One More for Christmas

Gayle drew in the audience, as she would if she were speaking to them live. She knew that right now, in living rooms and kitchens across the nation, women would be glued to the screen, hoping for a magic bullet that would fix their lives. Phones would go unanswered, babies would go unfed and unchanged, doorbells would be ignored. Hope would bloom, and a brief vision of a different future would blast away fatigue and disillusionment.

Gayle knew that once the interview ended, most would just sink back into their own lives, but right now they were with her. They wanted to be inspired.

“Hearing people’s personal experiences can be motivational and uplifting for everyone. My approach to life is relevant whether you run a household or a corporation.”

“I ended a relationship.” Rochelle gave a nervous laugh, as if surprised that she’d actually admitted that on prime-time TV. “After I read the chapter ‘Obstacles to Ambition,’ I wrote down everything that might stop me achieving my goals, and the guy I was seeing was top of the list. And that chapter on auditing friendships...? Decluttering your contacts...? Brilliant! Asking yourself, How does this relationship bring me closer to my goals? And I wanted to ask you, GM, is this something you’ve done yourself?”

“Of course. My books are basically a blueprint of the way I’ve lived my life—but it can apply to anyone’s life. The main takeaway from Choice Not Chance is to challenge yourself. Brave New You focuses on confronting our innate fear of change.”

There. She’d slotted in a mention of the book, and because it was live it wouldn’t be cut. Her publisher would be pleased.

“I want all women—from the barista who serves me my coffee every morning to the woman who manages my investments—to feel in control of their destiny.” She gave the camera an intense look. “You have more power than you know.”

Rochelle leaned forward. “You’re famous for saying that no one can have it all. Have you made sacrifices for your career?”

“I’ve made choices, not sacrifices. Choices. Know what you want. Go for it. No apologies.”

“And you’ve never had any regrets?”

Regrets?

Gayle’s world wobbled a little. How well had this woman done her research?

She sat up a little straighter and looked at the camera. “No regrets.”

And just like that, the interview was over.

Rochelle unclipped her microphone. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Gayle stood up. “How did you get your start in TV?”

“I applied for a ton of things after college but had no luck with anything.” Rochelle was relaxed and chatty now the interview was over. “Then I was offered an internship at the studio. I shadowed a reporter, and they let me present a little because they thought I looked good on camera. So I suppose you could say I fell into it.”

Gayle winced. You fell into snowdrifts—not jobs.

“Today is a crossroads for you. Doors will open. I hope you walk through them.”

“Thanks, GM. I’m never going to forget what you’ve done for me.” Rochelle glanced at the crew and then back at Gayle. “We need photos so we can promote the interview on our site and social media.”

“Of course.” Gayle walked to her bookshelves and posed in what she knew was the most flattering position, careful that both her books were in the shot, face out.

Did they know that today was her birthday? No, why would they? Her digital team had scrubbed all mention of her birth date from the internet, so her age was shrouded in mystery. Birthdays slid past like the seasons—unmarked and frankly unwanted. She preferred to keep the focus on her achievements.

The photographer glanced around him. “Could we have a photograph with the award?”

The award?

Gayle glanced upward. The award had been placed on the top shelf of the bookcase that lined the only solid wall of her office. Had it been attractive she might have displayed it somewhere more prominent, but it was an ugly monstrosity, the brainchild of someone apparently devoid of both inspiration and artistic skill. The golden star itself was inoffensive, but it had been attached to a particularly ugly base. The first thing she’d thought on being presented with it the night before was that it reminded her of a gravestone.

Her opinion of it hadn’t mellowed overnight.

She looked at the award again, loathing it as much as she had when she’d received it—although of course at the time she’d smiled and looked delighted. What message would it send for her to be photographed with something so lacking in aesthetic charm? That she was ready for the grave and had the headstone to prove it?

She glanced outside to where Cole, her assistant, was supposed to be sittin

g during the interviews in case he was needed. Where was he? He should have anticipated this and had the statue ready.

She could either wait for his return—which would mean the TV crew lingering in her office—or she could get the damn thing herself.