The Fifty-Two Week Chronicles
Joslyn Westbrook
To my family - you are my greatest strength and my reason WHY...
Part One
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“Maybe You Have To Let Go Of Who You Are To Become Who You Will Be.”
Carrie Bradshaw - Sex in the City
Chapter 1
I fucking hate Mondays. And yes, I do realize most people on planet Earth also hate Mondays, but not as much as I do. No, most hate this day of the week because it means their bombastic weekend is over, or it signifies the inevitable commencement of an appalling work week, or some hate it because they party too damn much each weekend and subsequently battle a brutal Monday hangover. But as for me, my hatred for Monday far exceeds any one of those prissy explanations. Everything bad that’s ever happened to me has happened on a Monday. And I mean everything.
Case in point: a chronological list of every bad event in my life that has occurred on a Monday:
1.Susie Q, my pet hamster, choked on a marble and died.
2.While roller skating, I fell, after tripping on a bump in the sidewalk, and broke my ankle.
3.My period started—at school. I was wearing a white mini skirt.
4.Michael Zane, the hottest guy in school, dumped me in front of everyone inside the lunchroom cafeteria.
5.During a talent show competition, I slipped on stage and chipped a tooth.
6.After much consideration, I ditched school for the first time—and got caught.
7.Received my first speeding ticket (but the cute officer asked me out on a date which nullified the experience).
8.I failed my first writing course in college—and my major was Journalism.
9.My heart was shattered by a cheating boyfriend.
10. I got fired.
To make matters worse, #9 and #10 just so happened to occur on the same Monday—which, by the way, is today. What are the fucking odds of that happening?
Perhaps the odds increased because the heartbreaking cheating-ass boyfriend is also my boss. Correction: he was my boss. You see Mr. Jerkboy thought it was his civil duty to fire me after I caught him screwing the crap out of his big-breasted, toothpick-waisted, grossly dimwitted, editorial assistant.
In my office!
How the hell could he do this to me? To us?
We met two years ago. It was my last year in college. Back then, I had applied to countless newspapers for an internship. All of them turned me down, probably because of my low GPA. But please don’t judge me; NYU was a considerably arduous university. I majored in Journalism with a minor in Food Studies. Growing up, my mom and dad were sergeants in the U.S. Air Force. We traveled all over and I was the world-class epitome of a military brat. Our travels led to my obsession with food—not a manic type of an obsession. I mean the type of an obsession that makes a person appreciate the art of fine cuisine. And not only did I love eating food, I also loved writing about it. When most girls were writing “dear diary” entries about boy crushes, bitchy classmates, or evil parents, I was writing diary entries about how exceptional or how horrific a meal was.
Naturally, when I got accepted into NYU, I chose a major that would lead me to a career in writing—Journalism, and a minor that would suggest I am well-versed in the subject matter of food—Food Studies. I dreamed of one day becoming a food critic, but not any food critic. I dreamed of becoming a notably acclaimed food critic, known only by name. Michelin Star chefs would eagerly read reviews written by me—Penelope Monroe—in hopes they’d still be able to keep their well-merited star rating.
Many newspapers weren’t ready to take on a new writer, let alone a new writer with a passion for food. However, as luck would have it, during a random online search one Saturday night, I came across the following:
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The Hudson News Bee is looking for a college intern or recent college graduate who will work with our lead food critic and other food writers to craft our restaurant and food coverage for both online and print platforms. Candidates should be knowledgeable and passionate about food, write and report well, and be very organized. This is a full-time staff position with benefits. Applicants should email a resume, cover letter, and samples of their own food writing to
[email protected].
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It was as if me and that job opening had been majestically betrothed. Without hesitation, I made all of the required submissions: resume, cover letter, and a sample of food writing straight out of my own diary. I waited on pins and needles for some type of a reply.
And then it came.
Exactly four days later.
I had just returned from an early morning kick-me-hard-in-the-ass yoga class in Central Park. I was lounging comfortably on the hardwood living-room floor of the Harlem loft apartment my BFF Sebastian and I moved into earlier that spring. It was the first July in three years in which I was not enrolled in any NYU classes. My only assignment over the summer was to score an internship with a newspaper or a magazine. I had just about given up on The Hudson News Bee but just so happened to scroll through a barrage of emails on my iPad when I saw it.
An email from the editor.
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From: HNB Food Editor
To: Penelope Monroe
Subject: Your Submission
Dear Penelope Monroe,
Thank you for your recent submission for the open position. I am highly impressed with your writing as you demonstrate a high regard and passion for food. I would like to set up an in-person interview with you, Friday, 9am. Please bring with you two printed copies of a written review of a restaurant in SoHo called Cristofano Woods. It’s extremely difficult to get a table there, but if you can pull this off, you’ll walk into Friday’s interview ahead of other candidates. Consider this your first assignment. Good Luck.
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I nearly pissed my yoga pants twice after reading that email.
1)Interview in two days? Yay!
2)Cristofano Woods? Holy shit!
I mean, I had heard of Cristofano Woods. Who hadn’t? It was a trendy new restaurant in SoHo that everyone had been talking about. Sebastian and I had talked about dining there for months, but couldn’t make time in between my classes and his demanding job as a Public Relations Coordinator for Manifique, a thriving PR Firm. Plus, just as the editor mentioned in the email, getting a table at Cristofano Woods was near to impossible. I began to slightly freak out and remember thinking: how the hell can I pull this off?
Instinctively, I dialed Sebastian’s cell phone. He always seemed to have answers when I was in distress. The two of us had been best friends since our first year at NYU. I remember our phone conversation as if it occurred just yesterday.
“Hello sexy,” Sebastian said when he answered my call. “What’s up?”
“You’ll never guess what I’m calling about.” I was sure the unconcealed excitement in my voice gave it away.
“Um…spare me the guessing games, sweetie. I’ve got a meeting in ten minutes, and I’d like to make a quick run to the little boys’ room. I’ve gotta check out my threads. Demetrio Marks, the super-delicious model, is sure to make an appearance. You know firsthand how much I’ve been crushing on his gorgeousness,” he said.
You see, when the two of us met during our first year at NYU, Sebastian had just come out to all of his friends and family. However, when I first met him I knew straight away he was gay and was totally fine with it. Every woman needs a gay best friend. It’s like an unwritten rite of passage.
“Alrighty then,” I said, “
I promise not to hold you up. So,” I took in a calming deep breath, “I totally scored an interview this Friday with The Hudson News Bee!” I screamed and did a happy dance all over the living-room floor.
“Shut the fuck up! That’s so freaking awesome!” he said then paused for a few seconds. “Wait. Why do I feel like a scathing-ass caveat is about to be totally tossed my way right now?”
“You’re so psychic.” I laughed. “The scathing caveat, as you put it, is I will need to dine at a restaurant and write a review about my experience.”
“Piece of cake—you’ve got a ton of those in your diary alone,” Sebastian said.
“Well,” I said, my voice raised an octave, “it’s not that easy. I’m to write a review about Cristofano Woods. Getting a table there is impossible.”
Saying it aloud made the reality far more gut-wrenching, causing all of the excitement I had stored up to quickly deflate. I remember crashing back down onto the hardwood floor with a sick feeling in my stomach.
“Wait. Hold the freaking phone. Did you just say Cristofano Woods?” Sebastian asked with a hint of excitement in his voice.
“Yes.” I wondered why he seemed so excited when I felt like shit.
“Baby girl, you must have the best fucking luck in the world.” He let out a muffled scream. “We just signed them as a client two weeks ago!”
“You did what?” My heart pounded in excitement. “And wait. Why haven’t you told me? You know I’ve been so wanting to go there since it opened.”
“I was planning to take you there in two weeks for your birthday…you know, a sur-prize.” He sounded like a circa-1980s valley girl.
I sat up, feeling instantly cured.
“Anyway,” Sebastian continued, “when we signed them on as a client, I got a hold of two guest passes. We can totally go tonight if you want.”
“Of course I want! What time shall I be ready?” I felt like I had just been awarded a grandiose prize from Publishers Clearing House.
“I’ll pick you up at 7,” he said. “And wear your black Kate Spade dress and leopard pumps,” he added before ending the call.
A little after 8pm that night, a taxi dropped me and Sebastian off in front of Cristofano Woods. Even though it was a Wednesday, the place was still poppin’ like a popular nightclub. Eager patrons formed a line that wrapped clear around the block. I can’t begin to tell you the excitement that poured out of me—I mean, I was about to indulge in one of the hottest new restaurants in New York.
Sebastian led the way toward the entrance doors that were manned by two male greeters. People in line glared at us as we made our way to the front.
“Sorry, the line ends all of the way back there,” one greeter told Sebastian, looking him up and down.
“Right, thanks for the info, buddy,” Sebastian sarcastically tossed right back. He reached into the interior pocket of his sleek leather jacket and produced a wicked smirk before pulling out the guest passes. “Do these mean anything?”
The greeter glanced at the passes and said, “Yes, of course. Go inside and show those to the hostess, who will gladly seat you.”
Once inside, I immediately switched from excited newbie to full-on food critic. I mean I had to in order to be sure I could write an objectively infused, knock-it-the-hell-out-of-the-park review for the interview. Sebastian and I spent at least two hours there that night indulging in the essence of the restaurant’s unforgettable uniqueness.
Once back home, I stayed up half the night writing and then rewriting what turned out to be—in my opinion—the best fucking wanna-be restaurant review ever.
The day before the interview I shopped for an outfit that screamed ‘I am a food critic for a newspaper’, after Sebastian lent his fashion expertise.
“This is what you need to look like when you walk into that interview tomorrow,” he said as he sipped on a homemade green tea latte. He handed me a page torn out of the latest issue of Vogue London.
“This?” I said, feeling somewhat challenged.
“Yep. Don’t fight it, sweetie. Trust me. And the model even has your body type and hair style. I’m thinking the outfit alone will get you the job.”
I rolled my eyes in protest. “Great, I’ll be sure to walk through the doors of The Hudson News Bee, fully prepared to call attention to my outfit and leave the review I spent hours crafting, crumpled up in a pitiful ball in the trash bin.”
“Put that sarcasm to rest, my dear,” he said, shaking his head while sipping his gourmet-style tea latte.
Sebastian had always been about fashion, often dressing better than anyone I had ever known. But he was right about the model. Like me, she was tall, with a slim build, a tiny waist, an ample bosom, and long and wavy reddish-brown hair. She looked fashionably chic in a modern suit that consisted of straight-legged cropped pants, a crisp white button-down blouse that was left tastefully untucked, a matching blazer that seemed to seductively hug her upper body curves, and Penny-Loafer-style shoes that added a twist of old-school elegance.
Admittedly, she looked pretty impressive. But I personally hated everything about suits.
“Sebastian, I’m not too sure about—”
“Hush now,” Sebastian interrupted, holding his hand up as if he were dismissing a defiant teenager. “You know I totally know my shit. Now hop on the train and take your cynical butt to the East Village. There is an adorable boutique called Diamonattos. When you walk in, ask for Tonya, and be sure to tell her I sent you. Show her that outfit,” he said, pointing to the magazine page. “She’ll hook you up. And she better do it for free,” he paused and took one last sip of his green tea latte, “‘cause the bitch owes me a favor.”
Then it finally came.
Friday.
The day of the interview.
I was as nervous as a Black Angus cow at a beef factory. I drank at least five cups of coffee which only intensified the edge more profoundly. I seriously considered taking a shot of tequila but remembered I had sworn off alcohol after some heavy drinking during my freshman year.
Stylishly equipped with a black leather attaché case that protectively held two printed copies of my written review, and smartly dressed in the outfit Sebastian swore would get me the job, I walked into the official headquarters of The Hudson News Bee fifteen minutes early. The jittery effects of the caffeine I had consumed earlier had since passed, and I felt relatively calm and collected.
I was greeted by an awfully chipper receptionist who directed me to a waiting room before mentioning someone would be with me soon.
The waiting room was small but had an upbeat appeal with red walls artistically embellished by black and white framed newspaper articles. There were two black sofas and a round glass coffee table that held copies of Time Magazine and The New Yorker. I was just about to settle down on one of the sofas when a tall, thin man walked into the room.
“Penelope Monroe?” he asked.
“Um, yes.” I confirmed.
He approached me and gestured for a hand shake. “Garrett Harrison, food editor for The Bee.” He smiled.
Meet Garrett Harrison—aka—Mr. Jerkboy, as in the one and only cheating-ass ex-boyfriend. Anyway, allow me to continue...
His smile was extremely infectious, putting me immediately at ease. Not to mention his stellar appearance. He was absolutely gorgeous.
“Pleasure to meet you,” I said as I shook his hand. He smelled of Calvin Klein cologne and was dressed extremely casual in Levi’s, a blue-and-white striped oxford shirt, and white Vans. I took note of his dark brown eyes as they were somewhat mesmerizing. His short, curly hair was a dirty-blond tone, making him resemble what I envisioned to be the California surfer type, yet his strong New York accent proved otherwise.
“Great, shall we take this to my office?” he asked and motioned for me to follow him. “I’m eager to begin the interview. You’re the last candidate,” he said as he led me through a room of busy office cubicles.
Once in his office, he invited me to
take a seat in one of the two chairs in front of his large mahogany-colored desk where papers and files were haphazardly scattered.
I took a seat, keeping a tight grip on my attaché case that I laid atop my lap. Nerves had definitely crept in.
“So,” he began as he slowly rocked back and forth in his squeaky, ergonomically designed, desk chair. “I’m just gonna cut to the chase here. Did you meet your assigned goal? Did you write a review on Cristofano Woods?” He annoyingly drummed all ten tips of his fingers on the arms of the chair.
“Of course I did.” I was feeling exceptionally proud of my accomplishment. I unzipped the attaché case and removed both copies of the written review and handed them over to him. I was unsure, at this point, why he asked me to bring two printed copies with me.
He nodded and smiled as he took custody of them. “As I mentioned in my email to you, I’m highly impressed. Even more so now because you actually did it—a review of one of the newest restaurants in New York.” He leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “How the fuck did you get into Cristofano Woods?”
“With all due respect, Mr. Harrison,” I softly cleared my throat before going on, “I value my sources and, as such, can’t possibly, under any circumstances, reveal them. I’m sure you, of all people, can understand.”
He leaned back into his chair and looked at me with a mystified expression.
Had I gone too far? I anxiously wondered.
He said nothing. At least not verbally. His dark eyes pierced through me like a medieval dagger. He laid one copy on top of his messy desk and handed me the other. “Here, read it aloud, please.”
“Um, excuse me? Read it aloud?” I repeated for confirmation. Seemed like a pretty odd request to me.
“Yeah. You see, Miss. Monroe, a good review must sound good when read aloud. So please, indulge me.” He leaned back in his chair and continued rocking back and forth, looking as though he had some sort of trick up his sleeve. It was quite intimidating.
The Fifty-Two Week Chronicles (Delectables in the City Book 1) Page 1