LITMIR.BIZ

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      “It’s bad. They said they’re going to coordinate with Jack to feed video as soon as the freelancer in Paris gets to the bureau. The car’s all mangled, though. Should be good pictures.”

      “What about injuries?”

      “London said they don’t know yet. Listen, kid, we may need you to do a special report. You okay with that?”

      No. Jesus Christ, no.

      “Sure,” she replied. She had tried to sound convincing but was sure she’d failed.

      “You sure? Ted’s made the call that it’s you and he’s on his way in to make it happen. But say the word and we’ll get someone else in. You don’t have to do it.”

      “I’m fine, John.” Isabel corrected her posture and took a deep breath in. “Seriously. Don’t give it another thought.”

      I can’t do this. Not right now. Not tonight. Please.

      But John was dubious. “Who else is in the newsroom?”

      “No one. Just me and Jack and a couple of editors in the back—I don’t know who.”

      “For chrissakes! Why hasn’t Jack gotten backup in there? You’re gonna need at least a couple of producers for now, until we can get our shit together and we know how bad this thing is. Lemme talk to Jack.”

      “Stand by.” Isabel felt the thump of a headache gnawing its way to the front of her forehead. Her computer was beeping every two to three seconds with the same “urgent” wire report that Diana had been in a car accident. She signaled to Jack to pick up the phone. He already had a phone on each ear and was no longer sitting back in his chair but was pacing behind the assignment desk.

      Calm down. This is my last chance. Last chance. Last chance. So let’s dance…the last dance…to-oo-night. Yes it’s my last chance….

      * * *

      “Buckingham Palace confirms that Diana, the Princess of Wales, was in a serious car accident earlier this evening in Paris. There is no confirmation yet on the extent of her injuries.”

      Isabel stared at the AP report on her computer. She squeezed her eyes shut, opened them again, and tried to pretend her peripheral vision was not narrowing.

      “You think you can actually get away from this?” the voice asked again, its sinister laughter bouncing off the interior walls of Isabel’s skull.

      Not now. Please. Calm down.

      Two seconds later the makeup artist backed away from her and then dabbed an extra bit of powder on her forehead.

      “Okay.” Ted Sargent was nervously arranging the two sheets of copy on the anchor desk in front of Isabel. “You got everything you need?”

      “Yes, Ted,” Isabel answered, her voice an octave higher than normal. “They’re talking to me in my ear so, if you’ll excuse me…” She was unaccustomed to having the president of the network news division looking over her shoulder.

      “Stand by, Isabel,” the voice came into her earpiece. “We don’t know when we’re cutting in. Stand by.”

      Isabel had never done a Special Report. She turned in her seat and scanned the newsroom. Within minutes it had come alive, desk assistants, producers, writers—many of whom she’d never seen before—were scurrying around, diving for phones, typing on their keypads, combing through hours of Diana footage for the best shots. She felt as if she were on a plane, taking off, the cabin pressure adjusting and popping her eardrums.

      We are interrupting this broadcast to bring you an ANN Special Report. Just moments ago, Buckingham Palace confirmed that Diana, Princess of Wales, has been involved in what they are calling a, quote, serious car accident in Paris. The extent of her injuries and the nature of the accident are not yet known. Once again, Princess Diana was in a car accident roughly one hour ago in Paris, France. Buckingham Palace is characterizing it as serious. We will, of course, bring you more information as soon as it becomes available. Please stay tuned to your local ANN affiliate for further details. I’m Isabel Murphy reporting from ANN headquarters in New York.

      Isabel’s lips moved as she read the copy again to herself. Her heart was racing almost as fast as her thought process.

      I’m anchoring a Special Report for the American News Network. Focus. I’ve got to focus.

      “Chip?” Isabel spoke into her microphone at a whisper and barely moved her lips, which were now magenta, the blue fear freezing out the slash of her red lipstick. “Do I have five seconds to make a quick call? It’s important.”

      “We’re in standby mode so technically no, but since we’re waiting for the break to drop out of programming…if you do it quickly…you’ve got about seventeen seconds until we’re on alert. Go.”

      Isabel had already dialed the first nine numbers into the phone behind the anchor desk. She pushed the tenth on Chip’s go-ahead.

      “Hi, it’s me,” she said softly. “Just wanted to tell you two to watch ANN right now.”

      Her face fell as she listened into the phone. “But where is he? Oh. Okay. Well, bye.”

      Maybe he’ll be home in the next few minutes. Then he’ll catch it. Mom’ll already have it on.

      “Okay, Isabel.” The voice in her ear was steady and commanding. “We’re going live in one minute. Stand by.”

      You disgust me. You disgust me.

      Isabel sat up straight in her chair and nervously touched her sprayed hair.

      Calm down. Calm down.

      “Isabel, you all set?” Ted was just behind the TelePrompTer facing the anchor desk.

      Last chance. Last chance. For romance…to-oo-night.

      “Yes,” Isabel replied, looking down at her copy (a backup in case the TelePrompTer were to break down). There was already an imprint of her sweating hand on the printout.

      Maybe he’s walking into the house right now.

      Isabel’s heart pounded even harder when the voice of her producer came back into her ear: “Thirty seconds, Isabel. Stand by.”

      Oh, God. Please, God.

      Isabel watched Ted hurry in to the control booth from behind the camera.

      Last chance…

      “In ten, nine, eight, seven—cue music—five, four, three, two.” Good producers never say “one.”

      Last chance…

      Isabel looked into the camera and, for the first time in her career, froze.

      Chip’s voice was urgent in her ear: “Isabel! You’re on!”

      Nothing.

      Last chance…last chance…

      Isabel was no longer at the anchor desk, she was in a parallel universe, one in which Donna Summers sang the same song over and over and Isabel was able to watch herself spiral down a dirty tunnel and yet was powerless to stop her descent, her arms frantically grabbing at the sides of the darkening cone, trying to catch hold of a slippery side. Viewers, alerted to the emergency cut-in by a fancy graphic and urgent music involving trumpets and French horns, were now turning to other stations.

      Ted Sargent ran out of the control booth toward the anchor desk, just off camera. “Isabel!” he hissed angrily.

      Nothing.

      You disgust me. The voices had broken through—Isabel no longer heard them as others but as herself. Did you hear me? You disgust me!

      He ran back into the booth and yelled to the producer. “Throw up a graphic! Something! Cut to black! Jesus fucking Christ!” Ted looked up at the monitors running the other network broadcasts and saw that all

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