A Second Bite at the Apple (22 page)

“Don't tell me he's the shady contractor in question.” She rests a hand on her hip. “I
told
you to stay away from him. I
told
you he was bad news.”

“No—Heidi, jeez, calm down. Jeremy isn't the shady contractor. He's the one who came across the e-mails between Bob Young and the supplier. His company is doing PR for Green Grocers, and he saw the e-mails by mistake.”

“Oh. So he's helping you with the story?”

“Not exactly.”

“But he gave you a copy of the e-mails.”

“Not exactly.”

“He knows you're doing the story, though.”

“Not exactly.”

Heidi raises an eyebrow. “Then what
exactly
is he doing?”

“Working on the PR for the farmers' market partnership.”

She huffs. “So he knows Green Grocers was putting Seabiscuit into its frozen dinners, and he isn't planning to say anything about it? What a slimeball.”

“No—it isn't like that. He went to his bosses about it, but they told him to butt out. And given his past, he doesn't want to be part of a media circus again. Plus, he's worried that if the scandal comes out, the company will call off the pilot program with the farmers' market. He doesn't want to screw everyone.”

“Sounds like he doesn't want to screw himself.”

“It isn't like that. I swear. He really does care about these people. He isn't the sleaze you read about online.”

“If you say so . . .” She grabs the remaining signs and begins sticking them in front of the corresponding loaves of bread. “So if he didn't show you the e-mails, how do you know they even exist?”

“Because I found them in his apartment.”

Heidi snorts. “Ah, so you were snooping.”

“I was not.” I rearrange the stack of quark bread. “Okay, I was kind of snooping. But only because I was having a panic attack and ended up locked in his bathroom.”

“He kept the e-mails in his bathroom?”

“No—he . . . I . . . Never mind. It isn't important. The point is, I have copies.”

Heidi titters. “So Miss Goody-Two-Shoes stole her boyfriend's e-mails while he thought she was having a panic attack in the shitter? This is hilarious.”

“I didn't steal them. I took photos of them with my phone while he was sleeping.”

Heidi bursts into laughter. “Even better.”

“And he isn't my boyfriend.” I stop and consider this as I dust the powdered sugar from the strawberry muffins off my hands. “Or maybe he is. We haven't officially discussed it.”

“Sounds like you've been too busy trying to sabotage his career.”

“Hey—that's unfair. I'm trying to redeem him. He's my whistle-blower.” I pause. “Although I'm not really sure it counts if he doesn't know he's blowing the whistle.”

She bursts into another fit of laughter. “Sorry,” she says, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Sorry. I shouldn't laugh. I can't help myself. It's just too good. This has disaster written all over it.”

I roll my shoulders back. “Not necessarily.”

“Really? Describe one scenario in which this thing doesn't go nuclear.”

I fidget with the sign in front of the chocolate chip cookies, even though it's already straight and doesn't need adjusting. “Okay, maybe you're right. But it doesn't matter. From past experience, I know telling this story is the right thing to do.”

“Are you at least going to tell him you're working on it?”

I sigh. “Eventually. I just don't want him to talk me out of writing it. I've made that mistake before. And anyway, if I nail this piece, I'll be on my way to the career I've always wanted.”

“Maybe you should break it off with Jeremy until the story comes out.”

“No. I couldn't do that.”

“Why not?”

I play with the edge of the tablecloth and then look up at Heidi. “Because I really like him. He's smart and thoughtful and funny, and when I'm with him, I feel . . . well, like me again. The way I used to feel with Zach—alive, happy. He's really into food and brews his own beer. He makes me laugh.” I pause. “I think . . . I think I'm falling for him.”

Heidi chokes on the air and holds up a finger while she grabs her bottle of water and takes a big gulp. She stares at me with wide, glassy eyes, as if she cannot believe that I, Sydney Strauss, could possibly be falling in love again, and with Jeremy Brauer of all people. But more than disbelief—more than blatant astonishment—the look on her face expresses pity wrapped in dread, as if my fate has been sealed, and confirms what I was beginning to suspect: that I'm skydiving without a parachute, tumbling ass over tits toward a pool of bloodthirsty sharks, and there's nothing anyone can do to save me.

She takes another swig of water and smirks as she shakes her head. “Sydney, my friend, I have but one request.”

“Sure. Anything.”

“I won't tell a soul about any of this, and you can talk to me about it any time you want. But when this thing blows up in all of its messy glory?” She screws the cap on her water and winks, a grin spreading across her face. “I want a front row seat.”

There is no reason why this situation has to end badly. Okay, yes, there are a million reasons why it
could
end badly or
should
end badly, but that doesn't mean it definitely will. Then again, this is me, and these days my life and disaster seem to go hand in hand.

Case in point: Two weeks later, just as the horsemeat story is beginning to coalesce, I run into Charles Griffin at the farmers' market. This, in and of itself, is not a disaster, but whenever Charles is involved, disaster is never far behind.

He moseys up to the Wild Yeast tent around 10:00 a.m., his hands tucked into the pockets of his baggy chinos as he breathes in the balmy May air. I haven't spoken to him since he linked me up with Stu Abbott more than two months ago, but I've caught a few of his recent spots on
The Morning Show.
The last one I saw had something to do with the national debt and involved Charles dressed in a dollar bill costume made of skintight spandex, which confirmed my dismissal from
The Morning Show
had been a blessing in disguise.

“The Sydster!” he crows as he parks himself in front of the basket of brioche.

“Well, well, well. Chaz Griffin. Long time, no see.”

Back at
The Morning Show,
Melanie, Charles, and I prided ourselves on coming up with the most annoying nicknames we could think of for one another. He would call me The Sydster and Square Sydney, and Melanie and I used to call him “Chaz” and variations thereof: DJ Chazzy Jeff, Chazberries and Cream, Chaz-been. One of the few times I saw Charles get really angry involved a particularly stressful in-studio live shot, when Melanie called out during a break, “How you doing over there, Princess Chazmin?” I've never seen his face turn redder.

“Stu tells me you have a major scoop,” he says as he scans the basket of cinnamon-speckled snickerdoodles.

“He told you about my story?”

“A bit, yeah. I told you we have a content-sharing agreement now, right?”

“You did. Sorry. I forgot.”

“He's been light on details, but it sounds like you're ready to drop a pretty big bombshell. We've been talking about how the network plans to cover this, and I'd love to get the exclusive for
The Morning Show.
Interview you the morning the piece comes out—something like that.”

“An interview with me?”

“It's your story, isn't it?”

“It is. But . . .”

I'm about to say I didn't expect the story to become about me, but that isn't entirely true. Aside from wanting to expose a fraud, I also pitched this story to gain entry into the exclusive club of serious food writers. I wanted to tell a story, but I also wanted people to know I was the one telling it. But that was before I realized my reporting could hurt other people's businesses and reputations. That was before I knew how far-reaching the impact of this story could be.

“I'm not sure I'm camera-ready,” I say.

“Of course you are.” He narrows his eyes as he studies my face. “You could use a haircut. And some tooth whitener. But with some good lighting and a lot of makeup, I think you'd be fine.”

I wait for him to break into a laugh and say he is kidding, but he doesn't. The Charles Griffin ego is alive and well.

“I'll have to think about it,” I say. “There are . . . some moving pieces.”

“Understood.” He glances down again at the snickerdoodles. “Are these cookies any good?”

“The snickerdoodles? Epic.”

“Then I'll take three.”

“Coming right up.”

I bag up the cookies, each one nearly an inch thick and the size of a DVD, and Charles hands me a twenty, which I take over to the cashbox to make change. As I tuck his bill into the fat stack of twenties, Heidi sidles up beside me with a ten-dollar bill in her hand.

“Is that Charles Griffin?” she asks, nodding over her shoulder.

“The one and only.”

“What is he doing here?”

“Buying snickerdoodles. And trying to convince me to come on
The Morning Show
as a guest when my story comes out.”

Heidi snorts. “You're joking, right?”

“Nope. The network has a content-sharing agreement with the
Chronicle.
Charles wants the ‘exclusive' with me.”

Heidi bursts into a full-fledged laugh, her eyes filling with tears.

“Is there a problem over here?” Rick asks, creeping up behind Heidi and me. “What's so freaking funny?”

“Nothing,” I say, grabbing Charles's change from the box.

Heidi brings her laughter under control. “Sydney is dealing with some highly entertaining first-world problems.”

“Well, hey, here's a newsflash: I don't give a shit.” Rick pulls a lit cigarette out of his pants pocket and takes a quick puff. “Get back to work.”

He stuffs the lit cigarette back into his pocket, as if it were perfectly normal to keep close to one's groin an object that is, technically speaking,
on fire
.

I head back to the corner of the table where Charles is standing, and he smiles as he stuffs the bills in his pocket. “Let's stay in touch about this story,” he says. He wiggles his eyebrows up and down. “This could be your ticket to stardom.”

“A ticket to stardom?” says a voice to my left.

I whip my head around and feel the blood rush to my face. “Jeremy—hi.” My stomach sours. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought I'd swing by to say hello. But given your expression . . . I'm thinking I should turn around and go home.”

“No, no—you just surprised me, that's all.”

“So what's this about a ticket to stardom?”

I open my mouth to answer, but Charles butts in before I can speak. “Our friend Sydney is working on a big story.”

Jeremy locks eyes with me. “Oh, really?”

My stomach churns. “It's not that big,” I say.

“She's being modest,” Charles says. “It's huge. At least from what I know.”

Jeremy looks Charles up and down. “I'm sorry—who are you?”

Charles stares at Jeremy in utter disbelief. “Who am I? Who are
you?
”

“I'm Jeremy. Sydney's . . .” He trails off as his eyes search mine.

“Boyfriend,” I say, surprised at how easily that word rolls off my tongue.

“Ah. Well, I'm Charles Griffin.” He waits for Jeremy to acknowledge him, but when Jeremy doesn't bite, Charles lets out an exasperated huff. “From
The Morning Show
? With Diana Humphrey? I used to work with Sydney?”

“Oh, right. You're the guy who always does those crazy stunts.”

“It's called visual storytelling.” Charles tightens his grip around the bag of cookies. “And I assure you, the story Sydney and I are working on is far from a stunt.”

I ignore the fact that Charles just took credit for a story he has had nothing to do with and try to steer the conversation in another direction. “Hey, Charles, remember that time you got attacked by a turkey?” I laugh nervously.

Charles and Jeremy look at me and then back at each other. “So what's this big story, then?” Jeremy asks.

“We can't talk about it,” Charles says. “Sorry.”

My jaw tightens as I glare at Charles, unsure whether I'm more upset over his spilling the beans about my story or his appropriation of a story to which his contribution has been zero.

“That's too bad,” Jeremy says. His eyes drift over my shoulder and land on Heidi, who is making her way to our corner of the tent.

“Everything cool over here?” she asks.

“Fantastic,” I say through a tight smile.

Heidi's eyes land on Jeremy, and she pushes forward, extending her hand in his direction.

“I don't think we've been formally introduced,” she says. “Heidi Parker.”

“Jeremy Brauer. Sydney's—”

“Boyfriend,” she says, cutting him off as she shakes his hand.

“Right.”

Charles leans back on his heels as he waits for Heidi to extend her hand in his direction. When she doesn't, he puts on his cheesiest smile and reaches out his hand.

“I'm not sure if you recognize me, but I'm—”

“Charles Griffin. I know. Nice to meet you.” She shakes his hand matter-of-factly and shifts her attention back to Jeremy, Charles visibly put out by her disinterest. “So what are we talking about? You all look so serious.”

“Apparently Sydney and Charles are working on some big story together,” Jeremy says.

“I don't think it's fair to say you're working on that story together,” Heidi says.

“We are.” Charles catches my stare. “Well, sort of. We will be.”

“What story?” Jeremy asks. “What are we talking about?”

I clear my throat. “It's nothing. Really. Charles is blowing this out of proportion.”

“No, I'm not,” Charles says, completely missing all of my cues to
shut the hell up
. “You're honestly going to tell me that—”

But before Charles can continue, Jeremy's eyes wander to the opposite side of the tent. “Sorry to interrupt, but . . . Sydney, I think your boss's pants are on fire.”

I spin around and see that, indeed, Rick's pants have begun smoking in the vicinity of his left jean pocket. Rick, unfortunately, is in the middle of chatting up a lithe brunette in spandex pants, and thus the only fire in his pants of which he is aware stems from his underserved libido.

“Um . . . hey, Rick?”

Rick carries on with his pointless flirtation, ignoring me.

“Rick?”

His face reddens, but he does not tear his eyes away from the attractive woman in spandex, and it is clear he does not want to be interrupted.

“RICK!”

He whirls around to face me, his jaw clenched as he forces a fake smile. “
Yes,
dear.”

“Your pants are on fire.”

He takes a quick peek and notices they are smoldering in an area precariously close to his crotch, and then he glares at me and rushes out of the tent to the area behind the truck.

I look back at Jeremy and Charles, whose mouths are hanging open as they follow Rick with their eyes. I hear Rick rattling through the ice chest in the back of the truck, followed by a series of muffled expletives involving “Jesus Christ” and “son-of-a-bitch” and “mother-bleeping-balls.” And then I hear what I have been waiting for:

“Sydney! Could you come
back
here, please?”

On any other day, dealing with Rick and his singed pubic hairs would approximate a punishment worse than death. But in an indication of how far I've backed myself into a corner, I'd rather attend to Rick than continue this conversation with Jeremy, Charles, and Heidi. It is a sad commentary on the current state of affairs, and not something I'm proud of, but there is no denying the fact that, today at least, I am very glad to contend with Rick's flaming crotch.

Which, as far as I can tell, means I have lost my will to live.