With a Twist (15 page)

After speaking with
Liam and his folks, Quinn headed directly to the
Sent
. As always, his cubicle was a mess, despite his weekly vow to tidy it up. There were no messages for him and no e-mails, either, but his editor, Cindy, was there. As usual, she looked like she was on the verge of a complete nervous breakdown.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“It’s Shep.”

“What about him?”

“Yesterday he went out on a piece about the new clown college that opened in the Bronx. He’s gone MIA.”

“Maybe he’s run away with the circus.” Quinn couldn’t hide his disgust. “Please tell me this idea was generated by Clement himself. Please tell me it’s not something
you
or any of the other esteemed editors came up with.”

“Mal Evans at the Metro desk came up with it.”

Before Quinn even had a chance to move in the direction of Mal’s desk, Cindy grabbed Quinn’s forearm in a death grip. “Don’t. All you’d be doing is stirring up trouble, and that’s the last thing we need right now, okay?”

Quinn frowned disdainfully. “Drank the Kool-Aid, did we?”

“Just let it go for now, please?”

“Fine.”

She looked relieved, but only for a split second. “Clement wants to see you.”

“Me? What the hell for?”

“If I knew, I’d tell you, wouldn’t I?” Quinn contemplated lobbing an equally snarky comment back but changed his mind since Cindy was so stressed she was having a hard time checking her cell phone for messages.

“I don’t understand why Clement can’t just call me on my cell like the rest of the world,” he muttered. “When does he want to see me?”

“As soon as you came in, he said.”

“And what if I hadn’t come in until late tonight? What if I’d gotten a tip and was out on a story?”

“Then I would have told him that, because you would have called in to
let me know
that’s what you were up to.
Right?
”

Quinn just grumbled. He’d given Cindy a rough idea of what he was working on with the proviso she didn’t say anything to Clement about it yet. He wanted to wait until the story was so airtight the bastard couldn’t give him any reason not to run it.

Cindy snapped her cell phone shut with unusual vehemence. “Shit. No word from Shep.” She began shooing Quinn away from her. “Go talk to Clement. Just get it over with.”

“You know, Darby over in photo has a big stash of Valium. You should—”

“Get out of here.”

Quinn squeezed her shoulder. “I’m officially out of your hair, Cin.
We’ll talk later.”

Clement’s office door
was open, which was unusual. Perhaps he’d figured out by now that everyone hated him, and he was trying to reach out to the staff and prove he was an approachable guy.
Good luck with that
.

Quinn thrust his head through the open doorway. “You wanted to see me?” he asked tersely.

Clement barely looked up from his desk as he waved his hand vaguely in the air, motioning for Quinn to step inside. “I have an assignment for you.”

“It doesn’t have to do with clowns, does it? ’Cause I don’t do clowns.”

Clement looked up but ignored the shot. “I want you to cover a movie premiere.”

“What?”

“The new Spielberg movie is premiering Friday, and as I’m sure you know, it’s got that rising young star Susan Gambor in it.”

“Never heard of her.”

Clement’s expression was dubious, but he continued. “I want you talking to fans waiting outside the theater to get in. I want you on the red carpet talking to Spielberg, Gambor, getting as many quotes from as many celebs as you can. Then I want you to go to the after party.”

“Excuse me, but don’t we have an entertainment reporter—
two
entertainment reporters, if I remember correctly—to cover this kind of fluff?”

“Yes, but I want you to get used to writing other types of stories.”

“I have written other types of stories,” said Quinn, trying to keep a lid on his fury. “I’ve even done some of these bullshit celebrity stories, okay? I hate them. I loathe those people. What the hell do they do all day? What do they contribute to society? Nothing.”

“You need to stretch your wings.”

Quinn snorted. “You are so full of shit.”

Clement raised an eyebrow. “Pardon me?”

“This is about Natalie. You’re pissed she chose me over you. You’re trying to belittle me. You’re totally deluded if you seriously believe I’m going to do this story.”

Clement’s gaze was steely. “You don’t have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice.” Quinn stared at him. “God, you’re one petty bastard.”

“And you’re a hypocrite,” Clement sneered.

“Oh, I can’t wait to hear this.”

“You paint yourself as a man of the people, the reporter chronicling the stories of the city, so virtuous and principled, only caring about the average Joe. I’ve done a little checking up on you, O’Brien: seems to me you’ve attended lots of A-list, celebrity parties in your day.”

Quinn was unfazed. “Yeah, so what? Usually it’s as a guest of someone from the mayor’s office or someone from the Blades. Big deal.”

“Well, whether you like it or not, you’re what passes for a celebrity journalist in this town. Since you’re a regular at these types of bashes, you should have no problem covering one for the paper.”

“I’m not a regular.”

“Fine, but you know how they work. Besides, your being there raises the
Sent
’s profile among people who we want in our corner.”

“Why not give this piece to Shep? You seem to be sending him out on every other idiotic story in the city.”

“He’s working on something else.”

“Yeah, well, so am I, in addition to being the main runner around here.”

“I heard you’ve been poking around the mayor’s office.”

Quinn was momentarily thrown, but hid it. “That’s what reporters do, Clement. They sniff. They poke. They dig. Sounds like you’re doing quite a bit of poking around yourself—about me, for some inexplicable reason. Oh, wait, it’s not inexplicable: you want to know about the man Natalie chose over you.”

Loathing flickered in Clement’s eyes. “What are you working on that concerns the mayor’s office?”

“I really don’t like to talk about investigative pieces until I’m sure I’ve really got something there,” Quinn told him, enjoying busting Clement’s balls, especially now that he sensed Clement was displeased with the fact that he was sniffing out
news
behind his back. “What do you care what I’m working on?” Quinn continued. “I thought all you gave a shit about was putting actresses who are dying of cancer on the front page.”

“You keep forgetting that all I have to do is snap my fingers, and you’ll be collecting unemployment.”

Quinn held his tongue. They’d already had this discussion, and he’d already told Clement that if he wanted to fire him, he should just go ahead. But he knew Clement wasn’t that stupid, and to be honest, Quinn didn’t want to go. It was the
Sent
in which he wanted his exposé to appear, because the
Sent
was where his heart was, the place where he’d honed his skills and learned to be the best. He wasn’t about to let Clement drive him out.

Quinn frowned. “What time is this stupid thing? And where?”

“Friday night at the Loew’s on Forty-second Street.” Clement handed him the invitation lying on his desk.

Fuck,
thought Quinn.
The middle of the theater district on Friday night. Wall-to-wall people.

“Who you sending down to take pictures?”

“Randi Schimmelman.”

Quinn nodded his approval. Randi was as tenacious as a bulldog. Shooting celebs would be a piece of cake for her.

“No point filing Friday,” Quinn pointed out. “The paper will be in bed by the time the party’s over. You’ll have it for the Sunday edition.”

“Good man,” said Clement, like they were old buddies. Jesus, he hated this guy more and more.

“That it?” Quinn concluded curtly.

“That’s it,” said Clement. “Have fun Friday night.”

Quinn could have sworn there was a faint undertone of contempt in Clement’s voice, but he couldn’t be sure.

Natalie never thought
of herself as starstruck, but the sight of so many celebrities gathered in one place was very exciting. When Quinn had invited her to accompany him to the new Steven Spielberg film, as well as the after party, she’d initially been hesitant, especially when he told her he’d be working part of the time, “courtesy of your spiteful, brokenhearted ex-paramour, Clement.” But then she thought, when would she ever again have a chance to experience something like this? So she accepted. Besides, it would be interesting to see Quinn working, even if he had been given an assignment he loathed.

She met Quinn at the theater, the throng both outside and inside the lobby overwhelming. He was wound so tightly she feared he might give himself a stroke as he fumed about having to talk to “idiot actors.” She hung back, watching him interview famed director Steven Spielberg, whom he said was witty and sharp. Natalie could see he also enjoyed talking to the fans waiting on line, some of whom had been camped out for days. But the stars of the film? “Vapid, shallow, self-absorbed”—his laundry list of criticisms was endless. Thankfully, the film was wonderful, which seemed to appease him somewhat.

The after party was held at Cipriani’s. She and Vivi had Googled it, marveling at its majestic interior and the clientele it catered to. “Maybe that’s where you should have your reception,” Natalie teased Anthony, who’d just laughed his head off and walked away. He and Vivi were still locking horns over caterers, as well as where to hold their reception. The only thing they agreed upon was where they would actually marry: Saint Finbar’s in Bensonhurst, the Catholic church Anthony’s family had been attending for as long as he could remember. Vivi wasn’t thrilled about being married in church, but it was important to Anthony, so she acquiesced. Natalie, whose only experiences with church were accompanying visitors to Notre Dame, was curious to see what it would be like.

“What do you think?” Quinn asked as he put his hand in Natalie’s as they entered Cipriani’s. “They got any restaurants this ornate in gay Paree? I bet not.”

“You bet wrong.”

Quinn gripped her hand a little tighter as he nabbed a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter, handing it to her. “People are turning to look at you,” he whispered, nuzzling her ear. Heat warmed her body, but she wondered . . .

“Aren’t you working? Isn’t it unprofessional for me to be here with you?”

“I don’t think anyone gives a rat’s ass.”

“Charming expression.”

“Oh, has the crude New Yawker offended mademoiselle’s delicate sensibilities? I really don’t believe anyone will be perturbed. Is that better?”

“Much.”

They found a place to stand and chat. It astounded Natalie how many people sought out Quinn rather than the other way around. She hadn’t realized how well-known he was. There was just one embarrassing problem. Every time he introduced her to someone, they inevitably asked her, “What do you do?” She had no choice but to answer honestly, then watch their expression deflate as they uttered a polite “Oh” and redirected their attention to Quinn, who always, always, made the point to tell them that she had been in the French government, and her working as a waitress was part of a career change toward restaurant management. She was grateful for his explanation, yet part of her wondered: Was he embarrassed that she was a waitress?

She studied him in action. Instead of being crude, he was being witty and charming and never at a loss for words. He had to drop her hand to take notes when he talked to celebs attending the party, but that was all right. When he was mingling with other reporters, she was surprised how collegial they all were. Quinn explained that it wasn’t unusual for reporters to hop from paper to paper in the course of their career. Half of them used to work at the
Sent
.

Quinn turned, pointing out a tall man to Natalie looking at them from across the room.

“You see that thin guy in the expensive suit?”

Natalie nodded.

“Well, he’s one of the mayor’s top aides.” He paused. “I really need to go over there and talk to him. Will you be okay if I leave you alone for just a few minutes?”

“Certainly.” Obviously, Quinn wanted to talk to the man privately, and she wasn’t going to press him for the reason. If he wanted her to know, he would have told her. Besides, she’d spotted someone she wanted to talk to: British chef Sebastian Thompson, owner of highly regarded restaurants in London and New York who was about to open a new place in Manhattan.

“You sure you’ll be okay?” Quinn asked.

“Yes, perfectly fine.” She tipped her head in the direction of Thompson. “I’m going to go talk to Sebastian Thompson.”

Quinn glanced Thompson’s way. “Isn’t he supposed to be totally nuts?”

“He’s brilliant. He’s opening a new restaurant very soon. He might be in need of a manager.”

“He well might be.” Quinn discreetly pinched her butt. “Go for it, Nat. What have you got to lose?”

His confidence in her buoyed her. “Exactly.”

“We’ll meet up when I’m done with the mayor’s aide. Good luck.”

“You, too,” Natalie said.

Then Natalie took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and began moving in the direction of Sebastian Thompson.

16