The Brutal Truth

by Lee Winter

  Elena frowned and tapped her index finger on her desk.

  On the other hand, Madeleine had delighted at the thought of going off the beaten track. That sounded risky, did it not? And what were these story ideas that didn’t involve the “usual fluff”? Would she do anything dangerous? Besides, weren’t parts of Vietnam malaria areas? Or cholera ridden? Elena was also fairly sure pirates still hid in Hạ Long Bay. She’d have to look that up.

  Every time Elena asked herself these questions, a little voice in the back of her guilt-ridden mind whispered to her. You told her she wasn’t a real reporter. What if she wants to prove you wrong and do something foolish?

  Elena had made certain to spell out to Madeleine the necessity of not doing anything foolish in every email and during the rare phone calls Madeleine managed to make from whatever minor map smudge she’d moved to since they’d last communicated. Elena willed her to understand what she was really saying—Be safe. You have nothing to prove. But every night, Elena lay in bed fretting that if anything went wrong, this was entirely her fault.

  After four weeks, she swallowed her pride and wrote Madeleine an email. She detailed, at length, how Madeleine was an exemplary journalist and, yes, that included a news journalist given her powerful Vanity Fair feature. Her stories were well received, and wasn’t there something more interesting she could be doing closer to home?

  There. That wasn’t meddling, was it?

  It hadn’t worked. Madeleine had called her, voice burbling with excitement, telling her about more destinations in the middle of nowhere she’d learned of that she had to check out.

  Another week went by, and this time a handwritten letter arrived. Madeleine expressed regret for missing their planned industry event.

  I like to imagine what you were wearing. How your eyes followed me around the room. These are the things I think about in my lonely little tent. I miss you. Maddie.

  Elena did not go to sleep picturing Madeleine looking beautiful at galas. All she saw was her green eyes on her. Caring and filled with desire, but always just that little bit too far away.

  She frowned at the reference to a tent and searched online for tropical diseases Vietnam. Then, after a moment’s pause, she also looked up kidnappings Vietnam.

  Idly, Elena wondered how much Madeleine would resent her if she sent an armed security team over there to shadow her.

  At one point, Madeleine had become quite good friends with some of the local women in a mountainous northern region of Vietnam, close to the border with China. Apparently, she’d discovered the secret to breaking the ice was cooking with the women. Sharing recipes. Of course, Madeleine would win them over. Her guileless, silly grin and food of the gods could win anyone over.

  A few days and as many sleepless nights later, Elena considered putting the fear of God into the Condé Nast Traveller’s editor. His wasn’t a Bartell Corp masthead, but surely the man would see reason and send his freelancer home if she “asked”. Or bought him out.

  Elation burst through her at that genius idea, before common sense prevailed. Her shoulders sagged. It would not be the most auspicious start to a relationship, ending Madeleine’s budding career by buying the magazine just to get her sent home.

  Five and a half weeks. The waiting was not acceptable. Elena mutilated a paperclip, as she glared at her to-do list. It was not getting any shorter, especially given the changes she had planned on implementing. They would send a rocket through her company. Madeleine’s probing questions all those months ago had made her stop and really wonder about her life. Her work. Her happiness. Now, though, missing Madeleine had become an unexpected, engulfing distraction. Her mood was affecting her work. Her focus. Perry had begun side-eying her copy of The Rough Guide To Vietnam that she now kept within easy reach, and giving her puzzled looks.

  Recently, he’d started with random trivia. One day, he waltzed in and declared, “I hear it’s going to be a sizzler in Hanoi tomorrow. I’d sure want to slap on my sunscreen if I was anywhere near there and had a delicate complexion.”

  “Well, aren’t you lucky you aren’t and you don’t?” Elena peered at his dark skin. “Besides, eighty-nine degrees isn’t a sizzler in that part of the world. And Sapa is two hundred seventeen miles from Hanoi, so that’s hardly relevant to anything, is it?”

  He blinked. Then smirked. “How very specific. And right off the top of your head, too.” And he swanned out again.

  She’d gritted her teeth. Oh, she knew he was baiting her to trick her into talking about the thing they never discussed. He didn’t know-know what was going on, but he had worked out something was up between them. Add to that, he also was aware that Madeleine was somewhere in Vietnam. (Unsafe.) Off the beaten track. (Taking risks.) So he’d joined a few dots.

  Regardless, Madeleine was hers. Elena did not wish to share her with her nosy, well-intentioned best friend or anyone else. So, she kept her thoughts to herself and continued her regular stream of emails, hoping Madeleine would soon check back into a town big enough to have the internet.

  Dear Foolish Girl… began all Elena’s missives—she was nothing if not subtle, after all. She would fill Madeleine in on the minutiae, supplying her best unimpressed anecdotes about her life and employees, especially Felicity. God knows, Madeleine likely needed a laugh over there.

  After her usual round up of office and personal insights, Elena would conclude her correspondence with a heartfelt signature. Stay safe.—E.

  If she could have underlined this seventy times, she would have. She felt she was being clear just putting it into boldface.

  Madeleine’s replies, when they came, were always a thing to be treasured. Descriptive and perceptive. She was so observant of the surroundings, pulse, and temperaments of the places and people around her, a trait she had so ably demonstrated as her assistant.

  As the weeks drew on, Madeleine’s diplomacy and sweetness had, of late, apparently endeared her to a number of older local women in one remote village. They had formed the view she required fattening up and matrimony. A variety of sons had, therefore, been offered. Madeleine had felt it necessary to include a photo of the wiry young farmers in question with their hopeful grins.

  Elena had an unpleasant lurch to her stomach and forced herself to calmness before replying.

  Dear Foolish Girl,

  How exotic the paramours you attract. I particularly admired the leering charms of suitor number six. Is his tongue supposed to be lolling out like that? His mother must be so proud.

  Not long to go, Madeleine. The tenth. We have the next ball to attend in Sydney. Do not force me to take Felicity in your stead. It would end badly. Not only for her but for the editor of Condé Nast Traveller magazine, from whom I would demand to know why his publication is keeping its freelance Vietnam writer from urgent business in Australia.

  She filled the remainder of her email with the usual industry insights that she knew Madeleine appreciated. After a moment’s hesitation, she also added an extra paragraph.

  Felicity will finally get the promotion to Deputy Chief Operations Officer she deserves. Her business sense is unmatched, although do not quote me, as she takes compliments like unexploded warheads. On a related note, Mark, Elizabeth, and Tony will be duly promoted to fulfil running the various day-to-day operations of Bartell Corp.

  She finished with her usual line.

  Stay safe—especially from lecherous suitors. E.

  Madeleine’s reply a few days later had been as perceptive as she’d anticipated.

  Dear Elena,

  Is there something you’re not telling me? Either, one, you’re dying; two, you’re a pod person; three, you’re retiring (in which case, see point two); or four, you’re paring down your business workload because you’ve finally seen the light and are about to name yourself to Elizabeth’s job as editor-in-chief of Style International. Which is it? And please know that if it’s number one, I’ll be on the next plane home. And also know that if you fake number one, I will be
tempted to kill you myself. I’m really close to getting the recipe for a perfect cá kho tộ. So, just saying—do not get between me and traditional braised fish. I’ll make you some when I get home. Assuming I can find a clay pot.

  Maddie.

  Elena had smiled as she wrote back.

  Fine. It’s not official yet and probably won’t be for some time, but it’s number four. I look forward to tasting your cá kho tộ. I will source a clay pot for you by the time you return.

  Stay safe. E.

  She sat back, greatly impressed. The woman really knew her far too well. Madeleine had been right when she said erecting soulless shard buildings would not make her happy. All it had given her was headaches and a mounting pile of contract issues she had little interest in. Hudson Shard would be iconic, of course, she’d see to that, but it did not hold her passion. No. Only two things thrilled her these days. And only one of them was the thought of finally, officially, editing a global fashion magazine.

  * * *

  Dear Elena,

  I am so excited for you that you’re finally doing what makes you happy—fashion editing is you. Never doubt that. You come alive at Style’s offices. I really hope you had a well-placed spy to tell me what Emmanuelle Lecoq’s response was to the news her old rival is back on her turf. I’m hoping she did a spit-take of expensive champagne somewhere public in front of twenty photographers.

  How did Felicity take her promotion news? Or is she not sure what she’ll do with herself without you flinging orders at her 24/7? I’ll look into some Stockholm syndrome counsellors for her.

  Where will you base yourself? With five Style publications, I suppose you have five cities to choose from. I’m hoping Sydney is on the short list, especially since you own a house there. If it’s not, I’ll be earning a lot of frequent flier points. You can’t get rid of me that easily.

  I know you’re worried about me over here, which is kind of silly since Vietnam is such a lovely country. But you’re not alone. You should read the emails from Simon and my parents. Simon’s threatening to haul me back home by my hiking boots and hook me up with so much chocolate and alcohol that I’ll never want to leave home again!

  God, Elena, it’s incredible being here. It’s so different seeing the world from a non-western perspective, and the air is so fresh and clean outside of the cities, I may never want to leave.

  But while I’ve been sent here to showcase the tourism possibilities of Vietnam, I haven’t forgotten my news brain. And I have recently come across a story so heartbreaking that it made me cry every night for a week. Attached is the photo I took. I won’t even say what it’s about. You’ll understand. People say they want the truth, don’t they? The brutal truth? I know you thought you always did. So what will they say when they see this?

  Maddie.

  * * *

  Dear Foolish Girl,

  Your photo made my breath catch. The little girl lying on the ground, hugging the dirt drawing of a woman. Was that a sketch she’d created of her mother? She’d lost her mother? I stared at it for a good hour, fretting over what I was seeing. The pain and longing on the child’s face. She looked barely six. This photo is everything I have said you are. You capture raw emotions.

  After this, I trust you’ll see that you have nothing left to prove. We may disagree about the “flavor” of writer I envision you to be, but that’s not up to me, is it? I realise that it may have been slightly presumptuous to say otherwise once. But Madeleine, you do not have to be in some crime-ridden, accident-prone place to prove you can do anything. (Have you seen Ho Chi Minh City’s vehicular manslaughter statistics? Eight hundred traffic police for ten million people. You do the math.)

  Felicity took the news as I expected. I had an unsettling feeling she wanted to hug me, which would embarrass us both beyond belief. Mercifully, she kept her arms to herself. She has earned it. Not just for her business savvy, but I cannot tell you how long I have waited for her to protest being a pseudo PA. You objected, quite rightly, the second time we met, if I recall.

  It has taken Felicity years to demand that she only does her chief of staff role. She finally did so in a spectacular outburst of anger and regret, with my favorite tea mug flung at the far wall of my office. I feel satisfied, at last, that she’s ready and the promotion will be a good fit. And I like the new mug she got me.

  Yes, Sydney is on the short list of two for where I will base myself. Style Sydney needs a much firmer hand, but Style New York is where my global offices are. We can discuss it when you’re home.

  Perry is all too smug about my career pivot, by the way. I have reminded him I still know how to fire even international art directors, and it would be no trouble at all. He took the hint.

  I believe he wants to find you a dress for the next ball. He has met a new designer with something that would be perfect for you. Will you be back in time for a fitting? How tightly is your editor holding you to that three-month schedule?

  Stay safe. E.

  P.S. Happy birthday.

  * * *

  Dear Elena,

  I couldn’t believe my eyes when I got your present. It’s beautiful, thank you. I’m paranoid about losing it out here or it being stolen, so I’ve taken to tucking it into my panties during the day. I’d like to return the favour. Oh, that came out wrong! Or right. Um, so when’s your birthday?

  Tell Perry no, I don’t think I’ll be back in time for a fitting. That’s fine, I’m fairly sure I have something at home that should do. Why doesn’t he dress you in his new designer’s threads so we’ll get to be amazed anyway?

  And yes, that was a little orphan girl hugging a drawing of her dead mother. I’ve submitted it to a photo agency, with my editor’s blessing. It will be sold and run as a standalone news story. Obviously, it doesn’t fit Condé Nast’s travel brief.

  I really miss you.

  Maddie.

  * * *

  Dear Foolish Girl,

  I’m glad you liked my birthday gift. I shall let Tiffany & Co. know their Blue Divine bracelet is safely carried in the underthings of Condé Nast Traveller’s roaming Vietnam reporter. I’m sure they’ll want to put that endorsement in all their advertising.

  I saw L’Express picked up your orphan girl story, and your photo has gone viral since they put it on their website. It deserves to. People need to see this. How is it you keep surprising me?

  My birthday is a state secret. But let’s just say you identified the day once, why not twice?

  Stay safe. E.

  * * *

  Dear Elena,

  Your birthday is the Ides of March? Wait a minute—that means you planned to celebrate your birthday last year by firing an entire newspaper’s staff? Were you trying to live up to your reputation? Is this how a tiger shark parties?

  I will not be able to write after this, as I’m heading out of internet range again.

  Thanks for sending me the links to my photo online. You won’t be too shocked to hear I’m setting up a crowd-funding campaign to get the little girl looked after and make sure she gets a good education. She has a foster family now too.

  See you in Sydney soon. One week, one day in fact.

  Thinking of you every day.

  Maddie.

  CHAPTER 33

  Felicitations

  Maddie crawled off the plane at Sydney Airport, looking like a rumpled blanket. Her backpack felt far too heavy. She turned to find the taxi ramp.

  “Don’t bother. I have transport,” said a familiar voice beside her ear.

  Maddie swung her head around. “Felicity?” It was nice to see a familiar face after being away, even one who only sometimes tolerated her.

  “This way.”

  “Did Elena send you? I told her—repeatedly—not to send someone for me.”

  Felicity gave her an impatient look. “No, she did not send me. Now come on.”

  Oh. Well, so much for small talk.

  Within minutes, they were in a high-end Uber, headed towar
ds Sydney’s CBD. All conversation had been forestalled by Felicity choosing to sit in the front seat.

  Maddie shrugged and stretched out as much as she could, hoping for a brief bit of shut-eye after being cooped up in the air for the past half a day. She couldn’t wait to see Elena again. After all their emails and a few calls, Maddie was beside herself with anticipation. She’d missed her so much.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, Maddie’s eyes fluttered back open, and she glanced around. They were in the inner city. She squinted at the blur of signs. Paddington? What the hell?

  “Felicity, this isn’t the way to my apartment.”

  “Who said we were going there?”

  “What? Jesus, Felicity, I only have two hours to get ready and get to the Oceania Media ball. I have to find my best dress and make sure it’s at least ironed. I have to wash a layer of grime off from the airport, and I don’t have time for detours!”

  “Would you stop complaining? We’re almost there.”

  “Almost where?”

  Moments later the car pulled up in front of a row of terrace houses. They looked elegant, charming, and expensive.

  “The blue one,” Felicity told the driver. He stopped, and she paid. “Be back here in ninety minutes.”

  “What…?” Maddie looked around. Where the hell were they?

  “We’ll talk inside.” Felicity didn’t even glance back. She unlocked the terrace house’s front door and held it open impatiently.

  Maddie headed up the path, dropped her bag inside the door, and looked around. The place was decorated in pale hues, with tasteful art on the walls as placid and serene as everything else. None of it matched the tightly wound woman beside her. It was so conservative and safe. Surely Felicity didn’t live here? How could she afford to? She had an apartment back in New York.

  “Sit.” Felicity pointed to a lounge room. “Drink?”

  “Uh, water?”