ERICA ARRIVES AT GNN HOPING for words of congratulations from her colleagues. The few she receives are cursory, belied by the envy in the speakers’ eyes. There’s no doubt—an edge of suspicion, even fear, permeates the network. She’ll take Rosario and Greg’s advice to be cautious, but she’s not going to put a wall up around herself. In the kitchen, as she brews a cup of Irish breakfast tea, she allows herself a cheese Danish. It’s not Dom Pérignon, but Moira taught her that it was important to celebrate success, even if only with a flaky pastry.
No sooner does Erica sit down in her office than a woman wheeling a rack of dresses appears in her doorway. Black, tall, slender, about forty, she’s the picture of workday chic in perfectly tailored black slacks and a bluish-gray three-quarter-sleeve blouse that has a little bit of shimmer. Her hair is a tight Afro, a little thicker on top. She has high cheekbones and full lips, and she’s wearing a large geometric silver bracelet and black sandal heels. In spite of her elegance, she radiates a friendly professionalism.
“Hi, Erica, I’m Nancy Huffman, wardrobe supervisor. I’ve brought some outfits for you to consider for your View appearance.”
This is a perk she didn’t have yesterday. “Can you make me look like you?”
Nancy glances down at her arms and says with a sly smile, “That might be a stretch.” The two women laugh. “Ready for my unsolicited and probably unwanted advice?”
“I need all the help I can get.”
Nancy gestures for her to stand up, and Erica complies. “First of all, I hate you for all eternity. Please tell me you live at the gym.”
“Tae Kwon Do.”
“Tae Kwon did—you’re stunning.”
“I may be pretty, Nancy, but you’re stunning.”
“It’s an occupational hazard.” Nancy turns to the rack and pulls a simple but beautifully cut sleeveless, above-the-knee blue satin dress.
“Gorgeous, but is it a little bit too cocktail-y for daytime?”
“If it were any shorter or tighter, it would be. Remember, this is The View, not a hard news report. The ladies are going to be asking you Oprah-y questions about how witnessing the crash made you feel, what it was like seeing injured children, touchy-squishy stuff. I want you to look feminine—and your very best. Try it on.”
Erica slips out of her cream suit (which seems so dull in comparison) and into the dress. She looks in the full-length mirror on the back of her office door. The dress is lovely and flattering.
“Move a little. See how it feels.”
Erica walks around the office, sits, crosses her legs, stands up.
Nancy clocks how the dress moves on her body. “Does it feel comfortable, relaxed?”
“It feels . . . fabulous!” Erica says, breaking into a huge grin.
“There’s nothing I like better than a happy customer. Hold still.” Nancy takes a piece of tailor’s chalk out of a bag hanging on the rack and makes quick marks on the waist and hem of the dress. “A couple of small alterations and you’ll be good to go.”
Erica changes back into her suit and hands Nancy the dress.
“I’ll get this back to you ASAP,” Nancy says.
“I can’t thank you enough.”
“Rosario told me you were one of the nice ones.”
“Hey, we’re all in this together.”
Nancy’s face darkens, she lowers her chin and raises her eyebrows—the message is unmistakable: not everyone at GNN shares that sentiment.
As soon as she’s alone, Erica turns back to the ferry story. She wants to understand the mechanics of how the boat’s controls could have frozen like they did. She needs to talk to an IT expert. She picks up the phone and calls the Smart Room. “Judith, it’s Erica.”
“Congratulations on The View. I’m sure Nancy Huffman found you a nice dress.”
Boy, there’s no privacy around this place. Two men Erica has never seen before, wearing sunglasses and dark suits, walk past her office. She gets up and closes the door.
“Listen, I want to find an IT expert who can explain how the Staten Island ferry’s computer systems work.”
“We’ve got one of the best in-house, Mark Benton. He’s in charge of keeping our work computers up-to-date and running smoothly. He’s on the third floor. Extension 4437.”
Erica decides to go down to the third floor and meet Benton in person. Just as she gets up, there’s a rap on her door and—before Erica has a chance to answer—Claire Wilcox’s head pops in. “Peek-a-boo!” she chirps in a failed attempt at girlish charm. She strides into the room, slaps on a serious expression, and says, “Good work.”
“Thank you.”
“We’re a team here at GNN, and when one of us does well, it reflects well on all of us.”
Erica’s bullcrap alarm starts to sound.
“You probably know that my show is our highest rated. Which lifts us all up.” She gives Erica a meaningful glance. “I mean without a flagship show, the network would be floundering. Nylan might decide he can’t continue to bleed money and shut the whole thing down.”
Erica doesn’t remind Claire that her ratings are far from stellar, and that Erica broke the network’s viewership records with her ferry coverage. “Your point is taken.”
“Good. Then I’m sure you’ll understand why I’m taking over the Staten Island ferry story.”
“You’re what!”
“I’m just much better equipped to handle it. I’ve got a staff of five, including a full-time researcher. I’m running a special segment on the tragedy on my show today. I’ve already got the footage of your interviews with the NTSB and the pilot. We’re editing you out. Scott Lansing, the nation’s top expert on boat safety, is going to be my live guest.”
Erica thinks, This isn’t a story about boat safety. It’s about what caused the ferry’s computer system to freeze up. But she doesn’t say a peep.
“Are you going to use my live footage of the crash?”
“It’s not your footage, Erica. It belongs to the network. Of course I’m going to use pieces of it. The visuals in particular are very strong.”
“And The View?”
“I’ve spoken to Nan Sterling, the lead producer over there, and she insists that I do the show. Nan and I were at Stanford together,” Claire says, letting a little country club seep into her inflections. “But the decision was purely a professional one.”
“No doubt.”
“Well. There we have it.” There’s an awkward moment. Claire looks around the office, spies Erica’s array of earrings. She reaches up and casually fingers the fat diamond stud in her right ear. “Those earrings are so darling. Target?”
And then she’s gone, leaving behind a whiff of some perfume Erica can’t afford.
Erica gets up, crosses the office, and shuts the door. The blood is pulsing in her temples so fast and hard she thinks she might faint. Or throw up. That witch!
“I’m just much better equipped.”
“It’s not your footage, Erica.”
“The decision was purely a professional one.”
Suddenly Erica is back in that dark-paneled freshman dining hall at Yale, afraid to open her mouth, ashamed of her broad Maine accent, slumping further and further down in her chair, hoping her classmates will forget she’s there. They even hold their knives and forks differently. Did their parents buy their social ease, their casual confidence, all the talk of horses and Vail and the school their family is funding in “Bolivia—or is it Namibia? Ha-ha!”
Erica leans against her desk and sucks air. She closes her eyes and recites the Serenity Prayer, repeating the second phrase three times.
Courage!
She strides into the hall, turns left, and heads toward Greg’s office.