Stars So Sweet (4 page)

A TEMPTING OFFER

F
IONA INGLETHORPE STOOD BY THE
security desk in the lobby of the
New York Standard
building, one pink stiletto-clad foot tapping the floor. It was only 11:55, so technically, Gladys Gatsby wasn't late for their meeting. Still, Fiona felt anxious about the proposal she was planning to make to her freelance critic. Would Gladys accept her offer?

There was another reason Fiona was uneasy. Gladys would be bringing her daughter along, and Fiona often felt uncomfortable in the presence of children. Her sister taught elementary school, and a few years back she had invited Fiona to come to Career Day and talk about her job as a food editor. Fiona had asked the kids what their favorite foods were at the beginning of her presentation, and never
before had she heard the revolting term
chicken fingers
uttered so many times.

Across the lobby, the glass doors opened, and in walked a middle-aged woman in a beige suit. She was holding hands with a girl of . . . well, Fiona had never been very good at guessing children's ages. She was short, so perhaps eight or nine? How old were kids when they started middle school, anyway?

She waved a pink-nailed hand in the air to beckon the pair over. “Ms. Gatsby?” Fiona asked in a low voice when they drew near. The woman nodded and shook Fiona's offered hand. “Welcome to the
Standard.
I've already had your security badges made up.” She passed them two prepared badges that said
GUEST
.

“And this must be Coraline.” Fiona forced as much of a smile as she could onto her face, but acknowledged that it probably came across as more of a grimace.

If the girl was scared, though, she didn't let on. “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” she said, and held out her own hand. Cringing slightly at the thought of sandbox germs, Fiona gave the girl's hand a very quick shake, then doused her fingers with hand sanitizer from the pump bottle on the security desk.

“Right this way,” she said, motioning her guests toward the elevator. Once they were inside, she pressed a button, and the elevator sucked them all up toward the forty-ninth floor.

• • •

The elevator doors opened, and Gladys and her aunt stepped out.

“Here we are!” Fiona said, ushering them around a corner.

For Gladys, the phrase
executive dining room
had inspired images of vaulted ceilings and plush rugs, but this room looked a whole lot like the other rooms here that she had seen with her dad during his tax meetings in the spring. The floor was uncarpeted, the tables and chairs were crafted of plain blond wood, and the room's ceiling was no higher than her middle-school cafeteria's.

There were, however, great tall windows that ran from floor to ceiling all along one wall.
The décor is fairly drab,
Gladys imagined writing,
but the space is brightened considerably by an influx of natural light.
Her hand was almost to her notebook before she remembered she was not actually there to review the dining room. Sheepishly, she retracted her hand from her purse and followed the maître d' to a table in the corner.

“I took the liberty of ordering for us in advance, Gladys,” Fiona explained when they had been seated. “I usually go for the salmon, but swordfish steaks are the special today, and they really are magnificent. I hope you don't mind.”

Gladys's mouth watered, and she turned to Aunt
Lydia, expecting to see similar excitement on her face. But her aunt still looked quite pale. Thinking back through their silent elevator ride, Gladys realized she hadn't heard her say a word since they'd entered the building. Aunt Lydia had warned her that she might not be ready to return to the world of professional adult interactions. Was she clamming up?

Under the table, Gladys nudged her aunt's leg with her sandal.

“Oh, swordfish—that sounds
m-magnifique,
” Aunt Lydia stammered. “
Merci.
I mean—thank you.”

Uh-oh,
Gladys thought. They had specifically agreed that Aunt Lydia should avoid peppering her speech with French words, since that might trigger unnecessary questions. Lydia must have been even more nervous than Gladys had realized.

They had also agreed that Gladys should talk as little as possible—but someone had to fill the awkward silence that was now enveloping their table. “My mom used to live in France!” she declared. “She worked as a cook there.”

“Oh, really?” Fiona said, leaning in closer. “I don't remember reading about that in your application letter. When was this?”

Fudge.
“Oh, when she was younger,” Gladys said quickly.

“Where in France did you live?” Fiona asked. “Was it Paris?”

Paris
seemed to be the magic word that finally released Aunt Lydia from her silent spell. “Oh—yes,” she said. “I lived in the eighteenth arrondissement. Do you know Paris well?”

“I do!” Fiona said, and there followed a pleasant conversation about Parisian neighborhoods and eateries. It turned out that Fiona and Aunt Lydia had the same favorite
creperie
in the Latin Quarter, and they both spent several minutes lamenting their lack of ability to reproduce such delicately delicious pancakes at home.

Gladys actually had a pretty good crepe-making technique, but she held her tongue; by no means was she supposed to reveal her own prowess in the kitchen. Instead, she sipped the ice water the server had brought. Her stomach was starting to rumble with all the food talk—she had been too nervous to eat much breakfast that morning. So when the server returned with three covered dishes on a tray, she could hardly wait to dig in.

That is, until the waiter removed the dish covers. Unlike the other two, Gladys's plate was piled with . . .

“Chicken fingers!” Fiona announced triumphantly. “Just for you, Coraline. We don't get many children in the
Standard
dining room, so I made sure to put in a special order.”

Gladys gazed sadly at her aunt's succulent-looking
swordfish, grilled to perfection and dressed with what looked and smelled like a coulis of tomato and saffron. The only sauce on
her
plate was ketchup in a little metal cup.

She would normally have railed against this underestimation of young people's palates . . . but her mission today was not to draw any extra attention to herself. So “Coraline” merely said “Thank you” in a small voice and dunked one of the fingers into the ketchup. The taste actually wasn't terrible—it turned out that chef-made chicken fingers were definitely better than whatever processed stuff they churned out at Fred's Fried Fowl. But it was still hard not to be bitter as she watched her aunt slice into her hearty swordfish and raise bite after delicious bite to her lips.

“Now, Gladys,” Fiona said, “lovely as it is to meet you, this
is
a business lunch. And the first order of business I'd like to discuss is your compensation. It's come to my attention that none of the checks we've sent you for your reviewing work have been cashed.”

Gladys nearly choked on her chicken finger. Her practice of destroying the
Standard
's checks had finally caught up with her.

“Oh,
mon dieu,
” Aunt Lydia murmured. She shot a sidelong glance at Gladys that seemed to ask what on earth she had been doing with her checks, but Gladys could do nothing but cringe.

At least Aunt Lydia was able to think fast. “I'm so sorry,” she continued. “I've been a bit distracted this summer and have been meaning to make a bank run. I'll deposit the checks right away.”

“Good,” Fiona said. “Then we can move on to the real reason I asked you to come have lunch with me.”

Gladys leaned forward slightly, and Aunt Lydia did the same.

“As you know, Gilbert Gadfly is no longer with the paper,” Fiona said. “Which means that we're looking to take on another permanent restaurant critic. I know you've only been freelancing for us for a short time, but based on your excellent work so far—especially with that unexpected hot dog review—I think you would be a strong candidate for the position.”

Under the table, Aunt Lydia gripped Gladys's hand. “Are you offering Gladys—that is,
me
—a full-time job?” she asked.

“I am,” Fiona said matter-of-factly.

It was a good thing Gladys wasn't holding any silverware in her other hand, or it would have clattered down loudly onto her plate. As it was, she had to remind herself to keep breathing. She squeezed her aunt's hand back.

“I . . . um . . . well, I'm very flattered,” Aunt Lydia said carefully. “I really don't know what to say.”

And Gladys knew that her aunt was telling the
truth. In their discussion the night before, they had speculated about what Fiona might want to discuss, and it had occurred to Gladys that there might be a job opening now that Mr. Gadfly was gone. But she hadn't thought that Fiona would consider
her
—she'd assumed the editor would want to hire someone with more experience for the position. Clearly, she had been wrong.

“Well, are you interested?” Fiona asked.

Aunt Lydia shot Gladys another questioning glance, probably trying to get a hint for how she should reply. But Gladys, who was still processing the offer, could only give her aunt the tiniest of shrugs.

“Well, of course I'm
interested
,” Aunt Lydia said, “but unfortunately, that's not the only issue. After all, I do have my daughter here to think about. She's about to start middle school, which means that her schedule will be much more demanding than it has been in the past.”

Gladys nodded vigorously. Her aunt raised a good point—there was no way she'd be able to juggle all of her middle-school classes and full-time work, especially considering that the work would probably mean coming into the city every day. It was an extremely flattering offer, but Aunt Lydia would have to say no on their behalf.

No
wasn't the word that came out of Lydia's mouth,
though. “However . . .” she continued, “maybe we could work something out. If Coraline could accompany me to the office sometimes, and on reviewing outings . . .”

“Wait—what?” Gladys couldn't help her outburst. What on earth was her aunt talking about?

“I'm just thinking out loud, my Gla—er, my Cornflower,” Aunt Lydia said, quickly correcting herself. “Nothing's been decided yet.”

“Indeed,” said Fiona, who didn't seem to have picked up on Lydia's flub. She pushed her empty plate away and folded her hands on the table. “And actually, you have a bit of time to make your decision. Despite the major drop in my department's payroll with Mr. Gadfly's departure, the
Standard
's business department won't approve a new hire until the new year. And even then, they say that I can only bring on a new person if I cut our freelancer budget. As our subscriber base ages, our margins are shrinking,” she explained, “and all the departments are being asked to make do with less.”

Gladys froze, a fresh chicken finger halfway to her mouth. Budget cuts—just like the ones that were messing with Parm's soccer trip at school. But what did this mean for Gladys's freelance work?

“Excuse me,” she blurted, “but are you saying you won't be able to keep Mom on as a part-time reviewer if she doesn't take the permanent job?”

Fiona blinked at Gladys in surprise, but when she
answered, she addressed Aunt Lydia. “Unfortunately, yes,” she said, “which is all the more reason for you to accept my offer. You wouldn't be starting until January, but I would like to know your decision by the end of October at the very latest. That way, if you decide not to take the position, I'll still have time to hire someone else.”

“Of course,” Aunt Lydia said. “But how will the department function down one reviewer for the next few months?”

“An excellent question,” Fiona said, “and one I've brought up with our business department many times. However, it seems unlikely that they'll budge. In the meantime, our second-string full-time critic, Natalia Bernstein, will be taking on extra reviews to help fill in, as will our freelancers. Which brings me to our final order of business: your new assignment.”

Gladys sat up a little straighter. This was one part of the meeting that she
had
anticipated. Where would Fiona send her next?

Fiona reached into her suit pocket and passed an envelope across the table. “You really seemed to enjoy the Chilean hot dog, the completo Italiano, that you discussed in your last review,” she said, “and it got me thinking about how much even we foodies tend to lump the cuisines of Latin America together, when actually they are quite distinct. So I'd like to see a series of three reviews comparing and contrasting the
Salvadoran, Cuban, and Peruvian restaurants whose names you'll find in this envelope. How does that sound?”