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face turning bright red. Lenore successfully turned the audience’s attention to Trainor’s inadequacies, and away from her alleged easy skate.
    “No, that won’t be necessary, Lenore…”
    “Are you certain, Terry?” Lenore winked. “It would be no trouble at all. Ne pensez-vous pas que votre auditoire l'apprécierais?”
    “No, Lenore… I’d rather…”
    Lenore charged ahead. She overplayed her counter-attack of the backpedaling talking head. Over Trainor’s shoulder, Armand slashed his throat with his hand, shout-mouthing the words…
    “BASTA! LENORE! ALTO! ALTO!”
    “Well, perhaps you would like me to quote some Shakespeare? Or I could speak with you about macroeconomic theory if you wish. My father made it a point to tutor me in economics. Oh, I am such a fan of The Economist! Do you read The Economist, Terry? Or the Financial Times?”
    “BAIL OUT, Terry! Cut her off!” urged the Producer.
    With the “gotcha” racked and ready to roll, Trainor gently shook off the Producer’s suggestion. In her humiliating counterattack, Lenore played directly into Trainor’s hands, revealing herself to be a catty, elitist snob. The more untouchable Lenore felt, the more vulnerable she became.
    “No, Lenore… I think…”
    “I know! As a journalist, I am certain you are familiar with the work the World Health Organization is sponsoring in malaria research in sub-Saharan Africa. Perhaps if we talked about that…”
    The interviewer raised his hand and halted the teen’s barrage.
    “NO! Thank you, Lenore. That was… Truly wonderful. I’m quite certain our audience can tell you are qualified for Paulson.”
    Trainor touched his index finger to his cheek, as if preparing to make a point, his silent signal to the Director to be ready with the pyrotechnics. The former barrister smiled. In the booth, the Director prepared a devastating salvo.
    “Right! That’s the signal… Stand by the photos… Stand by 2…”
    “Yes… That was all quite fascinating, Lenore. But none of what you just shared addressed what happened to you when you were 16. I believe it was in Paris. I’m certain you remember that time. I’m certain you heard the rumors. Do you remember the incident?”
    Lenore’s eyes widened in shock. She swallow noticeably. Armand’s PR team didn’t think Trainor would have the guts to go after the popular teen idol about the Paris incident. Certainly not so soon into the interview. Certainly not so aggressively.
    Squinting over Trainor’s shoulder, Lenore craved a quick glimpse of her father’s reassuring face. The cameraman had shifted, blocking her sight line. The lights blinded her. What did her coach tell her? What was the appropriate response?
    “Yes, Terry, but… There… There really is not much to say about those days. I… Overworked. I was too young… Too inexperienced… And… I overworked myself. That is all.”
    “Well… Yes, Lenore… That is the ‘official’ story. But… There are other things we have heard… Unofficial things. Rumors of a relationship. With an older man…”
    Battling to maintain composure, Lenore’s emotional age dipped from an elegant, articulate mid-20-something, back to the 14-year-old child who begged her father to let her pursue a career in modeling. She fidgeted with her hands and unconsciously bit her lower lip. Lenore responded too quickly –– robotically –– with vacuous, rote phrases Armand’s assistants poured into her sponge-like mind.
    “Rumors… Rumors, Terry… They are just that. Unfounded… Rumors. As I explained, Terry… There were rumors about my admission to Paulson… They could not be more… More unfounded.”
    Lenore lifted a trembling hand to brush a few hairs from her eyes.
    “What I remember… Terry… I was exhausted… From overwork. I needed time to recover.”
    Trainor signaled the booth with a downward flick of his index finger.
    “Right! Photos up NOW! 2… Stand by for her reaction…”
    Trainor leaned