"Roberts, Nora - Private Scandals" - читать интересную книгу автора (Roberts Nora)

pending bond. This is Deanna Reynolds in Wood Dale, reporting for CBC."
"Nice job, Deanna." Joe shut down the camera.
"Yeah, dandy." On her way to the van, she put two Rolaids in her mouth.

CBC used the tape again on the local portion of the evening news, with an update from the precinct where Dossier
was being held on charges of second-degree murder. Curled in a chair in her apartment, Deanna watched objectively
as the anchor segued from the top story into a piece on a fire in a South Side apartment building.
"Good piece, Dee." Sprawled on the couch was Fran Myers. Her curly red hair was lopsidedly anchored on top of
her head. She had a sharp, foxy face accented by eyes the color of chestnuts. Her voice was pure New Jersey brass.
Unlike Deanna, she hadn't grown up in a quiet suburban home in a tree-lined neighborhood, but in a noisy apartment
in Atlantic City, New Jersey, with a twice-divorced mother and a changing array of step-siblings.
She sipped ginger ale, then gestured with her glass toward the screen. The movement was as lazy as a yawn. "You
always look so great on camera. Video makes me look like a pudgy gnome."
"I had to try to interview the victim's mother." Jamming her hands in the pockets of her jeans, Deanna sprang up to
pace the room, wiry energy in every step. "She wouldn't answer the phone, and like a good reporter, I tracked down
the address. They wouldn't answer the door, either. Kept the curtains drawn. I stayed outside with a bunch of other
members of the press for nearly



an hour. I felt like a ghoul."
"You ought to know by now that the terms "ghoul" and "reporter" are interchangeable." But Deanna didn't smile. Fran
recognized the guilt beneath the restless movements. After setting down her glass, Fran pointed to the chair. "Okay.
Sit down and listen to advice from Auntie Fran."
"I can't take advice standing up?" "Nope." Fran snagged Deanna's hand and yanked her down onto the sofa. Despite
the contrasts in backgrounds and styles, they'd been friends since freshman orientation in college. Fran had seen
Deanna wage this war between intellect and emotion dozens of times. "Okay. Question number one: Why did you go
to Yale?"
"Because I got a scholarship." "Don't rub your brains in my face, Einstein. What did you and I go to college for?"
"You went to meet men."
Fran narrowed her eyes. "That was just a side benefit. Stop stalling and answer the question."
Defeated, Deanna let out a sigh. "We went to study, to become journalists, to get high-paying, high-profile jobs on
television."
"Absolutely correct. And have we succeeded?"
"Sort of. We have our degrees. I'm a reporter for CBC and you're associate producer of Woman Talk on cable."
"Excellent launching points. Now, have you forgotten the famous Deanna Reynolds's Five-Year Plan? If so, I'm sure
there's a typed copy of it in that desk."
Deanna glanced over at her pride and joy, the single fine piece of furniture she'd acquired since moving to Chicago.
She'd picked up the beautifully patinated Queen Anne desk at an auction. And Fran was right. There was a typed
copy of Deanna's career plan in the top drawer. In duplicate.
Since college, she had modified her plans somewhat. Fran had married and settled in Chicago and had urged her
former roommate to come out and try her luck.
"Year One," Deanna remembered. "An on-camera job in Kansas City."
"Done."
"Year Two, a position at CBC,



Chicago."
"Accomplished."