If I expect Jack to show up and give my ego a boost—and protect me from the not-very-secret criticism of the NNN crew—I'm sorely mistaken. I text him the day before my next show to see if he's going to be there. Which, in itself, is kind of freaky. I'm looking to Jack for my peace of mind? It's so wrong.
He answers right away, but his message makes my stomach bottom out.
Aw, Miss Melanie, I'm sorry—I'm in London. What do you need?
Nothing urgent, I text back—a complete lie. I was hoping you'd be able to give me some feedback, help me improve.
You look like you're doing fine so far. Something wrong?
It feels like the producers want something I'm not giving them, but I'm not sure what I can do differently.
Are they not supporting you?
I think back to the frequent Richard and Trudy conclaves, and I want to share my fears, but I don't want to complain. I backpedal immediately. Everyone's great. Having a great time!
Jack signs off with more words of encouragement and a promise to watch from wherever he is. It makes me feel a little better, but when I get to the studio today, I still wish he were there.
I heave myself into my chair beside Trudy Helmet-Head, who gives me the briefest of smiles. It's hard to get comfortable, as I'm basically a lot of sausage in too tight a casing. I didn't listen to Hannah's advice and bought some too-small shapewear, and now it feels like any part of my body above my boobs and below my thighs is swelling up. Hey, all that cushioning has to go somewhere.
Even though I told myself I wouldn't, I catch myself looking for Jack lounging along the wall, as if by some miracle he could, let alone would, get back to New York in time for my guest spot. He's not there, of course. I look up at the booth, which I can see into for a few minutes before the set is hit with enough lumens to mimic the surface of the sun. All I see is the usual handful of techs and producers going about their pre-show business.
And speaking of producers, Richard appears as if from out of nowhere and does his usual soft slapping of the desk in front of me with his palms. "So, Lanie. Good to see you," he says, entirely unconvincingly, then charges ahead. "Let's chat a second. What you've been doing is great, don't get me wrong, but it's a little flat."
"Flat?"
"A little. So what say we punch it up some? Let's make it more interesting. Just follow Trudy's lead. Okay? Great."
Punch it up? More interesting? How…? Before I can ask, Rich slips back into the shadows at the edge of the set, the lights come up, someone counts down, and Trudy's introducing me, giving her usual brief summary of who I am and what I do for folks who haven't seen me on the show before. Then she swings around to face me.
"Lanie, we've heard about what services you provide. Give us some examples. Tell us about your clients back home in Boston."
"Abbott's Bay," I correct her, as politely as possible. "On the North Shore."
"Of course. Beautiful area. What sort of unusual requests have you had?"
Unusual? Reginald the ferret comes to mind, but I don't want America thinking I spend a lot of time harboring dead rodents. "Well…" I can't think of anything. Not a thing! You'd think with the many clients I've worked with already something would come to mind, but that mind of mine is a blank. Trudy watches me expectantly. A trickle of sweat makes its way down my spine. Her encouraging look starts to crumble around the edges. It feels like five minutes have passed, when really I know it's only been a few seconds. Still, a few seconds of dead air is a broadcaster's worst nightmare. Then something finally surfaces from the murk fogging my brain.
"I did help one particularly awkward friend win the woman of his dreams."
"How did you do that?"
And I'm off, telling the tale of Petey Fagle and his bait shop girl. I don't name names, of course, but I do ramble on about Petey's quirks and the details of his clumsy courtship, and how I used my expertise to turn him into the most romantic suitor possible, given the circumstances.
Once I finish his story, I think I'm off the hook, but Trudy immediately requests another.
"Er…" I laugh nervously, trying to run out the clock. The spots seem so short…until you've got Trudy bugging her eyes at you, silently demanding more.
So I launch into the tale of Zoë and her mom, again not naming names, culminating with, "The posture thing was just a side effect. It was so obvious. The girl might as well have had a sign hanging over her head: Raised by Nannies. Her mother is stuck with a kid she barely knows, and she's trying to force her to become perfect—well, her idea of perfect, anyway—when the poor thing is going through her standard teenage awkward phase. She needs to be allowed to be a kid. And she needs to get some unconditional love from that harpy who birthed her."
"Fascinating stuff. It seems like there isn't one person you don't try to help!"
"Of course, I'm never sure I can help everyone. After all, this started because I tried to tell my friend Hannah not to get back together with her ex, and she's still not listening to me."
Trudy laughs cheerily, and I feel absolutely elated at having given her what she and Richard were looking for.
Then her expression drops from mirthful to dead serious in a nanosecond. "Now, Lanie, I have to ask…isn't this, well, rather dangerous?"
I'm brought up short. Confused at the sudden change of subject and tone, I stammer, "I'm…not sure what you mean."
"You've said yourself you're not a licensed therapist. You're giving advice based on your own ideas about how people should live their lives. Wouldn't you call that irresponsible?"
My God, I'm being ambushed. How can this be happening? Haven't Trudy and I bonded? Aren't we buds now? I mean, I got her to laugh. That has to count for something, right? Apparently not, as she's still giving me her serious-journalist glare. Somehow I get the feeling she's been dying to hit me with this sort of accusation for the past three weeks. I can actually feel my blood pressure spike as I scramble to get on top of this.
"Of course not. I give very good advice. I get to know my clients before I advise them, if I don't know them already. And believe me, I know plenty of people who are…let's say anything I do for them can only be an improvement."
"Such as?"
And God help me, now I have an example ready. "A woman I work with, for one. Strange little thing, she's afraid of her own shadow. She's asked me to help her, and I don't know where to start. She'd be a lifelong project!"
With Trudy prompting me with nods and significant looks that demand more, I give up a detailed description of Laura—her eccentricities, her tics, her thick glasses and lank hair, her awkwardness. Lifelong project indeed, especially the way I sell her on air, solely to survive until my segment is over.
And I hate myself for it the minute the lights go down on the set, leaving me and Trudy in half-shadow.