California Girls(112)

He ignored the sarcasm. “But this new version of you, it’s very powerful. You yelled at me and you have direction and I like who you are now. I miss you. I miss us. We were good together. We can be again.”

She really should remember to keep a vase in her office. A big one she didn’t care about so she could have it to throw at Glen’s head.

“No,” she said, proud of how calm she sounded. “No. I am not in love with you. I’m ashamed to say, I’m not sure I ever was. We were not good together, neither of us was happy. I don’t want to be with you. I’m with Daniel and I want to stay with Daniel. You were wrong to break up with me the way you did, but right to end things. It’s over, Glen. We are finished.”

His shoulders slumped. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do. You’re not interested in me anymore. You’re just upset I’m with Daniel.”

He stood. “You’re making a mistake. He’s never going to love you the way I did.”

She wanted to say she didn’t need his kind of love in her life, but then remembered if all went well, Glen would be her brother-in-law, so best to keep things civil.

“Goodbye, Glen.”

He started to say something, then shook his head and walked out. Ali stayed in her chair, making sure she felt okay, then pushed all thoughts of Glen from her mind and went back to work.





Chapter Twenty-Nine


Finola double-checked her appearance in the well-lit mirror in her temporary dressing room. Every hair was in place, the makeup was understated and the sleeveless dress had been tailored to fit her perfectly. She touched the bouquet of flowers Zennie and Ali had sent and smiled at the spray of balloons from Rochelle and the team back in LA. She was really doing this. In less than thirty minutes, she would be live on a national show.

She sat in her chair and closed her eyes before inhaling for a count of four. She held her breath as she counted to eight, then exhaled slowly.

When her breathing exercises were done, she walked out of the dressing room and found the sound guy to help her feed the microphone under the front of her dress and around to the rear of the armhole before he clipped the pack on the back of her belt. One of the producers, a young, thin guy in his early thirties, rushed over.

“You ready?” he asked, sounding anxious.

“It’s going to be fine.”

“If you say so. I wouldn’t have picked this topic in a million years, but it’s too late to change your mind now.”

She smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ve got this.”

Finola walked onto the set and faced the cameras. There were three and they were remotely controlled, which made it seem as if they were alive and moving however they wanted. She told herself not to be distracted, that she was going to be great, then smiled as she was given the count.

“Five, four, three—”

The two and one were done silently, then the red light went on.

“Good morning. I’m Finola Corrado, filling in this week, and welcome to our ten o’clock hour.” She focused on staying relaxed and reading from the teleprompter.

“In recent months, as many of you know, my personal life was in the news. My husband had an affair with a famous singer and I found myself being part of the story instead of reporting the story. This was a change for me, and not a very fun one.”

She paused to flash a rueful smile. “I was scared, I was angry and I was hurt. I spent a lot of time feeling sorry for myself and maybe drinking a little too much wine. But then, as the wounds stopped bleeding quite so much, I started thinking. About my marriage and the other relationships in my life, about what it takes to make another person happy while staying true to ourselves.”

She paused. “If you’re hoping for salacious details about my personal life this week, I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed. But what I would like to talk about instead is what makes a good marriage and how marriages go wrong. Unless there’s abuse, no relationship failure is just one person’s fault. Even mine. I might not have cheated, but I wasn’t the wife I could have been. I’m hoping the guests I’ve invited to join us will be informative and interesting and that we’re all going to learn something. So let’s get started.”

She turned toward the sofa and chairs as her first guest walked out.

The hour passed in a blur. Finola kept to her notes when she could, but there were a couple of times everyone got off on a tangent. She went with the conversation, then returned them all to the point of the segment. Without audience feedback, she had no idea how the show was being received, but she told herself she knew what she was doing and to trust her gut. When the camera light went off at four minutes to the top of the hour, she felt as if she’d run five marathons.

The skinny producer was back. He stared at her in disbelief.

“That was incredible. Really honest and raw without being maudlin. The psychologist was perfect. I don’t, as a rule, like shrinks, but she knew her stuff. If the other shows are this good, you’ve got a winning series, Finola.”

“Thank you.”

She walked back to her temporary dressing room. People congratulated her, but as she didn’t know who they were the praise wasn’t all that meaningful. She missed her regular crew where she knew what they were thinking by the looks on their faces.