Chapter Text
Next, on SB101- it’s the golden-tongued host of Night Air. That’s right, it’s time for the spinner of the suave, the wizard of the airwaves, our very own Rum Skinner! He’ll be on in just a few, but first, a quick word from our sponsors-
The said wizard of the airwaves was currently seated in an office, looking uncharacteristically disgruntled. Rum Skinner radiated an air of confidence and authority that made it hard to imagine anyone disagreeing with him, even if he was of a smaller stature than his listeners might picture.
Anyone that is, but the woman sitting across from him. As the youngest station manager in SB1010's history, Regina Mills had risen through the ranks by taking advantage of those who let their guard down. As many had learned to their detriment, her pretty face hid a cunning intelligence. Skinner had never been fooled by her charm. He had successfully leveraged her ambition to his advantage in most of their encounters.
Unfortunately for him, today, she was ready for him.
Between them lay a resume. The name Belle French was typed in block letters, taking up most of the page. Beneath it, there were two line items and an extensive "About Me" section. Skinner didn't bother even to skim it. He pushed it back across the desk. "No."
"You didn't even read it."
He leaned back into his chair and crossed his arms, keeping a careful eye on the clock just behind Regina's head. If he stood and left now, she'd have recourse to schedule another meeting or, worse, approve the hire behind his back. However, his show started in less than ten minutes, and if he waited her out, he'd have the upper hand if any of those nimwits from Human Resources got involved. "Read what exactly? There are two jobs listed, and neither is at a station of this level. I have no interest in babysitting some charity case because of whatever salary cap you've put in place to handicap me."
He hit the nail there. Regina stiffened slightly at the accusation, but true to form, she recovered quickly. “Don’t be so dramatic, Skinner,” Regina said, deflecting his observation with a wave. “She has plenty of experience. And she was more than happy to take the offered salary for the opportunity to work on a show like Night Air.” Regina leaned back in her chair, clearly enjoying this. “Besides, you can always fire her if she fails to meet your expectations.”
“That’s not the point.“
“The point, dear Rum, is that Night Air needs a producer, and it needs one now. You’ve scared off the last three we hired."
Cowards, the lot of them. "What I need is-"
Before he could continue his argument, the office door flew open, revealing a frazzled-looking man with askew glasses and curly black hair that was starting to grey around the temples. The newcomer did not bother to pause for breath, managing to wheeze out a bleat of panic. “Regina! The rumors- Midas is acquiring-“
“Sidney!” Regina snapped to her feet, quivering in indignation. “Can't you see I'm in a meeting?"
The color drained from Sidney's face as he looked guiltily over to see Skinner sitting on the far couch. "Ah, yes, Skinner. Hello."
“Glass,” Skinner greeted, standing smoothly. He made a careful show of brushing off his three-piece suit just to allow the two of them time to squirm. That little outburst had put Regina on edge; by the way, she glared at Glass, the accountant had very little time left on Earth. “I’m on in ten. You're welcome to her." Unable to meet anyone's gaze, Glass dropped his eyes to the tips of his wingtip shoes. Feeling a stab that was either sympathy or disgust, Skinner patted the accountant on the shoulder as he passed. It was an open secret the station accountant was head over heels in love with Regina, a fact she used shamelessly to her advantage. "Better you than me, old man."
Alas, Regina was not done with him yet. “Just a moment, Skinner. We're not finished."
"Oh?" Gold infused his full weight behind the syllable, eyes flickering back to where Glass was trying to melt into the floor. "I had understood there were more pressing matters for you to attend to what with Midas acquiring-"
"Confidential business matters aside-" Regina steeped her hands upon the desk, rising to her feet to better glare down at her captive audience. "I have been far too lenient when it comes to Night Air. "
Gold's upper lip curled, baring a hint of teeth. "Leniant? More like your hands are tied. My contract is ironclad-"
"Careful, Skinner. Nothing is written in stone. And yes, while your contract is written to ensure you have full control over the contents of your show, it does not go as far as you think.” Regina opened a drawer and pulled out what Skinner instantly recognized as his contract. With a smile that could curdle milk, Regina tossed it upon the resume and tapped it with one blood-red nail. "It is very detailed upon your employment; however, it does not cover anything about producers. An oversight, I'm sure, but it means you have no say in station staffing. So, do give our warmest welcomes to Ms. French when you see her. We are all happy to have her join us here at SB101.”
He held her gaze for a moment. There was blood in the water; he could smell it. But discretion seemed to be the better part of valor at the moment. So, he dropped a curt nod and, without another word, turned and left.
--
In the heart of the station, the radio booth was lit with the red neon light of the "ON AIR" sign.
Lined with insulation and thick glass, the entire thing looked more like a fishbowl than anything. To the left stood the control room with its tan and white carpeting and equipment that had passed its prime in the nineties. The booth had been constructed to fit one person, with a large desk taking up any of the space that the equipment didn't. There was one stool for the producer to perch upon, leaving any other visitor to stand in the closed doorway.
It was hardly comfortable to stand completely still for over two hours, much less in heels, but Belle had managed it. Still, a wave of relief washed over her as the "ON AIR" sign burned out and the other booth occupant slid off his headphones. He flashed a thumbs-up to his partner in the fishbowl, a petite brunette known as Snow White to SB101's listeners and Mary Margaret to those behind the scenes. "Good show."
Mary Margaret nodded, rubbing the back of her neck as she craned to look out the large glass partition that separated the booth from the hallway. David took off his headphones, laying them to the side. "Okay, so after the show, you just flip this button. It'll run the remainder of your program's ads as we move to the next program. And that's it. Any questions?”
Crystal. Still... Belle couldn't quite ignore how clammy her hands felt or the sweat beading at her temples. None of this seemed any more real, here live and in-person, than it had last week back home in Avonlea when she first received the job offer. “Seems clear. I wrangle the calls and signal commercial breaks.”
Mary Margaret opened the door but stayed on the other side. "You must be Belle," she said, offering a hand. "I'm Mary Margaret."
Having enjoyed listening to her show nearly every night for the last five years, Belle shook her hand enthusiastically. “Nice to meet you,” Belle replied. “That was great, by the way.”
A beloved child actor, Mary Margaret Blanchard leveraged her fan's nostalgic desire to know everything about her life to start a talk show. Five years later, Snow & Tell was one of the most popular talk shows on the eastern seaboard, with guest stars from all walks of life calling in and regular stories from listeners around the city. It was SB101’s second-largest hit, behind Night Air.
“Thanks,” Mary Margaret said with a shrug. “Easy night; most people just tune in because they don’t want to miss Night Air.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” Belle assured her. “Snow and Tell could easily go national.”
Mary Margaret rolled her eyes good-naturedly as David shook his head. Realizing she had walked into an old argument, Belle hurried to add, “I’m looking forward to meeting Mr. Skinner.”
“Wait-You haven’t met him yet?” Mary Margaret looked from her to David, a whole conversation happening silently between the long-term partners as Belle stood there, wiping her now damp palms down her skirt.
Feeling more self-conscious by the second, Belle shook her head. “I just got in town this morning, and he was never available to meet when I was interviewing... “
Mary Margaret gnawed at her lip. "That's...That's a bit unorthodox, isn't it?"
"Oh, no, it was my fault. I couldn't get an earlier flight, and then with the moving- no, no, I'm sure it'll be fine. I was hoping Mr. Skinner might have a moment or two before the show started to walk me through a few things, but-
David's attention had returned to the boards. "I'm going to reset some of the levels for you. I don't like how that last call sounded."
"I can do it," Belle assured him, and to his credit, he only hesitated a moment before hopping up to give her control of the deck. Still, the two lingered, casting frantic glances between them that turned Belle's stomach. "Maybe while we wait...you could give me a rundown? Ms. Mills was hardly forthcoming on the technical aspects of how Mr. Skinner prefers to work."
David released the breath he had been holding, relief loosening his frame as he leaned down to help her fiddle with a particular stubborn dial. "Skinner's set is pretty easy," he told her as she settled. "He's old school, so he likes to pick the music himself, so not a lot of extra curriculum on your end."
"Will he hand over a setlist or-?"
David shook his head. "He likes to have control. You just set up the calls, weed out the crazies, keep the advertising department happy." He pulled on his coat, and Mary Margaret started to do the same. “As you know, you’ll have many more calls than we got during our time."
“It’s mostly just women calling to propose," Mary Margret quipped, but there was a kernel of truth. Night Air was shorter than most other programs, but it had the highest engagement levels thanks to its overwhelmingly female audience. Belle had seen Skinner’s promotional pictures during her research before the hiring process began. Silver-haired, with a slight frame, tight shoulders, and a sharply pointed face, he had what some people might call a face for radio.
Belle and the majority of his female listeners thought him rather handsome.
"It's the voice," Mary Marget said with a shrug. "If I didn't know he was such an ornery bastard-"
"As much as I'd love to have you regale us with more of your thoughts and opinions, princess, do it on your time. This is mine."
Belle's head jerked up to find they had been joined by the man of the hour himself.
“Rum,” David greeted, even as his partner bristled beside him. “We’ll be out of your way in just a second.”
Skinner’s nod made it clear he expected nothing less. He didn’t glance over at Belle as he made himself comfortable on the panel. Belle swallowed hard, which was difficult with her suddenly dry mouth.
“Belle, are you set?” David asked as he hoisted his bag over his shoulder. “I can stay if you'd like. I sometimes help Rum out when he’s between producers.” Belle gave him a panicked look, and he quickly held up his hands as if approaching a skittish colt. “Not that you can’t handle it!”
“Yeah, you should probably stay, David,” Mary Margaret said, eyes wandering toward Skinner, who was already seated.
"I can handle it," Belle insisted, ignoring the wet spots her palms were leaving on the dials. “Sixty seconds."
Hearing the dismissal in Belle's voice, Snow mouthed good luck before she scooted around Skinner toward the freedom of the hall. Skinner didn’t even look up at her. Belle followed his lead and continued twisting her dials and setting the tones. David lingered, looking torn between helping and following after Mary Margaret.
“I’ll be fine,” Belle assured him. “I’ve done this a thousand times before.”
“If you’re sure…” David said, his tone indicating he wasn’t.
Belle ignored him. She slipped on her headset and started the countdown. “Forty seconds.”
David exited, pulling the control booth door closed behind him. Skinner did not give any notice that he saw David depart, much less heard her counting him down. Mary Margaret flashed her a thumbs up from the hallway before turning and pulling David behind her.
“Thirty seconds,” Belle counted, trying to keep her foot from tapping nervously against the paneling.
Skinner seemed at ease, flipping a few decks open and adjusting his levels.
“Five,” she warned, holding a hand to finish the countdown. Skinner continued to ignore her. She almost stopped breathing. What would happen if her first day, she was responsible for dead air?
“Good evening, dearies, and welcome to Night Air. I’m your host, Rum Skinner. Tonight, our theme is going to be temptation…”
Releasing a heady sigh of relief, Belle lowered herself back into her chair. She kept her eyes on her boards and not on Skinner. Already flushed from nerves and embarrassment, she had in no way been prepared for Rum Skinner's smooth brogue or the way he purred into the microphone.
She was in for a long night.
What she didn’t realize was Skinner was thinking the same thing.
He had walked in, entirely ready to lay waste to the mouse they had forced upon him, only to find a professional sitting calmly in the producer seat, as she had been there all her life.
After that, Skinner didn’t know what happened.
His previously planned theme of “Secrets” somehow became “Temptation” as he tried to keep himself from staring at his new producer.
He failed.
First, it was the sound of her voice counting him in. It took him a minute to place, and that bothered him. So, he kept puzzling it over in his mind until it clicked. Australian.
Then, on his first call, he couldn't help but notice a faint scent of roses in the booth. He looked about for any scattered petals until he realized it was coming from the control room. He had planned to eviscerate the new hire for bringing in flowers, but when he looked over, he saw nothing more than two bright blue eyes crinkled in focus.
And from there he had been too rattled to trust himself to so much as acknowledge this Belle French.
It was somehow the shortest and longest show of his career.
Regina’s offer to fire her was still ringing in Skinner's ears as the final commercials queued up. He had every intention of doing so, even if this Miss French was surprisingly efficient. She had handled her first outing with grace, somehow managing to find the callers who had something of interest to add instead of the eccentrics his past producers usually passed through for shock effect.
Still, his mind had not changed. He did not need her. Plus, there was no way he could be sure she wasn’t a mole for Regina. David was perfectly capable of handling another show. Skinner would make sure the additional responsibilities were worthwhile in terms of salary and benefits. As Belle slid out of the booth, a shy but determined look on her face, Skinner prepared to thank her for her time and tell her it wouldn’t work.
“Ms. French,” he began, but before he could say anything else, two small hands pressed his hands earnestly. Rum glanced down to find the hands belonged to Ms. French, who was saying something about it being an honor to meet him or some such nonsense. He barely managed to get his mind in working order as she finished speaking, “Would you have time to sit down over a cup of tea sometime? It would be beneficial to learn more about how you work and what you envision for your program.”
“Well, uh, about that,” he replied, casting about for the polite but firm words he had been practicing during the commercials. Instead, he said, “There’s a coffee shop around the corner; perhaps we could get some tea? You’ll find the station’s excuse for tea is hot water with lemon.”
“I’d love that,” Ms. French said warmly, and only then did she let go of his hands. He nodded absently, trying to remember how to speak when the door behind him swung open. Rum scowled as the sports duo barged into the studio, throwing a basketball between them and, as usual, completely ignoring his very existence. Their producer, a demure woman named Marian, who always managed to keep the two jocks in line, slipped in behind the, snagging the basketball in mid-air. “One minute,” she warned them before turning towards Ms. French. “You must be the new Night Air producer? I’m Marian, and these two are Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb.”
“I prefer Robin,” the shorter of the two said with a debonair wink. “But, Little John here answers to anything.”
Seeing as how Little John was nearly seven feet tall, that was true enough.
“Belle French. Nice to meet you all. Let me grab my things out of the booth. I’ll reset the levels for you.” Disappearing back into the producer’s booth with Marian, Belle lifted one finger towards him to indicate she needed a moment. He wisely removed himself to the hallway, where he promptly tried to clear all unprofessional thoughts from his mind, but all he managed to do was bring Belle’s face clearer into focus.
By the time the object of his attention joined him in the hallway, he was still barely managing to think coherently.
“About that tea?” Ms. French asked hopefully, linking her arm through his in an over-friendly but very welcome manner. He blinked, nodding as he began to lead the way. He led her the long way, right by Regina’s office, trusting that Belle wouldn’t know the difference on her first day.
Despite the late hour, Regina was still at her desk. Rum gave her a little wave over Belle’s head, enjoying the way Regina’s eyes widened in surprise.
Ah, so not a spy of Regina’s then, he thought cheerfully, half-listening as Belle complimented him on handling his last caller.
Good God, he could barely think around her. No, this wouldn’t do at all, he told himself sternly as they exited the studio, heading down the street for his favorite little cafe. No, he would have to tell her this wouldn’t work out in the long run. Just not tonight, he thought as he pulled the door open, not after he had promised her tea.
He could always fire her tomorrow.