ERICA IS AWED BY THE lobby of the Four Seasons—it looks like the set for one of those glamorous 1930s movies—soaring, exquisitely lit, Art Deco details. She sees Claire sitting on a cozy sofa and crosses to her. Claire stands up—she’s changed into a little silver dress and looks sensational, if a little overdone—and they air kiss, which feels so phony. Heads are turning; they’ve both been recognized.
“Isn’t it fun being famous?” Claire says with giddy girl-talk intimacy.
“It has its perks.”
A waiter comes over and they order coffee.
Claire grows serious. “I’m going to cut to the chase, Erica. What I really wanted to tell you is that I have tremendous respect for you. As a journalist. I know how high your standards are and I think your example is good for all of us at the network.”
“Thank you.”
“The truth is, I’ve been a little jealous of you. You arrived and I felt overshadowed. Nylan suddenly seemed to turn all his attention to you.”
“You’ve held your own.”
The coffee arrives and they both take sips.
Claire puts her cup down and says, “It’s been tough at times, to watch your star soar. You’ve forced me to up my game. I appreciate that.”
“We all have a stake in GNN’s success,” Erica says.
“Exactly. I hope we can move forward in that spirit.”
“So do I.”
Claire raises her coffee cup and clinks it against Erica’s. “Cheers then.” She puts down her cup, runs her fingers through her hair, gives her head a shake, sits up a little taller, and lowers her voice. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Nylan and I are seeing each other.”
“I might have heard a rumor.”
“He’s the most intriguing man I’ve ever met. His intellect, his ideas never fail to astonish me. He’s just so passionate . . . in all areas, by the way.” Claire smiles with satisfaction.
Erica is unsure how to respond to this overshare, and for a moment she wonders if she should warn Claire about Nylan’s predilections—she wouldn’t want her to end up in the emergency room—but it’s their business. “He’s certainly passionate about the network.”
“I believe he’s a great man, Erica. And that we’re seeing—not just seeing, are actually a part of—history in the making.”
Someone drank the Kool-Aid.
“I hope I can use my show to move the arc toward justice,” Erica says.
Claire reaches out and grasps Erica’s hand. “That’s another reason I have so much respect for you. You care.” She fiddles with an earring, her expression darkens, becomes regretful. “I feel very protective of Nylan. Of what he’s working to build at GNN. That’s why I felt compelled to do some digging. I discovered something that I felt I should share with you. It’s upset Nylan. I think he views it as a threat to the network’s future.”
Erica feels a wave of foreboding. “Is it something to do with me?”
“I’m afraid it is, yes.” Claire gives Erica a look of pitying sympathy. Then she takes a deep breath and exhales with a sigh. “I got hold of the court records of your divorce.”
Erica feels all the blood drain from her head, she’s afraid she’ll faint—she grabs a sofa arm to steady herself.
“Are you all right, Erica?”
Erica sits stock-still—and then a welcome wave of anger sweeps over her. “No, no, I’m not all right. Those records were sealed. What you did is illegal and immoral and . . . wrong, just wrong.” She’d like to slap that pitying look right off Claire’s face.
“Oh, Erica, can anything really be kept hidden in this day and age? Besides, this isn’t about you, or me, it’s about protecting the man I’m falling in love with. Imagine if one of your enemies had gotten hold of it. They could torpedo your whole show.” She takes a sip of coffee. “I wouldn’t worry about it too much. Of course Nylan is upset, I’ve never seen him so angry. But I’m sure he’ll calm down. I just wanted to give you fair warning. . . . You look a little flushed, sweetheart.”
“Do I? Let me use the ladies’ room.”
As Erica crosses the lobby, she wills herself to walk tall when what she really wants to do is lie down on the plush carpet and curl into a fetal position. She sees the bar across the lobby and takes three steps toward it. No! Not with Claire here, the Queen Bee of the Mean Girls . . . “You look a little flushed, sweetheart.” The woman has the ethics of a gutter rat.
A dying gutter rat oozing blood as it crawls across her desk.
Erica makes it to the ladies’ room. She looks at herself in the mirror—her eyes look hollow and haunted. The past has crawled out of its hole like a snake and is wrapping itself around her neck. She won’t give in, she can’t give in—she silently says the Serenity Prayer but finds no serenity. She wets a paper towel with cold water and holds it to her temples, takes measured breaths. She has to get out of here, she has to think, and she has to deal with Greg, who’ll be arriving at her apartment in about ninety minutes.
Erica crosses the lobby to Claire, willing herself to stay composed. Claire is checking messages on her iPhone and looks up innocently.
“I’ve got to run,” Erica says.
“I’m so glad we did this,” Claire says with a warm smile. “Sisterhood is powerful.”
“I don’t have a sister.”