smugly. She tapped her green-heaped plate with her fork. Then Tiffany stuck her knife in Evelynâs back. âBut I suppose a mature woman like yourself doesnât have to worry about her figure.â
âMatureâ was not a compliment in television. Tiffany had called her old and fat. No one else heard the insult.
Another time Tiffany suggested that Evelyn get some blonde highlights in her dark hair. âThe lighter color around your face will make you look ten years younger,â she said. âGo to Mr. John. Heâs the best colorist in the city. Youâll look so natural.â
No one heard that little dig, either.
Only Evelyn heard Tiffany on the phone to her stockbroker every afternoon before the markets closed. Only Evelyn seemed to catch Tiffany calling her agent. Thatâs when Tiffany dropped all pretense of being the cityâs sweetheart.
âI donât know how I can live on a lousy two-hundred-fifty thousand a year,â St. Louisâs sweety pie hissed. Evelyn would love to have that quote on tape. Sheâd play it for all the Tiffany fans who said, âSheâs so down-to-earth.â
Evelyn saw red when she heard how much green the gold-digging Goldilocks was trying to pry out of the station. Evelyn didnât make near that, and sheâd been at the station ten years.
It was time to have a talk with her mentor, Margaret Smithson. Evelyn would demand to know why she was underpaid and underrated. Margaret would make things right.
Evelynâs anger boiled and seethed as she marched across the newsroom. It burst like a geyser when she opened Margaretâs office door, and she spewed out a stream of hot words.
âStop it!â Margaret said. âEvelyn, you must stop this stupid jealousy.â
Evelyn felt like sheâd been slapped. Margaret looked small and stern in her smart black suit. She weighed about ninety-five pounds, and most of that was her mop of dark hair. But Margaret was tough. Right now, she turned that toughness on Evelyn.
âYour petty jabs at Tiffany are getting back
C. J. Cherryh
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