“I need you to succeed so I can ride your coattails,” Matt said, his tone of voice shifting from ready-for-combat to let’s-try-mediation. “With this merger, my future at Beltway is up in the air. I need to make myself a burrow at ATN. And you need me, so it’s win-win. You can show me how to work the dysfunctional network and I will give you wisdom about how to make DC buzzworthy.”

“Maybe you should be the one sleeping with Adam Majors.”

“You’re focused on all the wrong things,” he went on, ignoring the comment. “There’s a network full of reporters who would kill or die to be in your position. Why don’t you try to make it work?”

“Isn’t that what I’m doing? By agreeing to this charade?” she demanded.

“That’s not enough. You’ve got to step up your game. You can’t afford to continue like this.” He did a sweeping motion up and down her body. “You need new hair. Maybe a spray tan. And get some fitted clothes that show off your body. You do have a body, don’t you?”

Natalie stood agape. Was she really going to take style advice from a man who looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy’s cousin? “You are one to talk. Are you aware pleated pants went out of style in 1992?”

Matt flinched. Was it possible she’d hurt his feelings? Was it possible he had feelings?

He shook his head. “I’m not criticizing you. I’m just trying to help,” he said and walked out the door.

Just trying to help. Everyone was just so helpful. She stared after him, considering her next move.

7

On Taking Liberties

It was 8:45 p.m. and Natalie was at her sad temporary desk, sandwiched uncomfortably between a retaining wall and a garbage can on the outskirts of the newsroom floor. Whoever had replaced the furniture after the Chief’s town hall meeting earlier that day had wedged the tiny aluminum desk into the mix, positioning it so Natalie could barely see the TVs, but offering her an unobstructed view of the What Girls up at the news desk. The vibe up there was like cheerlead squad auditions: No Outsiders Welcome.

Having discovered, too late, that after 7 p.m., ATN was in a veritable food desert—no restaurants nearby, no delivery in under ninety minutes—Natalie had gone through four bags of vending machine pretzels. The growl in her stomach was made worse by the sounds of the What Girls sharing freshly delivered organic salads just feet away.