Dirty Tweeter
Steven Schpiel @TheWholeSchpiel
How to get 15 Minutes of Fame: Write intelligent articles? Nope. Do the dirty with #BishopRaine? Score. #GoGroupie
Steven Schpiel @TheWholeSchpiel
Busted! @PerpetuallyViv was engaged to handsome Frenchman when caught macking #BishopRaine. #AdieuFidelité
Steven Schpiel @TheWholeSchpiel
#BishopRaine spotted in London jewelry store buying gaudy baubles. Prezzies for his sexy redhead? #GoGirl
Steven Schpiel @TheWholeSchpiel
Yikes! Paps snap @PerpetuallyViv leaving London hotel wearing loose top. #BabyBump #Cravings (Click for pic)
I shouldn’t do it, but I can’t help myself. Slapping one hand over my eyes, I splay my fingers enough to see my MacBook screen, and click on Steven “Muckraker” Schpiel’s link.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph Pulitzer!
Schpiel’s pap snap is a grainy photograph taken only a few hours ago, when I ducked around the corner for a big-ass bottle of Thatchers Hard Cider and some fish and chips. I am wearing black leggings and an old gray fisherman’s sweater pilfered from Luc’s closet. My snarly hair is hanging loose around my shoulders, and I am clutching the big, greasy white fish and chips bag to my chest like a homeless waif—or a woman trying to disguise a burgeoning baby bump.
Damn Steven Schpiel! Damn, damn, damn him to the deepest, darkest, smelliest bowels of Hell. A rancid little turd like him deserves to spend eternity inhaling noxious fumes and suffering the agony of having his flesh slowly singed from his rotten bones.
The bitchy little gossip hound would dig up dirt on his own mother if he thought it would get him a trended tweet.
Mothers. Mum.
Oh, shit! What is my mum going to say when nosy old Anna Johnson posts that picture of me on Facebook? What will Luc say? And Fanny? And my dad?
I drop my head to the desk and try not to think of what my dad, a Professor of Theology at UC Davis, will say when he discovers his daughter might be carrying Bishop Raine’s lovechild.
Well, Pops best step off.
He has nothing to say. Nothing. Not after he left my mum and shacked up with a kooky vegan who collects creepy porcelain dolls with soulless eyes. She tries to foist her carob and bean-paste brownies off on me, but I’d rather bust a move with mom in Hip Hop Abs than eat one of those bricks. I wonder how long before Meadow, the kooky vegan, mails me bean-paste brownies laced with folic acid?
I still can’t wrap my mind around my fire-and-brimstone father forsaking his marriage vows to live in sin.
This is serious. Really serious.
I grab the hotel phone receiver, jab the button for room service, and order two more bottles of Thatchers and a carton of Häagen Dazs Chocolate Raspberry Truffle.
“Will that be all, Miss Grant?”
“Yes—” I am about to hang up when I remember the pap snap. What if another pap follows the waiter to my door? “No. Wait!”
“Yes?”
“Just leave the tray outside my door.”
“Outside your door, Miss Grant?”
“Yes.”
He hesitates, and I imagine him gesturing to a pack of camera-toting paparazzi huddled nearby.
“As you wish.”
Ten minutes later, a soft rap on the door lets me know my baby-bump inspired binge-fest has arrived. I creep over to the door and peer through the peephole in time to see the waiter walking away.
I wait until he disappears around the corner before whipping the door open, pulling the tray into my room, and slamming the door shut again.
I am six songs into my “When I Am Blue” playlist and halfway through my second bottle of Thatchers when my iPhone starts ringing. Which of my curious friends is calling to get the 4-1-1 on my scandal du jour? Maybe I should just send the call to voicemail.
I flip the phone over and look at the caller ID flashing on the screen.
Louanne Collins-London.
Oh, shit! Could this day get any worse?
That’s rhetorical. No, no it couldn’t.
I take another swig of Thatchers for strength and answer the call.
“Cheers, Ms. Collins-London.”
“Vivia, dear”—she laughs—“it’s Louanne, remember?”
No, I don’t remember. Calling Big Boss Lady by her first name feels as wrong as French-kissing Steven “Rancid Turd” Schpiel.
“I am just finishing my piece on last night’s Brava party and will send it to you soon.” I cross my fingers in a childish effort to cancel out my lie. “It’s fab, really fab!”
“Yes, yes.” Big Boss Lady switches the call to speakerphone. “I have Rawlings here. He has a few questions for you.”
This can’t be good. Rawlings is head of HR.
“Good Morning, Miss Grant.”
“Mr. Rawlings. How are you?”
“I’ll get right to it, Miss Grant.” Rawlings must be leaning over the speaker because his voice suddenly explodes out of my iPhone. “Your position as a travel columnist involves a certain amount of risk, and is, at times, physically demanding. How confident are you in your ability to continue meeting those demands?”
I knew it! I am being sacked, shit-canned, fired, given the axe, made redundant. Big Boss Lady—Louanne—probably thinks I am cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. Sane, credible journalists avoid arrest—except for those barking mad reporters who sneak into communist countries—and they definitely don’t have their names bandied about by gossip columnists like Steven “Rancid Turd” Schpiel.
“I am quite capable of performing my duties. Nothing’s changed. I swear!”
The pause in conversation stretches. Papers rustle. Big Boss Lady’s ubiquitous gold Tiffany bangles clank together as if she’s waving her hand or writing. Finally, Rawlings clears his throat.
“Are you quite certain? We do not expect you to put your health, or the health of your unborn child, at risk. No story is worth—”
“Jesus, Mary and—” I exhale all of the air from my lungs in one violent burst. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Rawlings, Ms. Collins-London—”
“Louanne, dear.”
“Louanne, I am not pregnant.”
Another pregnant pause. Eek! I inwardly cringe at my poor word choice.
“I. Am. Not. Pregnant.” I am trying to hold it together, keep it professional, but my voice cracks and tears fill my eyes. “You have to believe me. Please.”
“We believe you, Vivia.” Louanne takes the call off speakerphone. “Steven Schpiel’s assistant called here asking for confirmation about your pregnancy. I told Rawlings the story was bunk, that my girl is far too clever to get herself into such a messy situation.”
My spine turns to jelly and I sink back against desk chair. Louanne Collins-London called me her girl. She called me her girl and said she believes me.
“Thank you,” I sniffle.
“Nonsense,” Louanne says. “Now, let’s talk about your next assignment.”
“Okay.”
“I am sending you to Scotland. I want you to explore Edinburgh for offbeat tourist attractions. Don’t give me two thousand words on the castle or tartan weavers. Give me the Vivia perspective. Think young and quirky. Can you do that?”
“Absolutely.”
“After that, you’ll be heading to a working sheep farm in the Highlands.”
“A sheep farm?”
“That’s right. A sheep farm.”
Louanne’s other line rings and she puts me on hold. What the bloody hell am I going to do on a sheep farm? Sheer those little wooly boogers? Milk them? Do they milk sheep? Sweet lamb chops! I just hope Louanne doesn’t expect me to slaughter a sheep.
“Vivia? Are you still on the line?”
“Yes.”
“Apparently, girlfriend vacations to working farms are en vogue thing among the twenty-five to forty-five female demographic. Cattle ranches. Goat Farms. Working in a vineyard. Who knew?”
“It’s not the Ritz.”
Louanne chuckles. “No, it is not.”
“Is that it?”
“I realize this is short notice, but do you think any of your girlfriends might be able to join you on the farm?”
“Shearing sheep?”
“Yes.”
I imagine sleek Pantsuit Poppy standing in a pile of sheep shit and snort. Something tells me Miss Worthington Boutique Hotels would politely decline my invitation to the sheep soiree. If Fanny hadn’t called me self-absorbed, I would ask her to catch the redeye and help me rustle up some little lambs. Now, I am afraid she would take my invitation as an implication that her life wasn’t as important as mine.
“I don’t think so.”
“Well,” Louanne says. “If you change your mind and think of someone you would like to join you on the farm, send me a text and I’ll have Travel make the arrangements.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I type “sheep farm attire” into my web browser. “How long will I be working the farm?”
“Eight days.”
Eight days? Shearing sheep and shoveling shit? Is she serious? I guess every assignment can’t be champagne and Boujis.
Louanne taps her keyboard, and I wonder if she is searching the net for appropriate sheep shearing attire too.
“Is that all?”
“No, I have one other assignment.”
“Please don’t say you want me to join a fishing vessel. I hate fish, unless they’re battered, fried, and served with extra salt.”
Louanne is silent.
“Louanne?”
“Sorry. I was just thinking, your fishing vessel story has some merit.”
I sputter. Just because I am on a first name basis with Big Boss Lady doesn’t mean she’s ready for my back-sass.
“I am kidding, Vivia.” Louanne’s other line rings again. “Listen, dear, I have to take this call. I don’t have time to brief you on the other story, so I’ll send you an e-mail with the details. Gotta go.”
She hangs up. I stare at my computer screen, at the images of women wearing plaid wool jackets and dark jeans tucked into shiny rain boots. I am thankful to have a boss as supportive as Louanne Collins-London and an amazing job that allows me to write and travel the world, but I can’t help feeling blue. In the last twenty-four hours, I’ve lost the love of my life, argued with my best friend, and had an unflattering pap-snapped photo posted all over the Internet. The entire world thinks I am a celebrity groupie carrying Bishop Raine’s lovechild. Okay, maybe not the entire world, but at least half.
After Nathan dumped me, I worried I would become a shriveled old spinster, shuffling around in my housecoat and slippers, mumbling song lyrics to my herd of stray cats. Landing the GoGirl! gig and a hot French boyfriend chased the fear away—or so I thought.
My old fear never really went away. Like a stalker lurking in the shadows, it waited for my most vulnerable moment to strike.
I envision a lonely future sans love, sans children, sans rescue poodles. Someday soon, my GoGirl! readers will grow up. They will stop reading my ridiculous column about my ridiculous exploits. Vivia Grant will stop being a trending topic.
Oh my God! I am a living Tweet—humorous and relevant only until someone more entertaining comes along.