Morning Glory Read Online Free PDF

antiquated, it’s understaffed and underfunded, any executive producer who works there will be publicly ridiculed and overworked, and, oh, the pay is awful.”
    I raised my eyebrows. “How awful?”
    “About half of what you were making over there at Hey, How the Hell Are You, New Jersey .”
    “ Good Morning, New Jersey ,” I corrected.
    “Whatever.” He waved at me again. “I’ve offered this job to twenty-two people already and they’ve all turned me down.”
    Twenty-two. I swallowed. Really? I wondered how many of those twenty-two were being headhunted away from current jobs, and how many were, like me, unemployed. How many people did he want for this position more than he did me? People who might be out there snatching up any other available job?
    “Yes,” I said bravely. “But I—”
    “Frankly,” Jerry admitted, “if I could find someone who was qualified, you wouldn’t be sitting in that chair.”
    I reeled back in that chair as if I’d been slapped.
    He counted off my disqualifications. “You’ve never been an executive producer, you’re too young, no one’s ever heard of you, and your education?” He shot me a look of disdain. “Three—not four—years at Fairleigh Ridiculous?”
    “Dickin—”
    “Did I miss anything?” He folded his arms.
    I cleared my throat. “No.”
    “Okay, Becky Fuller,” he said. “So. Speak.”
    “Okay.” I took a deep breath. This might be my only chance. “Is Daybreak a shitty show? Yes. But it’s on a network, and not just any network—this is one of the most legendary news divisions in the history of television.”
    Jerry gave me goggle eyes.
    “All this show needs,” I continued, my tone turning passionate, “is someone who believes in it, who understands that a national platform is an invaluable resource, that no story is too low and no story is too high to reach for.” I stopped, a little breathless.
    “Are you going to sing now?” Jerry asked.
    “ Daybreak needs exactly what I need,” I cried. “Someone who believes it can succeed. Trust me, I know there’s no reason you should believe in me except that I work harder than anyone else. First in. Last out. I know a shitload more about the news than someone whose daddy paid for them to smoke bongs and take semiotics at Harvard.”
    For once, Jerry had gone quiet. Oh, crap. I checked above Jerry’s desk for any sign of a diploma. Please tell me he didn’t go to Harvard.
    “And I devote myself completely to my job,” I said quickly, while the Harvard crack lingered. “It’s all I do. It’s all I am. You can ask anyone.”
    “Well, that’s …” Jerry grimaced. “…  Embarrassing.”
    “It is,” I agreed. “It’s also true.” Dear God, was it true. And for the past two months, the daily five hours between my waking up and the advent of dawn I’d spent doing absolutely nothing had totally driven home that fact. I needed the news far, far more than I’d needed anything. Except coffee. Or maybe a boyfriend.
    Actually, God, if I get this job, I promise I’ll stop complaining about the boyfriend .
    He studied me for a moment, arms folded, the horn-rimmed glasses the only thing keeping his gaze from turning skanky. I stared back, chin lifted. I was dead serious about what I’d said. And this was so obviously my only shot.
    Finally, he said, “I’ll let you know.”
    “Okay,” I said, and rose. I began backing out the door. “I’ll just … show myself out, then. When do you think—”
    “I’ll let you know,” he repeated, and turned back to his work.
    “Do you have … All my info’s on the resume.” Oh God, I hoped I was backing out the actual door. I risked a look behind me. Yep. Door. “Okay!” I said. “Bye! Thanks for … thanks.”
    “Uh-huh.” He didn’t look up. Was that a bad sign? Did I screw up? Sound too eager? Too desperate? Too oddly obsessed with the very idea of morning news shows?
    I walked to the elevator in a daze, going over every