With two women locked in an embrace, of course somebody was watching. “Will you keep it down? All the guys in production will think we’re staging a little snuggle here just for their benefit.” Lauren grabbed Phoebe by the shoulders, hustled her down the hallway and pushed her through the first door they came to.
Phoebe looked around. “If you’re worried what people are going to think, squirreling me away into the janitor’s closet is not going to help.” Unfazed, she overturned a large mop bucket and lowered herself regally, crossing one leg over the other so that her taupe patent leather Chanel pump swung gracefully next to her slender calf.
Lauren scraped her loose bangs from her forehead. “You see, it’s like this. Ray, being the asshole he is—as you so rightly pointed out—not only appointed Baby Huey to the State House reporter’s job over me, but he didn’t even have the nerve to tell me to my face. I heard it from Donna.”
“You mean, Donna of the ill-fitting double-Ds? She won’t ever give me new erasers, even when I ask politely.” In addition to being president of the Engelbert Humperdinck Fan Club, Donna Drinkwater was head of the supply closet and ruled over it with the arbitrary élan of a born martinet.
“You’re kidding? I can always get erasers,” Lauren said, then waved her hand in the air. “The point is, Ray, the schmuck, when he finally did come face-to-face, merely assigned me an obit without so much as a by-your-leave. So I got mad, really mad. And really more out of spite than anything, I—”
Phoebe rose. “You don’t need to go on. You invented a great news story—about Harry Nord—didn’t you?”
Lauren nodded.
“You know, I particularly liked the bit about the villagers harboring Harry and his wounded navigator after he dragged him from their burning plane.”
“Thanks a lot. Anyhow, never in my wildest dreams did I expect the thing to appear.”
“Of course not.” Phoebe laughed, then did a double take. “Are you telling me you submitted it to the Copy Desk and counted on them to realize it was a joke?”
“To my utter amazement, all Dan Jankowski did was change a semicolon to a period. Did you ever notice the way Dan hates semicolons?”
Phoebe eyed her gravely.
Lauren held up her hand. “I know, I know. It was a stupid thing to do. But how was I to know that the story would run, that it would get picked up by the wire services and somehow find its way to television?” She breathed in deeply. “Do you think I should throw myself on Ray’s mercy and hope that in his heart of hearts he’ll find a way to forgive me?”
“Lauren, get real. Ray doesn’t have a heart.” Phoebe paused. “Have you ever thought about becoming a salesperson in the shoe department at Wanamaker’s?” As an old-time Philadelphian, Phoebe still referred to the department store in the grand building on Market by its original name—steadfastly refusing to let Lord & Taylor pass her lips. “I could really use the discount.”
“Phoebe! This is my career we’re talking about.”
Actually, it was more like her life’s dream—not the part about working for the Sentinel necessarily, but being a reporter. Ever since Lauren could remember, she had been hooked on journalism. She salivated over the way the headlines screamed the news. Marveled at the quotes that the writers could get important people to say. Was awestruck by the emotions the photos could elicit. Even the smell of the newsprint and the way the ink came off on her fingers inspired Lauren with a sensory glee that she couldn’t explain—certainly not to her mother, who naturally thought Lauren should join the family dry cleaning business and certainly not break off her engagement to a handsome local boy who had a guaranteed income of seventy thousand as an accounts manager at Jefferson Memorial Hospital.
“Just think, he could probably use his influence to get you a private room at a lower rate when you have your first baby,” her mother liked to say. This from the woman who saved used rubber bands on the kitchen doorknob.
Well, despite her mother’s protests, Lauren had pulled the plug on the whole rosy picture—the baby, the private hospital room and the wedding.
The decision had been made easy when she found her fiancé, the no-good creep Johnny Budworth, doing the deed with Agnes Iolites, their greatly overpriced wedding planner. But that wasn’t the only thing that had tipped the scales. You see, Lauren had already wised up to the fact that Johnny never understood what turned her on—and she wasn’t just talking about sex, though sex was part of it. Over the course of their relationship, Lauren had seriously wondered if halftime during a televised Eagles game really was the most romantic moment to indulge in intercourse.
No, it was more than about sex. And if she had to put her finger on the one thing that summed up their different outlooks on life it would be that Johnny never read her articles, never read the Sentinel—never read any newspaper for that matter. “I listen to news radio, babe. What more do I need to know?” he’d say, and then add, “You know, maybe you should go wash your hands. The ink from the paper leaves smudges on the white leather couch my Aunt Dotty gave me.”
Yeah, it was more than a career for Lauren—it was a dream of doing something special, making a difference, regardless of leaving smudges. The Sentinel might not be the end-all-be-all, but it was on the road to better things.
Phoebe placed a hand on Lauren’s shoulder. “Listen, if I were you, I’d just stay quiet. Who knows? There’s a good chance that this whole thing will blow over and no one will ever know. Besides, it’s not like the story ran with a byline, and Ray’s not about to voluntarily give you any credit.”
Lauren was tempted to tell Phoebe she’d split an infinitive, but decided now was probably not a good time. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’ll all blow over like yesterday’s news.” And maybe she’d grow another four inches.
Lauren squared her shoulders. “So, shall we go back and see the rest of the dog and pony show?”
Phoebe nodded, and they slipped out of the closet—so to speak.
“I am especially pleased that the Sentinel is able to have yet another scoop,” Lauren heard Ray announce when they got back to the large lobby. “And with that in mind, it is my great pleasure that I am able to introduce to you today—”
Lauren went up on her tiptoes and strained to see the front of the room.
“Sebastian Alberti.”
“Who?” Lauren looked to Phoebe who had abandoned her customary sangfroid and was violently fanning herself.
“The grandson of Philadelphia’s own hero, Harry Nord,” Ray declared.
Just as the Red Sea parted for Moses, so too the bodies in the lobby miraculously opened up, and for the first time Lauren got a good look. At Ray. No, forget Ray. At the man standing next to Ray.
She was stunned. No wonder Phoebe had gone gaga. Men like that simply didn’t live in Philly. They didn’t even visit Philly. They certainly didn’t walk through the front door of the Sentinel’s lobby.
And nothing against Phoebe’s judgment, but Sean Connery, even younger and with hair, couldn’t hold a candle to the man in front. Tall, with broad shoulders and a trim build, Sebastian Alberti wore his charcoal-gray suit as if it were made for him. Lauren peered more closely—it was probably made for him. Still, even though he looked perfectly at home in Savile Row tailoring, he was definitely no wimpy clotheshorse. Not when his confident posture managed to simultaneously radiate ease and tension.
And that face. Lauren shook her head. Face was too prissy a word. His collection of chiseled features—the prominent cheekbones and square jaw—his raven-black hair, deep-set eyes and slashing eyebrows. No question about it, the whole package spelled B-A-D. Hot bad. Hot, HOT bad.
With some coaxing, Sebastian Alberti stepped to the microphone and smiled. At which point his features altered perceptibly, and a collective sigh could be heard from among the female members of