The Last Good Night by Emily Listfield

scuffed penny loafers. There was a milky stain on her left lapel that didn’t look entirely new. Her deep red hair was expensively streaked but it needed to be washed. It was hard to reconcile her disheveled appearance with her prose, known for the sharpness of her observations, the way she captured a telling nervous tic, a verbal gaffe. I always used to wonder why people agreed to be interviewed by her, if it was because their egos were so big they thought they could outsmart her, or if it was an unquenchable desire for fame at any cost. Whatever it was, the same quotients had helped me as a reporter for years—people’s need to talk, the universal desire to be understood—so it was hypocritical of me to criticize her now, even if I didn’t like the whole idea.
    â€œDo you want some tea or coffee?” I asked as she made herself at home on the couch. Her tape recorder fell out of herlarge Prada bag and crashed to the ground at her feet. She flushed, embarrassed, as she reached down to pick it up. “No, I’m fine thanks.”
    â€œAre you sure that thing will work now?” I asked, suddenly worried for her even as I was aware that it could all be premeditated, the milky stain, the clumsiness, anything to get her subjects to relax. She tested the tape recorder once and then got out her notebook. A few feet away, Mark, the photographer, was busy setting up lights and umbrellas. He had a vague foreign accent and a chestnut ponytail. I wondered if they were sleeping together. When Mark tripped over a plastic ladybug pull-toy on the floor, Alexandra jumped almost imperceptibly.
    I sat down on the chair facing her.
    â€œNice house,” she said. “How long have you lived here?”
    â€œJust a year. You won’t print our address?”
    â€œOf course not.”
    I noticed the tape was going, though I hadn’t seen her turn it on.
    â€œYour publicist warned me that I only have forty minutes for this initial meeting so we might as well get started.” She didn’t glance once at the notebook on her lap as she began. “How does it feel to be the only woman co-anchor on the network evening news?”
    â€œWell, I hope we get to the point where women at the anchor desk are not such an uncommon sight,” I responded. “The only relevant issue should be talent not gender.”
    She nodded politely at the predictability of my answer. “How do you respond to criticism that you were not the most qualified contender?”
    â€œThere are an incredible number of talented reporters at all of the networks now. I think I was very lucky. But I’d also like to set the record straight about the impression that I don’t have the journalistic background. I’ve been a reporter for over twelve years. I didn’t get here by winning a beauty contest.”
    â€œThough you have to admit your looks haven’t exactly hurt your career.”
    I smiled without answering and the questions continued: How do you get along with Quinn Hartley? How do you balance motherhood and career? Each time I spoke, Alexandra leaned forward, smiling, nodding, hoping for more. It was her job to throw me off, mine not to be thrown off.
    â€œLet’s talk about your past,” she said. “You grew up in Florida? Your parents must be very proud of you.”
    â€œActually, they’re both dead.”
    â€œOh, I’m so sorry.” She feigned surprise, but if she’d read any of the previous articles about me, she must have known that.
    â€œBefore you came to New York to do the local news you were in Providence?”
    â€œAnd Burlington, and Pittsburgh. And St. Louis. It’s easier to get your credentials in smaller markets first.” I remembered suddenly what it was like when I arrived at each new city, each new station, holding back, watching, learning the politics and the style, changing myself accordingly, adjusting my hair, clothing, vocal