Season 4. Moving forward at ACN.
From the corner of her eye, Mac noticed Millie enter and deposit a sheaf of papers at the center of her desk. She tried to concentrate on the spreadsheet on the computer screen but became aware that Millie hadn't left the office, still hovered in the periphery. Finally, Mac surrendered and wheeled around in her chair.
"Something else, Millie?"
"The mail—it's on your desk."
"Thank you." Mac glanced down. "Anything interesting?"
"Er—"
At this Mac looked up again. Millie looked distinctly uncomfortable.
"I'm so sorry—I was just charging through and there had been the usual invitations, which I always open and put on Outlook—so I didn't notice what it was until I'd already—"
Mac flipped through the short stack of papers and found it at the bottom.
Millie shook her head. "I'm sorry I opened it—I wish I hadn't seen—but you know you can rely—"
"This?" Mac held the rectangular envelope of heavy paper. Sweeping cursive address in green ink. Familiar, because this was not the first. She withdrew the heavy stock notecard and scanned it.
Having paused momentarily to allow Mac to read, Millie now resumed. "I apologize again, and I'll get Blue North for you—"
"That isn't necessary—"
"Your friend Molly at the Bureau?"
"Again, no."
Someone needs to look into this, Mac," resorting to the diminutive in her anxiety. "We need to find out who sent this and—"
"Thanks, Millie—thanks for your concern, and your advice, which I'm sure is good advice—but I'll pass on consulting Blue North or anyone else just now."
Millie looked dubious at the decision. "You know, Mr. Church would be here in a minute—he would want—"
Mac put up her hand. "No. No Blue North. No need to blow this out of all proportion." She smiled gamely and dropped the envelope in the bottom desk drawer. "Let's just keep this in the office for the time being. Okay?"
oooo
"Maggie's on one," Kendra said to Jim over the early show din.
He nodded to her, stabbed his index finger in Tess's direction, and fit the phone receiver over the ear unencumbered by the headset.
"Maggie, we're coming to you at the top of the next break. Recap us, then take Will's questions."
"Got it."
"Hang on a minute." He put a hand over the phone's mouth piece. "Joey, can you get a hi-res image for me—"
"I can go only EGA on that card, Jim."
Jim frowned. "Looks real fuzzy."
"The best I can do."
Jim took his hand away. "Sorry, Magg, one of those nights here."
"We have them here, too," she returned, with a smirk he could feel through the wire. "Plus, of course, there's Jane."
"That's a cross to bear," he commiserated.
"Sorry again about last weekend."
"Yeah, right. Solo female ACN field producer on day cruise with 125 male submariners. You know, I really would have thought subs had lost some of their sexiness in a post-Cold War reality."
"Nope. Subs are still plenty sexy. The Navy just needs more public puff to off-set post-Sequestration appropriation dollars. Unfortunately, Congress seems immune to the charm of nuclear-powered fast-attack submarines just now."
"Well, I'm sure the Navy is glad you have its back. When's the piece air?"
She made a snort. "Not for air. For the stream—"
"Pruit's folly. "
"Hey, no need to diss us for reading the handwriting on the wall."
Jim pulled the phone away from his head briefly and leaned down to Herb. "Still waiting for that D.C. video feed—" Herb gestured to the far monitor. "There you are, lookin' good, " Jim breathed back into the phone.
On Monitor 3, Margaret Jordan adjusted her microphone and laughed at someone off-camera.
"Maggie, I need to go, but I wanted to say hi and make sure we're still on—"
"Meeting your plane tomorrow night. Saturday afternoon at the Smithsonian, Saturday night drinks at Barmini and dinner at Rasika. Sunday morning's still open."
"We'll figure out something." He could hear Herb begin the return checklist. "Okay, I'm giving you back to Kendra. Hang loose."
On Monitor 1, Will looked up as the camera came in.
"Today is the seventy-first day since Atlantis Cable News correspondent Andrew Murdoch was reported missing in Syria. Margaret Jordan of our Washington, D.C. bureau, has an update." He turned his chair and the red light on Camera 2 went on. "Maggie?"
"Will, the American-based Committee to Protect Journalists today confirmed last week's announcement by the Syrian government that three journalists, including ACN's Drew Murdoch, are being held by the al-Nusra Front, a Free Syrian faction. Murdoch disappeared September second of this year while traveling in the Homs region of Syria. It had been widely speculated that he may have been taken captive by the al-Nusra Front, a radical arm of the Syrian insurgency and, worryingly, one with close ties to the burgeoning Islamic State movement. Murdoch, a Scottish national working for Atlantis Cable News in the region since 2011, formerly worked for British Sky News. CPJ is pursuing talks with leaders of the al-Nusra Front on a strictly humanitarian basis, as open negotiations for the release of hostages is, as you know, forbidden by U.S. policy." She paused, waiting for Will.
"Maggie, does the Department of State seem to have a sense of the goals of the al-Nusra Front in holding these journalists?"
"None that they have divulged to date, Will. Kidnappings of Westerners have usually revolved around ransoms or other concessions—prisoner exchanges, for example—but no demands have been made public in this case."
"And the Murdoch family—"
"—is in Aberdeen, where they, too, are precluded by their government's policy from any direct negotiations with terrorists or suspected terrorist cells."
Will paused. "Then, given the intractability of the U.S. and U.K. governments on the subject of negotiating, you have to wonder why U.S. and U.K. nationals continue to be targeted."
It was a give-away question and Maggie appreciated Will giving her the on-air coup-de-grace moment. "Will, without economic value or other leverage, these captives represent only propaganda potential to their captors. And in the case of Drew Murdoch and the others, it remains to be seen how their kidnappers will capitalize on that potential."
"Thank you, Maggie." Will looked up. "Margaret Jordan, ACN Washington correspondent. We'll be right back."
oooo
Jim collared Will after the show and it had taken Will nearly two full minutes to divine that Jim was really, surreptitiously, seeking a benediction for Maggie's report. Amused at the realization, Will determined to make him work for it before finally bestowing it.
"She could have made a better distinction between the Assad regime and the al-Nusra Front; not everyone in the audience can follow the Syrian factions as they morph. And she should have had a quote from State in her back pocket, just in case I asked her—as I did. But—overall, I suppose she did a fine job, again, on a difficult and hard-to-report subject. But—" he wagged a finger, "make sure she follows up."
By the time he extricated himself from Jim and changed into street clothes, it was pushing ten. Mac had been home for hours by now, since they had recently mutually agreed to abbreviate her normally brutal workday to a sane and baby-safe 10 to 5 routine. When he came through the door to the apartment, the room was dark.
"Mac?" Then, again, with alarm, "Mac?"
"I'm right here."
As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he could make her out, a dark shadow reclined on the couch.
"Watch your eyes—I'm putting on a light."
She lifted the arm from her face and, meeting his anxious look, offered a weary smile. "I'm okay. Just tired."
He kissed her hair. "Did you eat anything?"
"Thought I'd wait for you."
"Then, wait no longer." He straightened and extended his hand. "I think we can rustle up a salad or something with minimal effort."
"Mmm." She followed him to the kitchen and placed ingredients on the counter as he passed them to her from the fridge.
"Did you watch the show?"
"Fell asleep," she admitted. "Sorry."
"Tough day?"
"Yeah. The news about Drew Murdoch. Reviewing budget projections for next quarter. Two—" she held up fingers to emphasize it, "two harangues from Pruit. Then, I had to pull ACN Digital back from the brink of an expensive mistake." She made a face. "Remember that boat with the hole in it that you talked about? You neglected to mention it was the Titanic."
Laughing, Will looked up from chopping vegetables.
"Plus, your daughter has been kicking all day." At this, his pleased expression coaxed her into a smile of forbearance. "But I did want to see the show tonight."
"Maggie did well."
"No surprise there. It's a tough—" She let her voice trail off, not trusting herself to continue. Although all the travails of the day had worn her down, it was the announcement about Murdoch that had hit closest and hardest, visceral because of her own experience with close-calls in the region. She couldn't stop the unsettling shiver, as if there, but for the grace of god…
Moreover, Murdoch's abduction had happened on her watch as president of the news. It was her responsibility now. She had argued to stop the practice of using freelancers in Syria months before he went missing, sensing not only their danger but ACN's total inability to shield them in the event of trouble. Her position, in fact, had led to the first great row with Pruit, in which he blatantly cited a ratings boost should such a thing happen.
"Look at the residual ripple from Will's incarceration. A sustained three points up, back at second place now. The goddam golden-haired child of cable news, exemplar of the profession—fucking New York Times editorial board would kill to have one of their—"
And that had been where she had cut Pruit off.
"Will didn't go to jail for the numbers, Lucas. He went—"
"Yeah, yeah, for the principle of the thing. Well, the principle of this business—and it is a business, Mc-Cubed, whether you choose to acknowledge it or not—is to be watched. You've got to get next to that viewer and make him care about you enough that he tunes in tomorrow night to see how you're doing." He gestured to the four over-sized computer screens crowding his desk and credenza. "We could reach a lot of people, we could change a lot of minds, you know, if you'd drop the Downton stiff-upper-lip crap and take the stick out of your ass."
He shook his head in exasperation and obvious condescension.
"Disruption, Mac. Dis. Ruption. I told your predecessor that I wanted disruption to the media status quo at ACN. So if you're going to work out—if you don't want your next promotion to be to the position of president emeritus—you need to get on board." He sighed and inclined his head at the far screen. "I could have told Bezos that the drone thing wouldn't work. Where were we? Oh yes, you were going to tell me why you eighty-sixed Digital's offer of a bounty on crowd-sourced video."
"Well, first, because it commodifies information that should be available to everyone—"
"Everyone, that is,with a high-def TV and cable or satellite service, right? That's democracy."
She ignored the jibe. "Second, because it incentivizes the creation of so-called newsworthy events, which will undoubtedly lead to phony news. We'd have to arbitrate the validity, in addition to the newsworthiness, of each story."
He inspected his manicure. "You can't possibly be suggesting you don't already do that."
"To a far different degree! And we start from the basis of trusted sources—"
"—And how did Genoa work out for you?"
That stung but she tried to ignore it. "Third, it would ring the dinner bell for every looney with a handheld. It would be YouTube for people with agendas-"
"So, in other words, we should stifle individual expression in favor of Group-Think?"
She took a long inhale and held it a moment before letting it go. Pruit was going to keep sniping and she eventually was going to have to concede the argument—not because she was wrong, but because it was obviously impossible to explain journalistic ethics to someone so willingly blind to them.
"I feel as though I can speak plainly to you, Mc-Cubed, because we both know you weren't really my choice. No animosity, no rancor, but you are just a workaround. You know that. But we're going to run ACN my way, and you're going to have to carry my water. Is that clear?"
Her face burned, less from Pruit's overt attempt at humiliation than the recognition that she would have to capitulate. She simply could not wage war on every front. She had to pick her battles, as Charlie himself had no doubt determined during his brief weeks under Pruit's reign. If okaying Bree's next ludicrous project was the trade-off for protecting the newsroom from staffing cuts or intrusive editorializing, then she would swallow her pride.
Aware Will was now staring at her, waiting for the conclusion to her earlier thought, Mac reached for a bottle of water and twisted the cap. "It isn't a story we want to be covering, Will. We put him there."
"Mac." He waited until she finally met his eyes. "I get it. It's close to home for you. For all of us, really. Well, except for Pruit. And everyone knows you're the dam holding back his bullshit." He sighed. "I know we agreed you'd work until two weeks before—but I don't—"
"Will," she remonstrated, "you promised you'd let me make the call—that as long as I was able—"
"Well, maybe I'm reconsidering," he mumbled.
"This was just a bad day. Budget all morning, and you know how I am with numbers. Then Pruit in the afternoon. And the news about Drew—"
"It's your third bad day this week, Kenz. Today's only Thursday, though, so you still have the chance to make it four out of five." He carried their plates to the table. "C'mon. Let's eat."
A minute passed in silence before she finally spoke. "You're right."
"I know."
"God, you're arrogant."
He reached over and broke off some bread, offered her some. "My arrogance is surpassed only by my ability to be consistently right."
Her mock indignation crumbled into a short laugh.
"And both are dwarfed by my love for my boss." His eyes were twinkling now.
"Ah, well, that's just job security."
"Damn straight."
oooo
Two hours later, they lay in bed together, light from a three-quarter moon splashed across the sheets. Her T shirt had ridden up, and Will moved the backs of his fingers over the swell of her belly.
"What's on your mind?" she finally asked. "It's pretty obvious you're thinking something."
He expelled an amused huff. "I'm wondering how I'm going to recognize her—I mean, if she'll have your eyes or my hair—how the features between us will be blended together."
"Well, I'm new at this, but I don't think it works that way. There's a theory—the Mendelian Inheritance. I think it's more like the physical characteristics are just shuffled and dealt. Like a hand of whist."
"Oh." There was a lengthy pause while he considered this. "So, now I'm picturing those composite sketches of criminal suspects, only the artist will have two templates to draw from. You and me."
"Still more complicated than that. All the McAvoys who came before you and all the McHales who came before me—they're all in the mix, too." She raised on one elbow and stared down at him. "You never took fifth form biology, or whatever it is called here? About gene theory and dominant and recessive characteristics?"
"Hmm. Can't say I was ever much interested in theoretical biology."
"Ah, yes." She poked him. "Prefer the lab work, do you?"
"With one particular lab partner." He nuzzled her neck. "But I know that she's gonna get a look on her face when we tell her about curfew, or something, and I'm just wondering whether it'll be that hand-on-hip, arch-of-the-eyebrow superior MacKenzie smirk or—"
She sighed in exasperation. "You'll have her at university before she's born. Give it a rest, love."
"Okay." He fit his jaw to the hollow of her clavicle.
"Goodnight, Billy."
"Uh huh."
oooo
Upon arriving at the office the following day, MacKenzie was informed that she (and Will) had been summoned to lunch with Leona Lansing in the executive dining room. No reason was proffered and it seemed a bolt-out-of-the-blue because contact with the Lansings had been next-to-nil since the sale of ACN. If she had taken the time to ponder it, Mac might have attributed the silence to disinterest, now that ACN was no longer part of the AWM empire, or chagrin, at the Solomon's judgment that forced the divestiture in order to save company autonomy.
In any event, Mac's morning was occupied with reviewing, for the umpteenth time, the PowerPoint presentation for the sponsors gathering in early December. She was so relieved to have been excused from attending it herself that she enthusiastically drafted the talking points and then coached Pruit's new assistant Andrea Wells through a run-through. Lunch was not on Mac's radar at all until Will swung through the office door to escort her to the 45th floor.
Leona breezed in minutes after them, an over-sized bag draped over one shoulder and the other hand clutching the ubiquitous smart phone, thumb-scrolling the dozen messages that had accumulated during the walk from the elevator. Will got to his feet to embrace her in greeting, but Leona shot a stern glance and rapid shake of the head at Mac struggling to rise.
"Stay where you are, McMac."
At her arrival, servers bustled over with menus and tall glasses of iced water.
"Well." She put the phone away and threw back her regal head. "When does the kid get evicted from MacKenzie-subsidized housing?"
"Target date is January 17th."
"No deduction for this year."
"Yeah, my accountant already mentioned that." Will winked. "But it puts a respectable year on the birth certificate. Makes it look less like a shotgun wedding."
The server returned and they ordered.
Leona turned to Mac.
"You know, I've been wondering why no one ever came around to visit. We're in the same building, for god's sake. Thought I might run into you on the elevator or at the Pepsi machine."
Mac waited to see where this ridiculous conversation thread would lead. Leona had a private express elevator and didn't seem an habitué of vending machines, so it was never likely that the twain would simply bump into each other one day.
Suddenly, Leona softened and adopted a guilty mien. "You should know that Reese is of the opinion that I threw you to the lions. Well, one lion, anyway. I thought—" she paused, "At first, I thought I was taking advantage of a chink in Lucas' armor. That if I was out and Charlie was gone, that you at least still could—preserve something that we all valued. But later, I wondered if perhaps I hadn't done you any favors, if the pressure would be too—"
"There have been some challenges—" Mac trusted Leona would put the correct spin on her deliberately ambiguous phrasing. "We've had to make a few compromises…"
Leona snorted. "Yeah, I've heard Hirsch is narrating puppy cams now."
"A few compromises," Mac repeated, reaching for her water. "Nothing too big."
"The Murdoch situation is big."
Mac reached for the water and took several sips, grateful to have had the prop in her hand so she could delay long enough to frame a reasonable response. She knew both Leona and Will were gauging her reaction.
"Andrew Murdoch has reported from the region for two years. He knew the people and knew the territory." She replaced the glass and smoothed the wet ring on the tablecloth. "He knew the risks. There have been no threats and there's no reason not to think a little well-applied U.S. diplomacy—perhaps the involvement of someone of high-profile, like Jimmy Carter, in negotiations—" She stopped talking.
This was insane. She was preaching to the converted.
Leona gave a derisive bark. "It wasn't like this couldn't have been predicted—no, not by you, McMac, that wasn't meant as an indictment for failing to shield the whole profession. What I meant was that no network has a foreign bureau anymore. Haven't since the CBS purges of the 1980s. We have to rely on freelancers and journalistic soldiers-of-fortune. And, yes, I know of your experience for Turner's tribe, but that just makes my point. You, David Bloom, Bob Woodruff—it's gotten impossible to send journalists into dangerous places. Why? Because losing Ernie Pyle in 1945 wasn't the same loss as losing someone whose face and voice come into our living rooms every night. Not as personal. It may sound cold-blooded, but we can't insure for those kinds of losses anymore. Not just literal insurance, but the risk of losing goodwill, the relationship with the audience. Plus, of course," she added sourly, "our enemies have figured out how to better exploit us."
The older woman pushed back in her chair. "So what else is new at ACN? Is Pruit planning to take the Atlantis out of ACN yet? And I hear you've suffered a few defections, that the ranks have thinned in the newsroom."
"Not because of Lucas' changes. Not really. Elliot's just on temporary assignment to the digital side of the house, he'll be back on Right Now in a few weeks. Don Keefer is working on some independent productions in the meantime."
"What about the kid who summered in Venezuela?"
"Neal—well, he returned a bit disillusioned with journalism. Decided to choose technology."
What went unsaid was that Neal knew he would be unable to partner with Bree or any of the other cohorts of Pruit's ACN Digital. He wasn't averse to technology as a media tool; he just abhorred the petty and mean-spirited uses to which it was being put, and knew he would spend his own days at ACN policing unbridled idiocy.
"I know he's grateful to Reese for offering him a place at AWM."
"Sloan Sabbith?"
At this name, Mac looked nailed, so Will spoke up.
"Sloan finally got the offer she couldn't refuse. We see her all the time socially, so it isn't like—"
"Not like the showdown with Pruit had anything to do with it?" Leona looked unconvinced.
Of course, it had had everything to do with it. They all knew that there had been few options for Sloan at Pruit's ACN after she had so brilliantly and publicly mutinied. So she sifted her choices and opted for the role of currency analyst at Morgan Stanley. Will hoped to gradually reintroduce her as a guest economics expert on News Night, position her for ultimate return to the network, but was well aware doing so would be a long-haul and a hard-sell with the front office.
Their food arrived and Leona asked for a martini, which arrived with the preternatural promptness of a staff well-accustomed to her preferences.
"And how is Reese?"
"Learning to make jet aircraft engines in Cincinnati." She rolled her eyes. "Not glamorous but profitable and predictable. He misses Manhattan. Radio City. A decent bagel. ACN. Not necessarily in that order."
They ate in silence for a few minutes before Leona dug in her gigantic leather bag and withdrew an envelope, sliding it across the table towards Will.
"Nathan Lane."
"An address or a person?"
Leona looked annoyed. "What, are we playing Password now? Person. Actor. Broadway-type. He's committed to a revival of Terrence McNally's It's Only a Play. All-star cast, at the Schoenfeld." When they didn't react, she added, "My house. One of only two in the district not owned by the Schuberts or Nederlanders. Little jewel of a theatre we scooped up in the 1970s when the Helen Hayes was being bull-dozed for that monster Marriott and the New Amsterdam was rotting over on 42nd. Thought you could use a matinee this weekend."
Will fanned the tickets in the envelope. "Thanks, Leona. It will be nice to get out."
"Did I ever tell you the story about National Theatricals? How we had to raise forty-two thousand three hundred-fifty dollars and—" Some realization crossed her face and she closed her eyes. "Four—forty—two." She gave a long exhale and pursed her lips. "God, I've been a fool. Not the value it has, but the value we place upon it."
"Leona?"
Assurance and purpose returned to her expression and the smart phone re-materialized in her grip.
"Kids, I have to go. It was good to see you. Mac—keep doing what you do. Will—" she jabbed a finger at him. "Don't let her do too much. And I'd damned well better hear from you both before the kid's birthday."
In the wake of her departure, Will and Mac shared a long look and a confused laugh.
oooo
Hours later, Millie's buzz interrupted Mac's review of the weekly Rentrak book to announce that Dr. Stone's office had called with a new appointment date and time, and that Sloan Sabbith was waiting to see her.
Mac instructed her to add the new appointment to Outlook (doctor's appointments at this stage made everything else on the calendar subservient) and to send in her friend. She removed her glasses and rubbed at her eyes, feeling the strain of checking columns and rows for hours, then rose to meet her company. "This is a nice surprise."
"Well, I was in the neighborhood. Meeting Don. And I just wanted to—can I sit?"
Sloan perched on the edge of a chair across from the desk and ran her eyes quickly around the room. Charlie's personal memorabilia had finally been packed and shipped to Connecticut, but Mac evidently hadn't chosen to furnish what was now her office with many of her own personal items. Two document boxes with lids intact sat on the floor and a dozen books were stacked flat on the bookshelves, evidently in the same sloppy posture as when they had been carried into the room.
"Aren't you settled in yet?" Sloan began, deliberately understating the problem.
"Millie's offered to help. Perhaps I should let her."
"I think you should."
Mac rubbed at her eyes again.
"Tired? Is this pregnancy thing getting to you, finally?"
"I've been looking at the Rentrak viewer demo break-down. The numbers were beginning to blur a bit so I'm glad you stopped by. I could use the break."
"Don't you have someone to do that for you?"
"Yes." She smiled. "Marketing gets their own copy. I just like to see for myself what it says."
"You mean, whether Will's Q score is up or down."
"Exactly."
Sloan began nervously. "I wanted to mention something. I didn't know how to do this on the phone or email, and it may not even be necessary, like maybe you're already aware. Plus, of course, you're married to an attorney, so maybe the both of you have figured this out and talked it over. But—I wanted to remind you that because of the news about Andrew Murdoch, every transaction on your accounts, your personal accounts, will probably be scrutinized—"
"Scrutinized? By whom? What accounts are you talking about?"
"Banks. Brokerage. Whatever financial institutions you do business with. They're obligated to monitor and report certain transactions to the government."
"Why would the government—oh." The light went on.
"Yeah. Will has a track record with paying ransoms to foreign entities. Somebody surely knows it. So, I don't want to insult anyone's intelligence, or anyone's J.D., but you should just assume that your accounts will be watched. They will want to make sure that what happened with Amen two years ago doesn't repeat on Murdoch's behalf."
"That was a little different. Amen wasn't being held by a suspected terrorist organization—"
"It wasn't recognized as such at the time, and Will acted so quickly that there was really no time for reaction. But it would have a very different ending today, you know. "
Very different.
"Do you know him? Murdoch, I mean."
"Not personally. I'm sure we have some mutual acquaintances. But he's one of us." Mac shook her head. "This is all conjecture. There have been no demands made in Drew's case."
"Not yet," Sloan amended, unwilling to concede what judgment and experience told her would be the logical development of the situation. "Anyway, just wanted to drop that on you, but you and Will have probably talked this over by now. No secrets between the marrieds, right?"
Mac's eyes flicked to her bottom drawer then back up.
"Everything going well with the McAv-ette?" Sloan asked, over-brightly to compensate.
"This girl and I are on the glide slope already." Mac gave an appreciative rub to her abdomen. "Daddy's the one with the jitters. I would've thought Don kept you up to date with all the gossip."
"Gossip, yes. But when I want facts, I try to mug the president of the news division."
"Yes, well, this is one president with extremely limited executive power." She gave a half-laugh but an unmistakable tinge of bitterness crept into her tone. "Extremely. For example—you'll probably appreciate this, but I've been directed to give Bree carte blanche with ACN Digital—"
Sloan's eyes rolled and she shook her head in commiseration.
"—which you will soon see manifested in our digital programming. Runway, a live feed of take offs and landings at Newark. Essentially just biding our time until there's a crash or hijacking or other incident. The prevailing opinion is 'it's all going to be okay until one day it isn't, then it will be spectacularly not okay.' Another at the dog pound, where even the casual viewer can deduce the ending for these poor animals. You don't have to actually witness the euthanasia—although Bree would go for that, if he could figure a way to package it pleasantly. He's calling this one the digital public service model."
"Oh my god." Sloan clapped a hand over her mouth at the awfulness. "Just goes to prove you can't trust a man named for a cheese."
oooo
A/N: Broadway cognoscenti will kindly indulge my literary license.