Fancy Pants (Wynette, Texas #1)(99)

Francesca kept a tight rein on her temper. “I'd like a chance anyway. My British accent will give me a different sound from everyone else.”

“You clean toilets,” Clare scoffed, lighting a cigarette. “That's the job you were hired for.”

Francesca refused to flinch. “And I've been good at it, haven't I? Cleaning toilets and doing every other bloody job you've thrown at me. Now give me a shot at this one.”

“Forget it.”

Francesca couldn't play it safe any longer. She had her baby to think about, her future. “You know, I'm actually starting to sympathize with you, Clare.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You've heard the old proverb about not understanding another person until you've walked a mile in his shoes. I understand you, Clare. I know exactly what it's like to be discriminated against because of who you are, no matter how hard you work. I know what it's like to be denied a shot at a job—not from a lack of ability, but because of the personal prejudice of your employer.”

“Prejudice!” A cloud of smoke emerged like dragon fire from Clare's mouth. “I've never been prejudiced in my life. I've been a victim of prejudice.”

This was no time for retreat, and Francesca pressed harder. “You won't even take fifteen minutes to listen to an audition tape. I'd call that prejudice, wouldn't you?”

Clare's jaw snapped into a rigid line. “All right, Francesca, I'll give you your fifteen minutes.” She snatched the cassette from her hand. “But don't hold your breath.”

For the rest of the day, Francesca's insides felt like a quivering mass of aspic. She had to get this job. Not only did she desperately need the money but she absolutely had to succeed at something. Radio was a medium that functioned without pictures, a medium in which sage green eyes and a perfect profile held no significance. Radio was her testing ground, her chance to prove to herself that she would never again have to depend on her looks to get by.

At one-thirty, Clare stuck her head through the door of her office and beckoned to Francesca, who set down the fliers she'd been stacking in a carton and tried to walk into the office confidently. She couldn't quite pull it off.

“The tape isn't terrible,” Clare said, settling into her chair, “but it's not much good either.” She pushed the cartridge across the desktop.

Francesca stared down at it, trying to hide the crushing disappointment she felt.

“Your voice is too breathy,” Clare went on, her tone brisk and impersonal. “You talk much too fast and you emphasize the strangest words. Your British accent is the only thing you have going for you. Otherwise, you sound like a bad imitation of every mediocre male disc jockey we've had at this station.”

Francesca strained to hear some trace of personal animosity in her voice, some sense that Clare was being vindictive. But all she heard was the dispassionate assessment of a seasoned professional. “Let me do another tape,” she pleaded. “Let me try again.”

The chair squeaked as Clare leaned back. “I don't want to hear another tape; it won't be any different. AM radio is about people. If listeners want music, they tune into an FM station. AM radio has to be personality radio, even at a rat-shit station like this. If you want to make it in AM, you have to remember you're talking to people, not to a microphone. Otherwise you're just another Twinkle.”

Francesca snatched up the tape and turned toward the door, the threads of her self-control nearly unraveling. How had she ever imagined she could break into radio without any training? One more delusion. One more sand castle she had built too near the water's edge.

“The best I can do is use you as a relief announcer on weekends if somebody can't make it.”

Francesca spun around. “A relief announcer! You'll use me as a relief announcer?”

“Christ, Francesca. Don't act like I'm doing you any big favor. All it means is you'll end up working an afternoon shift on Easter Sunday when nobody's listening.”

But Francesca refused to let Clare's testiness deflate her, and she let out a whoop of happiness.

That night she pulled a can of cat food from her only kitchen cupboard and began her nightly conversation with Beast.

“I'm going to make something of myself,” she told him. “I don't care how hard I have to work or what I have to do. I'm going to be the best announcer KDSC has ever had.” Beast lifted his hind leg and began grooming himself. Francesca glowered at him. “That is absolutely the most disgusting habit you have, and if you think you're going to do that around my daughter, you can think again.”

Beast ignored her. She reached for a rusty can opener and fastened it over the rim of the can, but she didn't begin turning it at once. Instead, she stared dreamily ahead. She knew intuitively that she was going to have a daughter—a little star-spangled American baby girl who would be taught from the very beginning to rely on something more than the physical beauty she was predestined to inherit from her parents. Her daughter would be the fourth generation of Serritella females—and the best. Francesca vowed to teach her child all the things she had been forced to learn on her own, all the things a little girl needed to know so that she would never end up lying in the middle of a dirt road and wondering how she'd gotten there.