Page 1 of Pity Parade

CHAPTER ONE

TRINA

“Trina Rockwell?” I’m tempted to run. At the very least I should consider changing my name. Katrina has suited me well over the years, but it might be fun to try Marigold or Joslyn for a while. You know, a name with no impending sense of doom attached to it.

I continue to sit in my chair as a twenty-something-year-old woman enters the lobby. Her gaze shifts about like she’s a hunter and I’m her prey. She’s short and appears athletic enough she could probably lift me over her head without breaking a sweat. She also seems annoyed. Welcome to my world, sister.

I used to love coming to the production offices of Midwestern Matchmaker, but that was back when I was part of a production I was proud of. Pushing up onto my extra-high espadrilles, I smooth nonexistent wrinkles from my skirt. Then, with a deep breath, I wave my hand in the air. “Right here.”

The woman’s mid-length bob seemingly lengthens as her chin cranes upward to take in my over six-foot stature. I’m only five-ten on my own, but I’m hoping the added shoe height will make me more intimidating to my pint-sized producer. Either that or it might give me the internal boost of courage I need to get through this meeting. With any luck, both.

“I’m Tom Meranda’s new assistant, Phil,” the woman says. At least, I think she’s a woman—maybe she only identifies that way.

“How’s that going for you?” My tone is full of derision. I used to like Tom, back when he was producing the version of Midwestern Matchmaker I was proud of. But we got into a tiff when he tried to force a more salacious agenda. That’s when I lost all respect for him. Then we lost our show.

Phil ignores my question, turns around, and marches with military precision down the hallway like a little Stalin or Hitler. I’m tempted to call out orders drill-sergeant style. “Lift those knees, soldier! Chin up! Shoulders back!”

Tom’s assistant opens his door without knocking and gestures for me to sit down on one of the chairs across from his desk. Meanwhile, he’s staring out the window at the Chicago River below, talking to someone on the phone. “That’s right, Ginger. Yes … uh-huh … she just came into my office. I’ll call you back when our meeting is over.” He hangs up and spins his chair around. His expression is deadpan.

If I had even a modicum of respect left for Tom, I’d greet him first. I’m normally professional, and polite to a fault, but I’m not here because I want to be. As such, I no longer care what he thinks of me.

Tom waits several long beats before breaking the silence. “You look well, Trina.”

“Your bald spot is getting bigger,” I tell him.

Resting his chin on the teepee he’s made of his fingertips, he states the obvious. “Still mad, I see.”

“Insightful as ever,” I tell him.

Tom forces a smile that makes him look like a lizard about to eat a bug. “I hate that things have come to this, Trina. We’ve had a lot of good years working together.”

Crossing one leg over the other, I reply, “You can take full credit for the change in our relationship.”

He narrows his beady eyes. “You were told at the beginning of last season that if we didn’t make some changes, there would be no chance of getting picked up.”

“Yes, Tom, but change doesn’t always mean pandering to the lowest common denominator. Change can be good.” I sound like a schoolteacher trying to talk sense into a bully hellbent on beating the snot out of a weaker kid. In this instance, me.

My producer kicks his feet onto his desktop as though the tediousness of this topic is exhausting his precious limbs. “We’re in the reality programming game, Trina. Change for us always means a move toward the more titillating.” I know he’s right, but before I can concede as much, he adds, “You’re the one who decided you were too good for that and now we’re all up a creek without a paddle.”

“What about the new show where I’m the bait?” The only way I could get the producers to do the semi-right thing in Midwestern Matchmaker’s last season was to agree to let them pitch a concept where I’m the one getting set up. The fact that I’d rather be tarred, feathered, and paraded through town Lady-Godiva-style is of no consequence to them.

“That’s what we’re meeting about today.” He allows a pregnant pause before dropping the bomb. “We couldn’t find any interest.”

Before I can cheer in excitement, I’m hit with a secondary emotion—surprise. While I absolutely do not want to star in a show where I’m the focus, I also thought—apparently incorrectly—that I was an interesting enough commodity that the networks would be fighting over me.

Tom looks smarmily pleased by my shock. “Which is why we now need to pitch a variety of different concepts.”

“And you thought I’d help?” I don’t bother trying to hide my sarcasm.

He shrugs indifferently. “If you don’t follow through with a new show and remind viewers they like you, you’ll become yesterday’s news as fast as every other two-bit presenter out there. Remember Swan Fellows?”

I don’t bother taking the bait about my being a two-bit presenter, as he knows well and good that was only part of my role. Instead, I shake my head. “Who’s she?”

“My point exactly,” he says. Then he informs me, “You signed a contract to let us do a dating program about you, Trina Rockwell, the Midwestern Matchmaker. The way I see it, you have two options. Be a part of things like you’ve always been and help us make another hit show, or don’t help us and never work in this town again.”

My gaze bores into his while I fantasize about having superhero powers that would allow me to cut him in half with lasers shooting from my eyeballs. “Are you threatening that I’ll never work in the industry again, Tom, or are you telling me that I’ll never work in Chicago. Because the last time I checked you weren’t the king of either.” Put that in your pipe, you tiny little toad of a human.

He leans back in his chair before crossing his arms. “I’m telling you that if you don’t do your best to make this new show a screaming success, then I will make it my personal mission in life to ensure that no one ever hires you again.” Gathering steam for his cause, he clarifies, “On television, as a matchmaker, or as a fry captain at McDonald’s. Is that clear enough for you?”

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