“So you’ve no actual proof,” Richard says, after listening to my account of the chat with Alison—whose name and gender I’ve kept private.
For the past half hour, I’ve been watching his frown get deeper. We’re facing each other on opposite sides of his desk, and the outright enthusiasm I felt this morning is bleeding out, stabbed in the chest by every new crease that appears on Richard’s forehead.
“Define actual proof,” I say. “I have an ex-accountant on record—”
“You have an anonymous source.”
“So what? We can say they were an accountant at Maison Vanderbilt and they’re sure the company had a false billing scheme in place.”
Richard rolls up his sleeves. “Had or has?”
Oh, no. I won’t be distracted by his forearms today. Eye on the prize, Blair. “My source can only testify to what was going on while under… their employment.” This conversation is draining. How long until I accidentally slip and mention Alison’s gender?
“Meaning the scheme might not be in place anymore. Or that it could be under completely different names and shell companies.”
“It doesn’t matter. The scheme did exist and we have everything we need to expose Maison Vanderbilt.”
“Except hard evidence.”
“We don’t need hard evidence. The IRS can get them after we tip them off with the exposé, and once the tax police start looking, they’ll find something. Because the fraud did happen.”
“So says you.”
“So says their ex-accountant.”
“Oh, please. Your source is just some sour ex-employee who was fired and who has a big, fat chip on their shoulder. Same as you.”
That last comment strikes where it hurts. Nostrils flaring, I say, “Chip or not, the facts remain. Neither of us is lying.”
“I can’t publish a story based on hearsay.”
I clench my fists and try not to grind my teeth. “So you’re pulling the plug?”
Richard massages his temples. “Not yet. We’re going to get a second opinion.”
***
Two days later, we head to the-middle-of-nowhere, upstate New York, to meet with an “expert” financial reporter.
The drive is no less an aphrodisiac than the other night, only this time much longer. My hormones are all over the place. Chevron is going crazy in the backseat, too, only she’s crazy happy, not randy. My dog enjoys her speed and luxury cars.
Richard’s contact, Michael, welcomes us at the gates of his house—a mansion in the middle of a forest.
Very scenic, only mildly unpractical.
Our host is in his late forties but fit for his age, with salt-and-pepper hair, and intelligent blue eyes. After Richard parks the car and lets Chevron loose in the fenced backyard, Michael shows us inside to his study.
The walls are lined with bookshelves, and everything—desk, shelves, chairs—is in dark walnut. The floor is covered in rugs, and there’s a big, oval table in the center of the room. Very English country quarters.
Michael’s wife appears five minutes later with tea and cookies. “Hi, I’m Susan,” she greets us, dropping the tray on the table.
“Blair. Nice to meet you.”
“Richard.”
“Oh, the pleasure is all mine. I just wanted to bring you some treats before the meeting started.”
“Thank you,” Richard and I both say.
“The cookies are homemade,” Susan explains, “dairy-free, and the eggs come straight from our hens, so don’t worry, they’re happy chickens.”
Where do I sign to have Michael and Susan adopt me?
Next to me, Richard almost chokes on a bite of cookie. I smile and give the boss a stare that says, “See, everyone is concerned with chicken welfare.”
Susan leaves and Michael turns to us. “Richard, why don’t you tell me what this story we couldn’t discuss over the phone is? I’m intrigued.”
Richard doesn’t reply.
I raise my gaze from the table and catch them both looking at me. Oh, the boss expects me to do the talking. And here I was, too busy deciding how many cookies I could eat without appearing like a total pig.
“So.” I swallow the last bit of crunchy deliciousness and give Michael the same report I gave Richard two days ago.
The journalist listens patiently and doesn’t interrupt once so that when I’m done talking, I have to ask for his opinion. “What’s your take?”
Michael strokes the back of his head. “Your story does add up, but you don’t have definitive proof.”
Richard speaks before I can. “Would you run an article based only on what you’ve heard today?”
“I would”—Michael gives him a piercing stare—“if my editor backed me.”
I love you, Michael!
Richard frowns. “And would any sane editor back you?”
“You have a source and a credible one. I’d say it’d be fifty-fifty…”
Michael’s implied meaning is all too clear. Depending on the attributes of said editor.
Richard shakes his head.
“Whatever you do,” Michael continues, “you need to ask Maison Vanderbilt for a statement. They can refuse, and you put in your piece they weren’t available for comment. But you’re required to contact a representative beforehand and give them the chance to refute your case.”
A mean idea is taking form in my head. “What if we asked Rebecca Vanderbilt point-blank?”
Richard shakes his head. “She’d just deny it.”
“What if she couldn’t?” I insist.
“You want to base your strategy on the hope that Rebecca Vanderbilt doesn’t lie?” Richard snaps. “Think again.”
“That’s not what I meant. We’d have to trap her with our line of questioning.”
Richard crosses his arms. “Give me an example.”
“We ask her if she’s ever heard of Heron LLC. If she lies and says no, then we ask how come Maison Vanderbilt paid millions in management fees to that very company for at least three consecutive fiscal years.”
“All that would achieve is perhaps for you to make Rebecca Vanderbilt blush, at best.” Richard isn’t budging. “No one would see her reaction, and she’d then work to cover her tracks even more thoroughly. If she hasn’t already.”
I expected this argument. “What if everyone did see it?”
“And how would you make that happen?”
“We could tape her.”
“Walker,” Richard scoffs. “This isn’t a spy movie. You can’t go around taping people. She’d sue the second the video aired.”
“What if she’d given us permission to tape her?”
“And why would she do that?”
“I know this might sound far-fetched, but hear me out.” I push both of my hands forward, palms up, to prevent objections. “What if we contacted her saying Inceptor Magazine wants to do an interview? Something about how Rebecca Vanderbilt built her fashion empire. Or how good Maison Vanderbilt is to the community with all the charities it supports. Or how Rebecca is a role model for so many young women. Then mid-interview, bam!” I slam my hand on the table. “We drop the bomb and ask her all the questions we want about tax evasion.”
Richard doesn’t reject the idea outright, and Michael is staring at me with an appreciative “holy s—, girl” expression, so I press on. “At that point, the cameras would be rolling and Rebecca couldn’t possibly refuse to answer or she might as well admit she’s guilty. All we have to do is come up with the right questions…”
“I can help with that,” Michael offers.
I turn to him. “Thank you.” Then back to Richard. “And even if she left in a rage at some point, we would have everything on the record.”
“What makes you think Rebecca Vanderbilt would even agree to an interview with you? You’re not exactly friendly with her daughter.”
I blush, and then punch below the belt. “But you are.”
“Not that much,” Richard says, and my heart leaps. At least their little gathering in LA was a bona fide one-night stand. “Anyway,” Richard continues, “even if I were close to her what would you have me do? Trick Aurora into ruining her mother’s life?”
“Would you do it?”
A girl can hope.
“It’s out of the question.”
And have her hopes crushed. Anyway, I wouldn’t have respected Richard if he’d said yes.
“And what if I got the interview all by myself?” I ask.
“If you can do it without dropping my name.”
“I’ll have to use the magazine name, and you’re the Editor-in-Chief.”
“As long as you leave me out of it personally, it’d be fine.”
“Perfect! Are you giving me the green light to try?”
“Not yet.” Richard drums his fingers on the table. “What if Rebecca Vanderbilt were to sue?”
“For what? We’d make her sign a disclaimer beforehand granting us permission to air the interview.”
“What if she sues for slander?”
“They can win a lawsuit for slander only if the accusation is false,” Michael says. “And if they do sue you, it’d give you the right to access their books to prove your innocence. I doubt any lawyer in his right mind would initiate that kind of lawsuit with a guilty client.”
“So we don’t risk anything?” Richard asks.
“The way I see it,” Michael scratches his chin. “Worst-case scenario, the interview is a YouTube flop and you’ve made an enemy for life. Best-case scenario, it goes viral, and the IRS picks up the investigation where you left off.”
“You think that could really happen?” I ask.
Michael nods. “Half the government’s investigations start from anonymous or public tips.”
“Then why don’t we just tip off the IRS and let them do all the work?” Richard asks.
“Ah.” Michael sighs. “In that case, there’s no guarantee they’d follow up on the tip, but if you make a big public splash…”
Richard sighs. “I really have no choice here, do I?”
“Sorry, buddy,” Michael shrugs. “The girl has you cornered.”
Michael winks at me and I beam back. I can hardly sit in my chair.
“So the interview is a go?” I ask.
Richard looks at me and gives a resigned nod.
***
A week later, my phone starts vibrating on my desk. The caller ID—recently changed—shows, Billy Loomis. Okay, my ex-boyfriend isn’t exactly a serial killer, and he didn’t try to murder me and all my friends while wearing a stupid white mask. But still, I couldn’t keep Gerard as Edward Cullen.
I let the call go unanswered. Two minutes later the phone rings again, and again a third time. At the fourth call, I press ignore, letting Gerard know I’m willfully ignoring his calls. The phone goes silent after that.
Yay, he’s given up.
A mail banner flashes on the screen.
Nope.
Date: Thu, June 1 at 10:22 AM
From: gerard.wakefield@aol.com
To: blair.walker@yahoo.com
Subject: I’m sorry, please don’t ruin my life
Blair, please. I know you’re mad at me and that I behaved like a total bastard with you. There are no excuses for what I did and I’m so very sorry I threatened to sue you and for everything else. But I got scared and didn’t know what else to do. You can’t talk to the partners at my firm. It would destroy me. Annihilate me. Please, I’m willing to negotiate a settlement with your lawyer. Whatever you want you can have. But please not a word to anyone at my firm. If you can find even the smallest shred of compassion in you, please try to forgive me.
Sincerely,
Gerard
Wow, talk about a groveling apology! I know Gerard doesn’t really regret what he did and that he’s just scared I’ll use the affair against him. Still, a crappy apology is better than no apology. I had completely forgotten about my threats to expose him. Does he really think I’d do something so mean and spiteful? Yes, probably because he’s the kind of person who would. I realize then that I never really knew Gerard, and he must’ve not known me. Anyway, despite him behaving like vermin, the bastard has suffered enough. I don’t want to ruin anyone’s life. I quickly tap a reply.
Date: Thu, June 1 at 10:25 AM
From: blair.walker@yahoo.com
To: gerard.wakefield@aol.com
Subject: Re: I’m sorry, please don’t ruin my life
Gerard, do us both a favor and relax. I was never going to sue you. I’m not that kind of person. Please stop calling me.
Blair
I’m about to press send when I change my mind. If Gerard was a shitty boyfriend, something he is not is a shitty lawyer. I press delete and type a different message.
Date: Thu, June 1 at 10:27 AM
From: blair.walker@yahoo.com
To: gerard.wakefield@aol.com
Subject: Re: I’m sorry, please don’t ruin my life
I need a legal favor. Can you write a bulletproof disclaimer for an interview? Do this for me and you’re off the hook.
Blair
Rebecca Vanderbilt’s PA has agreed to do the interview. Even better, she insisted on having it in Maison Vanderbilt’s flagship store in Manhattan. With the interview date approaching fast, I need to make sure the magazine is covered from any legal action against us. And what better advisor than my shark-lawyer ex who’s willing to do about anything for me?
Gerard’s reply arrives immediately.
Date: Thu, June 1 at 10:28 AM
From: gerard.wakefield@aol.com
To: blair.walker@yahoo.com
Subject: Re: Re: I’m sorry, please don’t ruin my life
Thank you, Blair. Anything. Anything you need. Just let me know the details, and it’ll be ready for you by tomorrow morning.
Thank you.
Gerard
Now we’re talking.
***
I could have asked Gerard to FedEx me the finished document, but there’s a part of me that wants closure. After three years of my life spent with that man, our story ended in a restaurant in less than half an hour. I need to see Gerard and be sure I’m not harboring unrequited feelings for him. The only way to know if I’m over him is if he makes me feel nothing. Total indifference is the opposite of love, not hate.
We agree to meet super early the next morning, and I make him come down to my side of Manhattan. Something he never did while we dated. I leave a moping Chevron home and go to the meeting alone.
When I get to the café, Gerard is already there sipping coffee while seated at an outside table. He hasn’t spotted me yet, so I assess my reactions from the safety of my side of the street. I study him. Still good-looking, but also pompous looking—expensive suit, shoes, and tie, confident smirk, and a five-hundred dollars haircut. In short, a handsome prick. But definitely not someone I’m in love with. My breath isn’t in my throat, I have no accelerated pulse, and my stomach remains level. Well, actually, it churns a little. If I can’t have total indifference, I’ll settle for total revulsion.
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.”