The Wing Girl: A laugh out loud romantic comedy

“Politicians run for cover when they know you’re around. They’re more frightened of you than an IRS audit. You think any man is going to avoid you looking like that?”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Harry, if it makes you feel any better, I’ve still got a lot of work to do on those social skills.”

“Please don’t.”

***

My “tip line” started ringing the moment I got off the set at five minutes after five.

It’s an old, battered red phone that weighs a ton and it’s hooked up to an old-fashioned answering machine that uses a tape. Normally the thing only rings about three times a week. Viewers call tipping me off on stuff that they think needs to be investigated. Sometimes the tips lead to stories, more often they don’t. The stuff I get on politicians is usually generated by the other party and turns out to be bogus. But over the years I’ve gotten some great stories out of anonymous phone calls.

I needed some new leads anyway, having put the State Senator tale to bed as the guy resigned this morning. While there were a few things I had on the back burner, nothing jumped out as a big story.

I slid into my chair, tossed my script on the desk already littered with papers, and answered the phone. “Tip line, Belinda Carson … ”

“Hi, Belinda, thanks for taking my call.” The voice was young and female.

I shoved some junk out of the way, revealing a coffee-stained blotter that still had a calendar for 2006, grabbed a pen and pad, poised to take notes. “That’s what I’m here for. You have a tip you want to share?”

“Not really. I just wanted to say you look fantastic and I was hoping you’d share the name of your hairstylist.”

My head dropped and hit the desk with an audible thud. And so it began.

The tip line got a workout for the next ninety minutes, ringing non-stop. I didn’t get out of there till a quarter to seven, after fielding the following hard-hitting, investigative news tips, which would no doubt lead to Emmy award winning exclusives:

“Who does your makeup?”

“Where did you get that dress?”

“Would you like to have dinner this weekend?”

“Are your eyes really that green or are you using colored contacts?”

“What’s that shade of lip gloss?”

And my favorite:

“I’m married and would never cheat on my wife, but I just wanted to call and say you’re smokin’ hot.”

After the final call Harry walked by my desk on his way out of the newsroom.

“I noticed you were getting an awful lot of tip calls tonight.”

“Uh-huh.” I knew where this was going. Harry was wearing his I-told-you-so look.

“Any good leads?”

“Not one.”

“See what you started?”

CHAPTER SIX (#u0f047d89-72cd-5982-915a-978341715d31)

Friday night couldn’t have come fast enough. I felt like my soul had been magically transferred into another body.

The old Belinda Carson, now known as “frumpy girl,” had apparently died last weekend. Oh, I was still the Brass Cupcake, but I had become that rare crossover hit in the broadcasting world, an “infobabe” who actually had credibility.

Not that viewers noticed the latter any more.

At this point I was totally conflicted. I was surprised, but I had to admit I loved the attention I was getting from men. Hated that my appearance had become secondary to my reporting talent. Loved getting dressed up and fixing my hair (which also surprised the hell out of me), hated that the first comment I heard in the newsroom had to do with my outfit or hair or makeup rather than the previous night’s story.

I would deal with it later, along with a bottle of wine that was chilling in the fridge with my name on it. First I needed a cab, one of the hardest things to get on a Friday night during rush hour in Manhattan.

Well, it used to be hard. I previously endured a yellow blur as taxis sped by me, often splashing me with slush in the process since I was apparently coated with invisibility spray.

Now I step one foot off the curb, raise my hand, awkwardly stick out one well-turned ankle in a stiletto heel, and it’s a lemon-colored NASCAR race to grab my fare. It felt weird, like I was in some bizarre dance class, but I’ll take it.

Ten seconds after I engaged my sexual hail, a shiny cab crossed three lanes of traffic and screeched to a halt in front of me. The rumpled middle-aged man in a business suit ten feet away who’d already been at the curb when I got there rolled his eyes at me.

I opened the door and got in, then noticed the new-car smell, which is rather rare in a Big Apple taxi.

“Where to, Miss?” asked the cabbie, making eye contact by using his rear-view mirror.

“1042 East 82nd, please.”

He didn’t pull away, and just sat there staring at me in the mirror.

“Well?” I asked. “Is there a ride somewhere in my future?”

“I knew it,” he said.

I furrowed my brow. “Knew what?”

I saw his eyes brighten in the mirror and then he turned to face me.

Oh shit.

“You! Vincent!”

“Oh, you remembered my name this time. I’m impressed.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“What does it look like? Driving my cab.”

“You said you worked on Wall Street.”

He shrugged. “Rox told me to say that. Besides, I do pick up a fare there from time to time.”