I could tell her I had some ideas for how to “spice” up the show. Like that a funny bit might be to ask people what nicknames they give their own and their sweetheart’s privates. Wouldn’t that make for a laugh? And while my meaning sank in and the color drained from her face, I could mention I’d always wanted to work in tv. Hell, I could be as bold as Brandon and ask her right out if she was hiring. I’d leave it unsaid that she would know what to do if she didn’t want her secrets made public.
I took my first sip of champagne from the second glass. Anna was well into hers, and was going on about her plans for the show. She wanted to work in more food segments. Travel to small towns and find hidden gem bakeries. Visit wineries. Conduct cook-offs for regional food specialties. Have the winners of the cook-offs come on the show and cook with her. “What do you think? Would those ideas attract more viewers your age?”
Before I could answer, the waiter brought our first course. We were sharing the chef ’s signature dish, a salad made with seven kinds of exotic vegetables. It came piled six inches high on the plate and was crowned with deep-fried taro root.
“Look at those colors! That presentation! It’s beautiful!” Anna said. “I should take a picture for my blog. Do you mind waiting a second before we eat it?”
“Not at all. Go to town.” I leaned back so no part of my body would be in the picture. And watched her take pictures from this angle and that.
I couldn’t blackmail her for a job. Any more than I could have taken the money from the wallet I found in the mall parking lot that time. I couldn’t lift cash from Joanne’s purse. Or steal merchandise from the store. Or date someone who already had a wife or a girlfriend. To do those things would be dishonest, and wrong. If that’s what you had to do to get ahead, I wasn’t going anywhere.
Anna finished taking her pictures. “All done,” she said. “Dig in. And what do you think about my ideas for the show?”
I poked my fork into the tower of salad and pulled out a pea shoot. “If you really want to appeal to young people, I think you should go bigger and smaller at the same time. Try to find the best cheap hangover brunches. The best restaurant meals for less than ten dollars. Get chefs to give recipes for gourmet dishes that can be cooked on one stove burner with less than five ingredients. Or not cooked at all.” I pointed to the salad. “You’d want to talk about food that’s the opposite of this. Because let’s face it: people like me can’t afford to eat food like this unless someone like you is paying.”
She was chewing, but she held one finger up in the waiting signal and opened her eyes wide. When she’d swallowed, she said, “That is such a good idea, Steph. Or such a bunch of good ideas.” She put down her fork, opened her bag and took out a black notebook and a pen. “Let me write those down.”
“You’re still using those notebooks for your journal?”
“No, I learned my lesson. From now on, the notebook I carry around with me will contain work notes, and nothing else. I keep my personal journal at home, locked up.”
“Good idea.”
“And I want you to know that I’ve stopped seeing the person I was seeing. For now. We’re taking a break. A break that could become permanent.”
“What person was that?” I said. Ha-ha. I was so discreet.
She made her notes and closed the notebook.
“Listen,” she said. “We haven’t known each other very long, but I have excellent people instincts. And now that we worked together so well sorting out my little problem, I want to ask you something.
“I don’t know how to ask it without sounding like I think I’m a big shot. And I don’t want to talk down to you either. So I’ll just say it.” She cleared her throat. “Is there a chance you’d want to come work for me at Noontime? As an assistant producer? The salary would be low to start. But I think that someone as bright and personable and attractive as you could go places. In time. If everything goes right.”
I stared at her. Was I hearing things? Or had I just been offered a half-decent job? A real opportunity. And without having to blackmail her to get it.
She said, “I don’t mean to suggest that you’re not going places now, at your present job. The places I’m talking about going are just different places.”
“I’m interested,” I said. “For sure.” Pay cut or no pay cut. I had some money in the bank. And I hadn’t worn out my welcome with Joanne, not yet.
“Wonderful!” she said.
Nathan came over just then and asked how we were doing. “Everything’s lovely, thanks,” Anna said and gave him a dazzling smile.
I smiled big too.
I was a little drunk by the time we got to choir practice. Who wouldn’t be after five glasses of champagne? So it was the alcohol talking—or singing—when I blasted out the tenor part at top volume during “I’m So Excited,” the first song we sang that night.
Joanne told me later she could barely hear Carmen, the soloist, over the noise coming from my corner of the tenor section. “If I didn’t know better,” she said, “I’d think you’re really into the choir now. Like I hoped you would be.”
I said the choir was all right. Okay, more than all right. But that the reason I’d gotten carried away was that I was tipsy. And pumped about the offer Anna had made me over dinner.
“What offer?” Joanne said.
Finally, I had a good story to tell.
KIM MORITSUGU is the author of four previous novels. The Glenwood Treasure (2003) was shortlisted for the Arthur Ellis Award for Best Crime Novel. She also leads a walking tour for Heritage Toronto, teaches creative writing at the Humber School for Writers, writes a food blog called The Hungry Novelist and sings in a community rock/pop choir.
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