Fly Away (Firefly Lane 2)

I sit back, stunned.

“How do you think the network felt about your exit? Or your employees, all of whom were suddenly unemployed?”

“I … I…”

“That’s right. You didn’t think about them, did you? The network wanted to sue you. ”

“I had no idea—”

“Unreturned phone calls,” he snaps. “I fought like a tiger to protect you. They decided not to sue—thought it would be a public relations nightmare because of the cancer card. But they pulled the show, no reruns, and replaced you. ”

How do I not know this? “They replaced me? With whom?”

“The Rachael Ray Show. It’s kicking ass in the ratings. Growing fast. And Ellen and Judge Judy are still pulling huge numbers. And Oprah, of course. ”

“Wait. What are you saying exactly? I own my show, George. I produce it. ”

“Too bad you don’t own a network. And they have the right to air reruns exclusively for now. They aren’t running them, either. That’s how pissed they are. ”

I can’t even process this information. I have been successful forever. “You’re saying The Girlfriend Hour is done. ”

“No, Tully. I’m saying you’re done. Who is going to hire someone who walks away without a conversation?”

Okay, so this is bad. “I’ll produce another show. On spec. We’ll sell it ourselves. ”

“Have you spoken to your business manager recently?”

“No. Why?”

“Do you remember donating a substantial sum to Stand Up 2 Cancer four months ago?”

“It was a gift for Kate. And it was great publicity. They reported it on Entertainment Tonight. ”

“A lovely, beautiful gesture, yes. Except you have no money coming in, Tully. Not since you walked. You had to pay off a lot of employee contracts when you stopped taping the show. It cost you a small fortune. And let’s face it, saving money was never your strong point. ”

“Are you saying I’m broke?”

“Broke? No. You’re still more than comfortable. But I’ve spoken to Frank. You don’t have enough to bankroll production. And no one is going to want to invest in you right now. ”

I feel an edgy panic; my foot taps on the floor, my fingers curl tightly around the armrests. “So I need a job. ”

The look George gives me is sad. In his eyes, I see the whole arc of our relationship. He became my agent almost two decades ago, when I was low man on the totem pole at the network morning show. We’d been drawn together by our mutual ambition. He’d brokered every major contract of my career and helped me make millions, most of which I’d pissed away on extravagant travel and gifts. “It won’t be easy. You’re kryptonite, Tul. ”

“You’re saying I can only work at the local level?”

“I’m saying you’ll be lucky to work at the local level. ”

“No top ten. ”

“I don’t think so. ”

The pity and compassion in his gaze is more than I can bear. “I’ve worked since I was fourteen, George. I got a job at the Queen Anne Bee newspaper in high school, and I was on air before my twenty-second birthday. I have built this career from scratch. No one gave me anything. ” My voice breaks. “I put everything into my work. Everything. I don’t have kids or a husband or a family. I have … work. ”

“I guess you should have thought about that before,” he says, and the gentleness of his voice takes none of the sting out of his observation.

He’s right. I know the journalism business, and, worse, TV. I know “out of sight, out of mind. ” I know you can’t do what I did and come back from it.

So why didn’t I know it in June?