ERICA RETURNS TO HER OFFICE to find a bouquet of red roses on her desk. The card reads: You just keep blooming—Your GNN family.
Erica fingers one of the roses and leans down to smell it—suddenly a huge water bug crawls out from the petals and onto her hand. “Yuck!” She shakes it to the floor, where it scuttles away. Then another bug appears on the flowers, and then a third—it’s crawling with them. Erica grabs the vase and runs down to the ladies’ room, where she dumps the whole thing in the toilet. The blood-red roses are surrounded by a swarm of flailing water bugs. Erica flushes the toilet and watches the petals and bugs swirl round and round and then get sucked down into the pipes. Nothing remains but the bare, thorny stems. She shudders.
As Erica walks back down the hall, fighting to slow her heart rate, she thinks, Someone wants me off balance and on edge. Makes me easier to control. Then she feels anger rising like a tonic in her veins. You’re not going to stop me.
Back in her office, Erica calls down to building maintenance and reports the rose stems, casually, joking. “It was an only-in-New-York moment.”
Then she gets a call from Greg. “Any chance of dinner tonight?”
“That would be nice.”
“My place? At seven?”
Erica has a moment of wondering whether she’s ready to be alone with Greg in his apartment. She trusts him—but she’s not sure that she trusts herself. It’s been a long time since she’s been with a man and Greg is so kind and she craves being held, touched, shutting off her overactive mind and imagination and letting go.
Oh, Erica, grow up. You sound like some lovestruck coed who’s taken one too many poetry classes. You and Greg are both adults. You can handle a simple dinner.
“Your place at seven sounds perfect.” Erica hangs up and immediately wonders what she should wear.
Paul Elliot, the network’s lead producer of promos and teasers, knocks on her open door, carrying a laptop. “I’ve got a rough cut of the first promo for The Erica Sparks Effect.”
Elliot plays the thirty-second spot. It opens with the footage of Kay Barrish collapsing and Erica giving her CPR, cuts to the ferry crash, and then goes to a series of quick cuts of Erica reporting various other stories. As pulsing music plays underneath, the breathless male announcer says: “The New York Times calls her ‘the most exciting new face in network news.’ The Washington Post says, ‘Sparks is setting new standards of excellence.’ And Huffington Post raves that ‘Sparks leaps off the screen with a rare combination of charm and smarts.’ Don’t miss The Erica Sparks Effect, debuting on June 15 on GNN.”
Erica puts her imaginary helmet on—the one that keeps her head from swelling. “Nice work, Paul.”
“I got a call from Nylan this morning—he put a rush on it. It’s going to start airing tonight. He also wants a camera to trail you at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner—he wants footage of you with the movie stars.”
Paul leaves, and Erica calls Nancy Huffman. “Do you have a couple of minutes you could spare?”
Erica steps into her large walk-in closet and checks out the clothes. They’re arranged by piece and by color—rows of dresses, separates, shelves of sweaters and pullovers, racks of shoes, a dresser filled with scarves and hose and topped by an array of purses and accessories, a jewelry box filled with bracelets, necklaces, and her clip-on earrings. There’s also a red-leather ottoman. It may not be Real Housewives ostentatious, but it’s all pretty drool-worthy. Looking at it, Erica feels some guilt—she knows how many girls and women in the world would be thrilled with a tiny fraction of her bounty.
Nancy appears, looking divine in the world’s crispest white shirt worn over loden-green leggings and black sandal heels. How does she make it look so effortless?
“Fashion panic. What should I wear to a sorta-maybe but not-too romantic dinner?”
“Erica, you’d look great in a potato sack. Cinched with the right belt, of course.”
“You pick the belt and I’ll find the sack.”
“Is this restaurant or home?”
“Home.”
“His or yours?”
“His.”
“Okay, you’re on his turf, so you want to up the armor quotient just a tad. I’d recommend slacks . . .” She walks into the closet and pulls a pair of fitted black slacks that have just a hint of shimmer. “Silk blouse . . .” She pulls a Caribbean-blue blouse. “Last pedi?”
“Three days ago.”
“Good.” She pulls a pair of metallic-silver sandals. Then she opens the jewelry box and chooses a pair of simple sterling circle earrings with a single blue topaz in the center. She holds the ensemble up for Erica—everything just works. And Erica’s confidence about the evening soars.
“Will you marry me?” Erica says.
“Let me check with my husband.”
“One more thing, Nancy. I’d like you to design a dress for me to wear to the White House Correspondents’ Dinner.”
Nancy stops cold for a moment. “Seriously?”
Erica nods.
“I’d be delighted and honored. Are you going with Greg?”
“Nylan.”
“Oh.” Nancy’s eyebrows go up, something shifts in her face.
Erica steps into the closet and gestures for Nancy to join her. She lowers her voice, “What is it?”
Nancy also lowers her voice. “Nothing.”
“Nancy, I saw that look.”
“Discretion is the better part of holding on to my job.”
“You have my word nothing you say will leave this room.”
Nancy moves around a few pieces, generally fusses with the clothes in a make-work way, and asks with feigned nonchalance, “Have you seen the women Nylan dates?”
“I know they’re young and beautiful.”
Nancy pulls a dress and hands it to Erica. “Hold this up.” Erica does and Nancy steps back in scrutiny. “Some of them are in our business. And others rent by the hour.” Nancy shakes her head at the dress, takes it from Erica, and tosses it onto the ottoman. “I think we can winnow that one.” She pulls a pair of shoes with clear Lucite high heels. “Tack-y. These shoes are positively”—she looks Erica in the eye—“predatory.” She tosses them on top of the dress and pulls a teal cardigan. “I actually bought this for Sue Williams.”
“Sue Williams?”
Nancy holds the cardigan up in front of Erica, saying breezily, “She was the top-rated anchor at the Phoenix CBS affiliate. One of Nylan’s first hires before GNN went on the air. Then they went to Davos together. Sue never came back to the network . . . Some men don’t take rejection well. All wrong for your skin tone,” she announces, tossing the sweater on the reject pile.
“All wrong.”
“A woman in your position has to be so careful about what she wears,” Nancy says.
“I don’t want to end up on the ‘What Was She Thinking?’ list.”