The Vibrant Years(9)

“Wait!” Yes, Aly raised her voice. Raised it all the way up. Maybe? She couldn’t be sure because her ears were ringing. “You’re giving the interview to Jessica?”

Joyce had the gall to look confused. “Well, Jess is the anchor of the show. Who else would do the interview?”

Me! Did the word come out?

“Me!” Aly said again. Or maybe for the first time. Then a second. “Me! You’ve been telling me you’re waiting for the right interview to let me get my segment. What can be better than this?”

Joyce looked around the room. Color crept up her neck. Okay, great. Maybe Aly had gone too far. Maybe she should have done this privately with Joyce. But she’d wanted Jess and Bob to witness her victory. She was such an idiot.

“You’ve done an amazing job here, Aly,” Joyce said, her tone exactly as coldly controlled as Karen Menezes’s when she lost her temper.

What was that supposed to even mean? It sounded like something one said just before they fired you.

Aly had a verbal commitment on the interview, but it wasn’t scheduled. Now that Joyce knew, she could easily reach Meryl’s team and set it up on her own.

Had Aly made a mistake? Should she have made Joyce commit to giving her the segment before revealing the information?

Maybe she should have done that MBA, the way her mother had wanted her to. Working as a broadcast journalist who got to do anything of importance seemed to need more strategy than journalistic curiosity or investigative talent. Maybe she should have stayed in that technical-writer job the way Ashish had wanted her to. At least she’d still have a marriage.

Aly’s heart was beating so fast, she barely noticed Joyce nod to the others. They shuffled out of the room with enough reluctance to prove exactly how thrilling it was to witness Aly’s humiliation.

“Aly,” Joyce said, voice oddly gentle. Dear Lord, she was trying to sound motherly. It made Aly want to bring up the salad she’d had for lunch. “That was unexpected. Is everything okay at home?”

“What?” Aly asked, open mouthed. Don’t say what like a street urchin; say pardon like the well-brought-up girl you are, her mother’s voice rang in her head.

“It hasn’t been that long since the divorce.”

At the cost of repeating herself: What? “Pardon?” she said.

“Aly, I know how hard it can be to find your feet after a divorce. It’s only been two years since yours.”

Please, God, she could not play the Sisterhood of the Commiserating Divorcées game with Joyce. From the office grapevine, Aly knew that Joyce had been divorced years ago from some sort of genius who’d also been a genius at philandering. All of it was irrelevant because five years ago she’d remarried, and her second husband seemed like the world’s nicest man. Maybe marrying in your fifties was the answer. Unlike Aly, who’d been twenty-two and so, so stupid.

“This has nothing to do with my divorce.”

“Is it your daughter?”

“Cullie is just fine. This has to do with the fact that you’ve been promising me a segment for almost ten years now.”

Ten years! What had she even been thinking? How had she let someone string her along for so long? It was like Ashish all over again. She’d been too naive to see through him. Through what was important to him. Ashish—that’s what had been important to Ashish. So long as he came first, so long as everything was about him, he’d been wonderful.

“You think I haven’t tried to get you your segment?” Joyce gave the most long-suffering look. “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve proposed it to the board? I take this up to them at least once every few months.”

That hurt.

“You know I give you stories. Make sure you’re on air at least a few times a month. But you know how news is right now. Budgets keep getting slashed and slashed. We cannot do anything to displease our sponsors.”

“Why would me anchoring arts and entertainment displease our sponsors?” Words were flying out of Aly today like they never had before, and Joyce studied her as though she had no idea who had invaded Aly’s body.

For a long, stunned moment, Joyce didn’t respond. Aly could hear her diversity-training seminar run through her head.

“You’re a smart girl, Aly.”

Aly wasn’t a girl at all; she was a forty-seven-year-old woman. Which meant she at least had enough sense to not respond by correcting her boss about that.

Joyce went on, doubling down on the nonanswers. “This is southwest Florida.”

Aly waited. She needed Joyce to say the words. Say it.

“Our audience is . . .” Getting up from her chair, Joyce moved to the chair next to Aly and cleared her throat with so much discomfort it sounded painful. “Our audience can relate to Jessica.”

There it was. The storm inside Aly had gathered for too long without a tangible thing to break on, until now.

“I was born in West Palm Beach,” she said, voice flat. “I went to the University of Florida. Jessica is from Wyoming.”

Joyce cleared her throat again. Louder this time. Aly could see her patience slipping. “I didn’t want to share this with the team yet, but I know you can keep it to yourself.” Joyce’s commiserating smile looked like it took all her effort to conjure up. “I just found out that we have another round of layoffs coming.”