CHAPTER SEVEN

All for One, and One for One

I had just decided that I was going to fake my way to a great cover article when Tandy Baker stopped by my desk. She was the current flavor of the month writer. “Liv,” as Tandy called her—while the rest of us sent smoke signals around the building to help each other avoid her–said she cut right to the heart of the heart. I thought it was more likely that she cut right to the wallet because she didn’t waste time with the heart. Or maybe she cut it out and discarded it so it didn’t get in the way of the wallet.

“How’s it going, Lois Lane?” I had expected this. But not quite so soon. The sight of her perfect butt perched on the edge of my desk brought to mind thoughts of how much damage could be done by a soda can accidentally spilling. Unfortunately, I was only drinking water.

I took a sip before answering, so that I would sound halfway authentic when I answered. “Great.”

She leaned over as if she were going to confide a secret. My breasts aren’t real. Now, that would have been interesting. But, all she said was, “Diana, if you need any help, I’m here for you.”

“Thanks, I think I’ve got it covered.” Covered. Latched. Maybe clad in anti-tank armor. Even then I wasn’t certain I could protect this story from the clammy touch of Tandy’s fingers.

“It’s such a responsibility—a cover story. How humiliating it would be if your inexperience kept you from—” Preying on my fears, she gave a tigerish grin of sympathy.

Fortunately, I was immune. “I can handle this article in my sleep.“

“Of course you can, but I know what it’s like to have your big break looming right in front of you. I just want to help.”

Help. Right. Help break my leg? My spirit? “Great, let me get everything organized and then I’ll come to you with my questions.”

She frowned. “Well, Liv suggested I help you with the organization.”

“Do you think I need it?” Even she couldn’t say yes to that. My reputation preceded me—for once in my favor.

“Okay. But I have some good ideas I’m dying to share with you.”

“Why don’t we set up a meet for tomorrow morning—say 9?” Tandy never showed up before noon.

She consulted her bejeweled cell calendar. “Two works better for me.”

Well, duh. “I only have 9 available tomorrow.”

With a small frown on her lips that didn’t touch the smooth skin of her forehead she tapped at the device in her hand. “What about Wednesday?”

I managed to put her off until Friday at 2—since she leaves early every Friday that she doesn’t call in sick, I’ve dodged that bullet for the time being. But had a deadline now—the article had to be well planned before I met with Tandy, or she’d take it over, just like she’s done with others countless times. I wished I could hate her for it, tell her to get stuffed. But she was a good writer, and she does have good ideas.

If only she didn’t honestly believe stealing other people’s articles out from under them only happens because she’s so good—not because she’s evil. It would be easier if evil people wore armbands so others could identify them. But they wear the considerate expressions of the truly good most of the time. Makes it darned hard to trust anyone, anytime, anywhere.

Organizing the interview seemed clear cut to me. There was not sufficient time to revisit all my ghosts, thank God. My hunch was that Liv wanted max drama. She always wanted max drama, even for subjects like tweezing vs. shaving vs. waxing. My hunch was confirmed in the next group meeting.

“Diana, tell us what you’ve got so far.”

I pulled out my working binder, and flipped through the color coded tabs until I came to blue—process. “I thought I’d drop everyone a note—”

Liv laughed—managing to convey incredulity with scorn. “Max drama is not a polite note that can be tossed in the trash can. I thought you said you could handle this assignment.”

“I planned to follow up with a phone call.”

“What fun is that?” Tandy asked. She was making her move for the piece. “Face to face is the only way to reevaluate a man.”

“Good point,” Liv said. She twirled her pen slowly and for a moment it felt as if my intestines were somehow hooked onto the end of that pen. “In fact, Diana, I expect your face to get very close to his face, if you know what I mean.”

I hadn’t anticipated that. I’m not sure why. Perhaps because I’d been busily organizing my binder to avoid thinking about seeing the guys again. Not just seeing them, but talking to them—how does anyone know they haven’t let some ridiculous prejudice prevent them from recognizing their soulmate? Is it far fetched that a woman could learn to love a guy who had a major flaw if he made her a better human being? What is a better human being?

I went with the best argument I could think of. “Face to face could be expensive, some of these guys have probably moved.”

“No problem. The budget on a cover issue is good—and this one has potential, I can feel it. Will the pressure be too much? I can give this to Tandy, if you don’t think you can handle it.”

Tandy made a sympathetic face. “It is a big article for a first timer. Maybe you should let me be senior on the piece and you can be my apprentice.”

My heart sank. She was going into slapdown mode. For those of you who don’t work in a predominately female work environment, I’ll explain. Women, in the millennia of powerless pawnship, learned to work their own hierarchy, not with the swords and fists of men, but with the cold shoulder and pointed reminder that your social status lived and died by their sufferance. I hate slapdown mode. Most people do, unless they’re the one doing the slapdown. Although masochists might enjoy it.

Anyway, lots of people make the mistake of fighting slapdown mode head on and find themselves blinking in surprise at the astonished demurral that any offense was meant. Or slap back, leaving the one with the most elegant fingers to leave the reddest mark on the figurative cheek.

I don’t waste my time with either of those tactics. They’re not my style. I don’t need to be top dog in a power struggle, I just need to be left alone to do my thing. I’ve long ago learned that there’s only one way to win against that ruthlessly female tactic: withdraw with a non-committal comment and then do what you intended to in the first place—just like a man.

I thought strategically for a moment and then said, “Tandy isn’t going to be able to evaluate my criteria for the perfect man, Liv. But I do see your point about face to face. I think I know the perfect approach—let me go write it up for you.”

Tandy seemed a little stunned that I’d just spiked her attempt to highjack my article…or at least, I’d put the battle off for another day—when I’d be armed with facts and able to spin my angle so fast Olivia would think it was her own.

That was the plan, anyway.