by Holly Brown
“No pictures,” I say.
“Of course not.” Pietro gives me a reassuring smile. “I have to be discreet, too, in my line of work.”
“He’s a real estate magnate,” Reese supplies.
He laughs. “Developer.”
“Who hasn’t heard of the Pietro Lorenzi Group?” Reese says. I haven’t. “I’ll have a vodka tonic,” she tells Marco.
Reese is definitely into Pietro, whose attention is firmly on me.
I don’t like that Reese used me to get here. But if I leave Reese behind, wouldn’t that be kind of like what Reese did to me with Graham?
No, this is nothing like that. Reese wants to be left behind.
Still, that doesn’t mean it’s a good idea. Reese is awfully drunk.
“Have a seat,” Pietro says, gesturing to a couch.
I sit on one, Pietro takes the other, but his seat is the one closest to me. Reese flops down next to Pietro. That means that after Marco delivers Reese her drink, he’s beside me. But he’s obviously a wingman. He’s probably there to get Reese out of the way, when the moment presents itself. That’s if I’m reading Pietro correctly.
“Of all the bars in all of Manhattan, what were the odds I’d run into you here?” he asks me.
“And that you’d happen to mention me to my friend.” It feels a little too York Diamond for my taste.
“We were in the limo driving near Times Square, and I saw you on the Jumbotron. You were fresh on my mind.”
“She’s the new It Girl, all right,” Reese says. It’s not her usual buoyant tone. Meeting me might have been the price of admission, but she doesn’t like being ignored. “She was just on the red carpet at the Hunger Gala. Her boyfriend, Chase, flew in for it.”
The Chase mention is pathetically transparent. But now I don’t have to find a way to work him into the conversation.
I don’t have to do anything. I stand up. “I have a boyfriend, and a job I really care about, and I’m sure you’re discreet about your own affairs, but I can’t know how you’re going to treat mine. So I really need to leave.” I turn to Reese. “I’d feel better if you came too.”
Reese gets to her feet reluctantly. It’s like she’s remembering that I’m her boss, which makes it akin to an order.
“I completely respect that,” Pietro says, standing up too. “You’re right, you have no reason to trust me. I’m a stranger. But I can tell you that I hate this culture we live in, where you have to polarize to succeed. You just have to be marginally loved more than you’re hated, and they call that being It. I would never give the trolls ammunition.” His brown eyes are kind. “I’m really happy that I got to meet you.” When he offers his hand again, I want to take it.
What is it with me and older men lately?
I reposition the wig. Time to make my escape.
Chapter 20
There’s a man here who’d like to see you,” security informs me. “Chase Taylor. He’s not on our list. Were you expecting him?”
No, I wasn’t. It’s Friday, and I’m going into my highest-pressure weekend at INN yet. Chase knows that. So what’s he doing here?
The thing about surprises is that they limit your ability to refuse. They take away your choices.
“I’ll be right down,” I say.
I get to my feet, adjusting my purple corseted sheath dress, the one I wore for my second appearance on The Media Is the Message. It taped an hour ago. I never really relaxed, with Rayna and Luke present, but they’d both behaved cordially. Luke’s eyes actually remained on my face, and Rayna remained on script. It was purely a stand-up, with no couch time, so there was no walking, which reduced Luke’s capacity to debase me.
I couldn’t really tell what either of them were thinking. Have they moved on to a new target, like bullies often do? Or is the hazing over, seeing as I’ve proven myself? Or are they employing more subterranean methods, like the diary entries? Rayna’s at least forty, possibly older, so she’s plenty familiar with Elyse’s story.
I haven’t told Chase about the diary entries. I haven’t even told my father. With Chase, it’s about his potential judgment; with Dad, it’s about worry. Plus, reporters don’t tell their daddies and their boyfriends about their sources.
I’m glad Reese isn’t here so I don’t have to do any introductions. Early this morning, she texted to say she had the hangover of her life, and she would come in if I really needed her, but if there wasn’t much to be done, or if she could do it from home or over the weekend . . . I’d actually been a little relieved. I didn’t feel good about Reese, Pietro, and the VIP room. Best to deal with that next week, after my debut on Ty’s show. Reese is supposed to make my life easier, not add complications.
Chase is definitely a complication.
Stopping off in the restroom, I peer at myself in the mirror. My hair is utterly untouchable, and the heavy stage makeup has obliterated all traces of last night’s drinking, but away from the camera and the studio lights, it’s so smooth, so opaque, that I’m more android than human.
I fluff my hair. A little muss would help.
I descend in the elevator and exit the security gates into the high-ceilinged, marble-floored lobby. Chase is sitting on one of the couches, his back to me, scrolling through his phone, a small wheeled bag at his feet. When he sees me, he stands, but his smile looks forced. We embrace, which seems just as forced.
TMZ. That must be it. I’d thought about bringing it up so I could reassure him, but the truth is, I do feel an attraction to Edwin, and I’ve been feeling increasingly done with Chase. Easier to say nothing.
He looks good, as always. He’s in a light blue shirt that matches his pale beautiful eyes, and a pair of expensive jeans. His blond hair is wavy, fixed in place by a forty-five-dollar product called hair wax that disappears without a trace once applied, so he can disavow such vanities.
“How long will you be here?” I ask him.
“I fly back on Sunday.”
“I wish you’d picked another weekend. You know I have to work a lot to get ready for Ty’s show. I have to stay focused.”
“I could watch you work.” He tries to say it like the idea just came to him, but he has never been a good liar.
Or maybe he has.
Conflict of interest. A series about the collusion between the government and a private corporation.
What Graham said about how I should get it while I can.
At seven A.M. tomorrow, I’ll be handed a script, and I’m pretty sure it’s going to be about Until.
“No,” I say. “You can’t watch me work.”
“Show me around now then. I’d like to meet the cast of characters.” His charm is fraying around the edges, threadbare. He must be under stress.
“No. It’s a newsroom.”
He moves closer to me and lowers his voice. “When we talk, I want to be able to picture your world and the people in it.”
I wish I could believe him.
This is Chase. This is the man I’ve loved.
“Let’s meet for dinner later,” he says. “My treat.”
“No, it’s my treat.” It occurs to me that this is the most I’ve ever said no to Chase in one conversation. In our whole relationship, practically. “You’re the one who flew across the country. What are you craving?”
He snakes an arm around me. “I’m craving time alone with you. You think we can do anything about that?”
He’s trying to manipulate me, I can feel it. “I’ll text you where to meet.”
IT’S A 5:15 reservation, and I arrive at the restaurant a few minutes early. Chase is already waiting outside the unmarked building. “This is the right place, then?” he says.
“I thought we could try something new together. It’s dining in the dark.”
“That’s very retro of you.”
“Retro?”
“Circa 2012. The one in San Francisco has already come and gone.”
Retro’s okay. The selling point of this restaurant is the concealment.
As we enter the building, Chase takes my hand. It would be too strong a statement, too early, if I pulled my hand away. “The servers are visually impaired,” I whisper to him.
“So no three blind mice jokes,” Chase whispers back. “Got it.”
“I’m Freya,” a statuesque woman says. She has multiple long blond braids all over her head and is wearing sunglasses. “Please turn off your cell phones and all other light sources. Your experience is about to begin.”
We form a train. I put my hands on Freya’s shoulders, and Chase puts his hands on mine, and we’re led past the curtain into a truly pitch-dark room.
After a series of instructions that ends with “lower your bottom,” we’re settled at the table. “Feel around,” Freya says. “Find your cutlery, though you’re welcome to eat without them.”
“That might limit the hand-holding,” Chase says. “So bear that in mind when you make your choice.”
Oh, I’ll bear it in mind.
I can’t hear any other diners, which makes me wonder if there are any. It is the early-bird special, but still. I wouldn’t think a restaurant could exist with only one table occupied. I have no idea how large the room is, or how close we are to other people. I might not know when Freya is nearby, and when we can be overheard. I keep forgetting, I’m a celebrity now.
Has Freya recognized me? No, wait, she can’t. She’s blind.
She might have recognized the name, though, from the reservation, and this might have been a really bad idea.
“So you’re doing the five-course tasting menu,” Freya says. “Do you like to be told what you’re about to eat, or would you like to try to guess?”
“Guess,” Chase says, at the same time I answer, “Be told.”
Freya laughs. “That happens all the time. You can’t see each other’s visual cues. You don’t know when the other person is about to speak.”
I blink repeatedly, having the sensation that I’m actually asleep right now. To be awake in absolute darkness creates a sense of hypervigilance, to which I’m already prone. I feel wired. Electrified.
“We’ll guess,” I relent.
“Would you like wine or a cocktail?”
This time, I wait and let Chase speak. I won’t be dulling myself with alcohol. “Wine,” he says. “Something that pairs well with what we’re about to eat.”
“I’ll be back soon,” Freya announces. There will probably be many such broadcasts, though I wouldn’t actually be able to test the veracity. But it feels like Chase and I are alone, as if the air molecules have shifted.
He’s groping across the table for my fingers. “It’s nice to have an adventure with you,” he says.
“I imagined it differently.”
“Me too,” he says, tenderly. His hand around mine is warm, and suddenly, there are tears in my eyes. “I want you to know—”
“I’m back!” Freya says gaily, and I jump. “I’m uncorking your wine.” I wouldn’t have recognized the sound. I’m discovering the inadequacy of my senses more than the opposite. “Now I’m pouring just a little into each of your glasses. I’ve put them right in front of you.”
This was a mistake. I should be looking into Chase’s eyes when I ask him if there’s anything he’d like to tell me about Until, if he’s ready to come clean.
This restaurant should come with hazard signs. Only go into the dark with people where there’s no subtext, where everything’s out in the open and aboveboard, where you can say whatever you feel, at any moment.
No wonder the San Francisco restaurant closed down.
I can feel that Freya is poised, waiting. Chase says, “The wine is perfect, thanks.” I echo him, though it’s gone untasted.
“Excellent,” Freya says. “I’m pouring you full glasses now. I’ll be back in a minute with your first course.”
There’s a new sound. It’s fumbling and laughter. Another couple is being led into the darkness. Camouflaging noise would be great, but just one other couple doesn’t qualify. We’ll be able to hear one another in all the pauses.
I’m fairly certain that the other couple is already drunk, at five thirty, and they’re raucous, enough to fill the entire restaurant. It seems somehow wrong, like the blackness should have a certain reverent quality.
“Someone’s having fun.” Chase says it lightly, but it also underscores that it’s not us. “Are you happy to see me? I don’t mean right this second, obviously. I mean, are you happy that I came?”
“I’m in kind of a strange head space, what with going live on Ty’s show next week.”
“Tell me about that.” When I don’t respond, he prompts, “Do you know what the story is going to be?”
“No. I’ll find out tomorrow.”
“They don’t tell you anything in advance? You have no input into your scripts?”
At that moment, my nostrils are assaulted. The nearest I can decipher, it’s onions, garlic, cabbage, and stinky cheese. Freya says, “On your left, I’m putting down a bowl of soup. It’s pureed, so you can just pick it up and drink it.”
Pick it up and drink it? I want to perform an exorcism on it.
“I’ll be back in a little while,” Freya says, presumably withdrawing. I can’t know how much of our conversation she’s been privy to. Being blind, she probably has extremely good hearing.
“This is delicious,” Chase says.
I lift the bowl to my lips, and the aroma is nearly fecal. I hold it for a few seconds, how long it would presumably take to drink, and then set it back down.
“Are they still enjoying your performance? Your bosses, I mean. Edwin,” he says. He infuses Edwin’s name with contempt.
“About TMZ—”
“I should have heard it from you.”
“It was bullshit. There was nothing to say. And if you have something to say, then be direct.” I’m not really talking about TMZ, because while Chase’s jealousy sounds real, it can’t be the main reason he’s here.
“You’re the one who needs to be direct. I’m the one who’s trying to save our relationship.”
Could that be true? I’ve been sitting here basting in my suspicions when, really, he came because he can feel he’s losing me?
We’re sitting in silence when Freya comes to take our bowls. “How was the soup?” she asks.
“Top-notch,” Chase says. I murmur approval as well, though Freya can probably detect the lie, given the heft of my bowl.
“It was an emulsion of celeriac, leeks, and sunchokes. I’ll be back soon with your next course.”
Chase’s voice is lower, and closer. He must be leaning toward me. “There are things you should know about Edwin,” he says.
“Like what?”
“You want to see him in the best light because he discovered you, and I get that. Then there’s all that fawning press about what a genius he is and how he’s going to save television news and democracy. I get that you like being a part of something, but you have to think about what that something really is.”
“And what is it, really?”
“Edwin made his billions in Silicon Valley, so people there know him pretty well. No one thinks he’s a philanthropist.”
“He doesn’t claim to be a philanthropist.”
“There’s a rumor that Edwin started INN on a dare, and a lot of smart people, ones who’ve spent time with him, believe it.”
So Chase is here to spread his own rumors. To plant doubt on the eve of my big story, the one that’s most likely about Until. “Why are you really here, telling me this?”
“It’s not in your interest to drink the Kool-Aid.”
Or it’s not in Chase’s interest.
This is not an isolated moment in our relationship. This is a stance Chase has taken throughout, as if he’s above everything, or at least, above me. He knows how the world works, and he’s just trying to help me find my way. I’m used to being talked down to so subtly that it didn’t register most of the time. But I felt it acutely after the
viral video, when my pain grew inconvenient and he didn’t think I was cleaning up my mess fast enough, when I truly understood that phrase about how when you stop living your life, the terrorists win. I now realize Chase would have been okay if I had never started living mine again, if I’d just continued living his.
Freya returns. She recommends eating the next course with our hands. “The texture is like a work of art.”
I move my fingers slowly across the surface of the table, finding a linen napkin, the fabric just a little nubbly, and on top of it, I feel each fork tine and the slight serration of the bread knife. I try to calm my rage through each deliberate motion, because no one likes a shrill woman.
On my plate are a bunch of small objects, like tiny hot dogs, but more slippery. Eel, maybe. If it is eel, though, why does it have no smell?
“I’m refilling your wineglasses now.”
Chase’s wineglass, that is. My glass is still full. Should I warn Freya so it doesn’t overflow?
No, somehow Freya knows, topping off Chase’s and leaving mine alone. It’s all very mystical, really.
“So what is this?” I ask Freya.
“Jellied bone marrow.”
“I’m going to use my fork for this one,” Chase says. Then after a series of scraping sounds, he starts laughing. “It’s like it’s running away from me.”
I pick one up and let it slide down my throat. It’s more texture than taste. But it’s not foul either. I eat the next one and realize I’m starving. Without Reese to get me lunch today, I forgot to eat.
“So what’s going on at Until?” I say. Speak now or forever hold your peace.
“Are you asking as a girlfriend, or as a journalist?” he says.
“Is there anything I should know, as a girlfriend? Or as a journalist?”
The silence is deafening.
Chapter 21
July 17, 1991.
I don’t need to read this. In fact, I know I shouldn’t.
Chase is sleeping in the other room, in my bed. I’m sitting up on the couch at three in the morning. The diary has become a part of my insomnia, not the cure.
Another envelope was waiting in my apartment building at the security desk when Chase and I got back from dinner. Like last time, I was told it was from INN. Chase looked way too curious as to what was inside.
