I cross the road. “Hi.”
“Blair.” Gerard stands up.
There’s an awkward moment when it seems he’s about to kiss me on the cheek, but my glare must be enough to dissuade him.
“Would you like a coffee?” he asks.
“No, thanks. I’d like to get this over with as quickly as possible.”
“Sure.” He reaches down into a briefcase and hands me a folder. “Here’s everything you need. Get Rebecca Vanderbilt’s signature on the dotted line and you’re covered. Can I ask what this is about?”
“No,” I reply sharply. “You’ll find out by the end of next week, anyway.” I tap the folder. “Is this the real deal? Bulletproof like I asked?”
“Blair, you make Rebecca Vanderbilt sign that document and you’re not wearing a bulletproof jacket”—he knocks on the wooden table—“you’re standing in a nuclear bunker.”
“Great. I guess I owe you a thank you.”
Gerard smiles in a way I used to find endearing, but now only seems sleazy.
“Not at all,” he says, then takes another folder out of the briefcase. “If you could just sign this, we’re done.”
I eye the folder suspiciously. “What’s that?”
“The confidentiality agreement I sent you,” Gerard replies, nonplussed.
“I’m not signing a confidentiality agreement.”
He turns red from neck to ears. “Was this a trap? Your petty way to get revenge? You make me work for you and then you ruin me?”
“No, I’m not evil. Just because I’m not signing a piece of paper, it doesn’t mean I’ll go tell on you and Laura the second I leave here. Don’t worry, it was never my intention.”
“Why won’t you sign the confidentiality agreement, then?”
“Gerard, forget it. You’ll have to take me at my word.” I get up. “But you can relax, as, contrary to you, I am trustworthy.” I swing my bag over my shoulder and without waiting for a reply, I wave and say, “Have a nice life.”
Always wanted to say that to somebody.
***
That same morning I go over the details of the interview with Richard.
“The equipment, plus video and audio technicians, are booked,” I say. “The date is set, and here’s the disclaimer for Rebecca Vanderbilt to sign.” I hand Richard the document Gerard drafted. “It should be ironclad.”
Richard skim-reads the pages. “Wonderful.” His eyes pause on the legal stamp at the end of the document. “How were you able to afford Goldstein, Smidch, and Vander? They’re a very expensive firm.”
I shrug. “My ex works there.”
A shadow crosses Richard’s face. “You’re still in contact with him?”
“No, not really. Let’s just say he owed me a favor.”
“He did this for you after you threw a plate of spaghetti over his head?”
“Gerard deserved the spaghetti, and he knows it.”
“But why would you even ask him after everything he did?”
“What’s the big deal?” Why is Richard getting so worked up? “We needed legal advice, and Gerard is a kickass lawyer. Plus, I wanted to see him again to see how it’d make me feel.”
Richard purses his lips. Seems like he’s dying to ask what my findings were, but knows he can’t without being inappropriate. Aha! The boss is British after all.
“So, when’s the interview?” Richard asks instead.
“Monday.”
“And you plan to make it go live on…?”
“The following Friday. I don’t want to give Rebecca Vanderbilt time to pull tricks out of her sleeve. No matter if we have the best disclaimer ever written.”
Richard sighs. “Then by next weekend, we’ll know if we still have a magazine or not.”
“About that. I wanted you to know how much I appreciate the trust you’re placing in me. I know this interview is causing you more than a headache and a few sleepless nights. And I can’t say enough how thankful I am you’re letting me run the story anyway. Even if it means facing a potential lawsuit…”
“Hey.” Richard finally cracks a smile. “We wouldn’t be a serious newspaper if we didn’t get a lawsuit every now and then. Walker, you have my complete trust.”
“Thank you, boss. I won’t let you down.”
Sixteen
Never Pick a Fight
Monday morning, at eight sharp, I’m shaking hands with the very woman I’m about to ruin. I’ve rehearsed every question several times with both Richard and Michael. Our financial expert has also agreed to write a complementary article to go with the interview. After a weekend spent obsessing over every little detail that could go wrong, I’m ready.
When the introductions are over, I inhale deeply and hand Rebecca Vanderbilt the disclaimer.
“If you could sign here, we can get started right away.”
“What’s this?” she snaps.
“Oh, only a disclaimer that allows us to air the interview. It’s standard procedure.”
I hold my breath as she scans the fine print. If she doesn’t sign this, I’m toast. I can’t ask her any of the burning questions.
Rebecca hands the document to her PA. “What do you think?”
The woman turns the pages with hawk-like eyes, and for the first time, I’m worried. Miss PA doesn’t look like a fool.
“Seems pretty standard, but I don’t think you should sign any document without a lawyer checking it first.” Then she stares up at me. “We can have our in-house attorney go over the disclaimer and send it back signed after the interview.”
Sweat pools under my armpits and on my upper lip. “I’m sorry, but that won’t be possible. Without your explicit permission, we can’t so much as record Mrs. Vanderbilt saying hello, let alone record footage of the inside of the store. If she doesn’t sign, we can’t proceed with the interview at all.” The sweating worsens. I try to inconspicuously wipe away the cold droplets on my forehead.
The mean PA woman doesn’t buy my stream of BS. “Then I suggest we postpone until our lawyers have had time to review these papers.”
“Nonsense,” Rebecca interjects. “Give me the document.”
“Mrs. Vanderbilt,” the PA insists. “I strongly suggest you reconsider.”
Luckily, Aurora’s mother is not very good at taking advice.
With a wave of her hand, she says, “Oh, please. I wouldn’t be where I am today if I hadn’t taken a risk or two down the road. Pen!”
The reluctant PA hands her a Montblanc and Rebecca happily signs her own death warrant. Gotcha!
After three makeup retouches, The Madame is finally ready to go on screen. We sit on the apricot couches outside the fitting rooms, wait a few seconds for the lighting technician to adjust the lamps, and then we’re rolling…
After a few introductory questions, I start laying my trap. “Mrs. Vanderbilt, I don’t know if you remember, but the last time I saw you, we were in LA at Christian’s Slade charity ball for his Teachers without Postcodes fair education project. Given how busy you are as CEO of Maison Vanderbilt, do you often find time to attend charitable events like that one?”
“Coming from a family of entrepreneurs and being an entrepreneur myself, one of the key aspects of my work ethic is giving back to the community. That’s why I always make time for public service, no matter how busy my schedule is. At Maison Vanderbilt, we constantly strain to give more than our due, contributing to various charities on top of our legal obligations.”
“As it happens, Maison Vanderbilt is one of the most generous companies when it comes to charity.” I shuffle my papers to check the numbers. “My records show that last year alone you contributed over five million dollars to different projects. With a specific focus on youth and education.”
“Yes, exactly. We focus in particular on nurturing the next generation of talent. It’s extremely important to foster tomorrow’s leaders as they represent our future.”
&nb
sp; “Public education in our country is mainly funded through taxes—property taxes for the most part, but also state and federal taxes. So what do you think of companies that use tax havens to hide assets and pay fewer taxes than what they really owe?”
“Well, they’re obviously cheating society and robbing communities blind. Everyone has to do their part.”
“Those are sage words, Mrs. Vanderbilt, and it’s interesting hearing them coming from you. What about yourself? Have you ever had any connection to an offshore company?”
“Maison Vanderbilt has many international branches.” Rebecca grimaces. “Some of them are located in countries with taxation incentives. It’s common practice for multinational companies to-to… anyway, I don’t see what the point of this question is… It feels almost as if you were accusing me of something.”
“Are you at all familiar with a company called Heron LLC?”
She pales. “No, why should I?”
“So you’ve never heard the name Heron LLC. It’s a company based in the Cayman Islands, a notorious tax haven.”
“Never,” she says haughtily, moving her chin up. “Can we return to the original scope of this interview? Why are we talking about the Cayman Islands? Unless of course it’s to discuss our newest resort collection.” Rebecca lets out a high-pitched laugh.
“In a moment.” Oh, you’re not wiggling out of this one. “But you see, I find it weird the name Heron LLC is unfamiliar to you. According to a former employee of Maison Vanderbilt, your company used to pay millions in management fees to Heron every year.”
“This is nonsense.” Rebecca searches with her eyes for help, looking very much like a trapped animal. No one comes to her aid.
Luck is on my side as her PA seems to have vanished after she made sure the interview was going smoothly, leaving her boss completely at my mercy.
“Mrs. Vanderbilt, isn’t paying management fees to an offshore company one of the easiest means of tax evasion?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Just to be clear, as CEO of Maison Vanderbilt, you’re denying ever committing tax fraud.”
“You’ve no proof of these absurd allegations you’re making.”
“I have the word of a former accountant at your company. Anyway, are you claiming I’ve no proof or that the fact never subsisted?”
Now she stands up. “This interview is over. Over! You silly girl. Dare make public a second of this reckless ambush and you’ll never be able to show your face in Manhattan ever again. I’ll make sure no one ever hires you.”
I stand up as well. “I already have a job, thank you.”
“Not when I sue your little magazine for every cent it has.”
“I’m sure any judge will recognize the truth of our statements, or the IRS will. Mrs. Vanderbilt, I’m afraid it will be you hiding your face around Manhattan when this interview goes live. Because rest assured, it will go live…”
That’s when a composed, supposedly classy, if not very honest woman completely loses it and turns into a bratty child. Screaming and destroying everything in her path.
***
A few days later, everyone in the office has gathered behind my desk to watch the video of the interview on my computer. Well, everyone except for Richard, who, for some reason, has not shown up to work yet. I hate the disappointment I feel at him not being here to witness my success.
Where the hell is the boss?
“Uuuuuhh-uuuuh,” my colleagues cheer as they watch Rebecca Vanderbilt hit the camera.
I’ve uploaded the final footage to YouTube this morning and Hugo, our News Editor, has posted Michael’s supplementary article on our homepage.
“This is my favorite part,” Hugo says. “When she grabs the camera and sends it crashing down.”
“No, no,” Indira says. “You have to wait until the very end.”
We all keep our eyes glued to the screen. Now we can only see the marble floor of the Maison Vanderbilt flagship store through the cracked camera glass. And, of course, hear Rebecca Vanderbilt’s threats to sue us. She screamed a lot, and we had to add several censoring “beeps” to the audio file.
“Wait for it,” Indira mutters, “wait for it… There it goes.”
Rebecca Vanderbilt stomps her expensive stiletto on the camera and the video goes black.
Indira clicks her tongue. “Best finale ever.”
“Yeah, pretty cool!” Hugo agrees.
“I’m posting a screenshot of the stiletto of death on Instagram,” Saffron says.
“Refresh the page,” Ada asks.
I do as she says.
“How many views?”
“Fifty thousand,” I say.
“How long ago did you upload this?” Hugo asks.
I check the clock window on the screen. “About an hour. Are fifty thousand views any good?”
“Are you kidding me?” Saffron asks. “You’re on the road to get batshit crazy viral, girl.”
I smile. “I hope everyone sees this, and that the IRS indicts them.”
Zane’s landline rings, and he walks back to his desk to answer. As soon as he picks up the receiver, he signals for us to quiet down. We do, while also taking the opportunity to eavesdrop on the conversation. Zane is in charge of distribution and it sounds like he’s negotiating with some other news outlet who wants to air the interview. And I don’t want to be too optimistic, but it seems like he’s talking to a TV network.
TV or not, I don’t finish listening in on the conversation because, at that moment, Richard walks through the front doors. Too happy to see him, I get up and almost run toward him. I catch myself just in time and stop a few feet away. Was I really about to launch myself at him and throw my arms around his neck?
“Hi,” I say. “Where were you? The interview went live an hour ago!”
Richard gives me an awkward smile. “I hit a bit of a road bump.”
“Oh, what happened?”
“I had to see Aurora.”
Ice spreads through my veins. “Vanderbilt?”
“The one and only.”
“Why?”
Richard sighs. “I wanted to give her fair warning. I didn’t want her to go to work today and get blindsided by the story breaking.” He shrugs. “I owed her that much.”
“I’m sure her mother must’ve told her by now,” I say a bit too aggressively.
“No, apparently she hadn’t. And anyway nobody knew we were going live today, so…”
That’s very decent of him. I still wish he hadn’t done it. The thought of him and Aurora together, no matter the circumstances, makes me see red.
“How did she take it?”
“At first she wouldn’t believe me. I don’t think she was involved in the fraud. Her mother must’ve kept all their shady dealings from her.”
“And after you explained, did she believe you?”
“Oh, no.” Richard shakes his head. “Once the shock was over, she got mental! She tried to convince me not to publish the interview and once I refused she… ah… threw her coffee at me.”
I cover my mouth with one hand. “Did you get burned?”
“No, it was iced. But I still had to go home and change.”
Right, his curls still seem a bit damp. Mmm, I have to fight hard with my limbs not to run a hand up the back of his neck.
“Anyway.” Richard moves toward the group assembled at my desk. “How are the first responses?”
Ada clicks the mouse. “Sixty thousand views already.”
“Social media is going crazy,” Saffron says.
“CNN wants to run the story on CNN Today!” Zane puffs his chest out.
“CNN,” I screech. “Are you kidding me?”
“I kid you not!” He smiles.
Richard pats my shoulder. “Well done!”
I beam at him, trying not to melt under his touch.
“Now,” the boss adds in a
more practical tone. “Can we manage the extra traffic to our website?” he asks, looking at the techies.
“I’ll make sure we get some extra server capacity,” one says.
The entire tech team scurries back to their computers.
“All right,” Richard says, addressing the whole office. “Let’s make sure we run a tight ship today and then we can all go out to celebrate tonight!”
Everyone shouts their approval and even Chevron contributes to the general enthusiasm with a loud howl.
***
By the end of the day, I have a better understanding of what “going viral” means. The hashtag #MaisonVanderFraud is trending on Twitter, we’ve reached over a million views on YouTube, and the story is all over the media. Both traditional and social.
At six thirty, Richard walks to the center of the open space and claps his hands to get everyone’s attention.
“All right, people.” The office quiets down. “This week has been incredible, and today has been an unprecedented success. It couldn’t have happened without your combined effort. Blair, thank you for bringing in the story and pulling off a magnificent piece of investigative journalism. Zane, thanks for handling the TV rights.” Each announcement is followed by thunderous applause. “Saffron, for fueling the Social Media craze. Our techies, for making sure our website didn’t crash. Everyone else, for your support.” Richard lets the applause die before speaking again. “Now it’s Friday night, and I don’t know about you, but I can’t wait for the weekend to get started. So what do you say we all go out for a drink to celebrate?”
Richard’s proposal is approved by a standing ovation.
He lingers by my desk. “Walker, are you coming?”
“I’m not sure.” The boss seems disappointed, so I add, “It’s just that I don’t know if a bar is a good place for Chevron.”
“Right, I hadn’t thought of that. What if I take Chevron to my house and join you guys later?”
“Are you sure it’s not a problem?” I ask.
He kneels down to pet her with both hands, and I swear I’ve never seen a dog so ecstatic. “Nah, I’m sure this beauty won’t wreck the place, and anyway, I can give you a lift home afterward. You can’t walk home alone in the middle of the night.”
I Have Never (A Laugh Out Loud Romantic Comedy) Page 14
