Sophie's Playboy Read online

  Right.

  * * * *

  The radio station looked much like any other office, Sophie thought as she followed the program director through a large room filled to bursting with tiny cubicles. She distracted her nerves by counting. Ten down, three across. Narrow aisles.

  Definitely not wheelchair accessible.

  "I'm sorry, I didn't hear that." She hurried to catch up with the little man who talked very fast.

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  "This promotion has been a disaster," Stevie was saying over his shoulder as he strode toward the door with the "on the air" light above it. "Only six responses, one backed out, another didn't show up. I'm so glad you're early. I hope you're prepared."

  Thus ended the distraction of the nerves. They flared to life, buzzing at Sophie about how she hadn't thought about this at all after she'd impulsively registered online at work during another horrifyingly dull day last week. The only thing she could think of was the black Porsche that had almost hit her on her way over here.

  The "on the air" light blinked off and Stevie shoved the studio door open. The room was a blur of activity that Sophie couldn't keep track of, then suddenly she was in the pilot's chair and ready to go. Or nearly ready.

  The dark-haired woman on the other side of the glass—

  Sophie assumed she was the producer—made a motion at her. Sophie tried to remember what they had just told her about buttons and switches. The headphones slipped backward and she caught them, tightening the band. She could hear the commercial's closing jingle, then the recorded station identification and promo for DJ-For-A-Day.

  "Welcome back to WNRK! I'm Melina Van Horn, and this hour our featured host is Sophie Macgregor." The voice continued with the short—dull—bio Sophie had given them and she realized the producer was the one speaking.

  What the hell am I going to say? She couldn't very well rant about the Porsche.

  Or could she?

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  Melina aimed a finger at her and Sophie recognized it as

  "take it away!"

  "Good afternoon, Boston, and welcome to the fifth circle of hell!" She caught the alarmed expression on Melina's face and the stunned one on Stevie's through another window in front of her. She ignored them and rushed on, afraid they were going to yank her already. "Where did people in this town learn to drive? Today I was almost run down in a crosswalk by some macho man who apparently doesn't think pedestrian right-of-way applies when he's driving. Then there are the people who never learned how to use their stick. You know, the little one on the left that turns on your blinkers?

  "Been on the highway lately? If you have, I'm sure you've noticed that they replaced all the yield signs at the ramps with stop signs. They must have, since no one seems to know the term 'get up to speed.' If they do, they only apply it in the board room."

  She paused and took a deep breath. "Wow, that feels good!" She noticed some flashing lights under the "phone"

  label. "Anyone else feel like ranting? Call now, 555-3246,"

  she read the number off a cheat sheet taped above the console, "and get some sympathy."

  Melina caught her eye and mouthed a name while holding up two fingers. Sophie nodded.

  "Bruce, line two. What's your rant?"

  "Slow drivers in the left lane, Sophie. Why can't they get over? The middle lane is the travel lane, the right lane is the slow lane. Let those of us with somewhere to go use the left lane. The passing lane."

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  "You've got a point there, Bruce. On the other hand, I get riled when I'm passing a tractor trailer and some redneck rides my tail, flashing his lights at me. Where am I supposed to go? Under the truck? Thanks for ranting, Bruce. John, line one, you're on the air."

  "Hi, Sophie. I'm a state trooper, and I'd like to remind people that we have a speed limit on these highways for a reason. You only need to see the aftermath of a high-speed accident once. You don't want to see it from the inside."

  "Duly noted, Trooper John, and duly chastised, aren't we, Bruce?" Sophie tossed off a salute and moved on to the next caller. Before she knew it twenty minutes had gone by and Melina cut her off for a commercial. Stevie bustled in the door.

  "Sophie, that's great! You're doing great! Except for that

  'hell' slip. Not supposed to say that. But you've got the phones on fire. Hit a nerve. Can you stay longer?"

  Sophie raised her eyebrows at him. "How much longer?"

  "About an hour. The next guy doesn't look like he's going to show."

  Sophie shrugged. "Sure." She was having fun.

  She lost track of time, and breaks, and callers. Topics fed off each other. From driving to cars to trunk space to suitcases to golf clubs to various complaints about local courses. Sophie found she had a knack for cutting off callers when they started to repeat themselves.

  "Thanks, Tonio, for your rant. Next caller is Parker.

  Whatcha got to say, Parker?"

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  "I don't think your callers understand the purity of golf, Sophie."

  "What do you mean?"

  "The course isn't supposed to be perfect to each person's specifications. The caller who didn't like water hazards hasn't learned how to avoid them. That's the challenge of the sport."

  Sophie snorted. "Sport? Golf isn't a sport. It's outdoor politics."

  "To some. But to others, it's more." He continued, and Sophie found herself caught up in his voice. What he was saying faded and she concentrated on smooth, rich tones in her ear. She knew someone with a voice like that. Someone

  ... someone ... well, whoever it was, she doubted they spoke so reverently about swatting a little white ball across the grass.

  "Well, you have to admit, it's not very athletic," she said, baiting him, just to keep him on the line.

  "Not athletic? Haven't you ever golfed, woman? Try it.

  Nine holes. You won't be able to get out of bed the next day.

  It's low impact, but stretches and strengthens important muscles."

  "Yeah, the ones you use to get in and out of the cart."

  Melina made a circular motion with her hand and Sophie thanked Parker for calling. "That's it for me today, folks. If you enjoyed the show, call WNRK. After some of the things I said today I may be looking for a new day job."

  The commercial came on, the "on the air" light blinked off, and Sophie pulled the heavy headphones off and laid them on 19

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  the console. Surprisingly, though she'd have expected to feel relief, she missed them already.

  Stevie and Melina entered the room through opposite doors.

  "Great job!" Stevie grabbed her hand and pumped her arm. "Thanks for saving our you-know-whats. Not everyone can keep something like that up for four hours with no preparation."

  "Four hours!" Sophie checked her watch. It had been four hours. She was late for a business dinner at The Club. But it was worth it. She had to remember to call Kira and thank her for being a pushy big sister. As she rushed home to her condo to change, then down to The Club, she couldn't stop thinking about the show. And smiling.

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  CHAPTER 2

  Sophie's good mood lasted through dinner, despite the constant ribbing. It even survived Biff Cornwall, who approached her as she was making her excuses and preparing to leave another dull business evening. Chuck and Dave had encouraged her to approach Biff again about investment, but she hadn't been able to get near him.

  "I caught your show today."

  "Yeah?" Miffed at his avoidance and not adult enough to pretend she wasn't, she didn't look at him. "I can guess what you
thought about it." She waved to her boss and headed for the coat check. Biff followed. Sophie's steps slowed when she saw who already stood there. The woman had an almost obsessive attachment to Biff.

  "It was fun," he said. "Even if you don't know what you're talking about when it comes to golf."

  Something pinged in Sophie's brain and she tilted her head at him. Could he have been the caller with the magic voice?

  But no, that guy's name was Parker. This guy was a Biff all the way.

  "Despite that," he continued suavely, ignoring Vanessa Whitehead while taking Sophie's raincoat from the counter girl and helping her into it. "I'd like to take you to dinner sometime."

  For one instant, one split second when her hormones had begun to enjoy the feel of his fingers on the back of her neck, she considered accepting.

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  The instant vanished under the proprietary gleam of Vanessa's ice-blue stare. The young widow ignored Sophie, tucking her hands under Biff's lapels. "I was looking for you."

  Sophie rolled her eyes at the sultry voice she knew Vanessa had to work hard for. "Thanks for the invitation, Biff, but you're just not my type. Sorry."

  She wondered, though, as she slipped past and headed for the main doors, how accurate that assertion was. The guy who wasn't her type would have been angry at her frank brush-off. She wasn't sure what expression the guy who was her type would wear, but she suspected it was the amused interest on Biff's face as she slipped past—and as he shifted Vanessa to one side.

  * * * *

  The call came out of the blue.

  Sophie had nearly forgotten about her little playtime on the air and was solidly under the influence of spring fever on the heavenly May day when Stevie invited her to negotiate a contract. She took a morning off to meet with the station manager and other important radio people. They outlined her salary and expected benefits, probationary period, endorsement activities, and a lot of stuff that went right over Sophie's head.

  "Why do you want me, again? You know I've never done this before," she warned them for the fifth time. Her soul, near-death from tedium, screamed each time she said it. But they didn't care about her lack of experience.

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  "We got an overwhelming response to your show," Stevie explained patiently. "Our drive time personality is leaving for a bigger market. We need to fill the slot immediately. We think you'll be able to maintain the ratings, if not improve them."

  Sophie tried to read the contract they'd handed her, but every time she reached the center of the first clause someone started talking again. Finally, she stood.

  "I'll read the contract and consider your offer, then give you my answer by Friday."

  "Good enough." Stevie and George, the station manager, stood and shook her hand. Melina Van Horn walked her back to the lobby.

  "We don't have enough female personalities here," she told Sophie in her smooth accent. Greek, Sophie thought, judging by the woman's wild mane of dark hair and her aquiline nose.

  "I hope you take the job. And remember..." She paused by the door. "Everything's negotiable."

  It didn't take Sophie long to decide. She read the contract, noted changes she wanted, and held an imaginary conversation with Kira.

  "Go for it!" her phantom sister said.

  "But what about Chuck and Dave? I owe them."

  "They've gotten what they paid for, Sophie. You don't owe them anything more than two weeks notice."

  "I wanted something to change. Now that I'm getting it, I'm not sure I want it."

  Sophie didn't need her sister to sort that one out.

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  regard. But when she compared her current empty existence to the rush she felt on the air, she knew the decision had already been made.

  She and her lawyer attended another meeting at the station and got most of what she wanted. They wouldn't budge on the cancellation clause. She couldn't leave without penalty until the end of the contract in two years, but they could terminate her with no notice at any time. Sophie fought, to no avail.

  "This is standard in every single contract," one of the station attorneys told her. "If ratings drop, we lose advertisers. We lose advertisers, we lose revenue. We lose revenue, we have to start laying off. Having you quit can cause as much damage as leaving you on the air when the show just doesn't work. This is a deal-breaker."

  Sophie signed the contract.

  She gave notice to MMT the next day. They begged and pleaded and offered a raise equal to the pay cut she was taking by going to the radio station.

  "Sorry, guys. That won't fix what's wrong."

  "Tell us how to fix it!" Dave ground his teeth in frustration.

  Chuck, always the calmer of the two, shook his head.

  "I don't think we can, can we, Soph?"

  "No. It's not a problem with MMT. It's a problem with me."

  And that was that. Sophie gathered her staff and announced her resignation, then spent three days fielding questions she didn't have answers to. Every time she got frustrated, she told herself, "Nine more days. Eight more days. Seven...."

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  Once she was done at MMT, she immediately went to work at WNRK. They had one week to train Sophie in the equipment and regulations. She spent hours observing other personalities, both from inside and outside the booth, and accepting continuous lectures from Stevie.

  For several hours a day she met with Melina to work out the specifics of the show.

  "I don't want to rant for three hours," Sophie said two days before her debut. "Venting is important, but too many complaints will make me angry and depressed all the time."

  Melina shifted on the beat-up sofa where they sat in the break room, the quietest spot they could find to brainstorm.

  They had already worked out the schedule for breaks and news and Melina had taught Sophie her non-verbal signals.

  "You need something positive, then."

  "Right." Sophie got up to pace. "What's the opposite of a rant? A rave. Let's do half venting, half praising. Get it off your chest, then replace it with something good."

  Melina scribbled as fast as Sophie talked. "We'll start the first hour with your rant," she said. "Then you invite callers to do the same. Continue in the second hour."

  "Then I'll open the third hour with a rave. We won't let anyone say negative stuff in the second half. Only praise or stories with happy endings. Compliments to sales clerks, stuff like that."

  "It's my job to keep the callers on track." The producer pulled her bushy black mane away from her delicate face and held it at the nape of her neck. Her eyes gleamed with 25

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  excitement. "Do you want a free-for-all, or try to stick to a theme?"

  "A little of both, I think. We'll set a theme, but it might get too restrictive if we don't allow anyone to stray from it. Part of the energy of the show we did was one caller feeding off another." Sophie dropped into a chair and crossed one jeans-clad leg over the other knee. That was one thing she already loved about this job. The dress code. She liked Melina, too, important since they'd be working so closely.

  "How come you don't host a show?" Sophie asked. "You have the perfect voice for it."

  Melina laughed. "I didn't always speak so clearly. I came from Greece when I was sixteen, and had very broken English. I was fascinated by radio and learned all I could, but there was no chance for me on the air. I like producing. I get to speak often enough. I wouldn't want to be in your seat full time, anyway. Takes too much energy."

  Sophie understood that, but couldn't empathize. She had energy in spades. She was jazzed just talking about the show,
never mind doing it.

  "I thought you were Greek," she commented. "But Van Horn isn't a Greek name, is it?"

  Melina smiled thinly. "No. My ex-husband was ... not Greek." She glanced at her watch. "I must go. I have an appointment. I'll see you Monday."

  "Think we got it?" Sophie asked, biting her lower lip.

  "Absolutely. You'll be fantastic." She waved over her shoulder and disappeared down the hall.

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  Sophie transferred her chewing from her tender lip to her overworked cuticles. She hoped Melina was right. She thought change was hard when she knew where she was going. If the show flopped, there'd be nothing under her when she fell.

  * * * *

  "Good afternoon, and welcome to Rant and Rave! The talk show that lets you get it off your chest. Today's Rant topic is waste. There's too much of it, without a doubt. What kind of waste bothers you the most? Food? Packaging? An intelligent mind on a menial job, or maybe a warm heart on a two-timing jerk. Share it! Call 555-3246. All phone lines are open."

  Sophie relaxed and settled into her chair. She lowered the microphone just a bit. "What annoys me the most today about waste is paper. All these electronic gadgets are supposed to make our offices paperless. But we print something off the computer, fax it, then make a copy and mail the original to them. And what about on the other end?

  We get the fax, then the original."

  Melina signaled that she had a caller. Sophie nodded and smoothly picked up the call.

  "Kyle, you're on the air. What's your rant today?"

  "Garbage."

  "Well, that fits the theme. What about it?"

  "We're wasting it. It's a prime energy source. We have literally tons of it rotting in landfills and on barges." Kyle rattled some technical explanation that went right over 27

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  Sophie's head. Melina made a face, and Sophie cut him off at the end of a sentence.

  "That's fascinating stuff, Kyle, and information we did not know. Thanks so much for calling. Our next caller is Lissa. Go ahead, Lissa."

  Melina gave her a thumbs up and she shrugged. She hoped she hadn't sounded rude. The guy was a listener. And her first official caller.