Excerpt of Trouble Becomes Her by Laura Van Wormer

Chapter One

Things have been going fairly well lately. This means I have managed to keep out of trouble, show up for my new job on time and not fall in love with anybody new - or fall in love with anybody of old, either, which is a whole other story I've gladly put on the shelf for the moment. My name is Sally Harrington, most recently of Castleford, Connecticut, the small city where I was born. I went to college on the West Coast, did a stint at Boulevard magazine in L.A. (yes, dahhhling) and then returned home to Castleford when my mother fell ill, and I ended up staying a while, writing for my hometown paper. A once-in- a-lifetime freelance assignment for Expectations magazine led me to a part-time job with the DBS television affiliate in New Haven, which, ultimately, has led me here - to a job at DBS News in New York.

So here I am, the new cosmopolitan sophisticate, with an apartment in Manhattan and a cottage, as New Yorkers say, "in the country." And today is a very big day because my not-so-sophisticated canine pal, Scotty, is making his uncertain urban debut.

As our Yellow Cab rolls up to the gates of the West End Broadcasting Center, home to the Darenbrook Broadcasting System among other Darenbrook enterprises, the security guard hails, "Hey, Ms. Harrington!" and walks toward my window.

Scotty immediately goes nuts, barking his head off and jumping on top of me to protect me from this approaching threat.

"Oh sheet, ladeh!" the driver yells through the bulletproof glass from the front seat. "You tay da dawg not DOO anyting!"

"Scotty, enough!" I command, and Scotty instantly shuts up, but he also plunks his rear end down on my lap, paws resting on the armrest to keep guard at the window. Since I am wearing a navy-blue DKNY skirt and blazer, and since Scotty is eighty pounds' worth of collie (read, long- haired)-German shepherd-golden retriever mix, you can imagine the state of my coiffure. I have light brown hair - instead of Mother's honey blond - and have blue eyes that people seem to go for, but even these gifts of nature can't overcome a flurry of dog hair, lint and dirt.

I get a firm hold on Scotty's leash and manage to worm my left hand through his legs and chest to roll down the window.

"Hey, pooch," the guard says, unafraid, holding out his hand for Scotty to sniff. He ducks a little to smile at him. "First day, huh?"

Scotty tentatively looks at me and then back at the guard and suddenly gives him a big lick on the hand. I scratch the dog behind the ears. "That's right, my good boy," I say. "It's the first day of school, isn't it?" (When you don't have children, I'm afraid this is the kind of conversation you tend to have with your dog.)

"Mrs. Cochran and Mr. Rafferty brought their dogs in today, too," the guard reports. "The doghouse seems to be a big hit."

I should explain about this so-called doghouse. When DBS News first offered me a job as an undefined (albeit very well paid) assistant producer to the network's star anchorwoman, Alexandra Waring, my agent asked them to consider the possibility of building a dog run in the park located in the middle of the West End complex. I knew the kind of hours I was likely to keep and there was no way I could bring Scotty to live with me in New York, not if I kept him locked up all day and night after his entire three-year life had been spent in the country. I thought my future bosses would freak at the audacity of the request, but my agent insisted I ask, because she said you never knew, someone way up there might be a little gaga over animals too. Well, sure enough, my request turned out to spark a minor revolution, with two aforementioned executives (Cassy Cochran, president of the DBS network, and Will Rafferty, executive producer of DBS News) at the head of the line to get the dog run approved so they could bring their dogs to work, too.

The security guard is peering at Scotty's face. It is gold and brown, and his almond-shaped eyes are lined perfectly in dark brown. "What is he?" he asks me. "Australian sheepdog?"

When I adopted Scotty from the Castleford Humane Society, he frankly did not look like much of anything. He was one of those miserable, big-nosed scrawnies of about seven months that always seem to get abused in the inner city before getting dumped somewhere, but who, after good food, lots of water, love and exercise, often grow into rather magnificent-looking mutts. Today Scotty does look like some foreign, outdoorsy breed. "He's a New Zealand highlander," I say, joking.

"Oh, yeah, New Zealand highlander!" the guard cries. "Yeah, my sister's got one of those."

"I'm sorry," I say. "I was just kidding. I don't know what he is."

"I think he is a New Zealand highlander," the guard insists.

I reach over to grab an extra box of Milk-Bone from the supplies I've brought for Scotty and hand it to the guard. "So you can make friends." Scotty turns back to look at me as if to say, Hey, but another cab has pulled up behind us and we need to move on.

I'm hoping that Scotty and I can walk to work most days, because getting a cab with him is more than a little tricky. Most cabdrivers in Manhattan seem to be from countries where animals the size of Scotty are more likely shot, eaten or worshiped, and they seem to be genuinely fearful of him. The only way I got this cabdriver to take us was to wave a fistful of dollars and swear that Scotty would never, as the driver says, DOO anything.

It is a few minutes before noon. I am not expected to be at West End until one, Monday through Friday, the time Alexandra Waring usually swings in. Alexandra anchors the news from nine to ten each night, and we get out of here usually around eleven. My job, essentially, is to be here when she is, and do everything my title of assistant producer allows me to do - rewriting stories, editing studio copy, supervising staff - without triggering union violations. (Anything with producer in the title, you see, means a job exempt from union rules, although I should explain I am also a card-carrying member of several of those same unions from my previous experiences as an on- air reporter.)

I overtip the cabdriver and it seems to square things, although the minute we get out, the driver jumps out too, checking the back seat as if he's sure Scotty's made some kind of mistake. Scotty, of course, now insulted, wants to go back and scare the driver and starts straining on his leash, barking and gnashing his teeth, desperate to get free. The friendly security guy on duty gracefully steers us away from the entrance of West End to the walk that goes around the side of the complex.

So much for Scotty's casual and sophisticated debut.