Eyes on You

Chapter 3

I was at work before nine the next day. It was earlier than usual, but I had a conference call at ten with the publisher's PR team, and I wanted time to review my checklist f irst.

Due to a space shortage, my office wasn't off the newsroom, like Carter's. It was down a whole other corridor, not far from the makeup room. It would have been better, work-wise, to be near the white-hot center, where all the producers sat, and there'd been talk of moving me down there when they could carve out the space. But I liked the privacy that my office afforded me.

When the call came in, I could tell that everyone was totally jazzed about the party. I'd already seen a few items in the press, but they described others, all favorable. I thanked them for their efforts. I was pretty sure they couldn't detect the dull hangover of anxiety I had from the hate note left in my purse.

Next we reviewed the press plans for the week to come. There would be minimal TV appearances because of my own show, but tons of online coverage, about two dozen radio interviews, and a boatload of tweets and retweets. During the past month, I'd tied myself to my desk at home on weekends and ground out a bunch of guest blogs-touching on points in the book-and they'd be gradually released and posted over the coming days.

"It's clear what's starting to resonate most," said one of the team. "It's the part about women secretly not feeling that they deserve what they have. And the chapter on being ashamed about something you once did. That's hitting a nerve."

"Lots of places need photos," the junior publicist said. I could tell who she was because she made every sentence shoot up at the end. "Are you okay with us sending outtakes from the jacket photo shoot? "

"Of course," I said. I loved the shot of me in the red dress.

"Oh, by the way, I nearly forgot the best news of all," my main publicist, Claire, announced. "The book's ranking high on online retail sites. That's a very good sign."

"We can probably thank my coanchor for that," I said. "He's been nicely pimping the book on the show."

"True," Claire said. "But when I've been pitching, it's been pretty clear that you've built your own following. And people really love the show."

The convergence of the book and the show had been pure luck, but it was clearly going to drive up sales. And I would gladly take them any way I could get them.

My assistant, Keiki, was off that day, dealing with a labradoodle in surgery, so I had the office to myself. I grabbed a coffee in the kitchenette down the hall and then jumped online. I reviewed the tweets the show had generated last night and skimmed through various news sites, looking for emerging stories as well as tidbits that Carter and I could bat around in the up-front chat section. I saved a half hour of my morning to put the f inishing touches on a ratings analysis I'd done. Our executive producer, Tom Golden, hadn't asked for it, but I knew he'd find interesting what I'd discovered. I wanted to read it over in hard copy before I turned it over to him.

When I briefly checked email, I noticed that someone--I couldn't tell who from the address-had nicely emailed a half-dozen photos of me from the party, probably taken with a phone. I was beaming in every shot.

That's the way I'd remember last night, I told myself, and I'd just purge the note from my memory.

At noon I headed to the newsroom. There were about twenty desks bunched there, occupied by producers, writers, and bookers. Our set, which was also used by several other shows with modifications, f lowed directly from the newsroom. It was a futuristic-looking space that made me think of the bay of a Hollywood movie spaceship, hurtling toward another galaxy. I felt a rush every time I stepped on it.